by Alix Strauss
This is day two of the shivah and it feels as though we’ve not left this apartment for weeks. Outside in the hallway the clothing rack holds countless wool and leather coats, its metal bar bending in the middle from the stress. Inside, their usually spacious living room and study have been commandeered by plastic folding chairs. Guests are filling them, filling their plates, and filling their ears full of gossip as word spreads of how Marty died: “They say he crawled on his hands and knees into the elevator.” “When they pulled him out, they said his face was completely distorted.” “Can you imagine? That’s why they chose cremation.” I catch bits of their conversation as I offer coffee or tea, sparkling water, and white wine. Rather than ask, they assume I was close with my uncle and proceed to tell me what a fine shrink he was, how they all felt listened to, appreciated, and understood. I have the urge to take a survey, like with the coffee and tea. Instead of “Who would like decaf?” I’d much prefer to ask, “Who here fucked Marty in my hotel? Show of hands, please?”
I enter the kitchen and refill the tray. Boxes of cookies and cakes sent by clients and friends litter the counter space. Two rented extra-large coffeemakers are to my left. Homemade casseroles, quiches, and kugel reside on my right next to platters of sliced ham, Swiss cheese, turkey, tongue, and roast beef. I spot the silver-plated bread basket hidden behind a brown paper bag and close my eyes as I lift open the top. Please be there. Please be there, even if the box is decades old, the cookies moldy and inedible. Inside is a loaf of whole wheat bread and a package of Pepperidge Farm English muffins.
Disappointed by my search, I decide to collect trash instead of handing out more liquids and I walk back into the living room and collect empty coffee cups, discarded plastic wineglasses, and paper plates with crumpled-up napkins resting on them. Marty’s urn seems to watch my every move.
My mother picked out the vase that holds her brother’s ashes and it resides on a mantel next to the bookshelves filled with his collection of literature: Freud, Jung, and other exceptional therapists. When I look at the brass container, I see a distorted vision of myself. I shift an inch or so and watch my eyes widen, my lips grow fuller while my forehead becomes bulbous, my cheeks sunken.
A woman steps next to me and stares at the urn as well. I catch her reflection next to mine and from my angle we look like shrunken heads.
“He was a very special man. Did you know him well?” she asks.
“He was my uncle.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” She turns to face me. Her eyes are wide. Her face lean and thin, like her frame. She’s one of Marty’s. I’ve seen them together in the hotel.
“I’m Sheila. Marty was my coffee buddy. We’d meet several times a week for our caffeine fix. Well, I drink tea, and I think Marty was always trying to convert me. He’d always say, ‘Come on over to my side. Coffee drinkers are trustworthy people.’”
“That’s nice.” My words come out tense and she seems a bit startled.
“Anyway, I’m sure you’d like a moment to yourself.”
“I would.”
“Could you tell me which one is his wife, Faye? I’d like to express my condolences.”
I point to my aunt, then watch her walk over to her. Skinny, lanky women, all in a row. I look for Trish wondering if she’ll show. If she even knows he’s dead. I’ve not spoken to her since I saw them together. She’s not returned my phone calls, making me feel as though I’ve done something wrong. Lost something important.
By the time I enter the kitchen my mother is on the phone and Faye is leaning up against the door, staring off. A dishcloth is clutched in her hand and every time she twists it, her wedding ring moves in the opposite direction. I see her head start to droop, like a drunk about to pass out, and before I can set the tray down, watch her eyes roll back, her body crumble.
Someone screams as I lunge for her. I lay her on the floor while realizing a swarm of people are staring over us. Faye’s sister seems to be instantly at her side. She bends over her as my mother steps in with a glass of water. I look into her face and flash to a moment when she was handing Dale a cup of apple juice, holding it up to her mouth and helping her to drink it. I want to touch my mother’s face, cup her chin with my palm, and tell her I’m sorry. I’m so sorry her first child is dead. That her younger brother is no longer here, either. That no matter how much I want to, need to, I can’t give her back the family we never got to have. As I lean forward to whisper this in her ear, some random guest suggests we stand Faye up and move her to a chair. I’m quickly pushed aside by the sister who is incredibly calm and gently props her up against the door, brushes hair out of Faye’s eyes, and does that slow shushing thing you do with people who are coming undone. I think of how Dale would be doing this for me, or me for her should one of our husbands suddenly, inexplicably die. Or maybe it would be one of our parents.
Like the animal crackers, I want her to magically appear. Almost call out for her. My hands are shaking and an inner tingling inside my body starts. A numbness in my fingers happens as a standing vertigo washes over me. I need air. I must get air. Voices fade as I move toward the living room, pushing my way past the people who feel they need to watch the show, and open a window. I lean out, close my eyes, and welcome the cold air as it hits my face. Only after shutting the window do I notice the urn that held Marty’s ashes, the one my mother bought a few days ago, is gone.
My mother and I arrive at the police station twenty minutes later, which, luckily, is blocks from Faye and Marty’s Upper East Side apartment. Not wanting to create additional chaos my mother suggested we not say a word to anyone, leaving my father and Faye’s sister to put Faye to bed and continue the shivah as if nothing has happened.
Everything inside the Twenty-third Precinct is dark and dingy. The smell of perspiration is strong and offensive. Phones are ringing, people are yelling, metal is clanking, and feet are clomping. Some cops are in street clothing: leather jackets, jeans and sneakers, baseball hats. Others don appropriate blue uniforms: guns, nightsticks, and cuffs on one hip, well balanced by walkie-talkies, whistles, and keys on the other.
A broken air conditioner that looks as if it hasn’t been repaired since the Carter administration hangs shakily above my head. The floor is covered with old ceramic gray tile and the wooden benches are black from age. The walls are papered with recruiting posters that read JOIN US: IT’S A MATTER OF PRIDE and wanted posters that showcase twenty or so individuals, each sought for a variety of crimes. If they really hoped to catch people, they’d use these photos as a dating service: “Robert Meyers, 38, wanted for aiding and abetting, is looking for a class-A felon with a short record, dark hair, and college degree. You should enjoy travel, pool halls, and favor old black-and-white films from the thirties.”
The main room is divided into two areas, those who’ve committed crimes and those who haven’t. Women whose wallets have been stolen, men whose cars have been broken into, couples who’ve been robbed, and senior citizens who’ve been mugged are all waiting to file reports. These victims seem to stay within their section and my mother and I stand behind them. When it’s our turn, we give a quick summary to a female cop and are told to talk to the person at the large desk to our right.
Seated there is a rugged blond man with surprisingly good looks. Two metal chairs are in front of this desk. And as he sees us approaching, he extends a hand and half gets up out of his seat, making me feel as if I’m talking to a bank executive looking for a loan rather than an officer.
“Hi, I’m Wes Bater. How can I help you?”
He appears too clean-cut in his trendy suit, his good looks, his wavy blond hair to be a cop. Even in this bad lighting, I can tell he’s attractive. He has smooth, freshly shaven olive-colored skin, nice brows, and green eyes. His features are sharp, but not chiseled, and there’s an exciting edginess to him.
I look to my mother—who’s digging through her purse and finally extracts a mini bottle of antibacterial gel, which she douses on her hands—to
see if she wants to start. She wore her fur coat, and in these seats, looks like a constipated Eskimo with the thick fur pushed into her face.
“We were sitting shivah for my brother,” she says. “It’s our term for paying respects to the dead…”
“I’m Jewish, too,” he smiles, then adds more seriously, “And I’m sorry for your loss.”
My mother looks relieved and unbuttons her coat while letting a sigh escape. “My brother was cremated this past Thursday, and someone took the brass urn that held his ashes at his home a few hours ago.” She stops to gather herself; only I can’t tell if it’s for dramatic effect or an honest display of emotion. “And when my daughter went to look at it, it was gone. Can you believe that?” She smacks her hand down on her knee for emphasis, a cry in her voice. “What’s the matter with people?”
Wes turns to me.
“I was by the window…”
“My sister-in-law was not in a good place and there was a lot of commotion…”
As if in a bad tennis match I continue. “It was rather emotional, and I went to get some air. I opened the window, stuck my head out, and when I came back inside, I looked for the urn and it was missing.”
“Why someone would do this is beyond me.” My mother shakes her head back and forth. Wes looks concerned and as he opens his mouth, is beaten by someone else’s voice. We all turn our heads to the left and see a black man dressed as a woman yelling.
“I have to piss,” he shouts. “I got to go now.”
He’s standing next to a policeman who has him cuffed, hands clamped conveniently in front of his privates. No one seems terribly impressed or even in a hurry to physically move.
“I said, I need to piss. Who the fuck is gonna let me do that?”
Now that he/she mentions it, I could pee, too, as if it’s an epidemic.
“Fine. Suit your fucking lazy-ass selves.”
The sound of urine hitting the floor is the next noise we hear. The people standing behind him take large steps away, as does the cop who’s holding him by the shoulder.
“Fuck this crappy job,” the chubby officer utters under his breath. “You just bought yourself a night in lockup, Pretty.”
My mother is mortified and though we’re several feet away, rubs more antibacterial gel on her hands. “Stop looking, Morgan,” she urges, her voice tight. But I can’t. I cannot take my eyes off this man’s enormous penis.
“I’m so sorry you had to see that, Mrs….”
“Tierney.”
Wes picks up a pen and starts to fill out a form requesting our names, numbers, addresses, a description of the urn, and a list of people who were at the apartment.
“People steal all sorts of things,” he says, his right hand moving back and forth over the paper. He flips the sheet over and continues scribbling notes as the sharp odor of urine permeates the already stale air.
“I work in a hotel so I see this all the time. If it’s not the soap dish it’s a robe, or letter opener, or minibar items, even a shoehorn. I mean who wants an elongated shoehorn?” I say, knowing full well a stolen leather sex thing resides in my closet. Hypocrisy, meet irony. Irony, hypocrisy. “They assume if they take it on their last day and sign out really quickly, we won’t charge their card.”
“Do you remember anyone acting unusual?” he asks.
“It’s a shivah, all bets are off in terms of behavior,” I say.
My mother eyes me suspiciously.
“True,” he agrees. We smile at each other and I tilt my head girly-like. He has nice eyes.
“Is there any reason why someone would do this?”
I can think of many.
“My brother was a therapist so it’s anyone’s guess. A number of his patients came to pay their respects. I’m sure many aren’t terribly stable.”
“Perhaps it’s an open-and-shut case of separation anxiety,” I add.
“You’ll have to excuse her,” my mother interjects, then mouths the words “stop it” to me. I roll my eyes and Wes smirks.
“What hotel are you with?” He stops writing and starts tapping the top of the pen on the desk.
“Four Seasons.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Have you stayed there?”
“I’m there now.” He moves from tapping his pen to tapping on the computer keys, which sit on his desk off to the left.
“Really?”
“My building had a fire and well, I needed a place to stay and the hotel is blocks from the building and insurance is taking care of lodging. Got to tell you, it’s been a vacation.”
I lean forward and fall into flirt mode as my mother stares at us. I can visualize her telling her friends at her weekly bridge gathering how we met. “Well, some freak stole my brother’s ashes, and Morgan, leave it to her to find the officer attractive. PS, he’s Jewish. He was nice and promised to find the urn.”
“I have to ask this, you’re not a real cop, right?” I inquire.
“No, I’m not,” he says quietly, like a spy sharing secret information. “I work for the mayor. I’m an assistant criminal justice coordinator.”
My mother’s face eases and she unbuttons her fur all the way this time with one hand, while fanning herself with the other in the hope of creating some circulation.
“How interesting.” Take that Bernard. I bet Wes doesn’t worry about which wine he’s drinking when he’s hobnobbing with politicians.
“This was actually his idea. It’s a new program we’re heading up. He wants his team to experience firsthand what kind of crimes are being committed.” He takes the pen he’s been fidgeting with and sticks it behind his ear before returning to the computer. “It’s supposed to give us a personal look at what’s happening to the city and hopefully a better way to correct the problems.” He turns back to my mother. “This is a truly awful and unsettling thing to have happened. But to be honest, whoever took your brother’s ashes most probably did it out of anger or grief, and the chances of recovering them are rather slim. Legally, you’re dealing with doctor/patient privilege, so obtaining a list or addresses and numbers is always sketchy, especially since he’s the deceased party and not the other way around.”
My mother and I nod in unison, making us look like those plastic bobble heads.
“What if they signed in on their own,” I ask. “We’ve got the funeral guestbook.”
Wes looks impressed. “True. That’s something we’ll have to collect from you. If you’d like to leave it in the lobby I’ll send an officer over. I’m sure you’d prefer us not to come up and disrupt…”
“We’re blocks away, I can easily drop it off.”
“We can leave it for them downstairs, Morgan,” my mother interrupts as a cop walks over and hands Wes another file.
“We got people waiting,” she tells him.
“Right.” He takes the new paperwork from her and once she walks away, stands. We do the same. “If we hear anything, of course we’ll let you know. And I promise to give it some special attention as well.”
We shake hands again and I let mine linger in his a second longer than need be.
“Thank you, I appreciate that,” my mother says.
“If it’s not too forward, maybe you’d like to have a drink at the bar sometime,” I offer. “It’s the least I can do for your kindness.”
“That would be great. Friday’s my last night there so perhaps Thursday would work? I’ll give you a call?”
“Sounds good. You can reach me at the hotel.”
My mother is slightly horrified. I can tell by the way she grips my upper arm, tight and angrily.
As we exit, we pass many of the same people we saw when we entered two hours ago. The urine has been cleaned up, and the cross-dresser removed. Outside it’s dark and cold as we head west toward Fifth Avenue. There’s the feeling, like at a hospital, of hours lost. As if time has stood still inside but the world has moved on without us.
I want to say something to my mother but am no
t sure what. When she calls my father to inform him we’re on our way back, her voice is tired and hoarse.
“I could help you clean out Marty’s office if you want,” I suggest, once she’s off the phone. “I could take Monday off…”
“That’s kind, but I’m sure Faye wants to handle that.”
As much as I’d like to help, my need to be part of the process is far greater. I didn’t get to do it for Dale and I want to watch my mother mourn because I don’t yet know how. And just once, I’d love something other than tragedy to bring my family closer.
As we fight the unforgiving, raw December air, I slip my arm through my mother’s, like Trish did with me. I hope to feel a piece of her, something solid and whole, but I’m lost in the fur and am only able to grip the material from her thick, hairy coat.
Chapter 7
Morgan
Suite 2410
Lou’s muffled voice bellows from the hallway making me hesitate before knocking on door number 2410. “It’s Morgan,” I call out.
Honor opens the door, a frown on her face, dressed in a chocolate brown jacket and tweed wool skirt short enough to make men turn for a second look, yet long enough to remain classy. Her heels add height and sophistication and she looks like she’s going to an awards luncheon rather than a high-end dry out suite.
“He’s a two-beer queer,” Lou says as I enter. A lit cigarette dangles from her lips, sunglasses hide her face. Her purple suede shirt is dirty and worn. Her jeans look ragged, like the rest of Lou. “He wouldn’t know a hit if Hendrix appeared to him in a drug-induced vision and played some lost song he’d written prior to his untimely death.”
