And so I'm locked in a nursing home, without other men with whom to organize basketball games and fishing trips. I'm not going anywhere, Jack.
And with sedation there are no dreams, not even when I'm awake. And everything is getting dull and soft now. I like that. And I speak with a doctor who has a soft voice and a Flemish accent, and he scribbles notes and nods at me. He wants to see the notebooks I carry in my backpack. I tell him I will show them to him when I am more comfortable. I tell him that I'm writing a memoir and it's no big thing. He believes me and we are making progress. He, of course, will never see these notebooks. They are incriminating, Jack.
I have to take a nap.
Day Nine:
Transcript 4
* * *
Why wouldn't I write to Jack Nicholson?
I barely remember writing that letter.
Drugged up.
No, I wasn't scared in the home. Actually felt good there.
The doctor didn't ride me or push me. We had good talks. He asked a lot of the same questions you ask.
Do you have bad dreams? What's in your dreams? Do you have violent dreams? Do you know who you are, where you're from? Do you abuse substances? Do you think about God a lot?
I didn't tell him anything real—nothing about dreams or suicide or Nazis. I told him about my divorce and coming to Antwerp to find my father and how it had been a rough year. But I didn't tell him any of the story as it actually happened.
Well, I wouldn't have given you anything either, but you got to my backpack, Barry, to my notebooks.
You know . . . really that isn't true. I gave up the fight before I got to Green Bay. I probably would've told you.
The accident changed me, yes. But really, by the time I got here I was already changed.
Well, I'm not paranoid like I was in Antwerp, for one thing.
Maybe it wasn't paranoia—could've been rational. When I was in Antwerp, I knew anything I'd say about anything that was happening in my head or in my line of sight would sound delusional. I mean, I didn't even tell Cranberry about the dreams or visions . . . hallucinations is what a doctor would call them. Because I was fully aware I would sound ill . . . and I didn't want anyone telling me this intense stuff was just the product of my . . .
I don't think so, like I said. But I still wonder. We both wonder, don't we?
I don't blame you, Barry. I could have a mental illness. I might be crazy and also incredibly lucky . . . wildly, insanely, incredibly lucky, and I might float really well. That could be my whole deal. This whole deal, including the accident—it could just be a combination of crazy and lucky.
The doctor didn't think I was crazy. We went to work. We talked about my failed marriage, how I failed in it. He told me that love is an action, not a feeling. And if I love someone, I had better act on that or love is meaningless. That's right up my alley, that kind of talk. That sounded smart. If you love, you act on it.
After a week of seeing me, the doctor thought I'd been sleep deprived, that's all. And stressed out, I guess.
You really think so? Totally delusional? Why?
Uncle Charley?
I guess it's strange I wrote him. But I watched a lot of My Three Sons in the early eighties. Uncle Charley made me feel safe.
Big shocks coming, yes.
Letter 40
October 11, 2004
* * *
Dear Uncle Charley,
You know what, old man? I haven't seen my uncle Solly in so long, I realize I've begun to think Solly looks like you (whoever you are who played Uncle Charley on My Three Sons, which I watched on WGN). My uncle Solly is a jackass, I believe. You, Uncle Charley, were kind of a jackass on that show, gruff, grunty old man. But at least you had a tender heart, a heart of gold, and you wore an apron and cooked food for poor vulnerable Ernie, who was an orphan or something and who wore big nerd glasses and was sad, and who I totally identified with.
I have family news, Uncle. You should make some brisket. We should sit down at the kitchen table and talk.
It is Monday. The Yiddish weekly came out today. And I made the papers! You must be very proud. Kaatje and Cranberry hurried over here to the home to show me this paper, which I appreciate. Those two are good kids, though they don't know the value of money.
They were on their way to lunch, to a Vietnamese restaurant they've grown to love (oh do they talk about this restaurant), minding their own business, when they saw the Yiddish newspaper on a stand outside a Jewish paper shop. Big headline!RIMBERG in big big letters on the front page of a paper filled almost entirely with Hebrew characters! So instead of eating at the Vietnamese restaurant (on my dime for the third time in three days), they bought the paper (with my money) and ran over here to the rest home to show me. It really is impressive, too, this headline. It ends in an exclamation, Uncle Charley. It says something like:
RIMBERG GSCHFINCTER!
Problem: none of us can read Yiddish. Certainly I can't and Kaatje—who left her job to help me and Cranberry negotiate this foreign place, which is very sweet of her (although a little pricey for me)—can't read Yiddish, although she was perfectly sure she could read Yiddish the other day, before she was asked to read it. The article is certainly about me, though. It refers to me, Theodore Rimberg, by name. And more interestingly, it lists four other Rimberg names in roman characters: Sol Rimberg, Josef Rimberg, Aida Rimberg, Laurence Rimberg. Uncle, Father, Grandmother, Grandfather, I think, though I don't know the last two names. We know Solly and Josef, don't we?
The only Rimberg not mentioned is dear brother David, who broke his contract and was asked to leave the show. So sorry, David! Persona non grata. Bet he wishes he hadn't been such a pain to work with! Hindsight.
Because we could not read the Yiddish newspaper, Kaatje and Cranberry ran off with the copy they brought to me, and they're going to go to the train station where they are hoping to find some English-speaking Hasid to translate the article for them. I don't think they'll have any problem doing so. There are English-speaking Hasids on every corner in that neighborhood. I thought they should contact the newspaper and ask for an English translation. (This is the advice you would've given too, Uncle Charley, while you listened to our problems and served us dinner in your apron.) Kaatje thought that would take too long. Why go make phone calls when the streets are filled with English-speaking Hasids? That's fair. She's a smart girl. Let her take care of this business.
In other news, Dear Uncle: I'm not exactly a prisoner.
When Cranberry was leaving a couple of moments ago he whispered, “You look better. You feeling better?”
I said, “I've never felt better. Sleep is important.”
He said, then, “You can come with us . . . I mean you have to come back here in a couple of hours . . . but we could take you with us right now if you want.”
Kaatje heard him say this to me, though she was away at the front desk, speaking to the fat cow that sits there, asking for the quickest route to get to the train station. Kaatje has good ears. She shot Cranberry angry eyes. She shook her head, no.
“No thank you,” I said. “I'm not going anyplace but back to bed.”
I'm not stupid, Uncle Charley. I don't want to go out on those streets. I appreciate the little white pills that keep me sleeping through the night. I like my bed and the couches. Truth is, I'm scared shitless to leave this place. I'm certainly not ready for the mean streets of the Shtetl, and I don't want to see any more Nazis. I am not interested in that.
I am, however, interested to find out what's so big about me that I should make the newspaper! I suppose it's an account of my criminal behavior. But why the fat headline?
I am also interested in taking a nap. When I wake up, we might know more.
Will report, good Uncle. You can count on that. I'll come downstairs and you'll have baked some cookies and we'll have a chat.
T.
Letter 41
October 11, 2004
* * *
Dear
Uncle Charley,
I need advice. How do I negotiate this? Help me.
One of the howling little women next to the television set was delivered a Yiddish newspaper. I pointed out the article on the front page and said, “That's me! I'm Rimberg.” The woman, who was dressed in a dressing gown and had thin painted blond hair and eyebrows painted crookedly in dogshit brown on her face, began to scream and howl, which wasn't a shock like it might have been if these women hadn't howled at me for the last seven days. But this howling was different than the howling before. Generally if I'm stern enough in my voice, I can make the women stop howling. But this new howling, this woman wouldn't stop, and she howled and screamed even though I told her very sternly to be quiet. My stern tones only seemed to fuel her howling, and soon I realized that her howl was terribly specific, even with my hands covering my ears, because she howled, “Rimberg,” and she pointed at me. Then I became upset and shouted, “Cut that infernal racket out, or I will push you down the stairs,” which didn't do any good, because she speaks no English and has clearly lost her mind. And then, with the one arm she has that hasn't been destroyed or atrophied by some stroke in her past, she attempted to wheel herself away from me . . . but of course, owing to the physics of wheelchairs, she was only able to wheel herself around and around in circles. Whenever her eyes landed upon me, she would howl terribly, her level of terror increasing with every turn. And she often howled, “Rimberg.”
This cyclical howling, which fell outside the pattern of the everyday howling, captured the attention of the other guests, and they came to find out what the matter was. She screamed, “Rimberg,” and pointed at me, which set most of them into a complete state. Several screamed at me in French and shuffled toward me in their slippers, pointing and slicing the air with their bony fingers.
I was so afraid, Uncle Charley! I screamed. It was a horror film. My own scream finally brought the Flemish cow from behind her desk down the hall to assist me. Other staff followed.
It was too late. One howling woman had fallen to her knees in front of me, still screaming in French, veins bursting in her temples. She had grabbed the arms of my chair, and the staff could not pry her off, her adrenaline prevented them from moving her. Her breath in my nostrils smelled of fish. I shook my head and said, “American. I don't understand French.” And so she spoke English. “You . . . you . . . murderer. Mother. Father. Sister. Family. All! Butcher!” she cried. Her ancient saliva sprayed me.
The staff finally managed to remove her bony fingers from around the arms of my chair, and she wept and others wept, and they repeated “Rimberg” as they wept.
I fear, Dear Uncle, our family hasn't the best reputation in this city.
I am locked in my room now. Staff tells me I need to stay in my room, because I am upsetting the other patients. I told them I would lock myself in my room and had no interest in being with these crazy women.
Could these women kill me in the night? Would they have the strength? I cannot die at the hands of these howling women. What do you think? What's your advice? Do you have any knitting needles stored in your apron I can borrow for protection?
No one has permission to kill me but me, and even I can't do that.
Won't someone save me?
T.
Day Nine:
Transcript 5
* * *
As I said, Father, I get attacked every time I'm in a hospital.
Nobody would explain to me what was going on, which was so disheartening.
Well . . . I'd seen the doctor in the morning, and it had gone well. I'd been in the place almost a week, and I was feeling good. I coughed less. The doctor and I discussed strategies for dealing with anxiety, strategies that would help me think rationally while dealing with stress. After the craziness of Paris and the break-in, I was receptive to this behavioral therapy . . . I wanted to be anchored and rational. So things were good.
Yes. I wrote letters to fictional people. So?
Of course the doctor didn't know. He told me I was doing very well, and I felt like I was . . . even if I was writing to . . .
Who the hell else was I going to write to?
Sorry, Father Barry. But really. Who?
No. Kaatje and Cranberry didn't come back. Abandoned, that's what I thought. Read the journal.
Journal Entry,
October 11, 10 p.m.
* * *
Nick Kelly. Cranberry. With payment comes responsibility. I pay you and you are responsible to me, responsible for my well-being. And I need some help now, Nick Kelly. I have to hide in a room while you and your girlfriend are out eating at restaurants? Meanwhile, I'm being stabbed in the throat by an old woman with her knitting needle, which might really happen? How is this equitable? Why should I be left to the bony wolves while you spend my money?
Day Nine:
Transcript 6
* * *
I don't know why I was fixated on money. Reading over this stuff, now . . . I think I sound like my dad.
No, they didn't. Things were happening on the outside I didn't know about.
I got the envelope with the Irish ferry ticket.
Yes, a different side of the story was coming out in the home, too.
Letter 42
October 12, 2004
* * *
Dear Uncle Charley,
I would like to leave this place. I don't like it here anymore. If Cranberry ever comes back, I'll ask him to take me away.
All night last night I suffered not from the nightmares of a past I don't understand, but from waking fears of howling old Jewish mothers sneaking into my room, poking me in the face with their needlepoint needles. Every noise made me jump out of bed.
The ladies are crazy and inconsistent, and I don't understand.
The morning staff made me go to breakfast in the common room. It seems there was no note left for the morning staff to tell them about the violence of yesterday, and even though I demanded I get breakfast in my room, I was not allowed.
I snuck to the common room and breathed relief. I was the first to arrive and was able to choose my own seat, where I could face the door.
The old ladies arrived one-by-one or in pairs, pushing their walkers or being rolled in wheelchairs. None would sit by me, but gathered around the other large table. Thankfully they did not howl or scream, but only glared and shook their heads. They fit eleven, some in wheelchairs, at a round table meant for no more than eight. That is my revenge on them. They had to reach for their food. Now their dressing gowns are covered in yogurt and orange juice from their shaking hands.
But maybe I shouldn't want revenge. Not on all of them.
Listen to this. As I was finishing my yogurt and fruit and coffee, a tiny bent little woman began to shuffle toward me from the entryway. I drank my coffee and eyeballed her, worried. I had a last bite of yogurt. Still she shuffled toward me. Adrenaline surged, and I prepared to fend her off by hitting her with my breakfast plates. But she did not take up an aggressive stance. Rather, as she got to me, she began to smile so broad, and her eyes crinkled and became wet with joy, and I could see she must have been a great beauty.
She said, “Please?” pointing to the chair next to me, asking if she could sit.
I looked over to the table of hateful howling women. They were busy spilling on themselves and seemed in no mood to ambush me while I talked to this woman. So I said, “Please,” and smiled, although I was quite nervous.
She sat slow. I braced her by the bony elbow as she bent her knees, quaking, finally falling the last foot to the metal seat of the chair. Once in her chair, she put her tiny hand on my forearm. It was a warm touch on my forearm, gentle, and I felt certain she was crazy and had mistaken me for her son or husband. But she said, “Rimberg.”
At which I gasped.
She peered at me and touched my face, then nodded, scratched her chin, rolled her eyes. She said, “Hm. English,” and laughed and shook her head. “My English . . . is no good.”
&nb
sp; I nodded. I said, “It's okay.”
She held up her hand. She said, “Father? Rimberg? He took mother and me from the train, yes?”
“I'm sorry,” I said, assuming this was the beginning of the bad news about our family, the news that caused the howling women to hate me—that we wouldn't let people ride on our train.
“No,” she smiled. “This terrible war. Father”—she pointed at me—“took mother”—she pointed at herself, nodding—“and me from train.” She paused again, nodded, smiled, closed her eyes, and with an extended S sound, she said, “Saved. From train.”
“My father?” I shook my head. “No. He was a child during the war. Second World War?”
“Yes!” she nodded. “Child!” She smiled, her eyes lighting.
“Okay,” I said. “Thank you,” I told her. “That's very nice of you.” I stood, uncomfortable, ready to go.
She smiled and nodded. “Saved from Nazis,” she said.
“Okay,” I said. “My father? Okay.”
She smiled and nodded. She stayed in her chair, quiet but smiling, waiting for her breakfast to be delivered. I stood next to her for a moment. The howlers were staring at us. One of them shouted something. Then this little tiny sweet woman spit out in staccato French, pointing at me. Some of the howlers slowly began to nod at me, but others shook their heads no and shouted back. All the while my tiny, pretty, sweet old woman kept pointing at me and talking loudly.
The Miracle Letters of T. Rimberg Page 14
