Winter of the World

She was lying, he knew. For a moment he contemplated the idea of marrying Jacky. Interracial marriages were unusual, and attracted a good deal of hostility from blacks as well as whites, but some people did it and put up with the consequences. He had never met a girl he liked as much as Jacky; not even Margaret Cowdry, whom he had dated for a couple of years, until she got fed up of waiting for him to propose. Jacky was sharp-tongued, but he liked that, maybe because his mother was the same. There was something deeply attractive about the idea of the three of them being together all the time. Georgy would learn to call him Dad. They could buy a house in a neighbourhood where people were broad-minded, some place that had a lot of students and young professors, maybe Georgetown.

Then he saw Georgy’s blonde friend being called away by her parents, a cross white mother wagging a finger in admonition, and he realized that marrying Jacky was the worst idea in the world.

Georgy returned to where Greg and Jacky sat. ‘How’s school?’ Greg asked him.

‘I like it better than I used to,’ the boy said. ‘Math is getting more interesting.’

‘I was good at math,’ Greg said.

Jacky said: ‘Now there’s a coincidence.’

Greg stood up. ‘I have to go.’ He squeezed Georgy’s shoulder. ‘Keep working on the math, buddy.’

‘Sure,’ said Georgy.

Greg waved at Jacky and left.

She had been thinking about marriage at the same time as he, no doubt. She knew that coming out of the army was a decision moment for him. It forced him to think about his future. She could not really have thought he would marry her, but all the same she must have harboured a secret fantasy. Now he had shattered it. Well, that was too bad. Even if she had been white he would not have married her. He was fond of her, and he loved the kid, but he had his whole life ahead of him, and he wanted a wife who would bring him connections and support. Nelly’s father was a powerful man in Republican politics.

He walked to the Napoli, an Italian restaurant a few blocks from the park. Nelly was already there, her copper-red curls escaping from under a little green hat. ‘You look great!’ he said. ‘I hope I’m not late.’ He sat down.

Nelly’s face was stony. ‘I saw you in the park,’ she said.

Greg thought: Oh, shit.

‘I was a little early, so I sat for a while,’ she said. ‘You didn’t notice me. Then I started to feel like a snoop, so I left.’

‘So you saw my godson?’ he said with forced cheerfulness.

‘Is that who he is? You’re a surprising choice for a godfather. You never even go to church.’

‘I’m good to the kid!’

‘What’s his name?’

‘Georgy Jakes.’

‘You’ve never mentioned him before.’

‘Haven’t I?’

‘How old is he?’

‘Twelve.’

‘So you were sixteen when he was born. That’s young to be a godfather.’

‘I guess it is.’

‘What does his mother do for a living?’

‘She’s a waitress. Years ago she was an actress. Her stage name was Jacky Jakes. I met her when she was under contract to my father’s studio.’ That was more or less true, Greg thought uncomfortably.

‘And his father?’

Greg shook his head. ‘Jacky is single.’ A waiter approached. Greg said: ‘How about a cocktail?’ Perhaps it might ease the tension. ‘Two martinis,’ he said to the waiter.

‘Right away, sir.’

As soon as the waiter had left, Nelly said: ‘You’re the boy’s father, aren’t you?’

‘Godfather.’

Her voice became contemptuous. ‘Oh, stop it.’

‘What makes you so sure?’

‘He may be black, but he looks like you. He can’t keep his shoelaces tied or his shirt tucked in, and nor can you. And he was charming the pants off that little blonde girl he was talking to. Of course he’s yours.’

Greg gave in. He sighed and said: ‘I was going to tell you.’

‘When?’

‘I was waiting for the right moment.’

‘Before you proposed would have been a good time.’

‘I’m sorry.’ He was embarrassed, but not really contrite: he thought she was making an unnecessary fuss.

The waiter brought menus and they both looked at them. ‘The spaghetti bolognese is great,’ said Greg.

‘I’m going to get a salad.’

Their martinis arrived. Greg raised his glass and said: ‘To forgiveness in marriage.’

Nelly did not pick up her drink. ‘I can’t marry you,’ she said.

‘Honey, come on, don’t overreact. I’ve apologized.’

She shook her head. ‘You don’t get it, do you?’

‘What don’t I get?’

‘That woman sitting on the park bench with you – she loves you.’

‘Does she?’ Greg would have denied it yesterday, but after today’s conversation he was not sure.

‘Of course she does. Why hasn’t she married? She’s pretty enough. By now she could have found a man willing to take on a stepson, if she’d really been trying. But she’s in love with you, you rotter.’

‘I’m not so sure.’

‘And the boy adores you, too.’

‘I’m his favourite uncle.’

‘Except that you’re not.’ She pushed her glass across the table. ‘You have my drink.’

‘Honey, please relax.’

‘I’m leaving.’ She stood up.

Greg was not used to girls walking out on him. He found it unnerving. Was he losing his allure?

‘I want to marry you!’ he said. He sounded desperate even to himself.