“You got a Ferrari?” I balk as I start to become even more miserable. In fourth heaven you probably get a Yugo.
“I didn’t get it,” he says, recoiling. “It was sitting in my garage. Why, do you hate Ferraris or something?”
“Yes, I do,” I lie, though it’s not so much that I like or don’t like them. I’m indifferent on that matter. I’m just so stressed and glum that even the thought of taking an afternoon with a gorgeous guy and a Ferrari is not enough to make me feel better.
“Hey,” he says, putting his arm around me and sensing the glumness, “are you okay?”
“I’m fine,” I tell him, even though I don’t want to lie. I want to tell him all that’s happened to me. I want to tell him that I’ll probably get demoted to fourth heaven because I didn’t live a fulfilling life on earth. I want him to read my essays and tell me if they suck. I want him to tell me that everything’s going to be okay and that even if I get sent to fourth heaven he’ll visit me and bring me some of the new fashions. I want to cry in his arms and tell him that even though I’ve only known him a very short time, I think he could be the love of my death. I want to tell him everything, but I just can’t. He’ll think less of me. He’ll think I’m a loser, a failure.
So I pick a fight with him.
“Look,” I say, “it’s not that I don’t think you’re great or anything, because I do. I just feel like this is all too fast. You know, us.”
He looks at me like I’m crazy, which I very well might be.
“Okay,” he sort of sings, and I just know he’s gotten the point and is ready to leave and never come back, much to my deep chagrin.
“Look, I need some time to think about things,” I say, trying to let him off easy. “I did just die, you know. I’ve got to think about my future.”
Again, he looks at me like I’ve gone mad, which I’m now pretty much certain I have.
“So, let me get this straight,” he says. “You’re not interested in spending any more time with me because you’re in a weird place right now?”
“Exactly,” I concur, thinking his reasoning sounds good enough.
“Where do you think I am?”
I have no answer. He’s got me there, and, thankfully, before I have to answer the question he poses another one.
“Is there someone else?” he asks.
“What do you think?” I shoot at him like it’s the stupidest question I’ve ever heard, but it’s exactly the question I would have asked had the tables been turned. “Do you think I went out clubbing last night and met some other guy?”
I’m being so mean. I hate myself right now.
“I just need some space, okay?” I shout at him like I can’t stand the sight of him, when actually I want him more than I’ve ever wanted anyone. “Can’t I just have some space?”
“Fine,” he says, throwing up his hands. “I won’t bother you anymore.”
He walks out of my room and heads down the stairs. I want to scream, “Please come back!” I don’t though. I just don’t want to hurt him any more than I have. I want to tell him the truth, but I just can’t. I don’t want him to think less of me when I’m sent away. I don’t want him to wake up a few mornings from now and see that I’m not there anymore. I don’t want to have to leave him that note: Dear Adam, I’ve been demoted to fourth heaven. See you around. He’ll get over me. He’ll find someone else, someone better, some other more fabulous woman who led a more fulfilling life on earth.
I hate her.
I hear my front door shut. He didn’t even slam it. What a gentleman. I love him so much. I’m watching him from my window as he goes into his garage. I wait as I see him pull out in his red Ferrari: damn, it’s a convertible, too. I would have loved to have ridden in that. He’s got such a pained look on his face as he heads out of his driveway.
Ugh.
I need to talk to someone, anyone. Should I call my grandmother? I can’t call her. I know exactly what she’ll say: “You picked a fight with the most perfect man in heaven? What the heck’s the matter with you? Just tell him the truth. If he doesn’t get it, he wasn’t worth it.”
I don’t need my grandmother right now. I don’t know anyone else who’s dead though. I’m the first of anyone my age I know who died.
I see Peaches running through the yard with the other dogs.
“Peaches!” I scream out.
Peaches stops and looks up at me.
“I need a hug!”
Peaches resumes running.
“Wait, I’ve got treats! I have enough for your friends, too! We can have a party!”
No luck.
Now I’m really pissed off at her.
You know, come to think of it, there is this one woman that died. She’s my mom’s age, but maybe she’s good at listening.
My mom used to tell me about one of her best childhood friends. This girl, Alice Oppenheim, who died when they were sixteen. It was one of the saddest things I ever heard; that’s why I remembered it.
It was right after Alice’s sweet-sixteen party, and evidently the party was a really nice one. My mom had gone with Alice and her mom to get her dress, a pink ruffly number, which sounds revolting, but my mom said it was better than it sounds. The party was held at the Tavern Restaurant’s party room, and my mom went with Sy Silverman, who later became really good friends with my parents. Anyway, as my mom tells it, Alice’s family lived about two blocks away from my mom and grandparents, and in the middle of the night my mom woke up to hear all these fire engines. Evidently, there was some kind of short in the wiring in the house and the whole place caught on fire. Mr. and Mrs. Oppenheim had some burns, and Alice’s brother, Butch, got really bad burns on his leg and chest. He was in the hospital for a long time, but he was fine eventually. My mom and I ran into him once at Famous 4th Street Deli. I had heard about the family so many times that seeing Butch was like seeing someone who had been in a favorite movie of mine. You know how that is? Anyway, when he saw my mom, he didn’t start to cry or anything, but he said really softly, “She’d be married by now. She’d probably have a daughter like yours.”
Isn’t that sad?
My mom put her arm around him. I was like eleven or twelve at the time. I just acted like I didn’t know what was going on, even though I did.
Anyway, Alice died in the fire. My mom said it was the first funeral she had ever been to. She’d never known anyone else who died. Every now and then Mom would talk about Alice. They had this ridiculous ongoing feud about some crinolines that my mom took from Alice’s house.
Come to think of it, my mom would probably want me to call up her old friend. She’d probably appreciate it.
I go into the kitchen, pick up the phone, and dial 411.
“This is 411 heaven connect, what plane please?”
What plane? It follows me everywhere.
“Uh, hi, I assume seventh heaven, the number for an Alice Oppenheim?”
I hear the operator typing.
“I have three Alice Oppenheims: one who died in 1482, another in 1823, and one in 1953.”
“Um, 1953.”
“Hold for the connection.”
That was kind of fun.
“Hello?” I hear the voice say.
“Uh, hi, is this Alice Oppenheim from Philadelphia?”
"Yes it is.”
“Hi, Alice, uh, you don’t know me. I’m the daughter of a friend of yours. I’m Maxine Firestein’s daughter, Alex?”
“Oh go away! No way! Maxine had a daughter? How fantastic! How’s your mom?”
“Oh, she’s great. She married my dad and they had me. I’m sure she’s a little upset right now, you know, I died recently, but otherwise she’s great.”
“She got married?” Alice asks like it’s the craziest thing. “Who’d she marry?”
“Bill Dorenfield.”
“She married Bill Dorenfield, that lady slayer?” she laughs. “I remember him, what a player! He was friends with my brother, Butch. Not great f
riends, your dad was kind of a hard guy. Of course he married your mom, she’s so his type. She’s gorgeous. Is she still gorgeous?”
“Oh yes,” I tell her, but I’m still stuck on the fact that she thought my dad was a hard guy, too. Did that guy ever let up?
“Your mom was always the prettiest one in the class.”
“She still is.”
“Did she ever tell you about the time she stole all my crinolines?”
“Yes, she told me.”
“I’m sure she said that she left me one. That was always her excuse.”
“Yeah, well, I guess I’ll have to hear your side of the story.”
“Oh, another time for that story. Let’s see, I’d be about sixty-nine or seventy years old by now so, gosh, she’s old.”
“She is, but she doesn’t look seventy.”
“I hear that. Seventy is the new fifty, fifty is the new thirty, blah blah. I aged to thirty because I didn’t want to stay sixteen forever, and I’m glad I did, but I didn’t want to go beyond that.”
“I’m twenty-nine!”
“Get out! How’d you die?”
“Car hit me.”
“Oh, what a shame, sorry to hear that. Sorry for your mom.”
“Yeah,” I say, concluding the catching up. “So listen, I don’t really know anyone here except my grandparents and my uncle. My mom always talked about you and what great friends you were and stuff, and I thought maybe you’d like to get together for lunch or something.”
“I’d love that! How does tomorrow sound?”
“Sounds great to me.”
“Great. There’s a really good French place in town. When you get into your car, just say, ‘French place in town’ and it will take you there.”
“Great, do we need a reservation or something?”
“We’re in seventh heaven, we don’t need to make reservations.”
“Oh, yeah,” I stutter.
“What, you’re not in seventh?” she asks, sensing my glumness.
"Well, for now, but . . .”
“Oh, you’re in one of those limbo things. Not to worry, we’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
“Really? Don’t worry? Because I’m worried,” I tell her.
“Really, don’t worry. We’ll talk about it. Your mother was one of my best friends. I’ll take care of you. Listen, I’m just off right now for a tennis lesson, but I’ll see you tomorrow. Let’s say one o’clock and we’ll talk. It will be so nice to meet you.”
“You, too, and one o’clock is good.”
“And, Alex . . .”
“Yeah?”
“Really, don’t worry. I’m here for you.”
“Okay.”
“Tootles until tomorrow!”
“Bye.”
Tootles? Whatever. Well, that made me feel a little better, a lot better actually, sort of.
I hear Peaches’s dog door rumbling as I see my little dog come through.
She stands there and looks up at me like she’s sorry, with the tips of her ears bent over.
“Well, look who it is,” I say to her. “I feel so fortunate that you could spend some of your precious time with me.”
She jumps up on my lap and starts licking my face.
“I’m sorry, too,” I say, petting her.
I grab a box of éclairs from the fridge, and Peaches and I head into the den to watch TV. I turn it to my favorite heaven channel, Your Favorite Television Episodes. I Love Lucy is on, the one where Lucy tries to tell Ricky she’s pregnant with Little Ricky. My fave episode, of course. I watch my favorite Mary Tyler Moore episode next, the one where Rhoda brings Henry Winkler to Mary’s house for a dinner party and Mary doesn’t have a place for Henry, or enough veal Prince Orloff. Henry has to sit at a table by himself, at the window, while everyone else has a seat at the dinner table. What a crack-up. I start to get a little tired in the middle of my favorite Brady Bunch episode, the one with Davy Jones. Love that. Somewhere in the middle of my favorite Taxi episode (the gang tries to get Jim his driver’s license), I’ve fallen asleep. I wake up a few hours later. It’s the middle of the night. Peaches is still there beside me. My stirring wakes her up.
“Thanks for being here, buddy,” I tell her.
She rests her head on my stomach as we both fall back to sleep.
Maybe you only need one friend on earth, but in heaven I need all the friends I can get.
3
Back on earth, I had five proud names beyond my own. I was:
Bill Dorenfield’s daughter (that was my middle name, Alex “Bill Dorenfield’s Daughter” Dorenfield, as you can imagine, but that’s not important for this particular “best day” chapter)
Maxine Dorenfield’s daughter
Evelyn Firestein’s granddaughter
Harry Firestein’s granddaughter
Morris Salis’s niece
I’m pretty sure you’re aware of my grandparents and my uncle. Everyone knows my grandparents and uncle. On earth, even after they’d been gone from the planet for some twenty years, in certain situations, I was still referred to as Evelyn Firestein ’s granddaughter or Harry Firestein’s daughter or Morris Salis’s niece. I always loved when someone would come up to me and say, “Aren’t you Evelyn Firestein’s granddaughter? What a great lady she was.”
I always loved that.
See, while I had a nice amount of friends, my family had truckloads. They ruled the social world of Philadelphia. I cannot remember a time at any of their homes when the phone wasn’t ringing, except of course when someone was on it, which was always.
My father used to tease my mom when she’d be on the phone all night.
“It’s inherited,” he’d laugh. “Between your mother and grandmother, the phone company will never go out of business.”
It was true though. When I envision my grandmother, I see her sitting by the yellow phone on the wall in her kitchen, talking until all hours about who was wearing what to the party (and what were they thinking) and the plans for dinner and trips to the Jersey Shore. There were always invitations to events, whether they were weddings or bar mitzvahs or charity this and benefit that, plastered on my grandparents’ refrigerator. uncle Morris, who lived right next door to my grandparents, either always had a date or could be found at the neighborhood watering hole with his crowd of perpetual bachelors.
And there was always a dance.
My grandparents loved to dance. Even when they’d babysit, the record player would be turned on at some point in the night and there they were mamboing or rumbaing or doing a simple two-step. They were really good dancers, too. Everyone who ever knew my grandparents and uncle knew they were great dancers.
The last piece of Super 8 home-movie footage that we have of my grandparents is a short segment of Grandpop dancing with Grandmom in our kitchen. The movie cuts, and my Grandpop is then dancing with my mom and uncle Morris is dancing with my grandmother. Then four- or five-year-old me runs into the frame and I’m dancing with Grandmom and Grandpop, and Grandpop picks me up in his arms as we all do a two- or, rather, three-step. I don’t remember this movie being shot; I assume it’s my dad filming since he’s the only one who’s not in it. There’s no sound on the footage, but everyone is talking into the camera, smiling, making funny faces. I used to look at it when I was down. It was only about three minutes in length, but that was all I ever needed. It always brought me back to that time when Grandmom and Grandpop and uncle Morris were still alive and life in my family was at its simplest. These were party people and the party was nonstop.
I wish I could use that whole time with my grandparents and uncle as my third best day. Next to Penelope, they were my best friends (though I don’t count them in the friends category since they were related). No one in my life was ever as close to me or understood me better than those three people. Until I was twelve, it felt like my family life was nonstop laughter.
Now, as I told you, the miracle child was not to be trusted with a babysitter, so everyone too
k turns babysitting for me. It was a rotation thing. One Saturday night my grandparents would babysit, the next uncle Morris. As I told you in my second best day, there were bridge games to be played and movies to be watched, so my parents were rarely home on a Saturday night.
The others were always at our house though. Saturday nights were the most special, but truthfully there was rarely a day that I did not see my grandparents and uncle. My mom told me that when she first got married, my dad got so sick and tired of her family always being there that he told her to tell my grandmother to stop coming around so much. (Knowing my dad, it’s interesting that he had my mother tell my grandmother. I think . . . no, I know, my grandmother was the only person in the world he was intimidated by.)
“You tell him that when he married you, he married the family!” Grandmom told my mom.
When my mom told my dad, he said nothing. My grandmother never had to say anything ever again. He knew the consequences of marrying the pretty Maxine Elaine.
I used to call uncle Morris my Santa Claus. Whenever I saw uncle Morris, he always had a gift for me, and I’m talking about seeing him almost every day. It could have been anything from Life Savers Pep-O-Mint candies to a life-size Raggedy Ann doll (who married my FAO Schwarz giraffe in a simple ceremony that I officiated and was attended by all the Dorenfield/Firestein /Salises when I was eight).
uncle Morris had a liquor store at 2301 South Broad Street in South Philadelphia. It was said that when Prohibition was over, he was one of the first to get a liquor license. No one knew how. I should remind myself to ask him sometime. I felt that uncle Morris had this secret life that no one knew about. Like I told you, he never got married because he felt he needed to take care of my grandmother and her sisters after my grandparents died. When my grandmother’s sisters all died, Grandmom would say, “I can take care of myself. Get yourself a girl already, Morris!” He was like eighty at this point.
He never did though. I saw pictures in his albums of him out on dates with different women, but he just never married. To him nothing got in the way of taking care of the family. I admire that, don’t you?
The Ten Best Days of My Life Page 7
