The Peace Process

by Bruce Jay Friedman

  Every few weeks I would drive to Manhattan to have dinner with Jenkins. Inevitably, Claudia’s name came up. She was always “about to visit,” but had to cancel at the last minute. Her parents had passed away, but there was a favorite aunt who had virtually raised Claudia and was now ill and needed to be cared for. On another occasion, Claudia had planned to vacation in Vancouver with Jenkins and had actually purchased her airline ticket. But she had sprained her ankle at the terminal. A doctor explained that the injury, in some ways, was worse than a break. It would take some time for her to recuperate. He advised her not to travel. Many months later, when the sprain had healed, there had been a mysterious gas leak on the houseboat. It would take time to locate the leak and then to repair it. I once asked Jenkins why he wouldn’t fly out to visit Claudia. He was vague in his response, mumbling something to the effect that it wouldn’t be a good idea.

  And then one day—and here I have to use the word “miraculously”—Claudia did come east to visit Jenkins. After a day in Manhattan at his apartment, they paid us a visit in the country. Claudia looked spry and fresh and lively. They presented Rachel with flowers and me with a set of expensive hair and clothing brushes I use to this day. I had a strong feeling that the gifts were Claudia’s idea. She made a fuss over our house and fell in love with our Norfolk terriers. The pipe-smoking Jenkins looked on with pride as she sprawled out on the lawn and played with the dogs. He might have been the parent of a child who was performing well at a school activity.

  Rachel showed them to a second-floor study that served as a guest room. As Claudia unpacked, Jenkins took me aside. He was near tears.

  “I can’t believe you’ve arranged for us to share a room. You have no idea how much this means to me.”

  Rachel had trouble sleeping that night. As daylight approached, she went downstairs to prepare a cup of tea and saw Claudia asleep on the living-room couch. In the afternoon, while Jenkins sat on the porch, reading contentedly, I gathered up some prickly husks that had fallen from our chestnut tree. It was then that I saw Claudia standing nude at the edge of our pool. She had maintained the slender body of a young girl, though her breasts may have been surgically enhanced. She stood there for a while and may have glanced briefly in my direction. She then executed a perfect dive.

  Jenkins called after they’d left to thank us for our hospitality.

  “Claudia’s returned home. But she’s finally agreed, once and for all, to come back and live with me. She only has to settle a few affairs. I think it was your house, your living arrangement, that did the trick. I’m most grateful to you and Rachel.”

  I said—with sincerity—that I was glad for him. But several weeks later, at dinner, he said that Claudia was having a great deal of difficulty selling her home.

  “You’d think it would be an easy matter, but there aren’t too many buyers for houseboats. And there’s something sticky about the zoning. But she’s working hard to get it cleared up. …”

  And so it went for many years. Claudia was “on the verge” of coming east. There were “plans” for them to tour the great capitals of Europe. And they had “agreed” to buy a house in the country, since Claudia wasn’t sure about living in crowded Manhattan. I sympathized with her there. I couldn’t imagine anyone living happily in Jenkins’s well-located but gray and neglected apartment that was filled with old Ben Jonson folios. I had visited him there once, which was enough.

  When I reported these developments, or lack of them, to Rachel, her reaction surprised me, since I’d never known her to be uncharitable.

  “I don’t care for that woman. And I don’t like what she’s doing to our friend. She hardly lifts a finger and every need of hers is paid for. She’s probably got half a dozen others that she’s manipulating in the same way.”

  Actually, my Czech friend had told me that Claudia had been seen around the Bay Area with a handsomely roguish actor who was known to be an alcoholic.

  Still, I felt I had to defend Claudia, and the arrangement.

  “Look at it another way. Jenkins gets to pretend he has a family. He’s begun to refer to Claudia as his wife, you know. And he doesn’t actually have to put up with the complications of living with someone. Down deep he might find that agreeable. He may be a laughingstock to his friends, but he seems perfectly content with the arrangement. Isn’t that what counts?”

  “I still think she’s awful,” said Rachel, who had little history of losing arguments. “And don’t get any ideas.”

  I had some work as an assistant director in Mexico, which kept me out of the country for several months. Rachel reached me on the set one day and said that Jenkins had suffered a heart attack. Claudia had flown east to be with him at the hospital. By the time I got home, the doctors had been pleased enough with Jenkins’s recovery to release him. Claudia returned to Sausalito.

  I visited him at his apartment. He was stretched out on a worn leather couch, an unlit pipe in his mouth. He seemed pale and emaciated, yet not in the least bit depressed.

  “Claudia was absolutely wonderful,” he said, a light in his eyes. “She flew here to be with me as soon as she heard of my attack and didn’t leave until she saw that I could function on my own. I don’t know if I could have pulled through without her. She’s found a buyer for her houseboat. Rory is settled at a community college. We agreed that as soon as the sale goes through, she’s going to pack up and come to live with me. We’ll stay here for a bit, and then we’re going to look for a house in New Hampshire.”

  I mumbled something about it all being good news. Unaccountably, I chose the moment to deny that anything had ever gone on between me and Claudia.

  “I know you’ve long had your suspicions about that time I spent in Sausalito. But whatever you’ve imagined has been a complete fantasy. I don’t know what you’ve heard or been told. Let me say clearly and emphatically that Claudia and I have never, repeat never, had an affair.”

  I thought for a moment the second “never” might have been a giveaway. But Jenkins seemed not to pick up on it. Calmly, he lit his pipe, which had to be against his doctor’s orders.

  “Strange that you would bring this up,” he said. “The thought never crossed my mind.”

  Several months passed with no further mention of a houseboat sale and Claudia’s planned move to New York. I certainly wasn’t going to be the one to introduce the subject.

  On Jenkins’s eighty-ninth birthday, I treated him to dinner at a pricey French restaurant. He looked ghastly, but at the same time there was something peaceful and resigned about him. He said he’d had a meeting that day with a team of bankers and financial advisers about changes in his will.

  “They seemed more concerned than I am about my mortality.”

  He said this with a chuckle. I wondered if he had accounted for me in the will, though I would have bet heavily against it.

  “My sister died recently,” he said, nibbling at his food, “and I lost my half-brother last year. That left me without executors. So I’ve decided to put Claudia in that position.”

  I said I was surprised he hadn’t done so before.

  “Made her my executor?” he said with surprise. “Now, why on Earth would I do that?”

  “She could end up as a very rich lady,” I said.

  “There are people who have more money than I do. But she should do very nicely.”

  Several weeks later, Jenkins showed up and was clearly shaken.

  “I have the most horrible news. Claudia was packing to make her final trip east—and to move in with me—when she developed a severe headache that turned out to be a brain tumor. She had to have immediate surgery.”

  I said I couldn’t imagine anything more horrible. Sensing that I knew the answer, I asked if he had made arrangements to see her.

  “She doesn’t want me there,” he said. “She’s terribly weak and feels she looks awful. She’s self-con
scious about her hair in particular … and there’s some short-term memory loss. The feeling is that she’ll recover, although it’s going to be a long-range process. But when she’s back on her feet, everything is in motion for her to join me in Manhattan and for us to live out our years together.”

  “What can I say? I’ll just pray that she has a strong recovery. And if there’s anything I can do to help, please let me know.”

  “Thank you, Derek.” He put out a pale and flaccid hand to be shaken. “You’ve been a good friend.”

  I reported this new development to Rachel.

  “So it’s a brain tumor now, is it?” she said, not looking up from her newspaper.

  “That’s what he said. And why are you putting it that way? You’re not suggesting that she’s made all this up. Maybe you’d like to see some X-rays.”

  I thought for a moment. She was silent. She continued to read her newspaper.

  “You’re being ridiculous,” I said. “No one would sink that low. No one on the face of the Earth.”

  Orange Shoes

  He noticed her on the first day of summer camp.

  And was instantly in love with her.

  Sick in love with her.

  He was a waiter.

  Assigned to wait on her table.

  And never said a word to her.

  Though she led the girls in teasing him

  Each time he brought their food.

  “Oh, Buddy,” they sang.

  “You must come over, Buddy.

  “’Cause Gretchen’s heart goes pitty-pitty-pat.

  “There’s no one home but the kitty-kitty kat.

  “Oh, Buddy. Oh Buddy.

  “You must come over NOW.”

  He thought he’d die of shame.

  At night, he watched her dance with others

  While he sucked a dry pipe and feigned sophistication.

  And remained sick in love with her.

  He was sixteen.

  A year later

  On the first day of summer camp

  She pointed at him and said:

  “We are going out this summer.”

  As if to formalize the arrangement

  She threw a bottle of black ink at him.

  (Ink the color of her hair.)

  He brought a tray of food to her table

  Then sat on the deck and watched her swim.

  Slice through the water in a black bathing suit

  The color of her hair.

  He was embarrassed by his erection.

  She sat on his lap.

  In a dripping-wet suit.

  While he tried to hide his erection.

  He watched her run and dance and shout, her black hair flying.

  Thinking, Wild girl.

  Out-of-control girl.

  She wrote a catchy song.

  Which she played on the piano.

  Singing along, her black hair flying.

  And he was sick in love with her.

  He stole into her cabin one night.

  Picked her up in damp pajamas.

  Put two fingers in her dry vagina

  And carried her off to the woods

  Not knowing quite what to do.

  Kiss her, smell her damp pajamas.

  Keep his fingers in her dry and frightened vagina

  Then carry her back to bed.

  And leave.

  Then stop—and through a window—

  Watch her simulate sex with a girlfriend.

  The girlfriend on top.

  An older girl

  A mannish girl who smoked a Russian cigarette.

  And seemed world-weary and distracted

  Disinterested

  Though she thrust her hips out nonetheless.

  Another night.

  At the edge of the lake.

  In a shadowed glade.

  He put his fingers in her once again.

  And was frightened by the wetness.

  Thinking it was over.

  Whatever it was.

  And that he had caused it to be over.

  Before it had begun.

  At the season-ending dance, she chose as her date another boy.

  A butcher boy.

  He sat on a bench and watched them.

  Then walked outside and looked at the moon.

  Her parents arrived at dawn.

  To gather up her things and take her home.

  They brought along a city friend.

  Yet another boyfriend.

  Who danced in place and snapped his fingers.

  Keeping time to music that only he could hear.

  He watched them all drive off.

  And sucked his dry pipe.

  No longer feigning sophistication.

  He left for home soon after.

  And fell ill.

  Unable to eat or sleep.

  Unwilling to eat or sleep.

  Unwilling to say why.

  Months passed.

  He grew pale and thin.

  A strong boy, he lost his strength.

  An expensive doctor was brought in

  And had no answer.

  Perhaps the thyroid.

  Perhaps not.

  And then she phoned one day.

  And casually asked if he would meet her in Manhattan.

  He agreed to do so.

  Matching her casual tone.

  And he began to eat and sleep.

  He barely recognized her on the street.

  She seemed ungainly in a dress.

  He had never seen her in a dress.

  And she wore orange shoes.

  Bright-orange shoes.

  Large bright-orange shoes.

  Long bright-orange shoes.

  Weren’t they

  In his neighborhood

  Referred to as “canal boats”?

  All of which he found

  Unforgiveable.

  They watched a movie.

  She said she had her period.

  Then added that she would like to be engaged.

  He wished her luck.

  And said he had his own plan—

  To go off to college

  In a distant state.

  He was aware of his brutality.

  His arrogance.

  But he was seventeen now.

  A boy no more.

  And the long bright-orange shoes

  The “canal boats”

  Had set him free.

  He took her to the subway.

  Said goodbye.

  And never wrote or called.

  And became popular at school

  By playing and singing a song that she had written.

  A catchy song.

  With a catchy title.

  “Sorry.”

  The Choice

  Courtesy of a botched knee surgery, Gaylord lost the use of eight fingers; two remained intact, almost as a reminder of the good times. His legs were frozen logs. He barely got around on two canes.

  “They add dignity,” a colleague told him.

  But Gaylord knew better. He was a crip. (He knew there was a better term, a more acceptable one, but he was what he was, and it was too late to stand on ceremony.)

  Gaylord felt an obligation to stop healthy strangers on the street and warn them not to be too cocky.

  “It can happen overnight.”

  What did he expect them to do, tiptoe cautiously through life?

  A risky surgery was proposed.

  “The goal is to hold the line,” a doctor advised him. “The success rate is sixty percent.”

  Gaylord didn’t
dare ask him what happened to the other forty. He knew. And is that what he wanted to shoot for? A chance to stand pat, capping off his life with two canes and a pair of fingers?

  Maybe. There were still small pleasures, although, if asked to name them, he had trouble firing off a list. There was the view, of course, from his small apartment close to the river. (“It leans on the water,” he told his remaining friends.) And he could see the full length of the Hudson. All right, maybe not the full length, but a healthy slice of it. And the view changed from morning to night, so that in a sense, he had half a dozen versions of it.

  “You have no idea how much that view picks up your spirits,” he told those same friends, lording it over them in a way, since most had no view at all.

  And it did lift his spirits. Squinting his eyes, he could pretend he was enjoying Lake Como. But how much joy could he wring out of a view? Did that make life worth living? An excellent view of the Hudson?

  Hypocritically, though he loathed the politics, he read “Page Six” in the Murdoch Post each morning. That was one of his treats. (For his conscience, he balanced it off with the Times.) And he had discovered the iPad, so he could get lost in old Warner Bros. movies. Long past worrying about his diet, he ate his favorite breakfast every morning, French toast with blueberries and a thin layer of maple syrup. Miraculously, he remained slender. A widower, Gaylord had a son and a fourteen-year-old granddaughter who lived in Wichita. He enjoyed their occasional visits. In truth, all he could think about during their stay was the fun he could have had with Miriam—when she was a little girl. (And, incidentally, who names a child Miriam these days?)

  As he watched traffic go by on the West Side Highway, he considered limping across a small stretch of grass and jumping in front of a homebound Buick. Others had done it. There was no way to get in touch with them, to ask how it had worked out. What was it like on the Other Side? Was there an Other Side?