Ark (9 page)

Sondra was in the Range Rover, driving back from the city to Scarsdale. Her husband, Steven Katz, the doctor, was at the wheel. The phone was set to speaker. Accelerating up a snowy incline, Steven told Doris that his conscience wasn't troubled by the lawsuit. He said the same was true of his wife. “Do you think we care about Ben or Eliza? Because we don't, and we haven't for years. How they've treated us and our son is unforgivable.”

But Doris wouldn't accept anyone saying anything bad about her mother or father. “Ben and Eliza have been generous with their love, loyal, supportive, nurturing of their children's minds and ambitions. If you feel that you were mistreated, it's because you didn't show them respect. That's the problem with the two of you, such arrogant pricks, you think the world should come and bow before you.”

What was the fine for lighting up in a hospital? Doris didn't care. She had smoked on airplanes before, a puff in the bathroom and a spritz of No. 5 before returning to her seat. The street was eight floors down, and you had to ride the elevator with doctors, the sick and dying. Not to mention empty your pockets for security. And the weather outside was cold, the thought of which made her body stiffen. She found a single-occupancy bathroom down the hall from Eliza's room and locked herself inside. Sitting on the toilet, she rolled the wheel of the lighter under her thumb. She had stopped listening to her sister. All of a sudden, however, she said, “That you think you still deserve any of our parents' money proves you're a psycho!”

“I won't be blamed for our mother's poor health,” Sondra answered. “She's had this disease for twenty years.”

“But let there be no mistaking it, you did her in.”

“As a doctor—”

“Shut up, please, Steven! I didn't ask your opinion. No one likes you. Just go away. Go away and sue someone else. I'll run my company and make millions, and I'll love my parents and live a productive life. You, Sondra, should get a life. Get a fucking life. Do something useful with yourself. I don't know what, but
something
.”

Steven stroked his neck, his eyes full and forehead pulsating with a surge of defensive feeling for his wife. He began to recall the argument he'd had with Ben Arkin about
American Beauty
. An outstanding piece of filmmaking, he thought, what with its isolated male lead out of love with his two-timing wife having shower jerkoffs about his daughter's classmate—this was him, and the movie had brought him back from a very lonely, faraway ledge. Then for his mother-in-law's birthday, he'd gone to the Arkin loft. Looking to strike up conversation at the table, he'd mentioned the film, and the artist, with everyone feverishly awaiting his reply, had stalled, pompously scratching at his round chin, his lips meanly poised to strike the doctor, and blue eyes demonically shrinking: “Ten years ago I decided I wouldn't see Hollywood movies anymore. But I went and saw that piece of shit—suckered by the critics—and that old decision was reconfirmed. Just a very bad movie with a hundred cheap emotional hooks meant for schmucks like you, Steven, to lap up.”

Oliver and Sondra had had to pull Steven off of Ben. That was the last time the doctor had seen his wife's father.

And now the film was ruined for him.

Having mentally drifted, Steven was surprised to find the steering wheel tight between all ten of his fingers, the chaotic sound of the windshield wipers, and his wife and sister-in-law still arguing on the phone. He'd told his colleague at the children's oncology wing of Mount Sinai about these zone-outs. They happened frequently. The doctor said Steven shouldn't worry, as long as he wasn't doing something that required his full attention. Well, the car was now in park, and he had put it there in advance of this episode. Regarding himself in the rearview mirror, he thought,
Good job
. He saw a man approaching sixty-five who still had a full head of hair, a great father and husband, a doctor who had helped hundreds of children beat cancer. Nevertheless, he could admit that he did find pleasure in suing his wife's family. Originally, he'd sought a strong relationship with Ben. He'd believed they would be close friends, confidantes. Mentioning this to Sondra some thirty-three years ago, she had admonished him to expect little from her father. If they could be civil during holidays, that would be an achievement.

Beyond the windows of the Range Rover, the snow was coming down heavier than in the minutes before and Steven threw the car into gear. They were only two miles from home. He would get them there safely. But if anxiety interfered with his steering, he would hand the car off to Sondra. She was still haggling with her sister. Doris wouldn't tell her which hospital Eliza had been admitted to.

“You're outrageous, Doris. If my mother is dying, I'm going to visit her. You won't keep me away.”

“Get off the phone now,” Steven said to her. “I can't drive like this.”

Sondra pressed the phone to her shoulder. “She won't tell me where they're keeping my mother.”

“I'll make a call. We'll find out. Just get off the phone.”

“Not till I get what I want.”

“If you don't shut up, I'm going to crash the car!”

Sondra hung up then, without another word.

Through a doctor friend, Steven learned that Eliza was at Southampton Hospital. The drive from their home in Scarsdale was two and a half hours. Sondra set out the following morning, bracing for a fight with Doris. When she got to the hospital, she didn't find Doris or her father, though. Only Oliver. Without speaking, they embraced, then settled around their ailing mother. Sondra placed her hands on Eliza's legs, not out of affection, but to stop their spastic motion. She had thought she'd find her mother in better condition. At least able to communicate. How terrible she looked. There was no coming back from here.

“None of this surprises me,” said Sondra.

Oliver, who'd slept in the hospital room the night before, and would do so twenty more times in the weeks ahead, was picking up the white pillows of his makeshift bed from the floor and stacking them on the radiator at the window next to boxes of cereal bars, bananas, nuts, dried fruits, and empty cups of coffee.

“Look at her…completely annihilated by life, and by Ben. No, it doesn't surprise me.” She slipped out of her mink coat, hanging it over her right arm. “I want to thank you for not bringing up the lawsuit.”

“I wasn't going to.”

“I just want to visit with my mother and then leave.”

“Fine.”

“I don't want to see Doris or Daddy.”

“They don't come here. They can't bear to be in this place, to see Mom in this condition. I tell them everything that's happening and keep an eye on the doctors, the nurses, and make sure Mom's being well cared for.”

Sondra closed her eyes, her head turned. She said, “And what are you after?”

“I'm sorry?”

“I mean, since I don't buy this story of you keeping a watch over Mom out of the goodness of your heart, what are you doing here?”

Oliver, fighting the urge to slug his sister, said, “I am doing what any decent child would do, and that's taking care of my sick mother. You should think a little bit about how much you've neglected your parents over the last fifteen years. It's appalling!” He left the room.

Sondra scoffed. What did her brother know about anything? Decent child? Right. But could they save this woman? It did seem like death would suit her best. And yet look how this writhing body struggled to go on. Where was this strong will coming from? Had it always been there? Sondra decided that it had, yes. Which explained how Eliza had withstood a life with Ben. But what a fool! To have accepted a despot for a husband. It made Sondra furious. Of course, back in the '60s, having moved from Queens to a palatial home on Madison and Sixty-Sixth, Sondra would sneak from her bedroom at night to see all those handsome men and fashionable women at her parents' parties. Everyone so chic. Her mother was a wonderful host. And all the men were after her. She was funny, was the thing, and calculating. And she knew everyone and their children and the schools they attended by name. Eliza had something figured out, Sondra reckoned, because Ben would hand her whole stacks of hundred-dollar bills, and up and down Madison her mother would go, buying whatever she wanted. Sometimes Sondra would tag along with her. About a dress or pair of shoes, her mother would ask, “This one or that?” then she'd leave the store with both. That was admirable.

She brought her cheek to rest against her mother. Asked if she could hear her. Well, could she? Sondra said the name Eliza twice. She tapped her mother on the hand, she touched her lips, she sidled up closer, intertwining their fingers. She apologized for having to leave so soon, she would come back to the hospital the next day. That she wouldn't have to worry about running into her father or sister made it much easier. She didn't want to sit with Oliver, either. However, he would give her space to be alone with their mother, and that was what she wanted.

But Sondra didn't return to see her mother. She would tell her husband the night before that she would be going out for a visit the following day, then get in the car, and drive as far as the end of the road, stop, and say to herself, “You have to go. You must.” But then she would sit with her foot off the gas, between tall hedges, on the suburban street. And she would eventually turn back to the house. She would make the excuse that she didn't want to see her mother that way. That it didn't do anything good for anyone. So why do it? Why waste the time?

V. GET THE POLICE

 

Two weeks later, on a cold, clear February morning, Eliza passed away. At the cemetery the following day, and then at the loft during the shiva sitting, Doris was in a frantic state. She told Rebecca that if Sondra showed up, she would need help throwing her out. Because Sondra wasn't welcome here. There were no two ways about it. Did Rebecca understand? Could she be counted on? Rebecca asked her aunt if she or anyone had even told Sondra about her mother. Doris said that Sondra had killed her mother and, therefore, she didn't deserve to know. Killed her? Yes, Doris screamed.

Rebecca had been at the Arkin loft for seven hours. She wondered how much longer she was expected to stay. She couldn't take much more of this. Especially now, with Doris pointing across the crowded loft at her parents' bedroom door. Oliver had been asleep there since returning from the cemetery. She said, “Rebecca, listen to me please. You have to get your father out of this place. It's not his home. He doesn't have to go back to California, but he can't stay here. My mother's dead. Do me this favor and talk to him.”

“My father came to town to take care of his mother and be with her at the hospital. Now give him a moment. He wants to get back to California, to his life…his regular life. This is a very difficult time for him.”

“It's a difficult time for all of us.”

“Yes.”

“I mean, look at
my
father. I've never seen him like this. He's got to get up. Maybe he wants to eat. I'll be back. You won't leave, will you? You have to stay with me. I can't do this alone.”

Doris slipped off into the crowd. Ben was lying on the pink divan at the back of the large room. His head was raised on a white pillow, a pair of black sunglasses hiding his eyes. A man of middle years came and shook his hand, speaking into the artist's ear. Rebecca could see Ben lean forward so as to hear, but his lips didn't move. The loft had never seen this many visitors. Rebecca counted more than seventy people. Ben's artwork had been moved into his studio to make space. But there wasn't the furniture to accommodate so many guests. Nearly everyone stood.

Rebecca saw Eliza's brother, Gregory, fixing himself a plate of food, and she went to him.

“Hi there.” She brought her arms around his waist.

“How are you, darling?”

“I'm sorry about your sister.”

Gregory thanked her. There was nothing particularly mournful about his comportment. He loathed Ben, and beneath his bald pate, he must have been privately celebrating the artist's demise. Ben was in large part responsible for Gregory's decision to practice psychiatry. Ben's abuse, his temper—a poison secreted into the minds of so many people—had pushed Gregory to the limits of his own sanity. It was only two years before, after a long hiatus, that Gregory had begun to see his sister again. Eight years earlier, he'd cut Eliza and Ben off, having decided that he wouldn't suffer any more degradation at the hands of the artist. Oh, the anger he would feel after any visit. Ben would ignore him for the first hour. Then his brother-in-law would come from his studio, wouldn't say hello or even look Gregory's way but go straight past him, and return five minutes later with a cup of hot coffee. He would sit in a chair, drinking the coffee, not even offering his guest any but after every sip his tongue smacking against his lips, and his
ahhhhhhhhhs
. Gregory came all the way from the East Seventies, and yet Ben wouldn't even say hello. Because he was an asshole of the highest order. And who did he think he was? God. But why did Gregory even come in the first place? Because of his sister, yes, and his desire for a relationship with her. She was eleven years his senior, though, and she should have been more protective of her younger brother. He never once heard her protest when Ben acted rudely. If she'd spoken out against his behavior, or pulled him aside and asked for patience, he would have loved her for it.

Now Gregory brought up Oliver. How was he doing?

“He'll be okay,” Rebecca said.

“Where's his wife? I don't see her here.”

“She isn't coming.”

“Why not?”

“I don't know.”

“But they're still married, aren't they?”

“Yes.”

Not satisfied with Rebecca's answer, Gregory said, “I hear she's been in California all this time, and that your father's been at the loft.”