The Secret Women

by Sheila Williams

  The doctor cleared his throat and smiled slightly. Joan felt sorry for him. Like her, he wanted to be anywhere but here. He—Philip Cohen was his name—looked very young, probably not much older than she was, and Joan imagined that comforting widows whose husbands had dropped dead on the kitchen floor was one of the last duties he had signed on for in medical school. She knew he was trying to be kind.

  “Is there anyone we can call for you, Mrs. Topolosky? Your parents? His . . . Richard’s parents?”

  The baby squirmed and fussed, and Joan adjusted the child, propping her over her shoulder.

  She nodded. “Yes. I . . . called my husband’s brother. He . . .” Joan closed her mouth. Just the effort of saying those few words aloud had taken all the energy out of her body. Her knees were trembling, and suddenly she felt cold. “He said . . . he’d come. Excuse me.” She staggered toward a chair and sank into it.

  It had been awful.

  “Richard’s-dead-I-don’t-know-what-to-do,” Joanie had blurted out when David answered the telephone, letting the words rush out of her mouth before she could call them back and make them untrue. David had gasped, then roared: a visceral and mournful bellow that did a better job than tears of expressing the way she felt. He and Rich were a year apart and closer than twins.

  “Where are you?” he’d asked.

  Joan had told him. David had said he would be right there.

  He was as good as his word, except he brought his mother with him.

  Bella Topolosky swept into the hospital with the grandeur of a Tudor queen. Ira, Richard’s father, and David were left in her wake like reluctantly obedient courtiers. She spared a cold smile for a man who held the door for her, nodding slightly to acknowledge the nurses, who stepped aside, but ignoring everyone else: the odd and sundry ordinary folk who sat in the sad-looking chairs that lined the perimeter of the waiting room, including her daughter-in-law and only grandchild. She and Ira continued down the hall, only realizing when they’d reached the double doors that their remaining son was not with them. David had stopped next to Joanie’s chair.

  “Mom?”

  Bella turned around and frowned. “Aren’t you coming?” she asked him. “Dr. Bernard said to meet him here.”

  David turned toward Joan, then looked back at his mother. “Mom. This is Joan and . . . Leah.” He put his hand on Joan’s shoulder.

  Ira stared at his son, then allowed his gaze to rest on Joan and then on Leah, but when he moved slightly as if to walk toward them, Bella put her hand on his arm. Her eyes slid over Joan and Leah like a bath of ice water to look at David.

  “David, are you coming?” she said, her words brushed with inflections of the Bronx, where she had been born. Without another word, she turned and went through the double doors, dragging Ira with her.

  “I’m sorry about this,” David told Joan, his cheeks coloring. “She . . . she doesn’t mean it. Doesn’t mean to be rude. She’s . . . just in shock,” he added, glancing in the direction of his parents’ exit. “I-I’ll be back in a few moments, all right? We need to talk about the arrangements . . . and everything.” David’s voice cracked. He leaned down and kissed Leah on the forehead, then walked away. “Wait here.”

  Joan waited because she was too tired to do anything else. This was the first time she had seen Richard’s parents together. Ira was tall, lean, and stooped, with a thick shock of iron-gray hair and the same black-rimmed Buddy Holly glasses that Richard wore. Bella was the polar opposite: short, a little dumpy, but curvy, with a sensuality about her pretty face that reminded Joan of a brunette Lana Turner. She also looked like the ideal Ladies’ Home Journal housewife—attractive, capable, and friendly, to everyone except her daughter-in-law. And Joan realized, in the half second that they had locked eyes, Richard’s looks had come from Bella despite the glasses, while David favored Ira.

  David did come back in a few moments, and he spoke to Joan about the funeral arrangements as he rode with her in the cab that took her and the baby home. Bella had already called Epstein’s, he explained; they were friends of the family and would coordinate the service and burial.

  Dorothy and Washburn met them at the door of the apartment. Washburn took the baby from David, and Dorothy folded Joan into her arms.

  “We’ll take care of her,” Dorothy said to David. “You go on now.”

  “I’ll . . . call you . . . okay?” David’s voice faltered. “With the . . . about the funeral.”

  That was Tuesday afternoon. Wednesday came and went and so did Thursday morning. When Joan called David, either the line was busy or no one answered at all.

  When Joan called David on Thursday afternoon, his wife, Greta, answered the phone.

  “He isn’t in, Joan,” she said with cool politeness. “Would you like to leave a message?”

  He didn’t call back.

  Friday morning arrived at about the same time that Dorothy did, bringing a sack of groceries and a newspaper. When Joan answered the door, Dorothy marched in like a general, her expression as grim as Joan had ever seen it.

  “Good morning.”

  “No, it isn’t,” Dorothy said. She put the grocery bag on the table.

  “Hey, I’m the grieving widow, remember? I’m supposed to look like an avenging angel. But you? You look as if you could turn a person into stone.”

  Dorothy pulled her gloves off and dropped them into her handbag. She picked up the newspaper and waved it at Joan.

  “You should read this,” she said in a low, angry voice. She pulled out one of the kitchen chairs. “And you’d better sit down.”

  It was the New York Times obituary section. Joanie felt her breath stop in her throat. It was Wednesday’s paper.

  “Joanie, I am so sorry,” Dorothy murmured.

  Topolosky, Richard Samuel.

  Age 30, died suddenly of a brain aneurysm at his home in Greenwich Village . . . beloved son of Bella and Ira Topolosky, brother of David L. Topolosky. He is survived by his parents and brother, loving aunts, uncles, and cousins, and many friends. Services will be held Wednesday at Temple Israel, with burial at The Old Beth Shalom Cemetery, Long Island. In lieu of flowers, donations may be sent to . . . Arrangements handled by Epstein’s Funeral Service.

  Well, they certainly did, Joan said to herself. They handled everything. Without a word to Dorothy, she went to the telephone and dialed her brother-in-law’s number. She was not surprised when he answered.

  “David.”

  “Jo, I’m . . . sorry. It . . . My parents . . .”

  “You didn’t have the decency to tell me—one phone call, just one!”

  “I am so sorry. Mom had everything arranged before I . . . The way she was acting . . . I didn’t think you’d want . . .”

  “You were hardly in a position to know what I’d want!”

  “I’m sorry! I . . .”

  Joanie listened to David’s rambling apology. She clutched the phone with both hands, holding it so tightly that her forearms ached. She was trembling and yet her voice was not.

  “That’s real nice of them, I’m sure,” Joan said, sarcasm cutting her words with bitterness. “Your parents want to give me money,” she commented. “But they don’t acknowledge that I or their only grandchild exist. I guess the cost of those things is too high.”

  “No, JoJo, that’s not it . . .”

  The anger blew through her like the air coming out of a failing balloon, and now there was nothing left but pain.

  “You don’t call me JoJo, do you understand? That was Rich’s name for me. You don’t call me that. Ever.”

  “Right. I’m sorry. I-I’m sorry.”

  “David, you know what? Never mind. I don’t care. I just don’t. All I know is, you and your parents have robbed me. If you had sneaked into our apartment and taken every stitch of clothing I own and the silver, if I had any, you couldn’t have done a better job of it. You took away my last chance to say goodbye to my husband. You’ve taken that away. And by . . . pretending that I don
’t exist . . . that Leah doesn’t exist, you’ve insulted me and your niece.”

  “Jo, wait, please . . .”

  “Wait! Wait for what?”

  She heard David take a deep breath. She was two seconds away from hanging up when she thought of something.

  “Can you do something for me, David?”

  This time, her brother-in-law didn’t fumble for words.

  “Anything.”

  * * *

  It was crowded and old, in use since 1886. When the first grave was dug, the plot of land was out in the middle of nowhere; now it was an island of headstones, many of them carved in the late nineteenth or early twentieth century, surrounded by highways and strip malls. Cars going over sixty miles per hour zoomed past on a two-lane highway, and a black wrought-iron fence separated the grounds from the surrounding housing developments. David carried the baby as they walked carefully through the roughly cut grass along the path between the standing stones, some of them leaning to one side, and Joan silently paid her respects to Mr. and Mrs. Cohen, Ira Myerson, and Moses Hirschfeld, who had lain here since June of 1917 along with his “Wife.” The stones were intricately carved, many of them in Hebrew, some with English translations, and so many of them were beautiful, works of art. There were many stories here, Joan thought, so many lives lived, stories of love, struggle, despair, and, sometimes, success. She stepped carefully around a large fallen tree branch following a narrow almost undetectable path through the cemetery, looking over her shoulder at her brother-in-law, who nodded in answer to her unasked question: Am I going the right way?

  A trio of huge slabs of stone paid homage to three generations of the Gold family, the stones over four feet tall and barely six inches apart. Joanie maneuvered around them and wondered how on earth there was room for anyone else. Then she saw a name she recognized.

  It was just the last name, Topolosky, and the first names of grandparents that Joan remembered Richard talking about, a great-uncle who had been a cantor, a grandmother named Leah, a great-grandfather named Reuben. People born in what used to be Imperial Russia and buried in New York. And with them, their great-grandson, his place marked by a mound of dark reddish-brown earth.

  For a moment, just one, Joan thought about throwing herself on the dirt—her nutty second cousin Zelma had done this at the grave of her second husband, plopped down on the grave and wallowed around there until she was covered with muddy red clay. Joan thought about dropping to her knees—they were wobbly anyway—and sobbing. She thought about it. She felt like doing it. But she was all cried out. She thought about reciting the Lord’s Prayer, then wondered if that was the right prayer to pray in a Jewish cemetery. Or did it matter now? Did anything matter now?

  There was a sound behind her, and she turned around. The baby was awake and now being bounced against her uncle’s shoulder. Her little round head turned, and she gurgled. David smiled and kissed her on the cheek.

  Joan touched the headstone gently, then reached down to pick up a handful of earth. The stone was cold, the earth—mud, really—was cool and mushy, smelling of herbs and wet grass, rocks and ancient bones, stories told and stories left untold. The warm, soft shoulders of her husband were gone, as was his voice, an engaging tenor, his light brown eyes, his laughter after telling her a bad joke. She squeezed her fist closed and felt the squishy mud against her palm. In a nearby tree, a bird called, sharp and annoying. Then silence.

  Richard was not here, he was never here, and he would never be here. The stone and the Hebrew carved into it were a memorial, but they were not him. And now she wondered why she had asked David to bring her here. The place wasn’t creepy, just . . . empty. The Richard she knew was only in her memory. And in her daughter’s smile. She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a smooth, cool, light gray stone and kissed it. Then she placed it on the flat top of the Topolosky monument.

  “I’m ready to go,” she told David as she took the baby into her arms.

  “At least you know . . . where he’s buried,” David said. “So that when you come back . . . for the unveiling . . .” he added hopefully.

  “I’m never coming back,” Joan said.

  Chapter 30

  Carmen

  “And she never went back?”

  Howard shook his head. “Not as far as I know. And we visited the city many times.”

  “What happened to David? My . . . uncle.”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t Joan’s jailer, you know. I wouldn’t have stopped her from speaking with Richard’s brother or any of his family. Especially David after all he did.”

  Carmen frowned. “What did he do?”

  Her father studied her for a moment, then smiled. “Of course you don’t know. You wouldn’t.” He paused, his face arranging itself into the same expression he wore when he gathered his thoughts for a sermon. “David paid your college tuition. He said that it was what your . . . what Richard would have wanted.”

  Carmen shook her head. “No, Dad. No, he didn’t. Remember? You and Mom were looking at financial aid packages and then I won that scholarship . . .” She gasped. Of course. The name hadn’t meant anything to her then. The phone call, seemingly out of the blue, from the financial aid office, informing her parents of the scholarship award.

  “The Richard S. Topolosky Scholarship,” Carmen blurted out. “I remember telling the financial aid officer that I hadn’t applied for it.”

  Her father smiled. “You didn’t need to. You were the only person in the world who qualified for it.”

  “Mom knew. Of course.”

  “Yes,” Howard answered, nodding. “She knew, and I remember that she reached for the telephone, then it seemed as if she changed her mind. But knowing your mother, her being a stickler for good manners and all, she probably wrote David a letter.”

  Carmen’s thoughts flew back to the small desk that her mother had used, the many tiny drawers holding her personalized stationery, postcards, and Hallmark cards for every occasion, from baby congratulations to sympathy. In later years, Joan had set up a laptop on the dark wooden surface, but when Carmen was in high school, the desk had been topped by a navy blotter, and her mother had kept a variety of ink pens in a silver mug. There was no doubt in Carmen’s mind that Joan had written to David to say thank you.

  She felt as if the air had been squeezed out of her lungs. What she’d heard was a love story between two people she had never known. And a sequel of tenacity and resilience from a woman she had had the nerve to believe was marshmallow soft. Now she knew that her mother had been tougher than rawhide. A woman who had had the courage to start over. Carmen wished that she had known the real Joan Adams better.

  She was still lost in her thoughts when she realized her father had spoken. “Dad? I’m sorry, what did you say? I was daydreaming.”

  Howard smiled. “I asked if you had requested a copy of the adoption file.”

  Carmen nodded.

  “Okay,” her father said. “That’s fine. I . . . I knew that you would do that someday. And that it was your right to do that. Don’t be too hard on your mom.”

  “Hard on Mom? What do you mean?”

  “I’m talking about your name,” Howard said simply. “Carmen.”

  Carmen grinned. “Dad, no worries. I’ve gotten used to being named after a Spanish fancy woman.”

  But her father was shaking his head. “That’s not what I meant. The Joanie Adams that you didn’t know . . . well, she and your father loved music, and especially, she loved opera. So when you were born, she named you Leah, after your great-grandmother, Ira Topolosky’s mother. But Richard gave you your middle name.”

  She smiled. “I know this, Dad. He named me after his favorite opera. Cousin Dorothy wrote about it in a letter to Mom.”

  Howard Bradshaw looked down at his hands, wrapped around the mug.

  “That is true,” her father said in a low voice. “But Carmen wasn’t his favorite opera, it was hers. Richard named you Tosca. Leah Tosca. But Joanie
changed it, because . . . she said it would break her heart again every time she saw it in writing.”

  * * *

  Carmen knew just where they were. A stack of old LPs, tied together with string, buried in the last box she had unpacked. Symphonies, concerti, operas. Several of the covers were water-stained, others were torn, and some were taped, although the adhesive had disintegrated years ago, leaving a faded yellow trail behind. None of them was Carmen. But the album on the bottom was a 1953 recording of Tosca performed at La Scala with Maria Callas in the title role. Carmen couldn’t remember that she had ever heard a recording of Maria Callas. She took the vinyl disc out of its brown cover and held it up. It was warped, and she knew that would affect the sound. One of the song titles on the label was marked with an X in black ink, now fading, an aria from Act 2, “Vissi d’Arte.” Carmen pulled it from the internet and listened. And cried.

  Chapter 31

  Elise

  It had been ten months since Marie’s funeral. Ten months since Elise had seen George Bridges. A lot can happen in ten months. She had heard—through the grapevine—that he was still living with complications from the surgery after the fall he took. She’d also heard that he had given up his condo and moved into an assisted-living apartment north of the city, to be closer to his grandson and other family members.

  As Elise maneuvered her way through the café, she was startled to see how thin George was, how frail looking now, even though his smile was bright and his eyes clear with cognition, shining with humor. She noticed a dark mahogany-colored cane resting on a chair nearby.

  “Hello, hello, Elise,” George said, gesturing for her to take the seat across from him. “I can’t tell you what a treat it is to see you!” He looked around the café. “I hope this isn’t too noisy. I would’ve invited you into my apartment, but the painters are there today. It’s in disarray, and the smell is bad. I ordered for us. Decaf caramel latte, right?”