My Summer With George by Marilyn French Page A

I’d pack my own wicker basket with chilled white wine, crystal stemware wrapped in linen napkins, and a large soft blanket. We’d walk across the street and into the park, leaving the paved walkways to wander until we found an idyllic isolated spot. That was in June too, 1971. Twenty years ago! Memories of those days, those feelings, flooded over me as I spoke to George from my desk facing the park.
    “I’d love that.”
    “I’ll get the lunch.”
    “Lovely,” I gushed.
    “What kind of sandwich do you want?”
    Oh.
    “Uh. Ham and cheese?”
    “Whatever you want. What do you want to drink?”
    “I’ll bring some wine.”
    “I can’t drink wine at lunchtime. I fall asleep.”
    “Okay. What do you want?”
    “I’ll pick up a Diet Coke. You want one? No? Okay. I’ll pick you up at twelve. See ya.”
    He hung up. No lingering for him. Unlike Mark, who, during our courting days, could not bring himself to hang up the phone. And he remained that way even after we were married. Certainly we went on having picnics in the park. We had one two weeks before he died, even though he was terribly weak. He loved the park. And he was always romantic. At least, that’s how I remember him.
    George’s idea of a picnic might be unimaginative and skimpy, but he looked fresh and bright when he appeared at my door. His eyes were brilliant and greenish, reflecting his green-blue shirt.
    “God, this place is fantastic!” he exclaimed as if he had never seen it before. “Can I go look at your bedroom again? Do you mind?” He strode off down the hall toward my room, which was large and bright and overlooked the park. After Mark died, I found it too painful to enter the bedroom, and I slept in my study for a few months. Then I redecorated the bedroom in a style that erased Mark, that would not make me think of him, with English prints in lavenders, purples, and greens, a canopied bed and flounced slipper chair. It was obviously a woman’s room. I wasn’t sure just what George found exciting about it. I felt it couldn’t be the view: after all, it shared the same view as the living room and study. I hoped his interest had something to do with me. But I wasn’t at all sure of that.
    “God, that’s a gorgeous room. What a view! It’s got the best view of the whole apartment,” he announced, returning, smiling at me with those speaking eyes. I stood there and, letting them wash over me, smiled back, hoping my eyes spoke too.
    “Ready?” he said.
    It was a beautiful June day, perfect for a picnic, warm without being humid. Within minutes, we found a shaded grassy plot away from the walks and drives that meander through Central Park, and settled ourselves on the blanket I had brought, still in its old wicker basket. I poured myself a glass of wine from the chilled half-bottle I’d brought, while George cracked open his cola. I wanted to lie back on the blanket but very carefully did not. Instead, I leaned against a tree.
    George seemed excited. His eyes were very bright, and his mouth kept curving into almost a smile. He drank deeply, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and leaned against his tree. “So. How would you like it if I moved up here for a while?”
    I gasped.
    “This guy, Warren Holt, he’s an editor at Newsday. He was in the seminar, and he asked if I’d like to spend the summer as a guest editor there. What do you think?”
    My heart really tumbled then. The whole summer! “That’s great!” I cried.
    “So what do you think?” he persisted, staring at me with those turquoise eyes. “You think I should do it?”
    What was he asking me? Did he want objective advice or my feelings? I remembered an old friend, Oscar Deile, a political scientist who’d come up north to teach at Columbia for nine months and been miserable the whole time. Partly this was because his self-image was terrifically important to him, and he thought of himself as a liberal. But he was a liberal only as long as he stayed