Chapter Eight
St. Louis, Missouri
1979
Ruth knew her parents would divorce before they knew it themselves. She knew before she learned the English word for “divorce,” before she even fully understood divorce as a concept, that married people could choose to no longer remain married. No one in her life, on either side of her sprawling Catholic family, had ever been divorced. Not in Puerto Rico, nor in Missouri, and it wasn’t even legal in Ireland. The marital unions of the Acuna and Brennan families were permanent ones, or lasted at least until death, and a person’s long-term happiness or unhappiness was not typically a relevant consideration in the arrangement. And yet it was clear to Ruth before her eighth birthday, almost three years before her parents would finally report the decision to Ruth and her brother, that the marriage was untenable.
Ruth’s moment of early clarity occurred the summer after they moved to St. Louis, when she spent almost every day at Jennifer’s, Jenny’s, or Kathy’s houses. She never invited them to her house, not exactly because she was ashamed of anything there, but she did worry actively about the snack situation. Her mother did not buy the Fritos and onion dip that Jenny’s mom always had on hand. She never purchased Oreos or Doritos. There was nary a Twinkie to be seen in Ruth’s house.
“Why don’t you invite your friends over here for once?” her mother asked at least twice a week.
But Ruth would eye the towering fruit bowl with apprehension, and then hop on her bike. At Kathy’s house on hot days they used the Slip ‘N Slide. At Jenny’s, where her mother kept the air-conditioning turned up as high as it would go, they stayed in the carpeted basement where there were no fewer than a hundred blond Barbie dolls, most of whom had their own homes and luxury vehicles, even if they did keep daddy longlegs for pets. Jennifer’s mom worked part-time, so they didn’t congregate at her house as often, but when they did, her mom would make popcorn and close the curtains in the middle of the day, and they’d each get their own beanbag (Ruth always took the yellow one), where they’d sit and watch movies on Jennifer’s Betamax.
Ruth was vaguely aware that her mother and brother were not adjusting as well as she was. Benny had finally made a single friend, but then that kid went away to boy scout camp, so Benny was on his own again, at least for the first couple weeks of summer, which is an eternity when you’re ten. His English was improving, but he was still largely joyless, and he spent most of those gaping days trying to convince their parents that it wasn’t too late for them to send him back to Puerto Rico for the summer, that he still had another blank number of weeks before he had to be back in school, that Titi Lola had repeatedly said he could stay with her as long as he liked.
Ruth overheard her parents talking about it many nights after Benny went to bed. Perhaps talking wasn’t the right word—she shared a bedroom wall with them, and it was the urgency of raised voices she overheard, Mama insisting it would be good for Benny to go back, to spend time with Tiago, to see that his life there still existed, that they still loved him and he wasn’t forgotten. And Dad arguing with equal intensity that all of Benny’s progress would evaporate if they let him go back, that he’d forget what English he’d learned and they’d have to deal with even greater anger and resentment when he returned.
But however challenging things were for Benny, they were worse for Mama. Ruth had no idea how her mother spent her days, but Ruth knew she didn’t spend them playing bridge or canasta with the other moms, or scrubbing the bathroom fixtures until they shined, or packing picnics into the Lil’ Oscar and taking her children on cultural outings. Neither did she spend them sitting on her sister’s balcony in San Juan drinking coffee to the soundtrack of Héctor Lavoe and the distant surf. And that, more than anything, seemed to define her mother’s current existence: it was the neither/nor.
Dad seemed to understand the desolate emptiness of Mama’s new life in St. Louis. He seemed to understand it as a corrosion that would eat their family if he could not find a way to contain it. So it was the effort, the spectacularly failed effort, in that direction that signified to Ruth the coming collapse.
It was a Friday evening when Dad came home from work and announced that they were joining the country club. Mama had made merciless pork chops for dinner, shoe leather on a plate. Ruth sat behind her striped place mat and thought wistfully of Kathy’s house, where it was pizza night on Fridays. Benny was sitting beside her, and Dad to her left, while Mama was still fussing around the table filling everyone’s glasses. At first Mama didn’t respond to Dad’s news, not even with her face. Ruth wondered if her mother had heard.
“The Maguires and Powells are already members there,” Dad continued, “and actually a lot of my clients.”
Dad was already cutting his meat, but Mama gave him a sharp look, so he set down the knife and fork. She turned to hang her apron on a hook beside the back door, smoothed her hands over her skirt, and joined them at the table. She served herself from the bowl of wrinkled peas before reaching her hands out on either side of her. They all joined hands and briefly prayed over the meal. When the prayer was finished, in her mind Ruth added, “Dear God, please teach Mama about pizza night, amen.”
Dad returned to sawing at his pork chop, popped a bite in his mouth, and kept talking. “But the real reason to join is for you.” He reached over and squeezed Mama’s hand. She allowed the intimacy before retracting herself toward the business of her meal. Dad was undaunted by her remoteness. “They have luncheons and card games. Lots of opportunities for volunteer work. It’ll be great for you—you’ll get to meet so many new people. Make some friends.”
Dad took a break from the pork to work on the peas, which he shoveled into his mouth rapidly until they were all gone. Ruth was amazed by his resolve: he set his mind to eating those peas, and just like that, they disappeared. Not a single pea was left abandoned on the plate. Ruth tried a forkful and chased them with a shudder of milk. Mama toiled delicately over her dinner.
“Oh! And wait till you see the pool! You’ll love it. Tennis courts too. And hey, maybe we’ll take up golf? Would you like that? I could get you a set of clubs for your birthday?”
Mama finished chewing and lifted the cloth napkin from her lap to dab at the clean corners of her mouth. She took a deep breath and replaced the napkin on her lap. Ruth could see that her mother was suppressing something, but she couldn’t tell what it was. There was some ambiguous emotion there, beneath the stony facade. Was it excitement? Hope? Irritation? Mama was impossible to read.
“It sounds lovely,” she said without inflection.
Dad leaned back in his chair. Sniffed. Nodded.
“Really,” Mama said, reaching to squeeze his hand back. “It sounds nice. When can we see it?”
Dad grinned, placated. “Tomorrow!”
“Oh?” Mama’s eyebrows went up, which was the closest she came to revealing any real sentiment in the conversation.
“Yeah, I stopped by today with Bob—we had a game of golf this afternoon, and he showed me around. It was so incredible, I went ahead and signed up on the spot. They’ll have our membership cards ready tomorrow morning. We can go for the day, check out all the amenities.”
“Me too?” Ruth asked. It sounded like a dream.
“Yes, of course,” Dad said. “All four of us. And there’s a full restaurant overlooking the golf course, but I have a feeling you and your friends will be spending your time at the cantina by the pool.”
“My friends can come too?!”
“Sure, sweetie! Anytime you want.”
“What do they have at the cantina?”
Dad had nearly finished his pork chop, Ruth noticed enviously. Meanwhile, discussion of other food—food that was not rubbery pork chops and overcooked peas—was both a palliative and a torture. Dad began to list the menu items from the cantina across his fingers.
“Pizza.”
Oh.
“Hot dogs.”
Oh.
“Hamburgers, french fries, ice cream.”
Ruth was in raptures. Benny didn’t respond because he seldom spoke at the dinner table unless there was a question posed to him directly. But he ate quickly, as he always did, and Ruth could read in his posture that he was excited about the country club too.
In the morning, Mama made scrambled eggs and bacon, and took extra care with her hair and makeup. She wore a light-blue skirt and a fitted, button-down top that she tied into a crop knot at her waist. Her lipstick was the color of dulce de leche, which made her teeth look even whiter and more dazzling than they were. She fixed simple pearl earrings into her ears and strapped sandals onto her pedicured feet. Ruth’s mother was so much more beautiful than the other moms that it would’ve been embarrassing if there were less pride in it. Ruth wriggled into her favorite pink bikini with the ruffle across the top, and threw on jean shorts until her mother turned her around by the shoulders and sent her back to her room to hide the bikini beneath a sundress.
The excitement in the Datsun felt like a contagion despite Mama’s immunity. Ruth watched the little clock on the dashboard because she wanted to know for future visits how long it would take to drive there. Seventeen minutes. Just off the highway, they pulled down a tree-lined boulevard with white gravel that crunched beneath the tires. A black sign all in gold cursive welcomed them to the SHORT HILLS BABYLON COUNTRY CLUB . Before the property even came fully into view, Ruth was enchanted by the arching canopy of trees, the manicured grass beneath, the symmetry of the gates that opened as they approached. They came to a stop at a guard booth of red brick, and an older man wearing a cap and uniform greeted them. Dad rolled down his window.
“Morning, Mr. Brennan!” the guard said. “Back already!”
“Morning, Carl!” Dad said, as if they’d known each other forever. “Yes, I’m here to show my family around.”
“Very good, sir.” Carl waved his clipboard at Dad, and the gravel crunched beneath the tires once again.
Ruth was first out of the car, bouncing on her toes while she waited for Dad to pop the hatchback. She pulled out her beach bag and tried to steady her feet beneath her, but she could already spot a sliver of the crystalline blue pool between the trees, which felt like a salve against the racket of the cicadas beyond the tree line. Mama was taking her time, a maddening thing she sometimes did when all around her was eagerness. She slowed, forcing her family to match her pace, holding them captive while she pulled down the visor and checked her reflection in the mirror. She touched the pearl on one earlobe, pressed her lips together, smoothed an invisible stray hair. Ruth knew better than to run ahead or to make any comment that might be interpreted as impatience. Benny stood with his hands in his pockets while they waited.
And then she was out! She was out of the car! Mama and Dad walked ahead, Dad’s voice detailing the locations of things, his arm outstretched, his finger pointing this way to the clubhouse, that way to badminton and lawn bowls. Benny stopped in front of Ruth and bent down so she could hop onto him like a backpack, her beach bag thumping against his hip. She pressed her cheek into her brother’s neck and realized that the scent of his skin was different now than it had been in San Juan. Not better or worse, just different, as if some element of heat that was there before had now cooled.
At the clubhouse there were double staircases, one on each end, leading up to the sweeping front porch, where Benny finally set Ruth down. Their father reached for the handle, but before he could open the door, a staff member did it for him, tipping his hat.
“Morning, Mr. Brennan.”
How did everyone already know his name?
But then there was a falter, a flicker, which the man attempted to conceal as he replaced his hat. It was too late. They had all seen it, although Ruth didn’t know what that flicker meant.
“Mrs. Brennan,” the man said quickly, standing aside and holding the door while they all passed through into the clubhouse.
Ruth immediately forgot the strange moment because of the elegance and comfort of the clubhouse: golden lighting, a full bank of tall windows with white panes overlooking the golf course beyond, the carpet so plush it came up over the edges of her sandals. She could feel the softness of it against her toes. There was a room to one side with leather armchairs and mahogany desks and an enormous fireplace and tons of bookshelves lined with gleaming leather spines. There was a scent like firewood, which felt incongruous indoors, in the heat of the summertime. Even Benny let slip an appreciative “Whoa.”
Thus enraptured, Ruth failed to notice the flurry of anxious glances and cleared throats being bandied about behind the welcome desk. The manager of the club wore a smile but no hat. It was his job to liaise, to greet members on the level of their own social status, and then to translate their needs and desires to the staff. As such, his uniform was a suit and tie. He leaned forward, bent slightly at the waist.
“Good morning, Mr. Brennan, how nice to see you again so soon.” He wore thick glasses with a double gold bridge across his nose. His eyelids were pink, and he was blinking heavily at them just as Ruth turned to take him in. “And who do we have here?”
His mouth was making the shape of a smile.
“This is my wife,” Dad said. “Mrs. Brennan.”
“How do you do,” Mama said.
“I see,” the man said, blinking ever more furiously.
There were two other staff members standing behind the desk as well, both white, and both staring openly at the Brennan family. They did not pretend busyness, did not hide their flagrant interest. Their boss straightened his posture and then moved himself around the edge of the counter.
“Mr. Brennan, do you mind if we have a word?” he said, gesturing with an upturned palm to the book room. “Privately?”
Dad frowned with his whole face, his whole body. It started in his forehead and traveled at least as far as his fists. He turned to Mama, kissed her fragrant cheek.
“I’ll just be a moment,” he said. And then to Benny, “Check out the view over there, sport!”
But Benny’s optimism had curdled. He moved himself instead to nuzzle beneath his mother’s arm. Ruth checked out the view, though, drawing herself to the bank of windows, letting the sunlight fall on her face, watching the way it shot through the trees outside. She could see the pool much better from here, its eight sparkling lanes, its big, roped-off diving well, its two lifeguard chairs and its swoopy curl of a slide. The cantina wasn’t yet open for the day, so there was a grate pulled down to the counter, but Ruth could see two teenage girls moving around inside, wearing white golf shirts and aprons, their hair gathered into neat ponytails. Ruth focused all her attention on the ponytails in an effort to not hear the words that her father and the manager were exchanging “privately,” just a few feet away. The book room had a door. Even Ruth understood that, if the manager hadn’t meant for everyone to hear this conversation, he would’ve closed it.
“It’s a very exclusive club, Mr. Brennan,” the man said.
“I’m aware,” Dad responded. “As evidenced by the rather exorbitant annual dues which, you will remember, I paid in full just yesterday.”
“Yes, sir, but the bylaws are clear on the point of membership requirements. This club is for whites only.”
“Yes,” Dad said. “And?”
The manager made a sound that could only be described as a scoff, and Ruth caught the two young women behind the desk exchanging a silent giggle. Ruth’s mother stood tall beside Benny, her back perfectly erect, the pearls white in her ears. She stared at the large oil painting on the wall behind the welcome desk. Three men in top hats on horseback, chasing some dogs that were chasing a fox.
“I’m afraid I could not have approved your membership had I known that your wife was… not white.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, of course she’s white!”
Again, the scoffing sound. “And where is it she’s from, if I may ask?”
“I don’t see what that has to do with—”
“It may help us to determine—”
“She’s from Puerto Rico. From one of the finest and wealthiest families in Puerto Rico.”
“I see.”
“This is outrageous.”
“Mr. Brennan, please. You must admit it’s a highly unusual situation. Surely you can understand that you’ve put me in an uncomfortable position. I’m sure your wife is a lovely woman from a fine family, and it’s not a personal slight against her. But there are other dues-paying members to consider as well, families who’ve belonged to this club for generations. My job is to administer the standards they expect. I don’t make the rules, but I am obliged to enforce them on behalf of the board. I do my best to keep everyone happy.”
“Well, so far you’re doing a bang-up job.”
The manager cleared his throat loudly, buying them both a moment to gather themselves, to calm down, but Ruth could hear their hearts skidding and thudding in the attempt at silence. She could hear veins throbbing in necks.
“You can perhaps provide some documentation?” the manager asked then. “Some proof that she’s white?”
“Can you prove she’s not?”
“Mr. Brennan, anyone with eyeballs can see that she’s not!”
Ruth had eyeballs. She turned to look at her mother, whose skin was a similar color to the two white women behind the welcome desk. Ruth had never considered her mother’s whiteness (or non-whiteness?) in terms of her actual pigmentation. Mama was perhaps less pink, Ruth conceded. But these two women were certainly not whiter than her mother, were they? And then something else occurred to Ruth for the first time, and she found herself extending one arm to study her own color. She’d been out on her bike all summer, out flying down the Slip ‘N Slide, playing hopscotch, jumping rope. Her arm was brown, brown, brown. She turned it over to note that her skin was whiter underneath, but she was already worried. She clamped her hands over her arms, suddenly cold in the air-conditioned clubhouse. She wished she’d thought to bring a sweater.
“Outrageous,” Dad said again, his voice spiking into fury, accompanied by the smack of his palm against some hard surface in the other room. “My father-in-law could buy and sell this club.”
Ruth knew that this claim was Dad’s misguided effort to defend Mama, to defend the very existence of their family. But she was equally aware that, though perhaps it was the kind of argument that could reach a man with pink eyelids at a St. Louis country club, and though perhaps it had once been true, it was certainly not true now. Ruth knew the stories of Papamío’s once legendary family wealth, but she had not seen evidence of that fortune in her lifetime, so as a means of justification, it smacked of both dishonesty and humiliation. Ruth didn’t apprehend this particular sliver of shame with her brain, could not have articulated its presence, but she could feel it all the same.
“Well,” the manager said. Ruth could hear the noisy breath he drew in through his elongated nose. “Mr. Brennan, it is certainly not my intention to offend. Let’s see if we can come to some compromise, shall we?”
The men emerged from the book room a few minutes later, both having given up the ruse of smiling. Behind the desk, the two lingering staff members now wore brazen smirks, which their manager addressed.
“If you have nothing better to do than to stand around gawking at our newest members, then perhaps we are overstaffed, and your shifts should end early.”
Then he turned back to the Brennan family, addressing Mama specifically. “Mrs. Brennan, please,” he said, gesturing with a sweep of his hand. “Allow me to give you a tour of the grounds.”
Mama lifted her chin higher, narrowed her eyes. Benny reached for her hand.
“Get me a glass of lemonade,” she said.
“I’m sorry?” the manager stammered.
“I’m thirsty,” she said. “Lemonade with ice. And for my children as well.”
The manager turned and snapped at the one staff member who remained behind the desk. She flinched and scampered off to retrieve the lemonade, which was delivered, icy and cold, into their waiting hands no more than ninety seconds later.
“Anything for you, Mr. Brennan?” the manager asked.
“No.”
The new member tour was awkward and stiff, and though Ruth still felt a nominal thread of excitement quivering through her limbs when they walked the pool deck, she had a primal understanding that it would be disloyal to express anything approaching happiness. Back in the clubhouse, it was quietly agreed among the men that the Brennan family could retain their membership, but the manager had to draw the line somewhere, and it just wouldn’t do to assign Mrs. Brennan a locker in the women’s locker room, where the other wives would surely object.
“We will give her access to the staff locker room, and we’ll direct the staff to clear out whenever she needs to use it. Like her own private dressing room. Even better than the communal women’s room, right?”
That’s when it happened. The instant Ruth knew with every certainty that her parents’ marriage was terminal. Although the lights were dim on the lower level of the clubhouse, Mama had not removed her sunglasses.
“That will be fine, Brian. Just fine.” Dad shook the manager’s hand and clapped him on the shoulder. “Right, Rafaela?”
“There’s always a compromise to be found among gentlemen,” the manager said.
Both men turned to look at Mama then, her face stoic. Through the mild tint of her glasses, she held their gazes each in turn. Mama glared silently until the moment grew long enough for both men to squirm and whither. Ruth watched without breathing. She perceived the towering shape of her mother’s dignity in that wordless exchange. Ruth determined to absorb her mother’s strength, to make it her own. If Mama was an oak tree, Ruth would be a sapling. She understood that this moment was only rain.
But Ruth knew even as it was happening that this memory would grow roots in the turned earth of her mind, that one day it would come to define something important about Mama that Ruth did not yet fully understand. Years from now, Ruth would return frequently to this memory like a sepia-toned slide. She’d hold it up by the edges, watching the colors filter through the translucent skin. It would be a very long time before the shadows of the image were clearly illuminated, before Ruth would understand that it was not simply the existence of unmistakable bigotry that infuriated Mama that day in the country club. What Mama really couldn’t abide was the fact that, for the first time in her life, that bigotry was being aimed at her .
In the perfumed silence of the Short Hills Babylon Country Club, Ruth was motionless in her ruffled bikini, sundress, and flat sandals. She’d been still for long enough to drain the color from her peripheral vision, and yet, she kept her eyes on her unblinking mother, who had ensnared the two men using nothing but the weight of her gaze. When Mama was done, she held her empty glass out toward the manager without taking a step toward him. When it was clear that her arm did not extend quite far enough to hand him the glass, she waited for him to close the space between them, to step forward and lift the glass from her hand. He did. Then she turned and ushered Benny and Ruth back toward the stairs.
“Three towels,” Mama said, without looking back. “We’ll be at the pool.”