Emily and I had not even exchanged contact information. On our last night together, we agreed that what we had was nothing special, and to try and rekindle it in any way at any later date would be disappointing and mad. She walked me out to my cab, gave me one of the most memorable kisses of my life, and sent me off to the airport. I think of her now, of course, on occasion, and I wonder. But that story is neither new nor unique.
I returned to Ann Arbor with my appetite restored and finished my senior year of college in a decadent litany of books read, meals eaten, wines consumed, cigarettes smoked, beers drained, and women bedded. Something about my status, as a young widower still in college, had made some women feel both curious and generous by the winter semester. I even slept with a few of Valerie's old friends, usually at the end of a long tearful and drunken conversation about the unfairness of life. Those of them who knew Valerie was still somewhere, alive, probably slept with me out of pity. Never underestimate the aphrodisiacal value of pity.
After a few nights with each of these women, I grew distant and rude and accused them of seducing me (almost always a distortion of major proportions) and disgracing the memory of my dead wife. Something cruel and inexplicable had taken root inside my darkest places, and I was able to go from unbelievably sensitive to unbelievably mean and vindictive within one short week. By the time I graduated from Michigan that May, I had lost most of my friends, and moving back to Madison seemed like the only real option I had.
And now, in front of me, her picture, very much alive, older than she was then, but still her, the woman I said I would love forever.
I resist the urge to click Accept and then resist the urge to click Ignore and I simply shut down the computer, take three Benadryl pills and one of my mother's Vicodins, and go to bed.
17. Zeke Pappas is just browsing.
I WANT TO SPEND the whole next day in bed, trying to forget the friend request from Valerie Somerville that I received the night before. I awake with a headache and cotton mouth. It's bright in my room, past ten o'clock, I guess, and I know I should call the office and let Lara know I seem to be sick, but all I want to do is sleep. I feel feverish and thin, like a Dostoyevsky character who has committed a heinous transgression, and who awakes the next morning, finally feeling the full weight of his predicament.
Then there is a knock on my door. Harmony comes into the room, frantic. "Zeke, get up. Your mother. She's not acting right."
At the University hospital, Harmony and I sit on the only chairs in my mother's small room. The girls have gone to a friend's house for the afternoon. My mother is sleeping, and Harmony and I listen to the oncologist tell us that there's nothing more to do but make my mother as comfortable as we can. Harmony reaches over and holds my hand.
When my mother wakes, she is fairly lucid and we explain to her that the next step will be hospice care and a vigorous regimen of pain management.
"I don't want the girls to see me in that stage," she says. "They've had enough sadness for one life. I don't want them to remember me unconscious and wheezing, a bag of bones that shits herself and wets the bed. I'm not going to do that."
My mother wants to go to the hospice facility, not back home. She wants to die there. For her, she says, it's an issue of dignity. She doesn't want her son to have to help her die. She doesn't want him to wake up at night and change her sheets, bring her ice chips.
"This is a job for a stranger," she says.
I try and disagree with her, but as I talk, I see her side of the equation and I decide that there is no reason for me to try and be a hero.
"Let's have one farewell dinner with the girls," she says, "if I can manage that, and then I want them to go to Michigan and start their new life with Harmony and Malcolm. I don't want them waiting for me to die. It'll be easier on them if they have all of their new routines in place before I go. They don't need a funeral and a new school in the same week."
My mother's voice is weak, and when I try to interrupt her, she holds up her hand as best she can. I take it.
"Zeke, I don't know how much longer my brain has. This is what I want done. Let's not wait to discuss it until I have a stroke or something, okay? This is how I want things done."
That evening, after we leave the hospital, after Harmony and the girls order pizza and put in a new Hannah Montana DVD, I head for the Starbucks in Fitchburg in the hope that Minn has returned to work. What if I just tell her my situation? "Minn," I will say, "my mother is dying and if you agree to marry me, my nieces will stay in my home." A woman I don't recognize is manning the front counter, and two men staff the drive-through. Another woman, clearly not Minn, serves as the floater, currently helping her colleagues steam vast amounts of milk.
I ask the barista at the counter, a gray-haired and attractive woman of sixty, if Minn might be working.
"No," she says. "No, she's not here. She's out of town."
"Oh? Will she be gone long?" I ask.
"I think she went to Africa," the woman says, then calls out over her shoulder, "Hank, did Minn go to Africa?"
"I think so," the man named Hank lamely offers. "Or Chicago."
"When is she coming back?" I ask.
"No idea," the woman says.
It occurs to me that the woman could probably go back to the manager's office and consult the schedule and give me some idea of Minn's anticipated return. But it also occurs to me that this might be unbelievably creepy, even if I hint at the fact that I have an intimate relationship with Minn.
A woman walks into the Starbucks in a fetching coat, one I recognize as a wool cashmere plaza coat, charcoal color, from J. Crew's most recent catalog. I step aside and motion for her to go ahead and place an order, but just before she begins to speak, I loudly interrupt her and say, "A tall chai, extra hot!"
She looks at me, a bit dumbstruck, and says, "Pardon?"
"That's what you were going to order, correct?"
The barista behind the counter calls out for Hank, who comes menacingly to the front register and crosses his arms, tilting his head in a sort of gesture of disbelief.
"What?" says the woman in the J. Crew wool cashmere plaza coat.
"I guessed your order," I say. "You were about to order a tall chai, extra hot, weren't you?"
"No," she says. "What's wrong with you?"
I shrug. "Well, excuse me then. It's a small game I like to play. It can often be amusing. I am uncannily good at it."
Everybody gives me an annoyed stare and I head for the exit as I hear the plaza coat woman say, "Tall coffee, room for cream, please."
***
There is a sort of foreboding feeling that creeps into my gut as I make my way back to downtown Madison, and as I approach Park Street from Fish Hatchery Road, I make the decision to go and see Mack and Joseph at the bookstore.
Mack is pricing remainders at the front table of the store, and he stops to give me a warm hug and fetch me a cup of coffee from the back room. I don't have the heart to tell him it's undrinkable, so I sip at the burned and bitter swill.
"So what's new?" Mack asks.
"Well, a lot."
"Did you propose to any of your, um, prospects yet?"
"Well, no. It's complicated. The waters are muddy," I say.
Just then Joseph enters the store, holding a plastic bag.
"Zeke," he says, "I've been meaning to find you today."
Joseph hands Mack the plastic bag, which I notice contains a bottle of Maalox.
"What's the matter?"
Joseph crouches down a foot or so and begins to whisper, though as far as I can tell, nobody is in the store save Mack.
"These guys who came in the store the other day. The ones who were messing with you? And with me? You have to be careful, okay?"
"Why?" I ask.
"Because they're serious. I've been making some calls, and I think these guys are for real. I think you're playing with fire here."
I see Mack roll his eyes and move toward another part of the store
. "He's paranoid," Mack sings, as he walks away. "He's crazy!"
"Trust me, Zeke. Just promise me you'll be careful. Call me immediately if they come and see you again, all right? I'll have more information soon. Real soon. This has something to do with Congressman Leatherberry. I've called an old college friend who works at the Washington Post, and he's convinced of it."
"Joseph! Don't do that! Don't get the media involved!" I say. "My friend H. M. can't be exposed."
"I'm only trying to help," he says. "Do you own a gun?"
"I don't," I say. "Jesus!"
"Neither do I," he says, "but I will try to get you one."
Joseph heads off to the back room, and Mack comes over and motions for me to follow him to the plush chairs in the store's atrium. We sit down.
"He's sort of crazy," Mack says. "I think he's overreacting."
Mack pulls a small flask from the pocket of his blazer. Vodka. He takes a sip and passes it over to me.
"It's not classy," he says, "but I figure you might need it."
"I do," I say. "Definitely. My mother is in the hospital. This is it."
"Oh, dear," Mack says.
"And I have nobody to marry, obviously, so I lose the kids."
"Shit," Mack says. "Goddamn it. What can we do?"
"Just sit with me," I say. "Sit here and get drunk."
"You've come to the right place," Mack says. "Why don't I get some glasses though? And some limes?"
My mom wants hot dogs for her final meal with the kids.
"Hot dogs?" I say. "Seriously? Hot dogs?"
"Hot dogs with ketchup and relish. You know, salt and fat and sugar, the perfect combo."
"I can make something nice," I say.
"Yeah, I can make a roast or something," Harmony says.
"We want hot dogs! We want hot dogs!" May says.
April adds, "And mac-and-cheese!"
"Perfect," my mother says, and the twins crawl up next to her on the couch, each of them taking one of her hands.
We are in her room at the Hospice Center, a quiet, plush building near the Fitchburg Starbucks, and my mother's room has deephued carpets, overstuffed furniture, a well-stocked kitchenette, and sparkling white linens on the adjustable bed. I'm sad to think that it's most likely nicer than any away-from-home lodging my mother has ever had.
The girls curl up with my mother under a blanket, and Harmony and I conference by the doorway.
"Why don't you stay here with the kids?" she says. "I'll head to the store, get some hot dogs and mac-and-cheese and stuff, and we can just cook in the microwave here."
"Fine," I say. "Do you need money?"
"Don't be silly, Zeke."
"Buy the good ones," I say. "Chicago Red Hots. Don't get the cheap ones."
"Okay," Harmony says, and before she goes, she gives me a quick hug. "Are you okay?"
"I'm terrible," I say.
I stand in the kitchenette and begin, out of anxiousness, to set up paper plates and plastic cups around the small table that's there. I hope Harmony remembers to get drinks and then call her cell phone.
"Maybe some wine?" I say. "Or beer."
"And some orange soda for the kids?" she says.
"Yeah. That's right. And get them the Dora the Explorer mac-and-cheese. They like that."
"Sure," she says. "Of course."
I can hear my mother talking to the girls and I stand there, frozen,l istening.
"Is this the last time we get to see you?" April asks.
"I think so, sweetie," Ma says.
"Until we're all in heaven?" May says.
"That's right."
"And you get to see Daddy and Mommy!" May says.
"Wow!" April says. "That's right."
"I hope so," Ma says.
"Aunt Harmony said you get to see them."
"Good," Ma says. She is trying not to cry and I have no idea how she is managing it. Maybe the morphine helps. Her doctor has also put her on an antianxiety drug and an antidepressant, and I worry that the drugs suppress some of the natural synapses that fire in the brain to allow the body to die. The doctor assures me that that's not the case, but I doubt anybody has studied my hypothesis. It takes a humanist, an anthropologist or something, to figure out things like that, to ask these questions that go beyond the biological.
"I don't know," May says. "I'd rather have you here with us than up there with them."
"Me too," April says.
"You know," Ma says. "You know what? If I could make the rules of the world, I would live with you forever and ever. You two are more precious to me than anything on earth."
When Harmony comes back from the store, she finds all four of us sobbing on the sofa.
My mother is able to eat her hot dog. No bun, no macaroni and cheese, but she eats the hot dog with a fork, dipping it into ketchup and relish. The girls are able to "cook" the dinner for her, and Harmony pours my mother a small cup of beer, and my mother, when she is done, pronounces it "the best meal I have ever had in my whole life." And then she begins to lose the thread of what she wants to say. And her voice weakens to the point of being inaudible and we all four of us lead her to bed, and we leave her sleeping there with our kisses and our tears. Back home, I help the girls bathe and dress for bed, and we all three brush our teeth together, and I tell them they are brave, and strong, and wonderful. I tell them they will have new bedrooms, painted any color they like, at Aunt Harmony and Uncle Malcolm's place. When Harmony comes in, she sits beside me on the bed, and she verifies my claim. "Any color," she says.
"Any color?" they ask.
"Except for," I say.
"Except for what?" they all say.
"Poop brown! No poop on the walls!" I say. And, for the girls, the evening ends in a frenzy of hilarity and giggles.
My night ends on a somewhat different note. I am not surprised when Harmony comes into my room again that night and locks the door behind her. We are exhausted by grief. What we need is anything that is something else. Quickly, madly, we give that to each other, and then afterward we lie in bed, far apart from each other.
"I can't believe the life those girls have had," she says. "Only seven, and they've essentially lost three parents in a row."
"Good thing you're not superstitious," I say.
"Jesus, Zeke."
"Sorry. I feel so bad for them," I say. "I can't imagine it."
"I feel bad for you too," she says, propping up on one elbow, the sheet half covering her breasts. "You're losing everybody."
"You know whom I feel sorry for?" I say.
"Who?"
"Malcolm," I say.
She flops back down on the bed and stares at the ceiling.
"He's such a good man," she says. "He's damaged. He's superdamaged. He had such a rough childhood."
"We all did."
"True," she says.
"I know this must seem crazy, Zeke. I like you. Living with you has been sort of fun, in a bizarre way. The last eight weeks or whatever, as hard as they've been, they've been fun."
"Good," I say. "I'm glad they've been fun for you."
"I don't know, I don't mean it in a casual, wahoo, yippee sort of way. I mean it hasn't felt like real life. It feels like I'm somebody else."
"If you're truly happy, that should feel bad. Not fun."
"It's fun to escape sometimes," she says. "Take on a new role, you know? It's almost healthy for a marriage, I think."
"I suppose."
"I've always liked you, Zeke, and when this madness is over, I hope you will visit. You have to visit. The girls need you. They adore you."
"I know. That's why they should live with me."
"They adore me too," she says.
"That's true," I say. "Are you sure you don't want to leave Malcolm and marry me?"
"I'm sure, Zeke," she says. "That wouldn't be good for anybody in the long run. I do love Malcolm, madly. We're not great to each other, not all the time. But we'll be great to those children, I promise. They'll m
ake us be better people."
"I don't think you should adopt kids to fix your relationship," I say.
"I know. I'm not saying that! Jesus! I don't know what's what, Zeke. I don't know why your mother has to be dying, or why I felt a need to be in bed with you, or why your mother chose me over you. But everything happens for a reason, Zeke."
"No, it doesn't."
We both get out of bed then, suddenly, and fumble around naked, in the dark, dressing. I go over and stand in front of her as she slides on her underwear, touching her hips with my hands.
"You're right," she says.
"About leaving Malcolm and staying here with me?"
"No. About things not happening for a reason. It just occurred to me. What a bunch of bullshit. None of this—Cougar, Melody, Violet—none of it happened for a reason, did it?"
I shake my head. "No," I say.
"Jesus," she says.
"You should know," I say, "that I still plan to be married before my mother dies. So this is your chance. If it's not you, it will be someone else."
She lowers her head onto my chest. "Let's get back into bed," she says.
"Why?" I say. "Have you reconsidered my offer?"
"No," she says. "I just don't know what else to do."
The next morning, Harmony and the twins load their luggage into the back of Harmony's Subaru wagon. They plan to come back with Malcolm for the funeral, and he will drive a U-Haul van back to Michigan with the rest of the twins' things then.
After I kiss the twins, attempting to keep the epic casual with a phrase like "See you soon!" Harmony comes and hugs me, giving me a quick kiss on the cheek. I take her hand.
"'All my pretty ones?'" I bellow, my thunderous voice echoing along the bungalows of Commonwealth Avenue. Harmony gets into the car and drives away and I keep on bellowing. "'Did you say all? O hell-kite! All? What, all my pretty chickens, and their dam, at one fell swoop?'"
Elizabeth Vandeweghe appears in her front door and she invites me inside. I shed many tears; I tell her everything that's happened.
Actually, that's not true. I leave out all of the fucking.
My American Unhappiness Page 18
