The doors to the auditorium were already closed when Veronica arrived at school. A small group of other latecomers, led by Mrs. Zarosh, the bookbinding teacher for the high school, were making their own meeting. Veronica sat down next to Mrs. Zarosh and like everyone else she put her hands into the hands of the people on either side of her. Mrs. Zarosh’s hand was warm.
Silent reflection in such a small group was very intimate. Since there was no leader, Veronica thought about last week’s meeting, in which Mrs. Harrison had said, “Each of us is part of the whole.” She remembered Mrs. Harrison telling them to concentrate on their breathing. In. And then out. In and then out. Over and over breathing deeper and deeper until she disappeared into a kind of trance. Someone tapped her on the shoulder and she startled. Standing over her was Athena Mindendorfer.
Images from Sarah-Lisa’s party shuffled through her mind like a deck of cards. She moved over to make room for Athena as the people in the circle had done for her minutes earlier. Athena sat down and took Veronica’s hand.
Veronica couldn’t stop thinking about the fact that she was sitting on the floor holding hands with Athena Mindendorfer. Athena smiled and Veronica smiled back. Her breathing joined Athena’s breath and Mrs. Zarosh’s breath and everyone else’s in the circle. Together they formed a mysterious lullaby. The sun, the stones, the animals, the spirit, and the sparkling stars of Morning Verse came to her mind. No one was really ever completely alone. If you could reach out, there was always a hand to hold, somewhere in the world.
When she got home from school her mother was actually making dinner. She’d had a light day, she said. She was cracking eggs into a bowl to make carbonara. Veronica passed her mother the pepper grinder. “Thank you, lovey,” she said. Her mother twisted it, making pepper fall on their dinner like black snow. “Mrs. Ferguson came over. They’re back from Florida earlier than planned. She says Fitzy is eager to see you. Will you put the salad on the table?”
Veronica lugged the enormous salad bowl to the table. She hadn’t thought of Fitzy for months. Did Fitzy know what had happened to Cadbury?
“Also, I invited Sylvie and her father for Passover dinner. They said they’d love to come.”
Fitzy was back. Veronica didn’t know if she was ready for that.
Passover
“Baruch ata Adonai,” Mr. Morgan said. He struck a long wooden match and lit the candles with much fanfare. “Elohaynu melech Ha-olam, asher kideshanu be-mitzvotav, ve-tzinanu-le-hadlik ner shel Yom Tov. Welcome, Sylvie, welcome, Stuart. We’re so happy to have you!”
Her father was clearly determined to give Sylvie and her dad, who had never been to a Seder, the best Seder ever. He was being so dramatic Veronica felt like they were in a production of Fiddler on the Roof. Ugh. “Passover,” he explained, “tells the story of the Jewish people’s journey into freedom. But tonight we use Egypt as a metaphor for conflict because we live in perpetual yin yang. Freedom, for example, is an undisputed right, yet human rights are exploited all the time. We crave stability. We seek reliability. And yet many also feel a pull, a need to wander, to explore. And the conflict of all conflicts: pain. Without pain we cannot understand joy.” He looked over at his daughter as he raised his glass. She thought of Cadbury, who had left behind a memory so tender and so raw. “Oy,” he said. “Let us raise our glasses to the perpetual paradox called the human condition.” Veronica and Sylvie drank red grape juice, while the adults drank dark red wine.
Mr. Morgan held up a ramekin of salt water and Passover 101 continued. “And what we do is, we take a little piece of vegetable off the seder plate and dip it in the salt water. The salt water is a symbol of sweat and tears. Because we want to remind ourselves that although Jews were freed by the Pharaoh, Egyptians suffered for that freedom and all around the world today, people are still enslaved.” Mr. Morgan dipped a piece of celery in the salt water and indicated for everyone else to do the same. Veronica chewed and swallowed years of affliction. She loved how Passover was both symbolic and actual, legend and current events.
“In the center of the table we have a nice stack of matzoh,” Marvin said with obvious pleasure. “Veronica, my firstborn, why do we eat matzoh on Passover?”
Veronica decided not to point out that she was her father’s only born child. “When the Jews were escaping to freedom,” she said, “they didn’t think they had time to wait for bread to rise. So this is what they came up with. Matzoh.” She pointed at the matzoh like a contestant on a game show. Behind this curtain: a new car!
“Precisely,” Mr. Morgan said with tremendous pride. His brow was wet and his jacket was a little tight, but he looked so moved by the sight of his wife, his daughter, by Mary and by their guests, Veronica thought he might cry. He flipped through his Haggadah and talked himself down. “Okay, matzoh, poverty, affliction, slavery. Check. I’m lost, Marion. Where are we?”
“Page fifteen,” his wife said. Veronica looked at her mother, convinced they saw the same emotion in her father.
“Okay,” he said. “Page fifteen. Traditionally, the youngest at the table asks the Four Questions. But, Sylvie, we’d be honored if you would.”
Veronica had been the youngest at the table for so long she realized tonight she took that honor for granted. It was with bittersweet pleasure she sat back and listened. She felt like all the girls in her class who say Morning Verse every day but may not actually hear what they’re saying.
“Why is this night different from all other nights?” Sylvie asked. “Why on this night do we only eat matzoh, but on other nights we eat bread or matzoh? Why on this night do we only eat bitter herbs and vegetables? Why on this night do we dip our herbs not once, but twice? Why on this night do we eat in a reclining position?”
“One of my favorite parts about Judaism,” Mr. Morgan said, “is the importance of questions. There is no other religion I am aware of that invites argument and discussion the way we do. We love it.” He looked at his wife and daughter as though all they did was argue. “I love it because being able to ask questions means you’re free. And as long as you have someone to ask, it means you aren’t alone.” Mr. Morgan adjusted his yarmulke.
He certainly had a lot of knowledge and love for something he pretended not to care about. Why did he try so hard not to care? So many things about his heritage seemed to make him happy.
“Next on this page: the Four Children, page sixteen.”
Veronica turned the page in her Haggadah. Sometimes the Seder felt like it lasted for twelve hours and no one could stop their stomach from growling and their mind from wandering. Sylvie and her father seemed totally engaged, and Veronica was relieved.
“Now, if I may confess: this was the part of the Seder I struggled with year after year,” Mr. Morgan said. He was really on a roll tonight, riffing and improvising, and Veronica tried not to smile because if she did, she might laugh. “My younger brother always asked the Four Questions, and so year after year, I had to talk about the Four Children. The wise child was characterized as good because he believed in God and Passover, the wicked child was an atheist and unworthy of the freedom granted to the rest of the Jews. The simple one was boring. And the last one was so dumb, he didn’t even ask a question. I knew my father didn’t think I was the wise one. I was supposed to be one of the other three, and I didn’t like any of them. Was I the fool? The wicked one? The simple one? I always felt set up.”
Veronica knew her father’s side of the family was pretty religious, but her father’s parents had died before she was born and he didn’t discuss them much. Her uncle actually lived in Israel and rarely came to the United States.
“So, as an adult Reform Jewish psychiatrist and a father in my own house,” her father continued, “I offer this: we are all the Four Children represented at Passover. Sometimes we’re clever, sometimes we’re evil, sometimes we’re curious, sometimes we are so content we don’t need to ask anything.”
Marion smiled warmly at her husband. They had met at a Seder in colle
ge. Veronica really hoped they weren’t going to talk about that.
“The yin and the constant yang is itself a very Jewish idea. It’s why you break a glass at a wedding: to remind yourself that even in the midst of celebration, somewhere someone is suffering. Oh boy,” he said. “I’ve lost my place again, and said personal things, and we were supposed to have had the second glass of wine by now. Marion, where the hell are we? All right, everybody drink.”
After Sylvie and her dad left and all the dishes were washed and the candlesticks were put away, Veronica brushed her teeth and got ready for bed. The Seder resonated with her tonight in a way it never had before. She thought about the Four Children and about being capable of all kinds of behavior. This year alone she had embodied so many emotions. She had been shy. She had been daring. She had been glad. She had been miserable. She had experienced extreme love. She had been overtaken by intense grief. She had behaved badly. She had behaved heroically. She had done all this and she was just one small person.
Here, There, and Everywhere
The ceremony of Passover made way for another, which was not affiliated with any particular religious group but was known to all as Park Worship. In the first few weeks of spring when the weather was warmer spring fever arrived. The trees were full of leaves and the air was sweet with honeysuckle. Everyone in the middle school and the upper school would leave Randolf after dismissal and flee to Central Park.
Veronica and Sylvie leaned against the stone wall that separated Central Park from Fifth Avenue. The sun was bright and beat down on Veronica, making her feel like she glowed from the inside out. She opened up her Toasted Almond Good Humor bar while Sarah-Lisa and Athena and other girls were still on line to get theirs.
“We’ll just go for a little while,” Sylvie said.
“I’m not in the mood,” Veronica said.
“Come on,” Sylvie said, “we haven’t even been once this whole year.” That wasn’t really a fair thing to say, Veronica thought, since they hadn’t been friends a whole year. And the weather hadn’t even been nice for very long. She took a bite of her ice cream.
“Let’s go to the closet world and talk to dead people,” Veronica said.
At the mention of dead people Sarah-Lisa’s ears pricked. “You talk to dead people?” she asked. She and Athena had bought their ice cream and were on their way into the park.
“Yes,” Veronica said. “I talk to dead people.”
“You are such a freak!” Sarah-Lisa said.
“So do I,” Sylvie said, “and you know what? Not one of them misses you at all.” Sarah-Lisa turned away. If Veronica didn’t know better she would have sworn Athena looked back over her shoulder and smiled at her and Sylvie. Since failing their science project their friendship had been less than perfect. They had to do another project over the summer.
“Veronica, no offense,” Sylvie continued, “but I feel like being outside today. In the sun. If you want to go home that’s okay but I’m gonna stay in the park. I want to see the cherry blossoms.” Sylvie walked through a break in the wall.
Veronica had no intention of following. The park made her sad. But Athena Mindendorfer and Sarah-Lisa Carver were nearby, and Veronica didn’t want them to think she and Sylvie were fighting, so she followed Sylvie in. Runners, joggers, and high-speed walkers made loops around the reservoir, chasing physical fitness. It was bewildering. (Veronica was a Morgan through and through. None of them were exercisers.)
And then there were the dogs.
Everywhere. Dogs leaping. Dogs wagging their tails. Dogs sniffing other dogs. Dogs on the hunt for invisible prey. Dogs looking up at their owners. Dogs alive with the scent of squirrels nearby. Dogs getting to know each other by touching noses. There was such etiquette among dogs. It was so sweet, the combination of enthusiasm and gentleness. A cute dog with beagley ears came her way. She knew she shouldn’t have come in here. It just made her think of Cadbury. She turned away from the beagley dog.
They followed a wide path to a grove of cherry blossoms. The branches reached out in every direction and created a canopy overhead. It was hard to tell where one tree began and another one ended. They reminded her of the poem her class had read at the beginning of the year:
O chestnut-tree, great-rooted blossomer,
Are you the leaf, the blossom or the bole?
O body swayed to music, O brightening glance,
How can we know the dancer from the dance?
On the other side of the cherry grove was a sloping meadow. Veronica spontaneously galloped down the hill and Sylvie followed. They both gathered speed and Veronica closed her eyes until she collapsed at the bottom. It was so fun they did it again and again until they were exhausted and lay in a tangled laughing heap.
“Sylvie, I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but you are almost as fun as Cadbury when it comes to running down hills.”
“Thank you,” Sylvie said. They lay on their backs watching the clouds overhead. “Veronica, did you have any kind of ceremony for Cadbury?”
“Huh?”
“Like, did you pick a day and a place and remember him?” Veronica felt her mood sour.
“Sylvie, there was no day,” she said. “There was every day. I cried all the time and remembered him every day.”
“I’m not trying to say you didn’t miss him. Gosh. I was just thinking it might be nice to have a ceremony for him here.”
“In Central Park?” Veronica asked. “Now? He died months ago.”
“I know. But wasn’t this, like, both your favorite place?” Veronica felt like Sylvie was trying to ruin everything.
“Yeah, and I want to keep it that way,” Veronica said, almost under her breath.
“After my mother died, we took her ashes to Hawaii. That’s where she was born and it was always her favorite place. I remember scattering the ashes into the ocean. I didn’t really understand what was happening at first. I was really little. When a breeze kicked in and all her ashes flew away, I cried. I didn’t want her to go. But now I don’t exactly feel like she’s gone. I feel like she’s just everywhere. She’s in the ground I walk on. She’s in the air I breathe. I miss her all the time. And I never feel alone either because she’s everywhere. It’s weird.”
Veronica thought that made a lot of sense.
The Ceremony
Veronica and Sylvie met at ten o’clock the next Saturday morning. They chose the entrance to the park on Ninety-Eighth Street because it was located between their apartments.
The air had that grassy, fresh green smell. Veronica led them to the meadow she and Cadbury had spent the most time in and then to his favorite tree. She remembered so clearly the way he used to sniff around the roots and squat as though he was about to poop, then stand up and resume his search. Sometimes he would walk around the trunk four times before settling on the right spot. Like he only had one chance and it had to be perfect.
Veronica opened her wooden box and looked at what was left of her most special friend. She would never understand how he had become a box of remains. But she knew she was going to spread Cadbury’s ashes and she knew this violet patch growing between two roots was the right place. She had searched high and low for a poem or a prayer or some way to honor him and do him justice. She had made herself hysterical, in fact, but now, watching the gray grit sift toward the ground, she felt there was nothing that needed to be said. The rain would fall, the earth would absorb his ashes, and in a matter of time Cadbury would literally become part of the tree he loved so much. He would live again as part of something else.
She and Sylvie spent the rest of the day in the park. They trekked under bridges, over hills, through cherry groves. They climbed rocks and lay in meadows. Veronica felt the same kind of thrill as when she’d first discovered the park with Cadbury. And just like with Cadbury, she was surprised at how close she could feel to another living being, this time Sylvie, when they didn’t speak at all.
Mrs. Ferguson
May was making
way for June and the first year of Randolf was at a close. After a nice game of Scrabble, Mary sent Veronica out to the store to buy ice cream for dessert. As Veronica walked down Fifth Avenue she encountered an exhausted-looking Mrs. Ferguson, who was still in her nightgown, albeit covered by a fur coat, as though that coat were a bathrobe. She was holding a cup of coffee in one hand and the leash of an extremely bedraggled-looking Fitzy in the other.
“Fitzy!” Veronica screamed, and fumbled with the ice cream. It was terrible. She had been so preoccupied she’d completely forgotten about Fitzy. She reminded herself of a babysitter she’d had when she was four who had come into her life like the most exciting fireworks and then just, poof, disappeared. She tried to make up for it by covering Fitzy with kisses.
Fitzy barely responded. Was she mad that Veronica had disappeared? Or was she suffering from some medical condition? Veronica did not remember Fitzy ever looking so under the weather.
“Veronica dear,” Mrs. Ferguson said, “Mr. Ferguson and I have so been wanting you to come for a visit but we didn’t want to impose. Your mother told me what happened to Cadbury and we’re so terribly sorry. What awful news. And now, with all hell breaking loose upstairs.”
As she spoke Fitzy pooped and Mrs. Ferguson made no move to clean it up. Veronica stared at the warm blob trying not to think how it was going to end up on the bottom of someone’s sneaker. She considered using the bag the ice cream was in. But that might be rude, to clean it up in front of Mrs. Ferguson. Although Mrs. Ferguson probably wouldn’t even notice. She was the sort of person who only saw the things that interested her. Dog poop definitely didn’t interest her.
“What’s going on upstairs?” Veronica finally asked.
“Oh my word! I thought the whole building knew. We’ve had puppies.”
The Good, the Bad & the Beagle Page 19
