One More Stop (18 page)

Dina and I run upstairs. The door to the parents’ room is shut. Patty stands outside the door. She is white as a sheet.

‘She’s in there with him. God help us all. She has come for him at last.’

I try opening the door. It’s locked. Impossible! I bang, push, scream, kick, and … mysteriously, the door opens …

There he lies … on the bed; dead as a dead man, with a winter-white smile, with lipstick kisses all over his face. Hail Mary is in order.

‘I heard footsteps, ran into the study. The hospital bed was empty. The control box ripped out, thrown on the floor … in the corner by his slippers. I heard a door slam upstairs.’ Patty falls to her knees … ‘Oh Lord in heaven I thought … praise Jesus …’

I preempt her hallelujahs. ‘Patty, please go downstairs. Call Ralph and the kids. Tell them it’s over.’

‘But.’

‘Please, leave us alone. And Patty, close the door behind you.’ Patty exits muttering the Lord’s Prayer. Dina bursts out crying. I hold her close. After all, we are sisters and orphans. ‘They’re together now.’

She cries and cries. I cry only a little in comparison. But it isn’t a contest.

I look down at his glorious corpse. His left hand is closed tight. I open it. There rests the missing monkey; his favorite picture jasper monkey. Before Dina notices, I slip the monkey into my pocket. I look at the pillowcase next to my father’s head. I swear to whomever there is left, since Patty has used up the quota. There on my mother’s old pillowcase are tears. My mother’s tears no doubt. I turn the pillow over.

‘What are you doing?’

‘Straightening up.’

‘How can you be so anal? He just died.’

I touch his forehead. ‘Goodbye Pop.’

‘Look at his face. That’s her lipstick.’ Dina can’t catch her breath.

‘It is.’ I breathe a sigh of relief. We sit on the bed, staring at our father’s corpse. I listen and listen. She is gone. He is with her. Finally. She is out of this world.

Dina whimpers. ‘You know what?’

‘What?’

‘I won’t mind being an orphan as long as I have you,’ she says between hiccups.

‘I love you, Dina.’

‘We’d better start making phone calls,’ she says anxiously.

‘There’s hardly anybody left to call,’ I say reassuringly, as I close my father’s eyes.

Dina takes a closer look at our recently deceased father. ‘Where do you think we go?’

‘I don’t know … But neither does anyone else.’

Jews bury their dead before the body is cold. Before the corpse realizes what the hell has happened, it is whisked away from its familiar surroundings. Next thing the corpse knows, it is dropped inside an extremely well-dug hole in the ground. Pop died early Thursday evening. By sundown on Friday he would have to be buried; before Sabbath.

Most of the people from Pop’s past were either dead or living in Florida. Mrs B. couldn’t make it to the funeral, but she did promise to pay her respects during the first evening of mourning. We of the Jewish faith call this
mourning
period ‘sitting Shivah’.

Funerals are a black affair; everyone wears black. I wore white. Pop would have wanted me to be different, so I was; white jacket, blue silk pants, white shoes, multicolored socks, to top off the outfit, my favorite aqua scarf.

Some of my father’s old cronies from Wall Street showed up in wheelchairs pushed either by nursemaids or young wives, who might as well have been nursemaids. Maggie and Molly sent flowers. Saul flew in with his new lover. Simone showed up in a black silk Yves Saint Laurent dress looking drop-dead gorgeous. And Patty was decked out in a floral dress, dabbing her eyes with one of Pop’s favorite silk handkerchiefs. Ralph and Dina’s kids had the best seats at the grave … head. Dina and I stood stage left. The Rabbi stood stage right. He was world-renowned; famous for blessing ordinary ketchup, thus
turning it into kosher ketchup for Passover. I was delighted to have such a prominent figure in charge of Pop’s service.

We each one of us threw our handful of dirt into the grave. It was then that Dina and I lost our composure. When it was time for Dina’s kids to throw their handfuls, they too cried their eyes out. They adored Pop, knew how much he loved them. He was the only grandpa they had ever known. Ralph’s father had died long before they were even an idea.

Our mother’s grave was right next to Pop’s grave. It was the family plot on my mother’s side, of course. My father’s side could not have afforded such a luxury. But all sides of the family were welcome. There were plenty of plots to go around for many generations to come.

At the end of the ceremony, people complimented Dina and me on what a beautiful burial it was. They especially liked the Rabbi.

After everyone had gone, Dina and I stood side by side next to our mother’s and father’s graves. It was the first time I had been back to the cemetery since my mother’s burial nearly twenty years ago.

Dina was hopeful. ‘Maybe now that they’re both here, you’ll come with me on my annual outing.’

‘They’re not here, Dina. Their bodies are here. His body is anyway. Her body is … who knows where.’

‘I feel like she lives on in you. And he’ll live on in me. They won’t ever die. That’s why we have to visit them. So they’ll live on forever. And when we’re gone, people will visit us so we’ll live on forever.’ I did not agree with Dina.

I had not heard my mother’s voice for almost a week now. It made me sad, like when you’re very young, and your best friend moves away. I took one final look at Pop’s freshly dug
grave, one more look at my mother’s old broken-in resting place. I muttered to myself. ‘When it’s my turn, don’t pack me under ground. I want to be burned, like in India, ashes strewn wherever the bird fishes rest, wherever that place is … maybe it isn’t a place at all.’

Dina says, ‘Thanksgiving.’

‘What about Thanksgiving?’

‘That was Pop’s favorite holiday.’

‘I never understood why. He wasn’t a Pilgrim.’

‘Cutting the turkey gave him a sense that he was part of the American Dream.’ She gloats. ‘Thanksgiving!’

‘Yes?’

‘We’ll set the headstone,’ she counts on her fingers: ‘June, July, August, September, October, November – six months from now. That’s kosher.’

‘Who knows where we’ll be in six months?’

‘We’ll be right here. It’s perfect. And it’s his favorite holiday.’

‘We’ll talk about it later.’

‘I feel so much better now that we’ve decided on a date.’

‘You decided. I haven’t committed yet.’

‘You will. I know you well enough and long enough.’ We walk arm in arm toward the black limo. Dina stops. ‘Did I ever tell you about the night you were …’

‘Please. The car is waiting.’

Dina stops. ‘I’m going to cry. We’re orphans.’

‘Not true. According to your theory, if they live on in us forever, we’re not orphans. We’re possessed.’

‘That’s not funny.’

‘I’ve been trying to tell you that for years.’

Back at the house, there were serious problems. Patty could
not find any tablecloths for the dining-room table. How could she? She had stolen them. The cold cuts had to be placed on top of paper doilies. Dina was furious with Patty. She endured a stress-related hot flash that lasted the entire evening.

During the evening, Saul and his new lover eyeballed and groped each other; not good grieving etiquette. Because of her dislike for Saul, based on Saul’s dislike for her, Simone snubbed Saul; more bad etiquette.

The older folks talked about the good ol’ days on Wall Street. They surrounded the dining-room table like vultures, ate enough cold cuts to clog their arteries for months to come, ate like there might be no tomorrow; quite possible with this crowd.

Dina and I made the rounds. Patty regaled the crowd with the story of Pop’s dramatic death. I stick close to Simone. Try to keep her away from Saul. Simone insults Saul; accuses him of being a Republican. More bad grieving etiquette.

Saul storms away. ‘I don’t need to listen to this French crap.’ He heads for the cold cuts, devours half a pound of corned beef in less than forty-five seconds.

During the climax of the Simone/Saul drama, the front door opens. The nurse’s aide from Beechwood Manor leads Mrs B. into the living room. Mrs B. looks radiant. She is wearing a stunning black silk designer jacket with satin lapels, a silver silk shell, a sexy short black skirt. Wrapped around her neck is a beautiful a-q-u-a scarf; my favorite scarf around her neck! Like a child, I run for the front door, nearly knocking over Mrs B. on the way. Mrs B. asks, ‘Loli, is that you?’ She grabs my arm, turns to her nurse’s aid. ‘Theresa, I know my way around here. Why don’t you sit on the couch? First get yourself something to eat. I’m sure there are plenty of cold cuts on the table over there.’

Mrs B. escorts me outside. She closes the front door behind us. We sit on the front stoop. ‘I’m so sorry about your father.’ I do not respond. ‘How are you, Loli?’ I mope. ‘What is it, Loli?’

‘The scarf?’

Mrs B. touches the scarf. She strokes it like you stroke your favorite stuffed animal. ‘Theresa got it from my drawer.’

‘Who gave it to you?’ Mrs B. realizes she has walked over an irreversible line of propriety. She reaches out, touches the identical scarf wrapped around my neck. She wraps it around her fingers. She places it on her lap.

‘Nassau 1967. Your father and mother … Sid and I. We took a vacation together. It was a lovely holiday. Your mother.’ Mrs B. fidgets with my scarf. ‘She bought two of them; one for you, one for me. There were two left in the store. She knew you’d love it, because of the color, like your eyes … and … she wanted to give me something for being such a good friend.’

‘You never wore it before. In all the years I’ve known you. Never.’

‘No, I haven’t.’

‘Why did you wear it tonight?’

‘I forgot my promise.’

‘What promise?’

‘I promised your mother I wouldn’t wear it in front of you … Children need to feel special.’

‘It’s my favorite thing.’

Mrs B. starts to talk but can’t get the words out, until: ‘Mine too. My good luck charm.’ She cries on the front stoop of the house she lived in, lived across from, left behind, the house of secrets and promises long ago broken, but never forgotten. ‘Loli.’

‘Yes.’

‘Please go inside, tell Theresa I want to go home.’ I get up from the stoop. Mrs B. grabs my arm. ‘Tell her you’re going to drive me back to Beechwood Manor.’

‘I don’t know if it’s right to leave Dina.’

‘Dina will be fine. Her family’s with her. Tell her I’ve asked you to take me home. She’ll understand. You’ll be back soon enough.’

I wipe off my pants. As I stand up, Mrs B. grabs hold of my pant leg.

‘Bend down.’ I bend. She wraps the scarf around my neck the same way I have worn it for years. ‘That’s how you like to wear it, isn’t it?’

‘Be right back. I’ll bring Dina’s car around. Wait here.’

‘Don’t worry. I’m not going anywhere.’

Dina is too busy with cold cuts and the elderly to give a hoot about my leaving. But, she makes me swear to show up for the unveiling. Damn it!

‘Please keep an eye on Simone.’ I kiss Simone goodbye, beg her to behave herself. She still hasn’t a clue about my affair with Maggie; more secrets, more lies.

Simone informs me, ‘Mauli Malone called. She has entered a contest, I forgot to tell you. Who is she?’

‘Beatrice. The girl I … not important. I wish you would have told me earlier. I’ll call her tomorrow. Be nice to Saul. I’ll see you later. I’m taking Mrs B. home.’

‘How lovely that you have had a rapprochement with your ex-stepmother.’

On that note I leave. Glad that Molly called. What contest? Why hasn’t Maggie phoned? I look at Simone. She is
breathtaking
. I close my eyes. Maggie appears. She whispers in my ear. I can hear her. I can smell her. Again. I taste her, feel her
skin against my body. Open my eyes, wave at Theresa, tell her I’m driving Mrs B. back to Beechwood Manor. Theresa seems quite happy, at home with the elderly; sounds like a reality show. Must remember the idea.

I drive around front. Walk up the steps, escort Mrs B. down the steps. Mrs B. gets into the Mercedes. We speed down the road, turn right onto Park Road, left onto Forest Avenue, right again onto Palmer, cut through Beechwood, through the
railroad
station’s parking lot. The 9:01 is pulling in right on time. I open my window. ‘Don’t you love that sound?’

‘Always have.’

‘Can you hear the trains from your room?’

‘If I listen hard enough. Burt loved trains. Loved them. He adored looking out the window, watching the towns go by. I can see him, nose pressed against the glass, fogging up the cold window.’

‘Who doesn’t love to fog up a cold window? I’m sorry I never knew him.’

‘You were never in the same school; like you and your sister. They were in the same class. Five grades ahead or was it six?’

‘Six.’

We arrive at the Beechwood Manor. I turn the engine off, open the car door, ready to get out. Mrs B. does not budge. ‘There are things I’ve been wanting to tell you. Why don’t you roll down the windows, drive if you like. Anywhere.’ I turn on the engine, step on the gas, roll down the windows, and drive through the quiet streets of Beechwood.

Mrs B. waits for some inner signal, then tells me about the once upon a time … the time before, the time of the bird fish. ‘Has your sister ever told you about the night you were born?’

‘A million times. She describes going into the bedroom, not
finding my mother, going into the living room where Granny was sitting … Grandma says something like “Things won’t ever be the same.”’

‘Loli. Your sister has never told you the whole story. She doesn’t know it.’

Between the time my sister and I were born, my mother had a miscarriage. It was a boy named Daniel. My father was
devastated
. Dina was too young to understand what had happened. When my mother became pregnant with me, she was scared to death, afraid she might miscarry again. As it turned out, mine was a difficult pregnancy. The placenta was too close to the cervix. There was bleeding. The doctors told my mother, ‘Take it easy.’ At six months, she was placed on total bed rest. It was hard on my father. But, it was especially hard on my sister. One day she had a normal mother, next day her mother was an invalid; rarely out of bed. Of course, Dina learned to accept the situation. My father hired a devoted housekeeper, who kept the house in order, got my sister off to school, fed her, tended to her like a mother would. Pop took care of all the details of the house. He was an adoring husband.

At seven and a half months, my mother began
hemorrhaging
. She was rushed to the hospital. That night, the night I was born, my grandmother came to take care of my sister.

I was a premature breech baby. They performed a C-section on my mother. When I arrived in this world, my lungs weren’t fully developed; they kept me in an incubator, and I remained in hospital for many weeks.

My mother went into a terrible depression; post partum blues. She became suicidal; tried to kill herself. A nurse saved her life. Nowadays they would know what to do. But back then … depression was … It was different then. Most doctors didn’t know the first thing about it. They gave her Valium, lithium, who knows what other drugs. The drugs made her more depressed. My father brought in the best doctors, who told him that she needed shock therapy. He didn’t want to believe them. Finally, he had no choice. From the night I was born until the day my mother died, she was never the same. Neither was my father.

I stop the car, park in front of an old colonial house adjacent to the Beechwood Country Club. I close my eyes. I am in a dark room without love. I am a bird fish. Breath is external. Breath. No breath. Say hello world.

Mrs B. says, ‘You and your mother were separated after a traumatic birth.’

‘No wonder my grandmother was there … that night … But … what happened after that?’

‘Your mother went home. You stayed in the hospital.’

‘I was a bird fish.’

‘A what?’

‘Bird fish.’

‘You were a magical strange little creature. She couldn’t bear leaving you at the hospital. But, the doctors felt she had a better chance of climbing out of her depression if she were home. Your father hired round-the-clock nurses. Your sister wasn’t allowed to spend much time with your mother. The slightest thing got her upset. Your father didn’t know what to do. I was the only one she could talk to. She babbled on and on about
being a failure as a wife, a mother. Couldn’t find a moment’s peace. Broke my heart. Finally, they let you out of the hospital. Because you were a sick little baby, your mother didn’t let you out of her sight … not for one moment. She was besotted with you. Whenever you coughed or cried, she lost her mind.’ Mrs B. whispers. ‘Crazy … Never paid any attention to your sister. Wouldn’t let your father touch her. A mess. It was a mess. She was terrified you would die, so she never left your side.’

‘It was
my
fault. It was; all those years.’

‘No! It wasn’t your fault. It was nobody’s fault. Life undoes some people. It undid your mother. Couldn’t be fixed by anybody: doctors, friends, family, we all tried. But, for some reason, your mother’s spirit … broke. It just happened. The world was too much … too much for her … too much.’

‘Who took care of my mother … the housekeeper?’

‘Your father went to work. So, I drove your mother to the doctor’s office almost every single day; some specialist for one thing or another. Of course we brought you with us. Wherever she went, you went. Your sister was in school then. As soon as Dina left the house, off we’d go, you, your mother and me, driving to famous doctors in Manhattan, New Haven,
Philadelphia
, wherever. We drove for hours; you crying and crying until we were at our wits’ end. My guess is you cried because you couldn’t breathe; drove your mother insane. When we weren’t going to a doctor for her, we were going to some pediatric
specialist
for you. It was horrible. One day, during another endless outing, I opened my window a crack. You stopped crying. It was a miracle. You looked up at the crack, listened to the wind, smiled. It was the first smile I had seen on your face since you were born. It was as if the air coming through the window was the breath you couldn’t breathe through your lungs. That
sound became your sound. Whenever you cried, we opened a window, just a crack. Even your mother and I got into the sound. It soothed her. For a few hours every day, while we were driving, searching for answers, that sound was your breath and our life.’

I mourn for my mother, my father, my sister and me. I mourn for our family. Pieces of the puzzle are still missing. ‘Mrs B?’

‘Yes, Loli.’

‘Did my mother … when we were in the car … when I was … did she recite nursery rhymes?’ Mrs B. does not respond. ‘You see about a year after she died, right around the time you married Pop, she started reciting
Mother Goose
nursery rhymes. During the last few months, while Pop was dying, she was at it again … nursery rhymes.’

‘She was listening after all.’ Mrs B. sighs. ‘In the car,
whenever
we drove around, I recited
Mother Goose
.’

‘You?’

‘When Burt was little, he adored
Mother Goose
. I should have known then he would be an odd fellow. Those stories were odd if you ask me. Only thing that made him laugh. I still don’t know what was so funny. Never understood why all us mothers were reading them. Guess it was the thing to do. So, when the three of us were driving around, hour after hour, I figured why not recite
Mother Goose
. Open the window a crack, and recite. She refused to learn them, said it was good enough if I knew them. She learned them after all. Rock-a-bye baby or was it Hush-a-bye baby? … was her favorite.’ Awful lot of information on the night of my father’s funeral, think I.

‘Mrs B? What about my mother and father?’

‘What about them?’

‘Did they … love each other?’

‘Very much. It was a difficult situation. Your mother didn’t want to be touched, wasn’t interested in sex. The doctors blamed it on hormones or some such thing.’

‘Did they ever have sex?’

‘Not that I know of.’

‘No wonder he was fucking around.’ No one speaks for quite some time.

‘When your mother was in the hospital, I was having an affair with your father.’ She mutters under her breath. ‘On and off … we had an affair…’ I don’t respond. ‘Your mother never knew.’ Mrs B. starts to say something. ‘My …’ She stops. Finally, she gets it out. ‘My husband suspected. I denied it. He knew.’ And they went on vacations together. ‘I didn’t want to hurt your mother, so I ended it.’ What else could she possibly say? ‘It wasn’t a love affair; it was about sex. I fulfilled a need for him. He fulfilled one for me. We tried to be friends, but he was uncomfortable around me. All those years later, when we got married, we were just friends, companions.’

I can’t stop thinking about Pop’s life. ‘I feel so badly for him.’

‘So did your mother. She offered to give him a divorce many times. But he wouldn’t leave. He loved her so much, he found ways to live with the rejection.’

‘They really loved each other?’

‘They did. They broke each other’s hearts, but they loved each other to death.’

‘She was with him when he died.’

‘She was with him every day of his life. Every day.’

I lean back, start the engine, drive. ‘I better take you home. Not sure where to put my feelings.’

Mrs B. holds my hand. ‘There are times when that happens.’

‘I can’t even find my tears tonight. They must be hiding in my heart.’

‘Loli.’

‘What Mrs B?’

‘Your mother and I had a very special friendship.’

‘I know.’

‘We were there for each other during difficult times. She helped me through my marital problems, my drinking. No matter how badly she felt, she was there for me. We spent a lot of time together … almost every day. The scarf was a thank you for years of a friendship so unique, so deep, so intertwined. Your father understood.’ I want to ask Mrs B. if there was
anything
else between them. I decide some things are private. Mrs B. reads my mind. ‘Your mother didn’t love me that way. We talked about it. She loved your father. I was her best friend. But you were her greatest love.’

I can hardly grasp the situation. ‘And then you married him … How unbelievable is that.’

‘Did she ever tell you her theory about only telling the moon your secrets in order to save the stars?’

‘Mrs B., I can’t hear one more truth tonight. How am I ever going to pick up all those lost stitches.’

‘You will, Loli. You are your mother’s daughter. You will figure it out for both of you. That’s your … what do you call it … your karma.’

There are times in your life when you must let the dearest parts of yourself slip though your fingers like grains of sand. You have to let them go, or else you will turn into clay. I had been given the keys to my freedom. I felt a grief as deep as the
infinite ocean called life. On the night of my father’s funeral, my mother’s hold on me would be lifted.

Since before the bird fish could swim or fly, since before the world was called ‘world’, there was a place called ‘safe haven’. Now I too could live in this safe place. By understanding the elements put into play before I was born, the elements leading up to this evening’s revelations, and all the elements yet to reveal themselves, I could change my life.

Sometimes it is safe in a wet womb. Sometimes it is not safe. When the womb is too close to that which separates it from being human too soon, there is no telling which way a life will or won’t go.