Jane Austen in Boca

by Paula Marantz Cohen

  Flo had been sitting at the kitchen table with a cup of coffee and the Times, whiling away the hour until she had to meet her friends, when Lila walked in. Lila had never been known to walk in without knocking before.

  “What’s wrong?” said Flo as her friend lowered herself shakily into the chair opposite. “You look terrible.”

  “Oh, Flo,” wailed Lila, “you’re not going to believe this.”

  “Try me,” said Flo. “I’ll believe it.”

  “Well, first, I should tell you …” She eyed Flo nervously.

  “Hy is dead.”

  “No!” said Flo. It was hard to know what to say. “That’s terrible!” was certainly too strong and would have seemed disingenuous. On the other hand, “That’s good!” would not have been right, either. Though there was no denying that Flo was glad to think that Lila was no longer attached to Hy Marcus, death seemed an extreme way of severing the connection. Hy, after all, had never done anything to her, short of irritating her exceedingly over dinner.

  “It’s true!” said Lila. “It happened last night. It was …” She paused. “Sudden.”

  “What do you mean?” said Flo, for whom a good story was always welcome. “How did he die?”

  “Well, I’ll tell you.” Lila paused again. “I count on you to be discreet, but you can tell May if you want to.” She shifted a bit in the chair, and Flo leaned forward expectantly.

  “We had come back from the clubhouse,” said Lila carefully. “Hy had had a large meal: two servings of roast beef, baked potato with butter and sour cream, then dessert. It was makeyour-own sundae, with the hot fudge and the butterscotch—too much, if you ask me, but that’s neither here nor there.”

  “It isn’t?” said Flo.

  “No,” said Lila, “it’s not really relevant to the story So we go back to the apartment and I notice that he’s not acting tired but he’s not talking either, which is unusual for Hy. If he’s not tired, he’s usually talking, and if he’s not talking, he’s usually tired.”

  Flo nodded. This seemed an accurate description of Hy Marcus.

  “So we go in and I start to go to my room, and he says, ‘Not so fast, you sexy thing, you.’ That’s what he said. I remember perfectly because, as you can imagine, it gave me a shock. He started unbuttoning his shirt and he said, ‘I have a surprise for you, you sexy thing.’ “

  “Oh God,” groaned Flo. But Lila was not about to be interrupted now that the morbid trajectory of her story was under way.

  “So he says to me, ‘Take off those clothes, we’re going to do it.’ I say, using a reasonable tone, ‘Hy, please, it hasn’t worked in the past.’ But he says, ‘Now is different; I took the pill.’ “

  “Oh God!” said Flo again, putting her head in her hands.

  “So what could I do?” continued Lila. “I told him that I thought perhaps we should wait. It was late, he’d had a big meal, I was tired. But he was jumping around like a monkey. He said it was my wifely duty and so forth, and got very insistent. So I thought, Better to get it over with”—she took a breath—”so I get into bed and he takes his clothes off. His shlong was, well—surprising—”

  “Lila!” exclaimed Flo.

  “I just want to give you a sense,” said Lila. “So he starts in very vigorously. Very vigorously. The shaking was”—she searched for a metaphor—”like high speed on the blender.”

  Flo groaned.

  “And then it stopped. Like you’d pressed ‘off.’ Still; nothing. I thought maybe he’d fallen asleep. It’s not unheard of, you know. Mort was always very fast, and fell asleep in a snap. But,” said Lila meaningfully, “he wasn’t asleep.”

  “I see,” said Flo.

  “He was dead.”

  “So I gathered,” said Flo.

  Lila sighed. “So that’s the story. I’ve called his kids; they’re coming down. He wanted to be buried down here. His son is taking care of everything.” She paused, then added, “Steven told me about the will. I’m nicely taken care of. I should be relieved.”

  Flo nodded expectantly. Lila seemed to have more to say.

  “It’s not like we were married for fifty years,” she continued. “It hasn’t even been two months. And it’s no secret that I married to be comfortable.” She paused. “It was a marriage of convenience.”

  Flo waited.

  “And to tell the truth, he was an annoying man. He got on my nerves. He got on everyone’s nerves.”

  “He was,” agreed Flo, “annoying.”

  “But he wasn’t a bad man,” Lila shot back, as though Flo had missed the point. “He wasn’t Prince Charming, I’ll grant you, but he wasn’t bad. There are a lot worse.”

  “That’s true,” agreed Flo, trying to keep up with her friend’s reasoning. “There are certainly worse.”

  “And he had a lot of life. He had what they call joie de vivre: joy in living. It’s a quality that you don’t always see. Mort, for example, didn’t have it. Mort might as well have been underground for all the life he had. Hy had life—and he gave me the chance to live.” Her voice had become soft, wistful. “It’s hard to imagine him dead.”

  Flo thought of Hy Marcus. It was indeed hard to imagine that antic and voluble man eliminated from the game of life.

  “And to tell you the truth,” sighed Lila, a tear rolling slowly down her powdered cheek, “I miss him.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  HY MARCUS’S FUNERAL WAS NOT UNLIKE MANY FUNERALS THAT occur on a regular basis in West Boca. There were a nice number of people: the son and daughter and their families, dressed in black suits and linen dresses from Saks; a few old friends; and a showing from Boca Festa that included Hy’s card partners and a few who had known Hy from casual encounters in the dining room or on the grounds. There were also the standard number of funeral “regulars.” This group made a point of attending funerals to get a feel for the proceedings much in the way prospective brides look in on other people’s weddings to get ideas for their own. There are limits to this analogy, of course. Although some of the regulars were seen to take notes on casket presentation, flower arrangements, testimonial speeches, and so forth, for the most part, the choice to attend the funerals of relative strangers must be put down to the desire to bask in the certainty that one was not being buried oneself.

  May, Flo, and Lila sat together near the front of the room where Hy’s casket, thankfully closed, gave a far more dignified and imposing presentation than Hy had ever done in life. May and Flo had decided that they would sit with Lila to give her moral support. She still appeared confused and shaken by how quickly she had gone from newlywed to widow.

  The young rabbi, the same one who had presided over Lila and Hy’s wedding, had once again been commandeered to perform. He appeared no less young than before, though buoyed by the fact that he could claim an earlier connection with the deceased. It gave him a sense of continuity that he lacked in most of the events at which he officiated.

  “I married him,” said the rabbi sonorously, “I bury him. So is the cycle of life. We live, we joy, we prosper, we wither, we die. The cycle cannot be evaded, neither can it be avoided.”

  “Neither evaded nor avoided?” Flo couldn’t help whispering, though May gave her a look.

  “It is with a special sadness, then,” continued the rabbi, “having so recently seen joy kindled anew on the face of Hy Marcus, to now be saying farewell. Yet I do so, with the steadfast conviction that Hy Marcus is now on a long and blessed journey, his soul winging its way to be one with Adonai.”

  The rabbi continued with more of the same for quite a while. When he was done, Hy’s son spoke about how his father had always encouraged him and his sister to pursue their dreams and never stinted in supporting them, either psychologically or financially He spoke briefly. Before sitting down, he noted that his father’s oldest friend was present and wanted to say a few words.

  An old man came forward. He had a cane and he looked something like Hy. He stood for a moment and peered out at
the assembled mourners.

  “I met Hy,” he said, “when I was ten years old. We used to play together, stickball after school. Hy was an excellent stickball player. I also recall that we played marbles. I won all of Hy’s marbles. He was a good loser and never complained. Later, in high school, we were still friends, and after that, we continued to keep in touch. Hy went into the hat business with his father and his brother, Michael. He worked hard to support his family. He was a devoted and loving husband to Minna—married for forty-six years—and when he met Lila”—the old man nodded to Lila where she sat between her friends—”he felt he had gotten a new lease. Hy was proud of his children and his grandchildren,” the man continued. “I don’t think I ever met a man who was so proud of his children.” Hy’s children bowed their heads. They felt the full force of their father’s pride, and were moved by it now that they didn’t need to cringe under it. “He thought they were worth a million,” continued the man, “and he used to say they should be—he put a million into their education.” There was relieved laughter—everyone appreciated a glimpse of Hy as they remembered him, and the chance to escape the feeling, which the speech had so far engendered, that they had not done him justice. “Hy was a good man, Hy was a decent man,” intoned the speaker. “He worked hard all his life to provide for his family, and he never, to my knowledge, denied them anything. He enjoyed life and was grateful for the gifts of life. He was my oldest friend,” the man concluded quietly. “I’m sad he’s gone.”

  There wasn’t a dry eye in the house.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  “YOU’RE NOT GOING TO BELIEVE THIS,” ANNOUNCED LILA A FEW days after Hy’s funeral. For the second time in a week, she had opened Flo’s door and walked in without knocking. Something, thought Flo, must have happened on the dramatic order of Hy’s death to have precipitated this second instance of passionate trespassing. “Sit down,” said Lila, “you’re going to be shocked.”

  “I’m already sitting,” said Flo. She was in fact sitting on her couch reading Daniel Deronda, George Eliot’s “Jewish” novel, a book that she liked so much that she had told Lila and May that she was prepared to read every one of its thousand pages aloud to them.

  “Put the book down,” said Lila, “and prepare yourself. It’s about Mel Shirmer. He’s moved into Boca Festa. Pod seven, Eastgate. Not by himself He’s married—to Roz Fliegler.”

  Flo, not easily surprised, was surprised.

  “I know it must be a blow,” continued Lila, “so I wanted to be the first to break it to you. I didn’t want you finding out through gossip in the dining room or, worse, seeing them there together.”

  Flo assured her that though she was surprised, she was not stricken. Her feelings for Mel, if she had ever had any, had long since dissipated into indifference—if not distaste. What interested her, however, was how the union had been effected. She had not seen Mel for some time. She had assumed that he had gone back to Washington (or New York) and given up on the idea of settling in Florida.

  “It seems he’s been courting her on the sly,” said Lila disgustedly. “He obviously was embarrassed showing up here since everyone assumed that you two were a couple. It seems they met at the JCC—in the biblical prophets course; it’s always the most popular—and she made a beeline for him. He was, they say, very receptive. She’s quite well off, you know,” said Lila meaningfully. “No doubt that had something to do with it.”

  “No doubt,” said Flo.

  “But the nerve of them settling here!” exclaimed Lila. “With you only two pods away!”

  “A pod can be an ocean,” said Flo. “It’s reasonable that they would settle here. Roz has lived here for years.”

  “Yes. They stayed in the same pod but moved to a bigger condo,” noted Lila. “Mel said he needed an extra bedroom to use as his study—for his writing.” Lila seemed to have temporarily forgotten her outrage and moved into her strictly reportorial mode. “They were married quietly, but she says she wants to have a big party to celebrate in the fall. She’s renting the clubhouse and planning the decorations with Rudy—the sky’s the limit. I don’t suppose we’ll be invited.” Lila seemed a bit crestfallen at the prospect of missing such a gala event, but quickly recalled her feelings for her friend. “So you’re not upset? Even if you don’t feel anything for him, you must admit that it’s… disrespectful.”

  “Well, I couldn’t expect him not to marry the woman of his dreams out of respect for me,” said Flo.

  “Roz Fliegler—the woman of his dreams? Feh!” declared Lila.

  “Lila! Since when have you gotten to be so discriminating? Mel was not rich. In fact, he didn’t have much money at all, from what I could tell. Roz has plenty and is a very lively personality. I don’t think you should be one to judge.”

  “You have a point,” admitted Lila, who had the virtue of acknowledging a reasonable argument. “It’s just that he led you on.

  “He didn’t,” said Flo. “He may have tried for a while, but he didn’t succeed. Now, stop making such a big deal about it. Let’s go to lunch. Maybe I’ll see them there and can offer my heartfelt congratulations.”

  CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

  THERE WERE TWO OCCASIONS IN THE COURSE OF THE YEAR WHEN the atmosphere of West Boca underwent a dramatic transformation: the week between Christmas and New Year’s, and the week following Easter Sunday. These were the public schools’ official extended holidays when grandchildren, freed from academic constraints, were shipped down to grandparents who, it was thought, were dying to see them. During these periods, children ranging in age from five to seventeen made their appearance in the Boca clubs.

  Boca Festa made special arrangements in anticipation of this deluge. A variety of programs were implemented that included games and contests, barbecues and picnics. Special clinics in golf and tennis were organized, straining the stamina and versatility of the club pros, who now had to adjust their instruction to ten-year-olds who had been taken off their Ritalin. More important than the lessons, of course, were the debriefing sessions that followed with the children’s grandfathers, when it was necessary to give assurances that the youngsters had the makings of first-class players if only they could perfect their forehands, backhands, and serves.

  Normally, Boca Festa was a quiet place, aside from the skirmishes at the board meetings and the occasional arguments at lunch or in the card room as to whether Bill Clinton was a shanda or the best president the country has had since FDR (there appeared to be only two positions on this issue). Another bone of contention was the Bush-Gore election. As residents of Palm Beach County, many club residents had come face-to-face with the notorious “butterfly ballot,” and continued to be indignant on the subject. Some blamed the stupidity of the ballot and others the stupidity of their peers (drawings of the ballot on tablecloths had upped the club dry-cleaning bill by 30 percent). Yet while these topics produced raised voices and slammed fists from time to time, club life tended to be sedate and calm overall. Everyone was cognizant of the dangers of high blood pressure. The exception was during those two vacation weeks. At those times, toddlers in sodden diapers were seen running across the clubhouse lounge followed by youngish women in high-heeled mules, and there was so much splashing in the pool that the matrons in beehive hairdos had to move their chairs back a good six inches. There were lines for the Stairmasters and hardly room to accommodate the influx of younger women in the aerobics classes. Daughters-in-law were booked for massages with Tiffany, the club masseuse, who was minutely questioned afterward by mothers-in-law desperate for a handle on what their sons were thinking. (“The breasts are definitely not real,” Tiffany confided to Mrs. Ruderman.) Candy wrappers were found on the golf course, despite regular announcements at pod meetings to pay particular attention to the disposal of trash. Most under pressure were the culinary staff, who found themselves fielding special requests of a highly esoteric sort: “Leave a few lumps in the potatoes, but not too many, then add parmesan and butter, with a smidgen of sal
t and a dash of paprika,” the chef was told by one woman who explained that her grandson, a picky eater, had gone mad for this recipe when she was visiting him last summer. The staff was finally obliged to post a notice near the entry to the dining hall: THE KITCHEN MUST REFUSE ALL SPECIAL REQUESTS FOR DISHES DURING WINTER AND SPRING VISITING WEEKS OWING TO TIME AND BUDGETARY LIMITATIONS. This, of course, did not prevent many grandparents from slipping the chef fifty dollars along with a scribbled recipe for matzo brie with peanut butter.

  Carol, sensing that her presence might be distracting at this point in May’s relationship with Norman Grafstein, shipped Adam down by himself during the spring vacation week. She had mobilized the entire ground staff of Continental Airlines in the service of his care, and had interviewed all the attendants on the flight, finally choosing a perky young woman named Susie as his personal companion for the trip. He was equipped with a suitcase of games and puzzles, though he had found the barf bags and the cotton eye covers that the plane distributed to its passengers more entertaining than the manifold materials that Carol had carefully selected from the Store of Knowledge in the mall.

  May was initially nervous at the prospect of hosting Adam without his parents. She was afraid that a child used to such an energetic support system might feel bored in the face of her limited stamina and capacity for creative play. Alan had never required entertainment, having spent most of his spare time in his room with the television on.