“Farewell my old pal. Though we know not what spiritual journey may lie beyond the grave, the essence of all that has been you flourishes with us, your grateful friends.”
My son, Aidan, is among the half-dozen others who rise to speak, his experience of Zandor that of a second father, witty, protective, and a real-life Santa at holiday time. He does not make it through without several pauses to collect himself.
He is a sensitive man, my Aidan. I think there is a solid bond between us, built on the many years I reared him alone, danced through his protests and disappointments with him, and relished his ascent to the land of well-functioning adults. We see each other intermittently, and each time with, I believe, a mutual glow of respect.
When the program part is over, there is a buffet, courtesy of Gwen, deli sandwiches, a myriad of pastries, veggie sticks, dips, and a side table set with soft drinks, juices and wine.
I am entertained by Megan re-uniting with Aidan, she remembering him as a baby, but he having no memory of her, other than stories his mother and I had shared.
“He’s adorable,” Megan says. “That girlfriend had better not let him get away.”
“Relationships are mysterious,” I answer, “never fully what they seem from the outside.”
A couple, friends of Zandor and Gwen, lean toward me, and say, “Liked your words. Thank you.”
Megan smiles, her full, magnificent smile that triggers an ache in my chest, and I marvel at how this one splendid gesture can overwhelm the somber weather and the ambient mood of the afternoon.
“What is mysterious about our relationship?”
I am not sure. In the hushed aura of the memorial, it is hard for me to shift focus. I have come to realize that Megan often catches me off guard by switching topics, a characteristic I am not criticizing but do have to accommodate. There are several of her traits I am learning, as she is mine.
“Let’s see,” I begin. “You have moods when we get together that I don’t fully understand. They can be mysterious.”
“A history of stormy partners leaves a residue of mistrust. I wish I were as transparent as you.”
“I don’t feel transparent, but maybe my hurtful relationships are far enough in the past to have relinquished their hold on me. Anyway, I trust you implicitly and explicitly. Makes being around you cozy.”
“I want that same coziness. It may take a while, but I’ll get there.”
“I think of the line from Brideshead Revisited, the Waugh novel,” I tell Megan, “when Sebastian says, ‘I should like to bury something precious in every place I’ve been happy and then, when I was old and ugly and miserable, I could come back and dig it up and remember.’”
“You’re not old,” Megan replies, touching me gently, with unbearable tenderness, on my arm, “and you’re not ugly, and I’ve never known you to be miserable.”
Though she moves tenuously, she leans forward and kisses my lips.
Outrageous, the sudden split of emotion, an impossible dream partnered with profound sadness! I smile as tears make miniature pools in my eyes.
Other friends move by and pay respects. Gwen smiles at me from across the room.
Moods. The mood here is not dark. Respectful, it is, subdued, yet with a delightful feel of camaraderie among all present, tribute to the superb harvesting qualities of Zandor Kirsch. He was a uniter. He brought people together. Ought to have been a president or a prime minister.
I do try to read Megan’s words, want desperately to unite us in a trusting partnership.
“What is missing?” I ask.
“Oh Ted, I don’t know. I’m still a student, you’re still the professor, the other students don’t know. In many ways, it feels as if we have to sneak around to see each other.”
“Openness is missing,” I say. “We aren’t announced to the world.”
She is quiet, and I see, and I understand. We have expressed a mutuality of love for each other, have a hard-to-believe, young-old connection, are slowly learning a two-way trust, and yet…we are a secret.
I swallow hard, dispel old uncertainties, ignore my nagging age-bias, rev up courage one more time, and blurt out, “What would you say to getting married?”
I say it too loudly, and my words echo off the far wall, followed by an odd silence, followed by a universal round of applause.
I am acutely aware that it is a transcendent moment; I am also aware that Megan smiles gloriously, but does not say yes.
The crowd thins and those who remain are the closest friends and family. I nod to Megan that perhaps we ought to say our goodbyes to Gwen, but as if in anticipation, she sidles up to us.
To me she says, “Dear friend, your eulogy got it just right, the perfect summation for his life.”
She hugs us both, holds Megan extra long, and says, “This man is as close to goodness as anyone can come. I am thrilled for the two of you.”
I wonder if her wishes are premature, since I still feel insecure about the imbalance in our years, and how that inequity will play itself out.
Her ashen face turns toward me, and she jams a long white envelope into my hand, closing my fingers around it. “Zan wrote this a week before he slipped into a coma. His words were brief, and as usual for him, directly to the point. ‘For Ted,’ he told me. ‘After I’m gone.’”
I look perplexed and she holds her arms out to the side and says, “I didn’t read it, don’t know what it says. It’s for you.”
I know I can’t open it now, with Gwen watching. I know my limits.
“Thank you, Gwen. If you don’t mind, I’ll take it home, read it when I’m alone.”
I see she understands.
I look at Megan. I see she understands.
THIRTY-NINE
Zandor loved to poke fun at my Northern European taste in furnishings: Danish moderne, he called it, the best of Ikea, full-grain woods, free of decoration, oil seals instead of paint. He would say that my furniture choices were like my choices in women: no frills, no superfluous add-ons, designed for utility, easy on the eyes, totally natural. I didn’t consider his perspective a criticism. In fact, to his chagrin, I complimented him on his analogy.
Now, in my angular, modular flat, with Megan in the next room behind closed doors, I finger the final communiqué from my friend, apprehensive about its message. What would he say, knowing he was close to death? What more could this restless and generous man, who was my lifelong confidant, give me?
I slit open the envelope, aware that my fingers tremble. I unfold the one sheet. It is hand-written and uneven. I read:
“Hey, old pal, remember how we complained about Vin Scully, the always awesome Dodger announcer, getting static in his old age, saying the same thing at the end of every inning? ‘He catches it for the third out, and that’s that.’ That’s that.
“Yeah, I’ve come to comprehend those two little words, applied to me.
“Teddy, my buddy, that’s that. I’ve made my little run around this diverse and mystical, green-blue globe, and now it’s over. Would have been nice to hang around for a few more years, but the fates won’t permit it.
“Which leads me to my purpose. I’ve seen Megan a few times in the last several weeks. She’s a rare woman, lovely as a sunrise, honest as rain, empathic as a shrink, candid as a child. She’s told me deep things about her chaotic life, and how her adventures have carried her to this present, joyful juncture, paired off (hard to believe!) with you.
“What she sees in you is beyond me, but she’s made it clear she loves you.
“So? What in hell are you waiting for? The way I catch it, you’re still hung up on your age, and that is a bullshit issue. Old is a self-definition. Don’t let anyone else pin it on you.
“I’m old because I’m sick. Sickness will do that. But having lived a lot of years is not an illness. And besides all that, the Brandies of this world are still attracted to you. That must tell you something about who you are.
(I’m hoping they have an A-1, first class
massage parlor in whatever dimension of the universe I’m headed, all the masseuses named Brandy!)
“Now read this carefully, and I want no argument: if you are old, then every man in this country would want to be. It may become a household phrase: ‘Grow old like Teddy Bronte.’
Anyway, my ‘old’ friend, reach for every last fistful of joy, dance till your feet fall off, love so hard you think you’ll explode, and always remember that this long-gone, long-time sidekick is wishing he were right there, doing it all with you.
“Don’t know if I ever said the words: I love you, pal. Zan”
Megan hears my crying and comes to me.
“I love you, Teddy,” she says.
That’s all I need to hear.
ABOUT THE BOOK
Ted Bronte’s life is filled with energy that belies his seventy years. Age, he insists is a self definition. As a young man, he has a stormy relationship with Kacey Cloud that cannot last. After an accident, he meets Annie, the love of his life, yet their connection is destroyed by tragedy. Annie’s sister, Julie, leaving a bad marriage, mother of winsome daughter, Megan, approaches Ted, seeking friendship--which turns out to be more. An old schoolmate, Tillie De Main, appears on the scene, with bizarre dreams; disappointed by the loss of his own marriage, he hooks onto Julie, suffering from the loss of teen-age Megan, who has run off. Despite Ted’s warning, the two unhappy people form a bond that turns nasty, and causes Julie to sink into a deep depression. Ted’s life-long friend, Zandor, cautions him to let Julie find herself. In present time, Zandor’s own illness complicates the denouement, which, despite a tragic loss, ends on a positive note, as stepdaughter Megan surfaces again after an absence of years.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Stan Charnofsky is the author of five published novels, as well as two non-fiction pieces: When Women Leave Men, and The Deceived Society. He is a former professional baseball player in the New York Yankee organization, and is currently a psychologist and professor at California State University, Northridge. He has three children and two grandchildren, Molly Bess and Jack Stanley.
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