Kit raises an eyebrow. “I found it very sweet, actually.”
Gene says, “You’re right. It was. Sometimes I’m just a bit of a jerk.”
“You were just chatting. Think nothing of it.”
I feel like a jerk, too. Gene is mildly appalled by this family circus, but certainly not mortified. And Kit looks fine with the most outlandish relations I have to offer. I’m the only one suffering here. I quickly remind myself about his gong uncle and feel better.
“Did you ever have a skunk buried here before?” Gene asks the respectful man from the cemetery.
My mother is out of the viewing room now. Exploiting her most uncanny talent, she reads my mind. “Be respectable, Shari.”
“We’re mostly dogs and cats,” the director says to Kit as he scratches at his arm (flea bite?). “We have one lion cub here, and there are squirrels, ducks, turtles, ferrets, birds and hamsters in the smaller leftover spaces on the plots—the plot owners can use every inch they bought if they want more than their dog buried.”
“No skunk?” Gene says with considerable irony.
“First one,” the man says just a bit conspiratorially.
“But how can you keep from laughing every day?”
“Don’t be so rude, Gene,” Mom says.
“Don’t think I haven’t heard that question before, sir. I’ve been director of Hartsdale since 1974, and anything you can ask I can answer.”
Gene has his patented stupid grin on as he asks, “So come on, why do you bilk money out of suckers like my aunt then?”
“Idiot,” Alan mutters toward Gene.
“He’s not bilking her,” Mom says firmly. “This burial is Dot’s decision.”
“Yes, I would agree with that assessment,” the director says with fine diplomatic skill. “Celebrities choose us, but the majority of people who bring us their animals are everyday folk who for whatever reason, feel this is the right thing to do. The pets buried here were their friends.”
Gene snorts. “And they can get a new friend at the pound. Or the skunkery or whatever you call it.”
The director shakes his head. “What do you think you would say if you lost a friend, and were told why don’t you go to a bar and get a new one? We let people grieve in whatever way they want to. Some choose to cremate, some choose to bury. They can use the viewing room for however they want to say goodbye. If they want a service, that’s okay, too. We hold no judgment at Hartsdale because the death of an animal has a deep effect on many people, in different ways. That’s exactly why a lot of pet owners hold in their grief—people don’t understand what they’re feeling. Yes, animals probably could fend for themselves in the wild, but we choose as a society to domesticate them, and many people who don’t have families of their own view their pets as children.”
The skunk funeral is becoming less tragic to me by the second. I’m even proud of Dot that she is not one of those that has chosen to “hold in her grief.” She is a woman of action. Okay, a slightly senseless woman of action, but look at me, I could use a little of her gumption. And Kit’s.
Chastened, Gene concedes, “Aunt Dot to a T. Galoot is her surrogate son.”
“As I said, this doesn’t surprise me in the least.”
“So how many animals do you have buried a year?” Kit asks the director.
“This year we buried about eight hundred,” he says. The conversation abruptly ends as Dot and Eric emerge. The director looks kindly upon them and says, “You can walk over, and we’ll bring Galoot right to the grave in just a few minutes.”
“Thank you for what you’re doing,” I say in parting to the admirable director.
He nods appreciatively.
The clear blue sky of people and dog heaven shelters us as we head down the sloped path to Galoot’s open grave. With a backward glance I notice that Kit has stopped the owner to ask him another question. Now what?
Summer’s winter clogs clop, clop, clop, as we walk. I’m too embarrassed to look Kit in the face, what the hell is he making of this insanity? The newly-aggressive sun is blinding. It’s easier on my eyes to study feet. Eric’s gangly legs splash through puddles of leftover morning rain, reminding me of those nature shows when giraffe legs amble through brackish savannah water. My mother’s ankles and lower legs are admirably slim after three children; she always wears stockings and skirts and pumps, in a cemetery or the laundry room. Dad once called her the best-dressed gal in Queens, and she made us all rice pudding from scratch that night. The heels of her delicate pumps leave tiny footprints in the soil.
As I tramp by more graves with residents like Grumpy or Tinkerbell I’m reminded of the Wednesday afternoon nature trail walks I participated in the summer I went to sleepaway camp. The soil on that path led to curious finds, a caterpillar living in a deserted cobweb, an orange newt with two heads. This one leads to a sad-faced cemetery worker in a large mended sunhat next to Galoot’s grave. Aside from the sunhat he wears nothing but an undershirt and torn, soiled pants. Despite his lack of clothes and the nippy day, he’s sweating from his action-packed afternoon. A bird braving the cold snap watches him carefully.
When Kit is at my side I whisper, “What did you go back to ask the director?”
“I just wanted to know what celebrity dogs have their final resting place here.”
“And?”
“Mariah Carey’s pooch. George Raft had one here, Diana Ross, Joe DiMaggio.”
He gives my hand a reassuring squeeze.
When everyone is ready, Dot announces that she is going to read the Hebrew Kiddush to begin the ceremony.
“In the viewing room,” Eric explains, “we tossed in Galoot’s favorite toys before they closed the casket.”
Summer is close to tears. “What were they?”
“Three whiffle balls held together by purple yarn, and a stuffed cat missing one of its black eye buttons.”
As Summer breaks into a full sob, Alan, looking a bit embarrassed, goes to her and rubs her back. It’s slightly wonderful to see Alan worrying about someone other than himself.
After a prayer is read, everyone gives Dot and Eric space by walking back to our cars parked on the gravel outside the gates.
Gene is ahead of us, again with his arm around Mom. My mother lights up with Gene’s extra attention. He’s always been her favorite. I’ve never had much of a problem with this—he was literally her savior at the time of Dad’s death. But I’m betting Alan doesn’t forgive her for her not-so-subtle predilection.
“Do you remember Dad’s funeral?” Alan asks in an almost inaudible voice.
“Of course,” I say.
“How are you doing these days?” he asks. “I haven’t seen you since you came to dinner.”
“I’ve had a rough week, but my friend Kit and I are probably going to England for a little bit. It will be good to finally see England.”
“You’re going abroad? Gene paying for that?” I’m surprised by the jealousy in his voice. But then again Alan and I have never been abroad, not even to Canada.
“Gene? Why would Gene pay for it?”
“Didn’t Mom tell you? He’s—a multimillionaire now.”
“C’mon, he’s well-off, but—”
“More than well off, I hear,” Alan says.
We both know firsthand that Gene worships money. Even before Dad’s death he bolstered our family coffers with a paper route, and after the funeral he was determined to fill his father’s role. Yes, Mom had admitted that the last three years he has given her twenty thousand dollars, the legal limit for a tax-free annual gift. She wanted me to know she was okay with her bills. But a multimillionaire! A Diamond of the perpetually broke Diamonds?
“Has he been giving you any money?” I carefully ask. Am I the only one missing out?
“He hasn’t offered. I was thinking about asking him.” He looks earthward in embarrassment.
“Are you in trouble?” I’m genuinely concerned now. It takes a lot for Alan to ask Gene for a favor.
He looks up again and decides to continue. “Summer is pregnant. I haven’t told Mom or Gene yet.”
“Alan! That’s wonderful, I hope.”
“Wonderful if we keep the kid. That’s what Summer wants but we really can’t afford one. We have our rent paid through our work but that’s all.”
“Do you want to stay on the commune?”
“Truthfully? Not really. It’s old hat for me. It gave me what I need when I needed it.”
“Maybe you should talk to Mom. See what she thinks is the best way to approach Gene.”
“Talk to Mom about what?” my mother presses me. Gene is back in the office, probably to pee. Mom slips a hand around both of her youngest children’s waists.
I look at Alan.
“You tell her,” Alan says. This plea for aid is probably harder on him than he thought it would be.
And I do. “You’re going to be a grandmother.”
“Shari, you’re pregnant!”
“No. Alan and Summer are—”
“Expecting? You? Alan?”
“We don’t have any money for a kid, but Summer doesn’t want to give it up. I was thinking of talking to Gene—”
Mom breathes out heavily. Her eyes are tearing.
“Momma’s going to take care of this, Alan, let me talk to him. You absolutely need that money, and I know best how to put the hard word on him.”
For the next few minutes Alan fills Mom and me in on the details.
I glance around the grounds to see where Kit is. Smoking. Shooting the breeze with Eric.
“You’re a funny fellow!” Eric is screaming. Maybe Eric was not as moved by the ceremony as Dot was.
Summer stops to pick up a dandelion growing out of a pocket of dirt near the road. She blows the white spores off. What’s her wish?
I look over at Kit. I know what mine is.
CHAPTER 12
Like Old Chums
A funeral procession of three cars drive back to Eric and Dot’s Catskills condo located over an hour away from the Northeast’s finest animal final resting place.
When we’re back in Gene’s car Kit says, “I know the actor now, the one Eric resembles. Gene Wilder was Willy Wonka, right?”
“You got it,” Gene says after an amused grunt.
“The resemblance is mind-boggling.”
Gene nods appreciatively.
We enter Dot and Eric’s modest foyer and then their living room anchored by an enormous maroon couch. There’s also a tacky table lamp with a dolphin-motif lampshade, and a mantel of bad skunk and tugboat art that’s been added to since the last time I was here.
“Where’s your mother?” Dot says after she’s brewed fresh coffee for her fellow mourners. “Or Gene?”
Good question. “Mom did want to ask Gene something,” I say neutrally.
“Nothing we can hear?”
Alan shrugs. Summer blushes noticeably, and walks to a window.
Alan explains to Eric that Summer specializes in dewdrop photography, which Eric mishears as glue drop photography—the mistake starts him off on an animated discussion of epoxies and resins that Alan can’t stop.
I try not to worry as my aunt engages Kit in conversation. I sit on the maroon boat and determinedly pick up a loose photo of Dot and my father playing together as kids. I’ve never seen this image. The photo looks newly framed, and is not at all dusty, so she must have been looking at it recently. I flick it over. There is no Kodak timestamp or handwritten explanation of where or when this was, but when I look at it again, I’m guessing Dad was twelve or so, and Dot around ten. At twelve Alan looked exactly like Dad does in the picture, that great skin and the blackest, thickest hair imaginable.
When Mom and Gene emerge from the den, Mom sneaks Alan a sly thumbs-up, and soon Gene walks over and gives Alan a big slap on the back.
Eric sits down next to us. “Your friend is charming the pants off of your aunt.”
“What could they possibly be talking about?” I ask.
“Food.”
I strain to hear what Kit is saying. Why has Dot just laughed so loudly? Moving to the kitchen I ask, a tad suspiciously, “How’s it going?”
“We’re making jelly omelets,” Dot announces. “Kit asked me if I had any bread to tide him over until dinner, and to tell you the truth my fridge is threadbare. I was supposed to have gone shopping at Stewart’s but then as you know—” Dot sighs. “We didn’t think any of you would come to this funeral. I was shocked you’re all here for me. Such a generous display—”
“Of course we came, Dot,” Gene says. He follows his sugary words with his ingratiating smile. I didn’t see him there by the door frame, back from a long visit to the toilet. “We love you.”
Dot blows Gene a kiss after she dollops a big spoonful of grape jelly into the middle of Kit’s omelet.
Kit cackles loudly. “Oh, it’s jam, Dottie! I thought it was gelatin you were talking about. I was a-ghast.”
Dottie?
“Jelly omelets are yummy,” my mother says to Kit as if she’s been talking to one of my kindergarten classmates. “You have them in England?”
“No, not really. But if it’s jam on the inside, that’s better than gelatin.”
“Hey! You’re making jelly omelets over there?” Gene says. “Do I get one?”
“It’s a little weird but good, Kit,” Alan pipes up.
“Okay, I’ll give it a go,” Kit says. As he backs up to the wall with a plate and fork in hand, he almost breaks Dot’s favorite plate in her water nymph plate collection. How could I never have noticed before that all of her nymphs are nude?
Dot, extraordinarily against character, says absolutely nothing about her beloved plate, and when it stops jiggling, asks, simply, “Do you like it?”
Kit speaks through bites. “Surprisingly, yes.”
“What do you mean surprisingly?” Dot says, playfully defensive.
“A few seconds ago I was thinking that the problem with a jelly omelet from a British point of view is that it messes up the sensory order of the world. If you want sweet I think chutney with its sour-sweet taste makes more sense.”
“I just love hearing you speak like that,” Dot coos. “Did you know I loved all the British books when I was a kid?” She swoops her fork toward Kit’s plate to steal a bite of omelet. I don’t believe it. Aunt Dottie is flirting with my new boyfriend.
“You’re like Shari then, eh?” Kit asks after his own bite. “An Anglophile?”
I bite my tongue. Where is this false history coming from, Auntie?
Dot brings her fork back to Kit’s plate. “You mean Shari is like me.”
Gene stifles a laugh. Alan is clearly amused, too, and he whispers something into Summer’s ear. She smirks.
Is Dot, in fact, a secret Anglophile? Maybe that’s why she’s dropping her Deputy for the Jewish People act. Christophers from America bother her, but looking at that grin on her face I can just imagine her saying, “Christophers from England, well that’s an exception, darling niece, because they’re so damn delightful.”
“Is chutney like hot dog corn relish?” Eric scream-shouts from behind us. He’s looking strangely apprehensive at the way Dot is fawning over Kit.
Gene hoists his feet onto a leatherette ottoman. “Hey,” he says to me, “it appears Dot is dotty for your fellow.”
“May I keep in touch with you?” Kit asks Dot. “To make sure you are okay?”
“What a lovely boy,” Dot replies. “Do you use e-mail?”
“I certainly do.”
Dot grabs a pen and scrawls her e-mail address on a piece of scrap paper. She smiles broadly. A stunning, artless smile.
Just before we get back to my apartment, Gene asks if we would mind stopping outside of the Citibank on First Avenue and Fifteenth Street. “Important transaction. A few minutes, that’s all.”
“You’ve been gracious enough to drive us,” Kit says. “We can wait an hour if we have to.”
“
Of course we can wait,” I say.
When Gene’s walked through the bank door I ask Kit—who had switched with me for the second mate front seat—“So what did you make of my family? Loons, right?”
His nose wrinkles. “That’s a bit harsh on them.”
“So you like them then?” I say, in the same needy tone Dot used when asking after the taste-worthiness of her omelet.
“They’re lively, not loons at all. I was enjoying them, with one reserve.”
Oh no, what did he see? Who did he overhear?
“So what’s your reserve?”
“You. Why are you so embarrassed by everything anyone in your family says or does. They’re very lovely people.”
Despite the dressing-down, I smile. I’m considerably relieved. “I’m happy to hear you say that. You know, I was especially surprised at how much you clicked with my aunt.”
“She’s a pip, I’ll have you know.”
“And I think she has a bit of a crush on you.”
“Well she did emerge from the loo with perfume on.”
“When was this?”
“At the end, just when we were leaving.”
“Okay, let me tell you why that is so hilarious and a bit fucked up. Eric has no sense of smell. She never wears perfume.”
Kit smirks. “So even if the skunk was not destunk it wouldn’t have mattered to him.”
“Welcome to my existence.” I lean over the car divide to give him a quick snog. He climbs his way over to the back and tackles me down.
“So very un-British of you,” I crack.
“What is?”
“Motion. Aggressive sexual overtones.”
“Take this, you bitch!” After he kisses me again, for a longer count, I give him a grateful hug.
“What’s that for?”
“I was sure you were going to run a thousand yards in the other direction when you met them.”
“I’m saying this for the last time, the only one with a problem here is you. What do I have to say to prove this to you?”
My eyes tear up, and this time it’s not the wind.
“You’re crying?” Kit says. He wipes one of my tears with his thumb.
The Anglophile Page 15
