Cheated By Death

by L. L. Bartlett

  I looked at my suit jacket and considered how much such a repair would cost. “Do I have to?”

  “It depends. Take your cue from Patty.”

  I donned the jacket, fastening the center button. “How do you know so much?”

  “I’ve lost several Jewish friends over the years. Believe me, I’d rather I didn’t know the customs.”

  “The family’s not Orthodox. Patty told the undertaker they were Jewish Lite.” It didn’t sound funny. I stared at the reflection of my brown eyes flecked with gold. My father’s eyes. “It never hit me before. I’m half Jewish.”

  “Technically, the mother’s religion defines the children’s, and Betty was Catholic.”

  “A good Catholic, too. She went to Mass at least twice a week—sometimes more.”

  “Did she?” he asked, truly interested.

  I nodded. “Your grandmother was Catholic. How come Mom being the same religion didn’t mean anything to the old witch?”

  “Grandmother wouldn’t have approved of any woman my father brought home. She thought she should be his life.”

  “Too bad.” If things had worked out different, I might be looking at a reflection of the same blue eyes Richard had inherited from John Alpert.

  I stared at myself in the mirror, standing so straight in my somber suit. I hadn’t worn it since Shelley’s funeral. Funny, I’d worn it to our wedding, too. Bad luck seemed to dog that suit.

  “Shelley and I got married at City Hall,” I said, still staring at my reflection.

  Richard’s gaze moved to the mirror, his expression darkening at this comment from left field.

  “Dan McNeil, a guy from work, was my best man. Some woman Shelley worked with was our maid of honor. I don’t even remember her name. We went out for Chinese afterwards. We had a weekend honeymoon at a B and B in Cape May. It was off-season, so the rates were cheap.”

  It seemed like so long ago.

  Tears threatened and, ashamed, I looked away. “God, I feel awful.”

  Richard’s voice was gentle. “You’ll be okay.”

  “I suppose Chet could’ve loved me.” I looked at my brother for confirmation, feeling pathetic.

  “Yeah.” Richard grasped my shoulder, and gave it a squeeze. “Come on. We don’t want to be late.”

  We dropped Brenda at the hospital’s clinic and headed for the temple. I tried to decide if my discomfort resulted from not knowing what to expect or not knowing the people who’d be there. Or was it only the remnant of a hangover?

  I followed Richard up the steps and paused to straighten my tie. The old brick building looked seedy, run-down on the outside. Inside, the interior was spotless, with polished wood and freshly waxed floors. I had to force myself not to greet the few familiar faces I knew by name—Patty, Ruby, and Vera. Richard said it was a Jewish custom. No one greeted me. Still, Patty reached for Richard’s hand, and told him how pleased she was that he’d come. He looked flattered, which annoyed me. Or maybe it was the admiring look he gave her. Dressed in a black knit mini-dress with dark stockings, Patty could’ve been going to a cocktail party instead of a funeral.

  A wizened little man in a shiny black suit gave us yarmulkes. Why hadn’t I asked her to come instead? As the oldest child, and only son, I sat up front, next to Patty, with Richard on the other side of me. I would’ve preferred to blend into the background. My aunts, Ruby and Vera, and their families, were close behind me. So close, I could hear Vera’s heavy breathing. Had she been a smoker, too?

  The closed casket sat at the front of the room, sprays of flowers flanking it. Richard gave me my cues when to stand and when to sit. Thanks to him, I didn’t look like a complete yutz, yet I didn’t feel part of the service, either. I was a good Catholic boy in the middle of a Jewish funeral, feeling like I should recite the rosary.

  The scent of gladiolus filled the air. Faces around me were twisted with emotion. Watching others grieve is difficult. Experiencing their grief is unbearable. Sorrow, despair and even boredom bombarded me from all directions. I could tell that some of the mourners came out of family duty. The children were happy for a day off school. Only Richard and Patty were blanks to me, but their presence was no shield against the onslaught of emotions the others broadcasted.

  I had to force myself to listen as the young rabbi spoke of my father and his lasting effect on all of us. One by one family members rose to tell how my father had impacted their lives.

  Patty stood. Clutching a tissue, she wiped her nose. “When I was ten, I wanted to skate like Oksana Baiul. Daddy once closed the shop to take me to the Ice Capades. Then he paid for lessons and pretty sequined outfits, even though he really couldn’t afford it. That’s the kind of Dad he was.”

  She brushed against my arm as she sat down, but I couldn’t look at her. Clamping down on my envy, I stared at the coffin. She’d at least had a life with him--he’d abandoned me.

  Vera was next. “I remember,” she said, her voice cracking. She pressed a hand to her lips while she composed herself. “I remember how Chet helped so many friends and relatives down on their luck. Giving them jobs at his dry cleaning store.”

  “He was always generous,” Ruby added. “He’d give you the shirt off his back.”

  No one mentioned his drinking or gambling—the only things I’d heard about while growing up. No one mentioned my mother or the life he led before he straightened up—before he met Joan and started his second family.

  Ruby beamed when she spoke of Chet’s reunion with me. She turned her tear-filled gaze toward me. “You brought such joy to his last days.”

  I looked away, feeling uncomfortable.

  A long silence followed.

  I didn’t get up. I had no stories to tell.

  While the relatives sniffled or sobbed through more prayers, I sat hunched over, rubbing my throbbing temples, feeling limp from the pain of their grief. I couldn’t make it my own. It attacked my brains like a jackhammer through concrete. Even blinking hurt. The pills I’d downed at breakfast hadn’t helped a bit.

  Maybe what I needed was time to put some perspective on just what it was I thought and felt about a man who hadn’t been a father to me in thirty-two years. But it didn’t help at that moment.

  Another funeral shadowed my thoughts.

  St. Michael’s Church had seemed cavernous with so few mourners attending my mother’s funeral mass twenty-two years before. A spray of pink roses covered the silver coffin. Richard probably paid for everything. I was fourteen then, and didn’t worry about such things.

  I remembered Richard clearly—a stranger I’d only known for two days—and how odd it felt to sit next to him. I didn’t cry. No way would I show weakness in front of him. Now I realized I’d been numb—there’d been too many changes for a kid to absorb in such a short time.

  I tried to remember more of that day, of the vaguely familiar faces of neighbors or my mother’s co-workers from the restaurant where she’d waitressed the breakfast and lunch shifts for almost seven years. Most of the faces were a blur, but I remember turning in my seat to see a lone man enter the church. He knelt and genuflected before sliding into one of the pews. He’d known the Mass, recited every prayer.

  Until that moment, I hadn’t realized that the man was a thinner, dark-haired version of Chet Resnick.

  My father.

  Preoccupied with the past, I hadn’t noticed the ceremony had ended. Richard stood. I stayed seated as everyone else headed for the exit, like passengers on a plane, eager to end the journey.

  A brief cemetery service followed. Patty played the role of the bereaved like an Oscar contender. She lost no opportunity to drape her hand over Richard’s arm like an ornament. Maybe her long, wistful gazes were filled with genuine grief. Was it cynical of me to think otherwise? Meanwhile, Richard seemed comfortable in his role as her unofficial escort, leaving me to silently fume.

  I walked behind them from the grave. My quiet, darkened bedroom beckoned, a haven from that pounding headache, but a
s we reached the line of parked cars, Ruby turned and sought me out.

  “You’ll come to the house, won’t you?”

  Richard looked at me quizzically.

  I wanted to tell her ‘no’ and get the hell out of there, but my aunt’s watery, familiar-looking eyes did a number on me. I gave her a weak smile. “Sure.”

  She squeezed my hand.

  Always the consummate gentleman, Richard helped the ladies into the waiting limo. Patty hit the electronic window control to lower the glass, raising her hand in a coy wave as the Lincoln started off down the narrow strip of asphalt.

  Richard pulled up his collar against the wind. “Are you sure you’re up to this? You don’t look well.”

  His sudden concern irked me. “Is that a professional opinion?”

  “Yes, actually, it is.”

  I exhaled a shaky breath. “I have to go. It would look bad if I didn’t.”

  “Since when do you care what people think?”

  He was right; doing something for appearance’s sake had never mattered to me before. I didn’t answer.

  The rest of the mourners were already in their cars, driving away. I glanced back toward my father’s grave, reminded of other unfinished business.

  “I’ve been back in Buffalo for almost nine months and I haven’t visited Mom’s grave. How about you?”

  Richard shook his head. “Let’s go.”

  We made it to Mt. Calvary Cemetery in minutes. It had been years since either of us had been there. We traveled around the same section three times before Richard remembered where to find the grave. We parked the car and walked the slight incline.

  Tall, dried grass obliterated the base of the simple, white granite monument. Only our mother’s name and the years of her birth and death marked the stone. It gave no hint of who she’d been or the life she’d lived. Or those she’d left behind.

  Wind rustled the naked branches of a nearby maple. I stared at the carved words, feeling empty. Losing her had changed my life, probably for the better. What a pathetic epitaph.

  “She would’ve been sixty-eight now,” Richard said.

  I huddled into my raincoat, annoyed I’d forgotten my gloves. “She had a shitty life. It may as well have ended the day your father died.”

  “I wish I’d known her better.”

  I looked up at him. “You might not have liked what you’d have seen.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Her drinking, mostly.” I looked away and hoped he wouldn’t press me for more. I didn’t have the words to tell him. “What did your grandfather tell you about her?”

  He shrugged, and stared blankly at the headstone. “That she was a sick woman who deserved our pity.”

  Old Mr. Alpert had been right.

  “You don’t realize how damn lucky you are,” Richard said. “You’ve found a family that wants to welcome you—something I always wanted. I used to daydream of having brothers and sisters. The reality was a small boy with elderly grandparents, no one to play with, and a very, very quiet house.”

  I stared at the grave. “I had no one, either.” And I’d lived with a mother who’d loved him, not me.

  Until that moment, the depth of my childhood jealousy toward Richard had never fully registered. Here was that phantom brother who’d commanded all my mother’s love, even though he wasn’t there, leaving nothing for me. For an instant I wanted to haul off and hit him—to make him pay for the years of neglect I’d had to endure.

  He stared at the marker—at the name carved into stone; a woman he’d never known. Maybe it wasn’t so much anger I felt as frustration. Richard had wanted our mother’s love and she’d longed to love him. We’d all been scarred by the experience.

  I felt stupid and ashamed and suddenly quite unwell. I cleared my throat, took in a deep breath of cold, fresh air. “You’re not alone any more, Rich. You have Brenda and me.”

  “And soon I’ll have a son or a daughter.” A weak smile brightened his features.

  I didn’t even want to think about it.

  CHAPTER

  13

  The ride to Ruby’s house took forever. Richard drove my car—I was too far gone by then, which should’ve warned me. The closer we got, the worse I felt.

  Cars lined the road in front of the little Cape Cod, which seemed forlorn in the wan December sunlight.

  “Are you sure you’re up to this?” Richard asked again as he parked the car.

  “No. We’ll have a cup of coffee then leave. Okay?”

  He nodded. We got out, and headed for the house.

  A steaming pitcher of water sat on the front step. Clean towels were draped over the iron railing.

  “You have to wash your hands,” Richard advised.

  “Another custom?”

  “It’s an act of purification after being in close proximity to the dead.”

  I followed his lead, washing my hands before we entered the quiet, crowded house. The atmosphere seemed charged, not so much with grief, but with a sense of relief. The funeral was over; it was time to regroup. Black fabric draped all the mirrors in a show of respect for the deceased. After such a loss, the living don’t need to be concerned with their appearance.

  Patty made a beeline for Richard, taking his coat before whisking him off to be introduced to all the relatives, and leaving me to fend for myself.

  Shucking my raincoat, I wandered into the kitchen, and saw a lavish spread of food covering the kitchen counter. Ruby had donned an apron to protect her black mourning dress. She pushed a plate into my hand. “You’re so skinny. Doesn’t your Maggie feed you?” she asked, and stood on tiptoe to kiss my cheek.

  I attempted to smile. “She tries.”

  “And you’re so pale. You should take vitamins—with minerals. Now sit, sit.” She ushered me to one of the chairs around the Formica table. “Will you have some tea?”

  “I’ll have coffee if you’ve got it,” I said, more interested in a strong caffeine fix for my pounding head. It was a big mistake for me to come. I took a bite of bagel, chewed, and struggled to swallow it.

  My gaze wandered to the family room, where Richard and Patty stood conversing. She smoked a cigarette, holding an ashtray. He nodded sympathetically, his face a study in kindness. Nearby, the chair my father had sat in less than a week before was empty. Seeing it left a hollow feeling in my gut.

  Ruby set a cup of coffee in front of me. “There you go, dear. Let me know if you need anything else.” She patted my shoulder, transmitting another blast of unwelcome emotion.

  I fumbled in my pocket, found my vial of pills, and downed two of them with a sip of black coffee.

  Images from the past bombarded me: three funerals meshing, superimposed. Three coffins. Three deaths. My mother, my dead ex-wife—Shelley—and Chet. Three people who could’ve shown me love—three people who’d chosen not to. What was it in me that was so unworthy?

  Then again, my father’s dying moment would always haunt me. The one time he’d reached out for me, I’d rejected him—let him die alone, without another’s touch.

  My throat closed as guilt set in again.

  Voices in the living room distracted me. Ruby turned away from the sink, her brow furrowed as she looked from the front of the house back to Patty.

  I got up. “Is something wrong?”

  “It’s Ray, that friend of Patty’s.” Disapproval filled her voice. “They had a terrible fight after you left the other night. He’s not Jewish,” she muttered, as though that explained his rudeness. It reminded me, too, where I stood.

  “I just wanna pay my respects,” said the voice. “Patty!”

  Patty looked up as Ruby gestured for her. She gave Richard a tight smile and hurried into the kitchen. “What is it?” she asked Ruby.

  “Patty!” Ray hollered.

  “Oh, God!” Patty groused, recognizing the voice. She stamped out her cigarette, slammed the ashtray onto the table, and stormed off.

  I followed.

 
Walking into that living room was like penetrating a bubble of corrosive anger. It radiated from all around, and made me stagger back. Vera’s son-in-law, Michael, stood near the doorway, blocking the way. Ray’s thinning brown hair was combed back. The bright blue ski jacket he wore was zippered half-way, revealing a dress shirt and tie underneath. His eyes, fever bright, were filled with accusation.

  “What the hell do you want, Ray?” Patty grated.

  “I just came to pay my respects,” he said, lowering his voice as he took in the menacing glares all around him.

  “I asked him to leave,” Michael said.

  Richard wandered up to stand behind me. The other men were on their feet, edging closer. Ray backed up. He caught sight of me and time seemed to stand still. A wave of dizziness swept over me. My sight wavered as though a powerful x-ray shot through me, so strong was his rage.

  “Look, I don’t want any trouble,” Ray said, backing up a step.

  “Then why don’t you just go,” Michael said.

  “I’ll call you later, Ray,” Patty said.

  “You promise?”

  “Yes. Now please go!”

  Ray glared at her for a long moment, an unreasonable fury seething from him. Then he turned and let the storm door bang behind him. He kicked aside the glass pitcher, which shattered on the concrete walk.

  Michael stalked after him, and then stood at the bottom of the drive to make sure he left. Several cousins went out to pick up the mess. The others crowded around the windows to watch the show.

  My head was ready to split. I took a breath and looked at Patty. “What was that all about?”

  “Ray can’t get it through his head that I’m not interested in him. I’m sorry you had to see that,” she said, but she was looking at Richard, not me.

  My overloaded brain felt like a saturated sponge. Nausea made me shaky and my knees gave way. Richard grabbed my arm, steadying me.

  “We’d better go, too,” he said.

  “Too late. I gotta crash—now.”

  “Is something wrong?” Ruby asked, concerned.