"And what made you come to this conclusion?"
I hesitated. I thought about Miss Doherty, and K.
"Maybe," I tried, "maybe the discovery that everyone has some dark secret." I stared straight at her.
She closed her eyes and said, "You'll hurt her very deeply. Give her another chance. Maybe you'll feel differently."
"What's more hurtful, to tell her the truth or to go on, grudgingly?"
She mumbled something about the heartache men cause. That made me even madder. Hadn't she always warned me against making such generalizations? I wanted to ask her what heartache Dad had ever caused her, but it was clear that he wasn't associated, in her mind, with that league of men who were worth feeling hurt over. Her head dropped forward, and she mumbled something to herself under her breath. Suddenly I realized that I could ask anything, anything, and that, under the brandy's influence, she'd answer me with an honesty and directness that were usually completely foreign to her. I felt a little guilty taking advantage of her state, but I couldn't resist.
"Dad, for example. What hasn't he got?"
"Passion," she answered immediately, "passion and a little insanity."
I was floored. Do you understand? That was precisely my problem with Debbie. Defined in three words. Did this mean that when I got to be Mom's age I would suffer, like her? And Dad - was he dry and dull, orderly and unexceptional and uninteresting, like Debbie? How could a man who loved art - let alone made a living by stealing state secrets - lack passion and intensity? Besides, what did the man she loved have going for him?
She leaned forward and hiccoughed. Her breathing became a gentle snore. She looked so different than the image she usually tried to portray that I was embarrassed for her. I grabbed her hand to keep her from falling over. She responded by squeezing my hand real tight. I felt the heat flowing from her hand into mine, and I couldn't help thinking what the man she loves must feel when he clasps this hand, the hand that was once the best in the world. I asked the question of questions.
"Who is this guy who's going to die on the 7th of September?"
She didn't respond.
I asked again. She still didn't answer. Just when I'd begun to think she'd dozed off, she said hoarsely, "You men, you're all so afraid of death... there are things far worse than that...”
"What things?"
"Loneliness, for example."
Her words were suffused with such suffering that I embraced her and said, "You're not alone, you've got us, Dad and me."
She sneered bitterly. "You, you'll have your own life to lead and your father - he's a lost cause." For a moment her eyes were crystal clear, as if she hadn't drunk a drop. "It's not easy, this loneliness, after being surrounded by people all your life...” she spread her arms out and rocked back and forth on the couch. "It's all over."
"Nothing's over," I said (without really having anything to go on). "If only you'd opened up to me...”
"Why should I burden you?"
"It's much harder for me to watch you pretend than it is for me to listen to what you're really feeling."
"You'll get over it. Most people aren't interested in what others feel. That's why you have to keep up your facade, so they won't see your weaknesses."
She fell asleep suddenly, looking old and helpless. I went to bed, too, but not before I'd turned on all the lights in the yard and looked out all the windows to make sure that everything was all right. I couldn't fall asleep. Again I tried to weigh everything I knew, to decide if I mightn't be able to see things in a different light. Even at that stage, I wasn't 100% sure that Mom was wrong. I still hoped she might be acting according to some hidden truth which, because of my tender age or lack of experience, I couldn't yet see. Maybe it was because she'd experienced more fully and impressively several things that others supposedly experienced all the time: Dad, for example, dealt with espionage - but Mom was the real spy. Aunt Ida had run several photography shops and workshops in her lifetime, but Mom was the plucky photographer. I was at an age when people usually have passionate love affairs, but Mom's was a more burning passion.
I thought about these things almost all night. Toward morning I heard Mom move from the couch to her bed. Immediately afterwards I fell asleep, overwhelmed by the feeling that I would never, ever know the truth.
THE SEVENTH NOTEBOOK
Next thing I knew, it was morning. That is, late morning. Mom was still asleep, maybe because of the alcohol. The sky was dark and a summer rain was falling in big, fat drops. I tore yesterday's page off the calendar in the kitchen. The number 6 that stared back at me off the new page made me edgy. I felt like tearing it off, too. But behind it was the 7th of the month: doomsday. I remembered what Mom had said yesterday on the telephone: "... I'm sure everything's going to be just fine." And, "You'll see me there. I'll be wearing your favorite shirt, the pink one with the black stripe...” My anxiety turned to concern. What if what was supposed to happen was going to happen while she was there?
If things had been different, perhaps I wouldn't have been so worried; I might even have hoped that the guy's death would have brought peace and tranquility back to our home. But I was afraid that something terrible, some awful punishment or tragedy would befall Mom or Dad because of his death, so I had to know where they were supposed to meet. The calendar in the kitchen didn't offer any clues. But that was to be expected. Mom wrote her appointments down in a little, red leather-bound book that she always kept in her purse. I snuck into her room. Inside her purse, which was open by the bed, the leather date book stood out like a maraschino cherry. I took the purse and left the room. Mom didn't move.
There were two things listed on the page for that day, the 6th of the month: one, in the afternoon, said: "Ida, released from hosp., room 202." The second didn't say anything, but 7:00 p.m. was circled - their evening meeting. On the next day, the 7th of September, there was a circle around 12:00 noon. There was no explanation. Toward the bottom of the page, the word "TEMPLE" was written in big letters; but the hour wasn't circled.
From Mom's end of the telephone conversation I knew exactly what kind of meeting I was looking for: an event where they would be able to see each other, but wouldn't be able to talk to each other. The Temple was out of the question, of course (after all, everyone talks to everyone there; in fact, it seems that's what they go there to do). Their evening rendezvous, the one set for the 6th at 7:00 p.m., didn't fit the bill, either. All that remained was the meeting that would take place on the 7th at 12:00 noon. But this was the one I knew the least about. I closed the diary, carefully putting it back in the purse, and carried it, half-open like I'd found it, back to her room. As I was going down the corridor, something white poking out from among the lipsticks, blusher, and tissues caught my eye. I pulled it. It was an envelope, and it contained a decorative card: The Society for Proper Nutrition and Care of the Body invited Mrs. Ninette (she hated the name she had been given in Israel, Naomi) Levin to a lecture and demonstration on Preserving the Skin's Freshness in autumn. The meeting would take place at the company's offices in Nyack. The time: September 7th, 12:00 noon.
I'm sure you'll agree that it now seemed as if everything was falling into place: I already knew that the guy worked at this company; and Mom, as you well know, invested a lot of time and money in how she looked. I could even guess that they must have met at one of those courses, and that that's how their affair must have started. Everything seemed so neatly arranged that all I had to do was make sure that she didn't show up there tomorrow at 12:00 noon...
Except that I'd promised you not to do anything.
I'd already broken part of my promise: I'd poked around, listened in, peeked where I wasn't supposed to. I could easily justify everything: I had to know what was going on, in order to tell you. But what justification could I find for breaking the rest of my promise not to do anything, to leave everything to you?
No matter how hard I thought, I couldn't find any such justification, and our relationship didn't
leave room for me to break a promise for no good reason. I decided to call you. The answering service only picked up after six or seven rings. This time a man answered. I asked that he tell you to call me. He repeated my name and telephone number.
"It's urgent," I added; he repeated that, too.
I waited. In the meantime, I couldn't help thinking about how to prevent their meeting tomorrow, at noon. At first it seemed practically impossible, especially after overhearing Mom promise to be there for moral support and to prove everything was as it should be. I toyed with all sorts of ideas: should I mess with the car? No, she'd just take a cab. Should I fake sick? No, she'd leave me home alone for two or three hours and go anyway. Should I call her and, in a disguised voice, tell her that the meeting at The Society for Proper Nutrition etc. had been cancelled? No, she was capable of calling him to double check. What could I do?
I sat in the kitchen and stared at the calendar. Finally I got an idea, but I couldn't do anything until I'd spoken to you. I tried to pass the time: I read the small print on the ketchup, mustard, and salad dressing bottles. I cleaned the grooves in the refrigerator door handle with a toothpick. I made myself toast and coffee.
Waiting wore me out. I thought about you, and about what the chances were that your answering service could get a message to you at this hour, just when you'd fallen asleep after an exhausting night of golf on your carpeted course. Then I remembered the part of our conversation that dealt with K.; the fact that you hadn't made it clear how you felt about him made me uncomfortable. Did his appearance in my life just now mean he had something to do with what was going on? Maybe he was connected to Mom in some hidden, roundabout way. Or maybe there was a simpler explanation: now that I'd become aware of the dark side of our family, maybe I was more open to seeing the dark side of other peoples' lives?
I looked at the clock. Half an hour had passed. I realized that I might wait an hour, two hours, maybe even all day. In the meantime I thought I might try and work out some of the details of the plan I'd hatched, and not only so I could present it to you when you called. I called the hospital where Aunt Ida was being treated. It took some doing, but I eventually got to talk to the doctor who was in charge of releasing patients. I told him I was the son-of-the-niece-of-the-patient, and I asked if Aunt Ida would be able to stay alone in the house for a day or two.
The doctor flipped through her file.
"Physiologically speaking, she's fine, but mentally, you know...”
"She's a bit confused," I assented, and I told him that my mother, who was supposed to be picking Aunt Ida up today, wouldn't be back from Syracuse until tomorrow.
He mumbled something about Mom having promised to pick up her aunt that afternoon.
I explained that Mom's flight home had been accidentally overbooked, so she'd been bumped off it.
He sounded as if he believed me. "When will she be able to come, then?"
"Tomorrow," I suggested, "at around noon."
"You realize she will have to pay for another day of hospitalization...”
"Yes, I know." The trust fund that Marvin had left Aunt Ida could easily absorb a $400 loss.
"All right then, tomorrow it is...” said the doctor.
"Wait a minute, I want to make sure...”
"There's not much room for doubt, is there, if there won't be anyone at home to take care of her?"
And that was that. For a minute I felt a bit awkward, but then I realized I hadn't really done any harm. Who would mind that I had pushed up Aunt Ida's release date 24 hours?
It would be more difficult to wake Mom up. My usual noises - the ones I make when I'm in the house and she's asleep and I'm feeling kind of lonely - didn't help. Opening the window only got a grunt out of her. Finally, I shook her by the shoulder. Two reddened eyes popped open, then immediately shut again. I shook her once more. She sat up in bed.
"What day is it?"
"The 6th."
The date didn't seem to cause her any trepidation. But she remembered Aunt Ida right away.
"We have to go get...”
"That's impossible," I broke in immediately, "that is, not today."
"But I promised...”
"They called and asked that you come tomorrow."
She narrowed her eyes at me suspiciously.
"I don't understand. They're going to hear from me...” She stuck one leg out from under the blanket. Somewhat sheepishly and not without regret, I brought her house slippers; but the effort of standing on the little rug at the foot of the bed seemed to drain her of her fighting spirit.
All she said was, "Actually, maybe it's better this way. That way she won't be dependent on you tonight."
"Tonight?"
"I'm meeting a girlfriend," she said with such ease that any regret I'd felt about my own lie vanished immediately. "I'll be back very late, don't wait up for me," she shuffled off to the bathroom. "I'll leave you...”
"Food in the oven," I couldn't help but finish her sentence.
But she didn't hear me. All I had left to do was tell her what time she had to pick up Aunt Ida. I waited by the bathroom door until I heard the toilet flush. Then I knocked. She opened it and mumbled something with a mouth full of toothpaste.
"Before I forget," I said quickly, "they said you should come tomorrow at noon; 11:30 would be even better."
She stopped brushing. "When?"
"11:30."
She rinsed her mouth out. "That's not very convenient. I have something that I...”
I was more than ready for this excuse.
"That's the only time they can...” I began ardently.
But she broke in immediately. "On the other hand, I don't mind missing it."
For a moment I could hardly believe my ears.
"Missing what?"
"This thing that I've got tomorrow. I don't mind missing it to bring Aunt Ida home." She walked back to her room, suddenly fuming: "Not that she'll appreciate it...”
It was too good to be true. I hurried after her.
"Are you sure about tomorrow?"
"Why are you so anxious about it?"
"No reason, it's just too bad you'll have to miss something."
"Sometimes we don't have a choice. There are some things we simply must do," she said with that determination that seeps into her voice whenever she gets the opportunity to prove how wonderful she is. "Even if your aunt is ungrateful, it doesn't make me feel any less pity for her. We mustn't judge the elderly. One day she won't be with us any longer, and I just couldn't forgive myself if I felt I hadn't done everything I could for her...”
You'll be amazed, but I actually felt insulted for the man who would be waiting for her tomorrow at noon, full of fear and doubt, anxiously looking for the pink shirt with the black stripe. I went to my room, trying to feel good. In vain. I felt so angry with her for giving in so easily. I hate it when people don't keep their promises.
And then I remembered the promise I hadn't kept.
No, not the promises I'd made to you (I'd already convinced myself that I'd had every right not to keep them, since they had been meant to protect me), but another promise, far more important, which I'd completely neglected: my promise to K.
The plastic membership card was still in the pocket of my jeans. I took it out, turning it over and over in my hand and wondering whether I could put off going to his club for another two days, until September 7th had come and gone - uneventfully.
Mom went clicking down the hall in her high heels.
"You leaving already?" I called after her.
She came back and looked at me with some surprise.
"In a minute. Why?"
"You said you had a date for this evening...”
"I thought I might leave a little earlier and do some shopping in Manhattan."
In retrospect, it's hard for me to remember which came first: the realization that it was pointless for me to stay home to watch over an empty house, or the idea of catching a ride into the city and fulfi
lling my promise to K.
Whichever it was, it came out as, "I'm coming with you."
"I...” she started to object.
"Just for the ride," I reassured her, "and only to where it's convenient for you to drop me off."
"Great," she said, as if she'd never had any intention of refusing to take me along.
It was 2:00. I had to wait over an hour until she had finished getting herself ready. At 3:20 I again called your answering service. Even before I'd left my message, the operator said, "I was just about to call you," and read me instructions to stay home and act exactly as we'd agreed.
I left a new message. "There's something I have to do in the city, and she's going out anyway, so there's no point in my staying home alone...”
Mom was still in her room, sitting opposite the mirror. I sat down next to her on the bed. Our eyes met in the mirror.
She asked, "What exactly are you planning to do today in Manhattan? The library's closed."
"I'm meeting someone," I said without thinking.
"Someone I know?"
"No." It was annoying to have to account to her when I knew she had been lying to me systematically for such a long time, but I didn't have the energy to argue. "A guy who works with me in the library."
"Does Debbie know?"
"No," I huffed impatiently, "and it's not a girl, it's a guy."
"You needn't yell." She asked me to get her a bottle of perfume from the dresser, which she tipped between her thumb and forefinger before daubing behind her ears, above her cheeks, and under her arms. Then she stood up and smoothed her skirt over her legs. She really was beautiful: her legs seemed sculpted in their dark stockings, her narrow, straight skirt fit her perfectly, her short, Eisenhower jacket with its wide lapels was elegantly suited to the gray silk blouse underneath it, and her makeup highlighted her prettiest features - bold, high cheekbones, a full, sensuous mouth, large eyes.
The Last of the Wise Lovers Page 16
