The Late, Lamented Molly Marx

by Sally Koslow

  SK: It’s true that I have two sons, Jed and Rory, and no daughters, but I was inspired by my six young, adorable nieces: Amaya, Ella, Ivy-Reese, Lily, Siena, and Zoe.

  MM: That letter I left for Annabel, where I listed my rules for life—are they your rules, too?

  SK: Many are rules I wish I adhered to, like printing out my pictures and putting them in an album, which, sad to say, I never do.

  MM: Given what we have in common, I gather it wasn’t hard for you to write me. Which character was the hardest to write?

  SK: Barry. He’s complicated and I wanted to do him justice. Despite his philandering, narcissism, and insensitivity, he could be charming and he tried to atone for his sins. He’s also a devoted son and a good father, even before he rose to the challenge of being a single parent. And while he didn’t do well by you, Molly, I believe he loved you. Marriage—never easy, right?

  MM: No kidding. Neither was having a sister like Lucy. Do you have a sister and was she the model for Lucy?

  SK: I have a sister, but she’s not much like Lucy. She got married when she was in college, has two kids, is of average height, and hates to run, although, like Lucy, she prefers practical clothes.

  MM: That reminds me. I wouldn’t call The Late, Lamented Molly Marx, chick-lit—parts of it were sad, heartfelt, and almost philosophical—but what’s with all the clothes?

  SK: I love clothes. I used to be an editor at a magazine, and got dressed up every day for work. Yes, Molly, one used to dress up for work, especially when he or she was an editor-in-chief, which I was for more than a decade. Now most of the time my stilettos and leopard-print coat hibernate while I’m working at home in running shorts, yoga pants, jeans, or pajama bottoms. I brought clothes into your story not only because you can tell a lot about a person by their clothes, but because I miss getting dressed up.

  MM: The German translation of my book, Ich, Molly Marx, Kurlich Verstorben, was a bestseller. Why do you think that German readers like my story?

  SK: A friend of a friend, a German professor, thought it might have to do with curiosity about contemporary Jewish culture, especially the customs of somewhat assimilated Jews in New York City, which play a role in the book.

  MM: Kitty would love to hear that. She’d take all the credit. Now, why all the poetry?

  SK: I assume you mean the poetry at the funeral in Scotland, as well as the lines from “Hiawatha,” when Hicks visits Chicago? When I was starting to write your book, I heard the poem “An Unending Love” and found it exquisite. Its author, Rabbi Rami Shapiro, gave me permission to include it in the book. The other poem at the Scottish funeral was something I wrote in high school. Good thing I saved our literary magazine, Of Toadstools and Russian Olive Trees. Its name was selected by our teacher from one of my own poems. I’ve been writing since I was a teenager.

  MM: Whoa—you had me at Hicks. Love that name. How did you think it up?

  SK: I didn’t. It’s real. I was visiting the Vietnam War Memorial in Washington, D.C., and this extraordinary name leaped out at me. To honor Hiawatha Hicks, SP4, who died in 1968, I decided to borrow his name. I’d like to think you’ll meet him in the Duration.

  MM: Me, too. And speaking of the Duration, those of us here thought it was our big secret. Who told you about it?

  SK: Sorry, but if I tell you I’m dead. No offense.

  MM: What do you want your readers to take away from this book?

  SK: If readers are simply entertained, I will be delighted. But I also hope that The Late, Lamented Molly Marx, will cause readers to reflect on the brevity and inscrutability of life and the complexity of human relationships. Perhaps it will foster a carpe diem attitude. I do think we all should try to pack in as much as we can, and never take life for granted.

  MM: What’s your next book about?

  SK: I’m fascinated by women’s friendships, especially when they don’t run a smooth course. With Friends Like These explores four women whose friendships get messy. Think of it as Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood meets the Avenue Q song “Schadenfreude,” which means happiness taken from the misfortune of others. Readers may see themselves and their friends in one or more characters.

  MM: My epitaph was plain vanilla—Barry picked it. What would you like yours to say?

  SK: “Just let me read one more page.”

  MM: We’ve got to stop now, or I’ll be late for the master class on the Moonwalk that I’m taking with Michael Jackson. The Duration has its perks! Thanks for the chat, Sally. I hope we’ll meet again.

  SK: Me, too, Molly. But not for a long, long time.

  Questions and Topics for Discussion

  1. The Late, Lamented Molly Marx, grapples with the theme of loss. Molly’s major challenge throughout the book is learning how to let go and come to terms with her death. In what ways has she accomplished this by the end of the novel? In your own life, have you ever had to grapple with loss and letting something go? What helped you?

  2. The novel is prefaced by an Oscar Wilde quote: “The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible.” How do you interpret it? How does it apply to the book?

  3. The novel presents a version of an afterlife. Do you believe in an afterlife? If so, what is your vision? How did you arrive at your view?

  4. If you could be present at your own funeral, what would you be most curious to see?

  5. The character of Bob functions as a moral compass and a spiritual sherpa for Molly. What do you think Molly gets out of this relationship? Has there ever been a “Bob” in your life and if so, who is it and what role did he or she play?

  6. After she arrives in the Duration, Molly discovers that she has what she refers to as “a built-in bullshit detector.” To this Bob responds, “You always had that ability. You just never bothered to activate it” (page 30). Do you believe that most people “know” more than they choose to acknowledge?

  7. Is Molly mature or immature for her age? Does your opinion of her change as the novel progresses? How do you define maturity? How has your definition evolved as you yourself have gotten older? Do you think adults used to be more mature at an earlier age in the past?

  8. Why did Molly marry Barry? Do you know women who have married men who you think aren’t their equals? And the reverse: Do you know men who’ve married women who you think aren’t their equals?

  9. Molly suspects that Barry is a philanderer. Why do women like Molly stay with men like Barry under similar circumstances? Should they have split up? Is he a good father?

  10. Throughout the novel, Molly wonders if she’s made mistakes in her marriage. Do you think she has and if so, what are they?

  11. Molly and Barry sought the help of a marriage counselor. Do you think that counseling helped them? In general, do you support the idea of therapy and counseling?

  12. How do the women in Molly’s life—Lucy, Brie, Kitty, her mother, Claire, and Delfina—affect her over the course of the novel? What does each woman offer her? In what ways do they ultimately help or hurt her, knowingly or unknowingly? Which women have had the most profound effect on your life?

  13. Did becoming a mom help Molly grow up? Do you think that she s a good mother? If you have kids, how did you arrive at your notion of what makes a good mother? How does motherhood enrich a woman’s life? Make women’s lives harder?

  14. The anthropologist Margaret Mead has observed that the relationship between sisters is often the most troubled one in the family. Mead also says that eventually, the sister relationship becomes the strongest one in the family. Do you agree with Dr. Mead on either of these points? Why do you think that so many sisters can’t get along?

  15. How would you describe the friendship between Molly and Brie? What qualities do you think need to be present for women to maintain enduring friendships? Have you ever lost a friendship because of a monumental change in one of your lives?

  16. Molly does not enjoy a smooth relationship with her mother-in-law. Why is this relationship often d
ifficult?

  17. Who is your favorite character? Your least favorite character? Why?

  18. How would you categorize this book—as humor? A mystery? Contemporary women’s fiction? Why?

  Don’t miss Sally Koslow’s next novel

  With Friends Like These

  Read on for an exclusive peek at the first chapter

  CHAPTER 1

  “A fax hit my desk for an apartment that isn’t officially listed yet—you must see it immediately.” Horton’s voice was broadcasting an urgency reserved for hurricane evacuation. But in 2007, anyone who’d ever beaten the real estate bushes would be suspicious of a broker displaying even an atom of passivity. Shoppers of condos and co-ops in Manhattan and the leafier regions of Brooklyn knew they had to learn the art of the pounce: see, gulp, bid. Save the litany of pros and cons for picking a couch.

  Several times a week Horton e-mailed me listings, but rarely did he call. This had to be big. “Where is it?” I asked while I finished my lukewarm coffee.

  “Central Park West.” Horton identified a stone pile known by its name, the Eldorado, referring to a mythical kingdom where the tribal chief had the habit of dusting himself with gold, a commodity familiar to most of the apartment building’s inhabitants—marquee actors, eminent psychotherapists, and large numbers of frumps who were simply lucky. With twin towers topped by Flash Gordon finials, the edifice lorded it over a gray-blue reservoir, the park’s largest body of water, and cast a gimlet eye toward Fifth Avenue.

  “I couldn’t afford that building,” I said. If Horton was trying to game me into spending more than our budget allowed, he’d fail. While the amount of money Jake and I had scraped together for a new home seemed huge to us—representing the sale of our one-bedroom in Park Slope, an inheritance from my mom, and the proceeds from seeing one of my books linger on the bestseller list—other brokers had none too politely terminated the conversation as soon as I quoted our allotted sum. What I liked about Horton was that he was dogged, he was hungry, and he was the only real estate agent returning my calls.

  “That’s the beautiful part,” he said, practically singing. “You, Quincy Blue, can afford this apartment.” He named a figure.

  We could, just. “What’s the catch?” In my experience, deals that sounded too good to be true were—like the brownstone I’d seen last week that lacked not only architectural integrity but functional plumbing.

  “It’s a fixer-upper,” Horton admitted. “Listen, I can go to the second name on my list.”

  “I’ll see you in twenty minutes,” I said, hitting “save” on my manuscript. I was currently the ghostwriter for Maizie May, one of Hollywood’s interchangeable blow-dried blondes with breasts larger than their brain. While she happened to be inconveniently incarcerated in Idaho rehab, allowed only one sound bite of conversation with me per week, my publisher’s deadline, three months away, continued to growl. I hid my hair under a baseball cap and laced my sneakers. Had Jake seen me, he would have observed that I looked “very West Side”; my husband was fond of pointing out our neighborhood’s inverse relationship between apartment price and snappy dress. As I walked east I called him, but his cell phone was off. Jake’s flight to Chicago must be late.

  Racing down Broadway, I allowed myself a discreet ripple of anticipation. Forget the Yankees. Real estate would always be New York City’s truest spectator sport, and I was no longer content to cheer from the bleachers. Two years ago, my nesting hormones had kicked in and begun to fiercely multiply, with me along for the ride. We were eager to escape from our current sublet near Columbia University. I longed to be dithering over paint colors—Yellow Lotus or Pale Straw; flat, satin, or eggshell—and awash in fabric swatches. I coveted an office that was bigger than a coffee table book and a dining table that could accommodate all ten settings of my wedding china. I wanted a real home. I’d know it when I saw it.

  Horton, green-eyed, cleft-chinned—handsome if you could overlook his devotion to argyle—stood inside the building’s revolving door. “The listing broker isn’t here yet,” he said, “but you can get a sense of the lobby.” A doorman tipped his capped head and motioned us toward armchairs upholstered in a tapestry of tasteful, earthy tones. Horton unfurled a floor plan.

  I’d become a quick study of such documents. “It’s only a two-bedroom,” I said, feeling the familiar disappointment that had doused the glow of previous apartment visits. Was the fantasy of three bedrooms asking too much for a pair of industrious adults more than twelve years past grad school? Jake was a lawyer. I had a master’s in English literature. Yet after we’d been outbid nine times, Jake and I had accepted the fact that in this part of town, two bedrooms might be as good as it would get.

  “This isn’t any two-bedroom,” Horton insisted. “Look how grand the living room and dining room are.” Big enough for a party where Jake and I could reciprocate every invitation we’d received since getting married five years ago. “See?” he said, pulling out a hasty sketch and pointing. “Put a wall up to divide the dining room, which has windows on both sides, and create an entrance here. Third bedroom.” He was getting to how cheap the renovation would be when a tall wand of a woman tapped him on the shoulder.

  “Fran!” Horton said as warmly as if she were his favorite grandmother, which she was old enough to be. “You’re looking well.”

  The woman smiled and a feathering of wrinkles fanned her large blue eyes. The effect made me think that a face without this pattern was too dull. “Did you explain?” she said. Her voice was reedy, a piccolo that saw little use. She’d pulled her silver hair into a chignon and was enveloped in winter white, from a cape covering a high turtleneck to slim trousers that managed to be spotless, although they nearly covered her toes.

  “We were getting to that, but first, please meet my client, Quincy Blue. Quincy, Frances Shelbourne of Shelbourne and Stone.”

  I knew the firm. Frances and her sister Rose had tied up all the best West Side listings. I shook Fran Shelbourne’s hand, which felt not just creamy but delicately boned. She stared at my sneakers and jeans long enough for me to regret them, then turned her back and padded so soundlessly that I checked to see if she might be wearing slippers. No, ballerina flats. Across the lobby, elaborately filigreed elevator doors opened. Fran turned toward Horton and me and with the briefest arch of one perfectly plucked eyebrow implored us to hurry. When the doors shut, she spoke softly, although we were alone. “The owner’s a dear friend,” she said. “Eloise Walter, the anthropologist.” She waited for me to respond. “From the Museum of Natural History?”

  I wondered if I was supposed to know the woman’s body of work and bemoaned the deficiency of my Big Ten education.

  “Dr. Walter is in failing health,” she continued, shaking her head. “This is why we won’t schedule an open house.”

  Every Sunday from September through May, hopeful buyers, like well-trained infantry, traveled the open-house circuit. Jake and I had done our sweaty time, scurrying downtown, uptown, across, and down again, with as many as a dozen visits in a day. Soon enough, we began seeing the same hopeful buyers—the Filipino couple, the three-hundred- pound guy who had the face of a baby, a pair of six- foot- tall redheaded teenage twins who spoke a middle European tongue. By my fifth Sunday, in minutes I could privately scoff at telltale evidence of dry rot. Silk curtains draped as cunningly as a sari could not distract me from a sunless air shaft a few feet away, nor could lights of megawatt intensity seduce me into forgetting that in most of these apartments I would instantly suffer from seasonal affective disorder.

  “You’ll be the first person to see this one,” Horton added by way of a bonus. I could feel the checkbook in my bag coming alive like Mickey’s broom in Fantasia.

  When we stepped out of the elevator on the fourteenth floor, Mrs. Shelbourne gently knocked on a metal door that would look at home in any financial institution. From the other side, a floor creaked. A nurse in thick-soled shoes answered and raised an index finger to her lip
s, casting her eyes toward a shadowy room beyond. The scent of urine— human, feline, or both—crept into my nostrils, followed by a top note of mango air freshener. “Doctor’s sleeping.”

  My eyes strained to scan a wide room where old-fashioned blinds were drawn against the noon sun. An elderly woman, her hair scant and tufted, was folded into a wheelchair like a rag doll, despite pillows bolstering her skeletal frame. Dr. Walter looked barely alive. Mrs. Shelbourne placed her hand on my arm. “We shouldn’t stay long in this room. I’m sure you understand. Alzheimer’s.”

  “I do—too well,” I said, rapidly beholding the high ceiling and dentil moldings, while memories of my mother, scrupulously archived yet too fresh to examine, begged for consideration. I pushed them away even as my mind catalogued herringbone floors with an intricate walnut border and the merest wink of a crystal chandelier. Mrs. Shelbourne grasped my arm and we hurried into a small, dark kitchen with wallpaper on which hummingbirds had enjoyed a sixty-year siesta. In front of the sink, which faced a covered window, linoleum had worn bare. There were scratched metal cabinets and no dishwasher, and I suspected the stove’s birth date preceded my own. I thought of my unfinished chapter, and cursed my wasted time.

  Halfheartedly I lifted a tattered shade. “Holy cow,” I said, though only to myself. Sun reflected off the park’s vast reservoir, which appeared so close I thought I could stand on the ledge and swan-dive into its depth. Far below, I could see treetops, lush as giant broccoli. The traffic was a distant buzz. I felt a tremor. The subway, stories below? No, my heart.

  Picking up my pace, I followed the brokers through the spacious dining room and down a hall where I counted off six closets. I peeked into a bathroom tiled in a vintage mosaic of the sort decorators encourage clients to re-create at vast expense. We passed through a starlet-worthy dressing room and entered a bedroom into which I could easily tuck my current, rented apartment, with enough space to spare for a study. As Mrs. Shelbourne pulled the hardware on draperies bleached of color, I could swear that a strobe had begun to pulse. From the corner of my eye I saw a black cat slink away while Horton kicked a dust bunny under the bed, but I took little note of either. As I stood by the window, I was gooey with the feeling I’d experienced when I first laid eyes on the Grand Canyon.