She pointed to a grouping of small, round plants with random offshoots like thumbs.
“Cartoons, huh? That’s odd. The Greek word for cactus is cardoon. Or maybe it’s Latin.”
Ann thought that she and Jimmy both snobbishly insisted on using cacti as a plural because they had both had Latin in high school.
“Ether,” she said. “Weird. I guess I started on drugs early.”
She said that to be funny. Or ironic. But Jimmy said, “I have something to say.”
This was an alarming place to hear some sobering news. “What?” she blurted.
“I have to go to Chicago,” he said.
“Is your family all right?”
“Well, they’re never all right. Anyway, I have a few things to tend to there, and it seems a good time to go.” He placed his hand on her knee. “Ann. Snooks. Listen to me. I think it’s better anyway if we don’t see each other for a while.”
She stared at what seemed to be a tragic theatrical mask, the face of a squat cactus.
“What do you mean?”
“I’m just not ready,” he said. “For you.”
“Why? What’s wrong? I don’t understand.”
“I don’t measure up to you.” Jimmy lifted his hand and slid a few inches away. “I’m sorry! I’m saying this badly. But we need to take a step back.”
Her head was lowered. She couldn’t look at him, but he turned toward her.
“I have to think things over. Oh, Ann. Ann. Ann, listen to me.” He lifted her chin and placed his other hand on her shoulder. He gazed straight into her eyes.
“I think you agree with me too much,” he said. “It makes me feel I don’t know you.”
“Of course I agree with you!” She grabbed his hand.
“I think you expect too much from me.”
Ann stared at pebbles on the path.
“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Jimmy said. “You know I have to be clear about things. I have to see where I’m going.” He turned and stared straight ahead, folding his hands in his lap. “Maybe the long drive cross-country will do me good,” he said. “Driving will help me to think.”
“I can’t speak,” Ann said.
“What a shithead am I,” he said. “I’m like a mud puddle in your way.”
“You’re not a mud puddle. What a thing to say.”
“Then you admit I’m a shithead.”
“No!”
“I don’t deserve you,” Jimmy said, and he stared off into a community of tall cacti that seemed to be encroaching like space aliens.
Ann thought she would never understand why Jimmy felt unworthy.
The average Stanford student or professor felt superior in some way. But both she and Jimmy felt something lacking in themselves, and together they tried to fit their broken pieces into a whole. She believed that this was the chemistry that brought them together. But now she imagined a multitude of microscopic cactus spines separating them.
“I don’t deserve you,” he repeated.
“Poppycock,” she said. Big, teary blobs ran down her face.
ANN FLEW TO Kentucky for two weeks, taking with her Humphry Clinker, Tristram Shandy, and the one-volume complete tragedies of Shakespeare. Both she and Jimmy were taking the summer to read for the exam. Jimmy’s deferment wouldn’t be affected because he was still enrolled. Two weeks on the farm in a post-acid daze made Ann feel warmly attached to her family, as if she need never leave. She saw her parents through Jimmy’s eyes as she imagined bringing him there. But when she imagined hoeing tomatoes and canning green beans for the next fifty years, she was glad to return to California.
HOPEWELL, KY.
July 17, 1967
Dear Ann,
When you were here, you acted like you didn’t know us. I know your studies are a big responsibility and you have to keep your scholarship, but book learning’s not everything.
You read your books all day and was up all hours, so I didn’t hardly get to see you. I wanted us to go to Paducah to the white sales. You can get some good prices this time of year, and I know you needed some towels.
You didn’t hardly mention your boyfriend, just that you weren’t going to see him for a while. I know you must be heartbroke, but you’ll get over it.
But I have to tell you that you hurt me when you said I couldn’t possibly understand what you were doing in school. That book you had your nose in the whole week—all I did was ask a question.
You said it so quick maybe you didn’t mean it, but you made me feel dumb. You made me feel like I didn’t know you. I was so full I couldn’t say anything then. I know I haven’t got an education, but we worked hard to make sure you did so your life won’t be as hard as ours. I don’t know if an education can teach everything you need to know. Maybe there are some things that are not in those books.
I was hurt, but I’m not mad. I’ll get over it.
Love always,
Mama
CHICAGO
July 18, 1967
Dear Ann,
I don’t know how long I’ll be in Chicago. My grandmother is sick and I want to see her as much as I can. I was always very fond of her, and I’m worried. And my dad has kept me busy. I’m doing some research for him on the history of medical malpractice, so I go to the library every day, and here at home I get the chance to swim twice a day, so that’s a boon.
I’m glad we didn’t part on bad terms. I didn’t want to make you cry. You were so understanding, and I know I can always trust you. I liked what you wrote about trusting me to figure out what I’m doing. I hope we are both taking the time to reflect on our relationship while we devour that scrumptious reading list. What a crock. I can’t fathom what is the good of knowing some of this vapid, jejune, submental folderol from bygone days. “Thanatopsis!” But Chekhov is good. And “Piers Plowman” is unexpectedly hilarious. A vision of a “fair field full of folk” is irresistible. I thought of your father, the quintessential yeoman farmer, tilling and reaping.
I’m reading Siddhartha by Herman Hesse. It’s not on the list, I know, but what the hey. . . .
Patience and prudence,
Jimmy
SHE WAS SURPRISED to learn of his attachment to his grandmother, and she wondered if he was making an excuse for staying away. She realized that although he criticized his parents mercilessly he was tied to them just as she was to her own parents. She had been shocked by her mother’s letter, but it was true that in some ways her mother didn’t know her. She felt Jimmy had misunderstood her too. She did not really believe he could break up with her. It would be like denying a sunrise. It had already happened; it couldn’t be rerouted. Frank the psychologist said she was being melodramatic.
“What can I do to help him with that feeling of worthlessness?” she wailed.
Frank didn’t want to hear about Jimmy. “Shouldn’t we be looking at you? If he does want to break up, then how are you prepared to deal with it?”
Frank hadn’t made her cry like that before. It seemed cruel. She believed Jimmy loved her. If he said he wasn’t ready yet, by the end of the summer he surely would be. Or if not, she would be ready to assist him, to take on the burden of his indecisiveness and despair. She had not lost him, after all. It made sense that they spend some time apart. He had told her she should feel free to see others, but she wouldn’t. She wondered if he would see other girls, but she couldn’t believe he would. She didn’t want to think about that.