quiet, and his body was very still. “In Vietnam, they used chemical defoliants. They found out later that the soldiers who were exposed to them would end up with cancer. Or they’d be sterile, or their wives would have miscarriages, or they’d have kids with birth defects. I knew I’d never . . .” He breathed again. “I knew I’d never want to try, knowing what could happen. I had a vasectomy a few years ago. Just to be sure.”
Bethie felt sick, angry and sad, furious at what Harold had been cheated out of, at what that war had taken. “I’m sorry,” she said, hearing her voice crack. “I’m sorry that happened to you.”
He gave a slow nod. “I was angry about it for a long time. But now . . .” Another shrug. “I couldn’t be as angry as I was forever.”
“I had an abortion,” she said into the silence. She felt like she needed to say it, to tell him what she’d never told another man, to let him see her clearly, all of her scars. To trust him with this truth as he’d trusted her with his. Sitting beside him, her eyes on her lap, she said, “I was raped the summer after my sophomore year. Dev took me to a concert, and I got high. And I got lost and ran right into a bunch of bad guys.”
For a moment, Harold was silent. Bethie could feel tension, like the air was getting thick before a storm. Then—finally—she felt Harold reach for her hand. In a hoarse voice, he said, “I don’t want anything bad to happen to you again.”
Bethie shut her eyes. “Do you think . . .” Once again, Bethie’s mind was whirling with questions. Do you think that this can work; do you think people will accept us; do you think we can find a place to be in the world? Where would they live, and what holidays would they celebrate, and would Harold want her to go to church with him, or convert? How would his parents feel about her? How would her mother feel about him? Would Sarah be glad that Bethie was with someone, even if that someone wasn’t white and wasn’t Jewish, or would she hiss unnatural, the way she had at Jo?
Part of her wanted not to think at all; to take him in her arms and into her bed, to hold him and let him hold her and tell herself that tomorrow was another day, and they’d figure it out as they went. Part of her—a larger, more sensible part—knew that Harold would never agree to that. Harold was careful, deliberate, and methodical. Measure twice, cut once, she’d heard him say. And he wasn’t a risk-taker. He’d want to know exactly what he was getting into, exactly what he’d be gaining, and losing, by choosing her. Bethie closed her eyes, feeling sorry for herself, and feeling, too, a deep, aching sympathy for her sister, who must have asked herself all of the same questions when she’d been in love with Shelley. Where will we go, and how will we live, and is there any place on earth where we can be together?
“I want to be with you,” she said, not caring that it was forward or unladylike. “I want us to be together.”
For a long, awful moment, Harold didn’t answer. In that time, Bethie imagined life without him. No more Saturday nights reminiscing about drag races on Woodward Avenue, or Coach Krantz, or the Thanksgiving Day parade. No more phone calls at nine o’clock just to see how she was doing; no more bouquets that she’d stick in empty Mason jars and smile every time she saw. No more daydreaming about how it would feel to have Harold naked against her; how it would feel to touch the glossy skin of his back and shoulders and the dense curls on his head, to see if he smelled just as spicy up close.
“It won’t be easy,” he said. She could feel his deep voice rumbling right through her.
“I know,” she said.
“You don’t,” said Harold. He sounded glum, but he hadn’t let go of her hand. “Maybe you think you know, but you don’t. You can’t.” He looked around at the people sitting by the fire, some black, some white, and said, speaking slowly, “You think we come from the same place. We don’t. My Detroit, my family, my history, it’s all different.” His chest rose and fell as he