In the Palomar Arms

by Hilma Wolitzer

  “Have to shoot foxes.”

  “Have to curtsy.”

  “But that girl’s going to be Queen!”

  “Me, I’d rather be Dolly Parton.”

  “Mother, can you see?”

  Nora closes her eyes, and when she opens them again, everyone is gone, and Jack’s funeral is on television, just like a ball game. Where is Father Michaels? He’d boot their fannies for this, and excommunicate the lot of them. It’s a disgrace, but she’s too weary to protest. There’s the long, long center aisle of St. Athanasius, and she must walk the whole way. The coffin is like a small polished jewel box in the distance. Her brothers say she can look—all the damage is underneath, out of sight. Agnes’s older boys lift Nora’s elbows, hurrying her along, making her float a little. She doesn’t want to be on television. She doesn’t want to look at Jack in the blue suit she’s chosen for him, and the starched white shirt and the crimson tie. They’ll have rouged his cheeks because the ruddy blaze of blood is gone, and she doesn’t want to see the clown’s rouge or the tallowed flesh it covers or the quiet breast of snow with its crimson Christmas tie.

  So she says, “I won’t!” so loud she wakes herself up, and she’s in bed with broth running up her nose, and a man she doesn’t know at all leaning too close and peering at her. He smells like buttered bread. Under the dark circle of his hat, he has ringlets like an angel, and a deep beard of curls. Nora has an instant of absolute terror.

  “Mrs. Mankowitz?” he asks. “From the Sisterhood?”

  She is so drenched with relief by his human voice that she doesn’t quite comprehend what he’s said. “It’s only a little cold,” she tells him, and he says, “Ahhh,” and sits on the chair next to her bed.

  “My own mother, too,” he begins, shaking his head, and then he smiles so sweetly at Nora that she wishes she could remember who he is.

  It doesn’t matter, really. He takes her hand, and his is warm and leathery soft like the muff she carried on her wedding day. “Prayers are being said,” he advises her. Special Mi Sheberachs sent up by her loved ones, for a Refuoh Shlemoh, and she is mentioned daily during regular services as well. “Your daughter makes sure of it. She’s a wonderful, wonderful girl,” he says, and Nora can’t think how to deny that. If she had had a daughter, she would be a wonderful girl, so his confusion is innocent and inoffensive. “And she’ll be blessed by your speedy recovery,” he continues. “We know that the Almighty is merciful and does not wish us to suffer.”

  She can’t argue with that, either. If there was a God, He probably would be merciful and not wish for anyone to suffer. Nora nods, attempts to smile.

  “Everybody sends their regards. Do you know who asks for you?” he inquires, and before she can speak, he begins a mysterious and melodic litany: “Rabbi Singer, Cantor Zweig, Mrs. Rubin, Shmulke Rivkind, all the Goldens, Dr. Pinsky, Mr. Diamond …”

  In addition to being human, his voice has a soothing lilt. He sings the names of all these unsolicited benefactors like a lullaby, and Nora drifts safely and buoyantly away.

  “So!” he says briskly, bringing her back. “Zei gesundt. Take care and be well.” As he stands, he lays her hand down as if it were a fragile teacup, and like that ring of rowdy boys, he’s gone.

  18

  IT’S KENNY’S TURN TO leave town. For the last two days of his in-laws’ visit, they’re all going to San Francisco. It will be cooler there, and the coastal drive is very beautiful.

  Before Gus went into the hospital to have his lung removed, he made a list of all the things he wanted to do, if there was time enough when he got out, if he survived. Sobbing, Frances had read the list to Kenny over the phone. Gus wanted to start a window herb garden in their New York City apartment. He wanted to get season tickets for the Met, extravagant seats in the grand tier, and wear formal clothes to all the performances. He wanted to go to Evanston, Illinois, and visit his parents’ graves; he wanted to spend more time with his family, and drive the lovely distance from Los Angeles to San Francisco at least once again. This is his last unfulfilled desire, but he has already started a new, urgent list. “How many times does a man come back from the dead?” he asks.

  They take Joy’s roomier Oldsmobile, and she’s decided to drive the first stretch, with Molly in the car seat between Kenny and herself. Kenny is grateful for the distraction this trip might provide. Since his last visit with Daphne, he has been unable to think of anything except what he is about to do. Even the faithful numbers fail to comfort him. At the office, he looks out the window most of the day, and sighs much too often. Yesterday, a petrified client interpreted Kenny’s brooding as a prelude to disastrous news for himself. “It’s really bad, isn’t it?” he kept saying. “I can tell by your face, by your eyes.”

  Frances has packed a picnic lunch of cold chicken and deviled eggs, and brownies made that morning. They have a thermos of iced tea for the grownups, and apple juice for the children. The stereo speakers surround them with music. The car is equipped with every conceivable comfort, Kenny thinks, except a bathroom, and something to ease the heart.

  Gus is indeed like a man newly restored to life. His wonder and appreciation are boundless. “Look at that!” he exclaims, over and over, at the rushing landscape.

  Joy has always been a good, confident driver. On other, longer trips, Kenny has felt comfortable enough to sleep a little while she drove. But today her foot seems to move erratically from gas pedal to brake, and he finds himself stiffly braced and watchful. “You’re not accelerating enough when you pass,” he says.

  “Relax,” she answers. “Enjoy the scenery.”

  “Why? Won’t I ever see it again?” As soon as he can do so casually, he’ll offer to spell her.

  Their first rest stop has a spectacular water view. Kenny had once been sophomoric enough, and enough in love, to compare Joy’s eyes to the color of the ocean. Glancing covertly at her now, he sees that at least he was not inaccurate. Her eyes are still a vibrant Pacific blue.

  She is as miserable as he is—he knows the signs: her insomnia, the raw-bitten cuticles, a restored moratorium in their bedroom—and perhaps the outrage he expects will turn out to be mere relief. At last, one of them is going to make the required move. With uncanny luck, she might even beat him to it.

  She performs a different role, as he does, for the benefit of her parents. When they’re around, Joy talks to Kenny, mostly about domestic things, but her tone is chatty and convincing. They plan menus and outings, discuss the children and the laundry, as if their life together has and always will have this civilized tranquil dailiness. Their common deceit is unplanned and unspoken. Neither of them wants to cause Gus and Frances discomfort or sorrow during this vacation. Kenny thinks that his bomb will soon travel long-distance, and find them in what had seemed the safety of their own beds.

  But now they’re sitting on a redwood bench in dappled California sunlight, coaxing nourishment into their well-nourished grandchildren. Joy finds a chicken thigh, the part Kenny likes best, and hands it to him. “Tea?” she asks. “Lemon?”

  Gus says, “Next time, I want to go to Hawaii, maybe even on to Japan.” He pulls Molly onto his lap. “We’ll get you a hula skirt, missy, a little grass skirt.”

  “Me!” Steven cries.

  “We’ll get you a nice Hawaiian shirt, Stevie, and a couple of hairy coconuts. We’ll hit ’em with a hammer—bang!—and we’ll drink the milk.”

  What about me, Kenny wants to say, and for the first time he envies his children, in a childish, heartbroken way, as he’d envied Robert long ago. They’ll all go to Hawaii without him—or perhaps, because of him, nobody will go at all.

  Gus sings “I’ve Got a Lovely Bunch of Coconuts” in a zany accent, and soon Joy is laughing. “Oh, Daddy,” she says, and leans across Kenny to hug her father. Tears fill Kenny’s eyes and he must jump up and stand at the railing, pretending to stare at the view until he’s more collected.

  He takes the wheel when they leave the rest area, and d
rives more than a hundred miles without stopping. When he’s beginning to feel cramped and cranky, the others, at Joy’s instigation, start to sing rounds, something he hates in the best of times.

  “Down by the old, not the new but the o-o-old mill stream!”

  To avoid discussion and conflict, Kenny moves his lips once in a while and hums a little.

  “That’s where I first, not the second but the first, met youuu!”

  Steven, who has changed places with his sister, catches Kenny out and reports him immediately. “Daddy’s not singing.”

  “Sing, Daddy!” Molly commands, and when he doesn’t comply, their chorus dies in a discordant whine, as if the needle has been rudely snatched from a phonograph record.

  “Oh, be a sport, Kenny,” Joy says.

  A sport! He looks at her and she smiles, showing her dimples and all her teeth.

  “I can’t concentrate on that stuff while I’m driving. I can only do one thing at a time.”

  “Hmmm,” she says, ostensibly to the children. “Maybe Daddy should run for President.”

  It’s all good-natured, and everyone laughs, except for Kenny.

  They start “Row, row, row your boat” without him, their voices stronger and more determined than before.

  Kenny hunches over the wheel as if he’s peering through a heavy fog. Why do people always feel compelled to sing in cars? It’s nerve-racking and probably causes plenty of accidents. And then he remembers himself soaring from Ventura on the freeway one day, singing his fool head off along with the Supremes.

  They stay at the Fairmont, because they did the last time and liked it. And as they did then, Frances and Gus order rollaway cots brought to their room for the children. Molly and Steven, who both napped in the car, are still slightly crazed from the long confinement of the ride. Kenny can hear the television playing in the next room—a noisy kiddie show—and occasional shrieks as his children chase one another and jump on and off the beds. Joy is using the bathroom, and Kenny slips out to knock on the door of his in-laws’ room. “Hey, listen!” he says brightly when Frances lets him in. “I’ve decided you guys deserve a break. After all, it’s your vacation. So why don’t Joy and I keep the kids with us this time?”

  Of course it’s useless. Frances and Gus insist. It would be a deprivation, they say. How often do they get to do this? And Kenny and Joy are the ones who deserve the break. The traitorous, clamorous children back them up. They like Nana and Poppy’s identical room much better.

  Kenny has to trudge back next door and hope that no one mentions his offer later, because Joy will instantly know his true motive: he doesn’t want to be alone with her.

  They have dinner on the wharf, and then walk in the fine air of the evening on Ghirardelli Square, where Gus buys balloons for the children. They all look into shop windows, and once in a while Joy and Frances disappear into one of the shops and come out with packages. Gus and Frances stroll with their arms entwined, and Kenny is paired with Molly, who rides his shoulders like a queen on a howdah. She makes his separateness from Joy seem less noticeable.

  Molly’s heart-shaped helium balloon is pierced by a metal canopy they pass, and Steven’s leaves his fist to soar up and away from all their reaching hands. They run a little, shouting at it, until it disappears into the darkening sky near the water. Its loss signals bedtime, their return to the hotel.

  Kenny stays under the beating stream of the shower for a long time, adjusting the water every few minutes until it’s as hot as he can bear it, and he feels pounded and steamed into sleepiness. He can’t help thinking that he’s like a cartoon bride who fearfully avoids the fatal encounter of her wedding night.

  Joy is sitting up in her bed when he comes out, and there is a large flat box on the pillow of his. “What’s this?” he asks, not touching it

  “A present,” she says.

  “What’s the occasion?” He tries to keep his tone friendly and inquiring, but it comes out wrong. He sounds the way he feels, anxious and suspicious. The shower’s anesthetic is quickly wearing off.

  Joy’s hair has been freshly and vigorously brushed, and is not yet fully settled against her scalp. He might have chosen to continue loving her.

  “No occasion,” she says. “I saw it. You’ve been very good with my mother and father.”

  “That doesn’t require a reward,” he says. “You know I love them.”

  “I know,” Joy says. “It gives you great redemption. Oh, go ahead and open it, Kenny. It won’t bite you.”

  He goes to the bed and sits down to open the box. Under many layers of tissue paper, there’s a coppery-red cashmere sweater. At first he’s relieved. It’s obviously an expensive gift, but not a particularly inspired one. He doesn’t care that much about clothes—certainly not the way she does. But then he sees that it’s an out-of-season color, the color of the deciduous trees in their early autumn days together in New York, a fashionable color for the coming season here in California. The sweater stirs him with reminders of the past, and threatens him with intimations of the future. “It’s beautiful,” he says. “It’s really great.” He knows that he hasn’t said anything she’s waiting to hear. It is the most agonizing moment of their entire marriage, worse than all the quarrels, the spiteful silences. “Thank you,” he adds helplessly, as if he’s just remembered his manners.

  She doesn’t answer, and he won’t look at her. He stares into the box on his lap and hears the familiar sounds of nightly ritual as Joy shakes a sleeping capsule from the vial on the nightstand, and then another. He hears the click of the light switch an instant before it’s dark, and then the soft wheeze of the bed when she lies down. He could go the few steps to get in with her, and risk one last time of intimacy. He wouldn’t consider it a serious breach of his promise to Daphne. She seems much further away now than the journey’s distance between them. He has never been so married. And he even feels unafraid of sexual failure, for once. Other modern couples do it, he knows, in a conscious mutual gesture of farewell. More suitable, really, than the impersonal, less perilous handshake or kiss.

  But Joy has offered him a truce, not a gift for leave-taking. And he chooses to stay on his side of the room. The tissue paper whispers noisily as he sets the box on the floor between the beds. “Good night,” he says into the darkness.

  At three or four o’clock, when he’s still unable to sleep, Kenny, like Gus, decides to make a list to ensure his own continuation. He thinks about it for a very long time, but discovers that there is nothing reasonable he really wants.

  19

  BRADY HAD LIVED AND worked most of his life in the China Bay area of San Francisco. He’d been a dock-worker and still has the arms to show for it. Perhaps maneuvering the wheels of his chair helps to keep his muscles toned. His only, onetime visitor since Joe’s arrival has been his ex-wife, an aluminum blonde with a painted death’s-head and a youthful figure. She pulled the curtain around his bed that day, and Joe heard their low voices, her flinty laugh.

  If both men are awake after Brady’s evening television programs are over, he usually tells Joe about the days when ships were essential to the commercial life of the country. Some of the stories, about disturbed sailors and gang wars and smuggling rings and murders, sound apocryphal. They could have come straight from recent episodes of Brady’s favorite shows. But Joe has lived long enough and has read enough history to know that these things might have happened. And Brady has such a lively, ironic, Runyonesque style that he keeps Joe from thinking too much about himself, his greatest preoccupation since he’s come to the Palomar Arms.

  Sandra and Bud are leaving for a trip to the Orient in a few days and, although he hates himself for it, Joe is beginning to feel like a deserted child. They need a vacation, he reasons; they’re entitled to their own independent lives, but still he feels ill-treated and abandoned. Do the old always get like this?

  His own father had been the same way toward the end. He’d become enraged if he visited, without invitation or
warning, and didn’t find them at home. And after he came to live with them, Adele said one night that she couldn’t help it, but his shuffling footsteps behind her from the moment she walked in the door until she went to bed drove her crazy. She said that the old man was like a dog you’d forgotten to feed.

  Brady is a fine raconteur, but Joe has good stories of his own. That fellow fifty years ago who staggered into the store like a drunk looking for a saloon, and who turned out to have a bullet in his gut he wanted Joe to remove, as if it were an eye cinder! The man’s wife had shot him during a supper argument, and he didn’t want to go to the hospital, for fear she would get into trouble. And the addicts. All these poor punctured kids today think they’ve invented drugs. Only some of the names are new, and sound glamorous: angel dust, crystal, snow. There were always doctors who wrote prescriptions, in a deteriorating hand, for fictitious patients, and then drove from pharmacy to pharmacy to get them filled. And the dead-eyed housewife who offered to kneel behind Joe’s counter in exchange for a quarter grain of morphine. He could tell Brady tales that are far better, and far worse, than that junk he watches on television. Except he couldn’t tell it in a straight compelling narrative, without slobbering and gulping and drowning half the words.

  So far, Brady has not talked about his failed marriage or the amputation of his legs. Maybe they won’t live together long enough for such intimate revelation. One night after supper, though, he turned to Joe and said, “I’ll bet you never dreamed you’d end up with somebody like me,” as if one of them were a mail-order bride.

  He’s watching The Incredible Hulk tonight, an incredible choice for a grown man, Joe thinks. The fantasy isn’t complicated enough, and the makeup is preposterous. With all his tough experience, how can Brady succumb to such nonsense, look so absorbed and entertained?

  A different girl brought their supper in before, and then took the trays away. Daphne is off for the weekend. Joe regrets his unkindness to her a few days ago. In his astonishment at being old, he had forgotten how difficult it is to be young. He owes her something now, some comfort to dispel the discomfort his bitter honesty obviously caused her. When the opportunity arrives, he’ll pay up.