The Nature of Love

Chapter 6

Copyright (c) 2014 Phyllis Zimbler Miller

All rights reserved.

U.S. says it is sending 21,000 more troops to Vietnam. – June 16, 1965

 

Jennifer’s Story

1965

          Warm Honolulu breezes greeted us as Steve and I emerged from the airport terminal. I held onto Steve's arm, unwilling to have him take the shuttle to the car rental without me. "We can carry the suitcases. They're not that heavy," I said.

         "Okay," he said, bending down to pick up the larger Samsonite suitcase. "You'll have to carry the other one."

         I lugged the second suitcase to the pickup point. "Isn't it lovely?” I said.  “Imagine what the Polynesians must have felt like when they arrived here in their giant double canoes 2,000 years ago!"

         "Honey," Steve said, sitting down on the only bench, "please don't start giving me the history of the place before I've even unpacked. You have a whole week to fill me in."

        Oh dear! If I had been describing the chemical makeup of the native plants and the probable medicinal uses the natives employed them for he would be all ears. Yet I have known our differences from the beginning.

        "Jennifer," Marjorie said. "I insist you come to the ZBT fraternity party with me. All the best Jewish boys on campus are Zebes."

        I gazed at my cousin, who had appeared uninvited from her dorm room on the floor below. "Why didn't you call?"

        "Because you'd probably say no on the phone. It's harder for you to say no to my face."

       For once Marjorie was right. "I have to study,” I said.  “Going through rush already takes so much time. I'm afraid I'll fall behind."

       Marjorie laughed as she sat down on one of the two beds. "The girl who was number one in her graduating class at New Trier High is worried about her grades? Give me a break!"

      I closed my history book. No use resisting. When Marjorie got an idea in her head I had to go along. Otherwise Marjorie would complain to her mother, who would complain to her husband, who would complain to his business partner – my father, who would complain to his wife – my mother, who would call me. "Why can't you get along with your cousin? Must your father always have to hear complaints at work about your rudeness?"

      I swept the loose ends back into my sprayed pageboy. "I'll just leave a note for Celia. She's due back from the library soon."

      Marjorie laughed. "The two of you are hopeless. A Saturday night and your idea of fun is studying."

      I thought of several retorts, but I didn't want to worsen my mother's heartburn. Instead I said, "Do I look okay?"

      "Your skirt's too long and your circle pin's crooked. Other than that, you'll pass."

      What gall! I had been stuck with my cousin my whole life – "born two months and live two blocks apart" I would say when asked.

      I had hoped we would at least go to different colleges.

      Marjorie had only applied to U of I – "It's a great party school, Jen." So when I chose Ann Arbor – Michigan's history department had a good reputation – I expected my cousin to depart my life for Champaign-Urbana. No such luck.