by Charles Bock
Doe casually reached for the jelly beans. “Oy.”
Auntie’s face delighted, then went contemplative, and Doe was sure she’d reminded Tilda of the past—something she always tried not to do.
“Well, you definitely got your mom’s eye.” It took a sec to understand Auntie was talking about her outfit. “Very respectful. Still you.”
An electronic chime. Before Tilda could decipher Corporate Slave Janice’s loudspeaker garblings, the door was open. Doe’s father. His hair was receding from the temples in twin incursions, so a small widow’s peak of tight curls had settled atop his forehead, and gray was encroaching around the sides. He wore his perpetual expression, at once rigid and haggard. Still, her father cut a pronounced figure, a strong profile, especially wearing this three-quarter-length topcoat and dark suit. One of his common refrains was that he kept himself in shape because someone needed to be around to take care of things. He also told Doe this was why he’d traded in his T-shirts for collars and button-downs. Why he religiously shaved each morning. He wanted her to see that he was together and alert and correct. He wanted to be a model for her.
Today his body language was oddly unwound, absent the aggression he often had when running late, or when any other human being had somehow affected his idea of how something should be. Instead he seemed patient. Doe already had a sense of what that meant.
No small talk between her father and Tilda. They just waited for the Icon Herself.
Nothing new here: her mother, slow and measured enough in movements that her presence entered before her; slim enough to cause any female (Doe included) to go nutsy with insecurities about herself, as well as concern about what this poor woman had been through. And yes, it went without saying, her mom always dressed to within an inch of perfection. Better than perfect, marked by some odd little switch or flourish, something inevitably unexpected and tantalizing. Today her mom was dwarfed by black straw whose oversize brim ensured her face would not get any sun. A creamy blouse flowed as if from a hanger, was plumed at the waist, and cinched with a black velvet bow. Midthigh the layering ended and her blouse gave way to a black chiffon skirt whose hem grazed the floor. Mom always rocked the best boots, and these patent leather bangers were no exception. She looked elegant, hip to the point of ridiculousness, a cross between a nun and a flower girl and maybe some sort of undead wraith. Small wonder that, in the insular world of fashion, she was considered a muse. Hell, one glance and anyone on the sidewalk would be tempted to sacrifice a goat for her.
Her mom was always late; Doe had gotten her chronic tardiness from her. Even that had its twist, naturally. Mom had that bona fide trump card of her history, and if that made you late for something, or impatient with her, then you were the asshole. Doe, by contrast, was always getting hassled and busted and reprimanded and taken aside for talks. Just how shit went down. Mom was sick. Mom was bedridden. Recovering from some surgery or battling, limited in activities, able to play dolls on the floor for a bit but then needing help up onto the couch, where she watched. Before playdates or first visits, Doe prepped her middle and grade school friends, summarizing the ordeal that she herself did not quite understand—My mom had cancer and still has a lot of fallout; going over rules about hand washing and surface areas, emphasizing that they shouldn’t be weirded out at how frail her mom could be. She and Cyrus—founder of the basement fashion company, her worshipful and polite and (at Doe’s behest) rigidly platonic best friend—had bonded during those marathon weeks when an unquantifiable bug had come to life inside Doe’s mom’s stomach, and all the doctors had been worried, everyone terrified they were going to lose her. And what about that horrid stretch—as awful a four-day stretch as Doe could imagine—when low white counts hinted at a relapse, and Cyrus had started dating class starlet Mindy Wilsey, so Doe’s besties had been forced to hold her up through both rounds of tests? This was how life had been. Doe had never known otherwise. And while she knew that Mom’s limitations had nothing to do with love, sometimes her dad still had to remind her, taking her aside in the study of their brownstone, or embarking upon one of their long walks where they really, you know, cut the shit. Take on more responsibilities, he asked her. Be more patient, be that much better a person. Rise to the challenge. This is what her father wanted from Doe, and it was no exaggeration to report that Doe tried: indeed, she helped with whatever shots or IVs or medicines her mom needed, did whatever chores were required. Doe felt a depthless love for her mother, she wholly appreciated how unique and funny and honestly amazing her mother could be.
But she’d sort of tired of her mom’s limitations, if you wanted to know the truth. Was pretty much over rising.
“I’m still not sure why I’m going to this.”
Her dad muttered something like You and me both.
Then he said, “You’re going because your mother wants you with us.”
Then he corrected himself once more. “Both of us want you to go.”
“I said I’m going. I’m just not sure why.”
“We’re going to honor someone.” Her mother’s voice was its usual soft monotone. “A long time ago he was…” She trailed off, still as a statue. Overly large sunglasses gave her an intractable veneer. No way her mom would have arranged for her to get out of classes early if this didn’t matter. Doe felt a moment of guilt, but still defiant. “Maybe the best answer’s just for you to come and have the experience,” her mom said.
Slave Janice knew to bring in bottled waters, and her mom thanked Janice and smiled. She asked for a moment to collect herself. The car downstairs was waiting, but it wouldn’t matter if they were a little late. Tilda sat next to Doe’s mom on the couch and kissed her cheek. Doe’s mom thanked her for letting them congregate here, and for maybe the billionth time Doe was reminded how much older, how much more ravaged, her mom looked than her aunt, her mother’s former roomie and best friend, and this made Doe uncomfortable, so she looked away from them, to her dad—who seemed lost in his own internal mechanisms.
Having turned toward the window, he was looking toward the High Line, in the direction of a boutique hotel, the twenty-four-hour concierge out in front. He didn’t like coming down here, Doe knew that. Whenever he wasn’t able to turn down the fee, and his consulting company got hired to retrofit one of the old slaughterhouses, he spent months grumbling, more testy than his usual grouchy state. After a few drinks, with his face red and blotchy, he sometimes opened up, but the stories were unfocused, vague. Doe knew he’d been bought out of his own software company—before he did construction, before he could finish his own program. She knew the program never made it to market. A big company had bought it out, though, just so they could bury it. Everyone but her dad had made buttloads.
He put the point of a finger against the glass, seemed to trace something.
“I know, Dad.”
Immediately Doe understood she was intruding.
“I can still smell dry ice.”
Her mom’s voice hung in the air. She’d taken off her glasses and was looking at Doe’s father. Dad came over, stood behind his wife, and draped his arm around her shoulders.
“I guess you can miss anything,” he said.
He leaned over the brim of her hat and kissed her on the forehead. Doe’s mom clutched his hand in hers and they were quiet for a little bit. Doe wondered if maybe she should come over and join the vibe. She was already giving enough this afternoon.
Moving ahead, she asked were they ever going to this memorial or what? For emphasis she swished her little dancer’s caboose, did a few chevals, and sashayed out of the office, heading down the hallway of cubicles, with any luck catching the eyes of a few cute nerd boys, especially that odd one with the medieval red beard. Mousy women with buds in their ears were eating lunch at their desks and revising their dating profiles. She could hear her father a ways behind, joking about digging up his Sub Pop Singles of the Month collection, whatever that meant.
Their driver was a genial man from Cent
ral America. Doe’s mother had requested he take them across town via St. Marks Place, and the driver had some trouble programming this into his console, as it was not the satellite system’s preferred route. Doe’s mother politely insisted, saying it would be appropriate for today. She responded to Doe’s eye rolling by asking why Doe could be so lovely to everyone else and take out all her troubles on her. Doe answered by staring out the window. She felt at the hairpins in her bun, thought about jabbing them into her own eyes.
The car passed an American Apparel, an Insomnia Cookies, a Crumbs, Johnny Rockets, and competing banks on opposite corners of an intersection. Her father wondered out loud who had air rights on the little places. Her mother did not acknowledge him, but finished using her hand sanitizer and now shut her eyes, running away to that private happy nirvana place where she pretty much lived these days. Everyone else in the car was staring at a screen, the driver using one to guide him, her father now checking email, Tilda thumbing out an answer to a text. Doe began flipping back through photos of herself, deleting away the uggos. It was quiet in the car, except for Tilda cursing her programmers every time she read a response, then attacking her little screen. Doe noticed her father being distracted by Tilda’s conversation, paying attention to words like specifications and platform.
“Who’s organizing this thing anyway?” Tilda asked, now speaking toward the backseat. “How come they contacted you and not me? I dated him. Five months. That’s not chopped liver.”
Doe’s mother seemed to be reminded of something, and responded by looking into that depthless shoulder bag of hers, and extracting a single folded page of typing paper. Now she took off her sunglasses and moved her attention to the lines of neat laser printing. Her lips began moving slightly but no sound came out. She found a pen, began making quick marks.
“I’m not saying you shouldn’t be involved,” Tilda continued.
“Money and time. Disease and cures.” Apropos of nothing, her father had started—though whether he was talking to Doe, or the rest of the car, she could not tell. Preoccupied, like he was still engaged with some previous conversation, whatever ideas were in his head. “I used to think money and rational decisions and technology could be medicine, they could fight against time. For the city I mean. Time is the blight and this is the cure.” He motioned out the window. “Well…”
The driver was muttering that it made no sense for St. Marks in-the-Bowery to be located two numerical streets away from St. Marks Place, and he was displaying enough irritation with traffic that Doe’s father quieted down and let the driver concentrate, following the screen instructions, turning off Astor, then executing a series of quick maneuvers down a pair of small, residential side streets.
The large, stately stone spire acted as a guiding point, and they gradually came closer. White tents of a farmers’ market littered the large gray courtyard. Blond ponytailed women strode past teenaged buskers, oblivious to their twangy little songs, talking instead on phones. Toward the stately columns a few men and women in dark clothes were making their way into the large old church.
Doe’s father helped her mother, and Tilda took the other side, making Doe the proverbial fifth wheel, on the far side of their little chain, the group entering the lip of the chapel, being greeted by a pair of middle-aged women—a short pudgy one and a taller pudgy one, each in simple black—the short woman had straight white hair to her linebacker shoulders, a small, golden septum ring, and, between her black-laced bosoms, a clunky silver cross pendant; the taller one boasted long black dreads, colorful rosary beads, and, at the end of dragon-patterned hose, high black platform shoes. Each nodded respectfully, offering a folded, light blue paper.
Doe recognized, vaguely, the man in the picture. An older version of him used to drop by and collapse on their couch, where he’d complain about not knowing his way around Brooklyn Heights, and lament missing his shot to move out here before prices got nuts. Like once or twice a year. Doe’s mom always beamed, laughing at everything he said, loading him down with food when he left. At least once Mom had gone into her purse for him, emerged with a checkbook. Doe asked, low, the deal with this guy again? Instead of an answer, she heard acoustic guitars, loudspeakers playing Pink Floyd, the annual swimming adventures of two lost souls in a fishbowl.
The lights in the chapel had dimmed, a slide show already under way, projected against the back wall, this latest slide showing a smoldering young man in a weird jacket with padded shoulders. Exhausted, drenched with sweat, he was hoisting a beer with other similarly exhausted-looking musicians. His eyes were dark with chaos, and brought forth slight responsive sounds, audience members laughing, someone sniffling. Probably half of the pews were unfilled, but the crowd seemed sort of large, not that Doe had any expectations. Her dad funneled them into a back pew; Mom stayed on the aisle. She reached into that depthless shoulder bag, emerged with cushions for her back and bottom.
The event honoring Mervyn “Merv” Goldin was more absorbing than she would have guessed, and Doe found herself relating as childhood friends recounted the funny young man who spent a lot of his spare time reading science fiction, and who seemed to push back against every fact or stated truth he heard. When somebody talked about Merv leaving college and pursuing dreams on the road with a band, her father gave Doe a look and whispered, Don’t even think of it. When an older guy—really nice hair, crags in his face like he’d had a rough go—reminisced about the hours they’d spent on a couch getting baked and brainstorming their now famous ploy—asking a girl you wanted to make if she wanted to go get ice cream—Doe could not help but smile and whisper, Pretty good. She decided she definitely wanted to wear her mother’s glasses with her outfit when she tried to get into the rooftop bar at the Standard, which definitely was going to happen. Her phone buzzed. Across the top of her screen, she read the first words of a text that appeared to be from Cyrus. Her mother put a hand on Doe’s wrist. Away went the phone.
Mostly the crowd was made up of the kinds of middle-aged men who played pinball in bars during the middle of the day, or congregated at classic car conventions on the open streets of Vermont towns, or maybe sold clocks made out of old records along some beach boulevard: aging hedonists and bohemians, potbellied, with consumptive faces and gray-streaked hair gelled back into ponytails; the women usually juuust too old, too heavy, to get away with those fluorescent dye jobs, those nose rings, those worn-ass tattoos. Today, however, among the pews, standing around the periphery, rumples had been smoothed away, collared shirts ironed, bodies squeezed into corsets and respectful office dresses and Sunday finery and what could best be described as tasteful whore on the prowl. A few air-kissed. Others nodded, let out warm heys. Doe’s mother was spending a lot of time scanning the pews—and here she let out a gasp, whispered, Carmen. Is that really? Doe’s mom clutched her husband by the hand, then motioned, waved. Doe could not make out the intended target.
Never married, Merv had been engaged twice, one fiancée loving him when he was a raging alkie, the other when he’d dried out. Each of the goth-attired women who’d been handing out flyers agreed: he was funny, quirky, soulful, saw things his own way, and couldn’t be convinced otherwise. Once the pain of their prospective marriages had subsided, each had stayed friends with Merv, and to this day wished things could have worked out. There had been one or two other serious girlfriends as well, and a few bar chicks, some lady friends who through the years obviously had shared benefits with him, maybe a handful of musicians he’d gigged or laid down studio tracks with, plus honeys he’d met at twelve-step meetings, one or two he’d taken graduate school classes with or just sort of somehow came across, and more than a few of these women confirmed the effectiveness of his ice cream line. Tilda stared numbly ahead, once or twice squirming in place. She grumbled and let Doe’s mom hand her a tissue, wiped her eyes, and whispered to Doe’s mom: he’d been a fuck-up, but a harmless one, a really fun guy.
Doe thought maybe she’d ask Cyrus if he wanted to get ice
cream sometime.
Tributes ranged from first-date awkward to show-business smooth, solemn to bawdy, but were always touching, occasionally suffused with blubbering—from both speakers and the crowd. The composite figure who emerged was difficult, cranky, charming, thoughtful, sensitive, someone who’d gone out of his way to show up for people he cared about, in a way that suggested not just thoughtfulness, but also loneliness; a hothead full of bluster who was perpetually caught holding the bag, letting himself be talked into storing band equipment, returning a van to the rental agency; a guy who’d been bitter about never making it big, but who never had any problem playing a simple duet with a sick patient, though that graduate degree in music therapy hadn’t been the guarantee of employment he’d thought it would (this line drawing laughs from the crowd); a Tuesdays-at-eleven meeting regular who took his sobriety as seriously as his friendships, and good thing, too, because it helped him manage the diagnosis when it came, right out of the blue, and changed his life.
Doe’s mother was holding her typed page again. Frail hands shook slightly; a dried and properly lipsticked mouth made small movements. On the stage four men with acoustic guitars who sat in a half circle finished performing their collaged interpretation of the deceased’s original music. A young man was waiting for them to clear, and now was nervous, stumbling into a story about his mother-in-law, a secretary, meeting Merv when her breast cancer had returned. Doe watched, surprised and interested in the intensity of her mother’s preparations.
A friend remembered smoking cigarettes deep into the night on Merv’s fire escape, talking about generic drugs, patent law, and his crazy-expensive hamster-ovary infusions. He remembered another fall that messed up Merv’s elbow and wrist, Merv’s body going on a spiral from which he was never able to fully recover. He’d seem to be doing good, but then would bloat, or might cut himself and bleed crazy amounts. He’d fall out of touch and you might forget about him for a bit and then out of nowhere he’d post something insane and funny on your Facebook page and remind you all over again how much you dug him.
