by Gigi Fenster
‘Bouncy. Being bouncy at the gym all the time. Yeah, I guess it is tiring. But she didn’t seem tired. She seemed fine. Maybe if we’d known about Stewart we would have paid more attention but you know, Dad, she really did seem fine.’
‘About being bouncy. Um, she wasn’t maybe … maybe happier than usual? Exuberant?’
David snorts. ‘Exuberant? Rachel? I don’t think she’s ever exubed in her life. Bouncy at work is one thing, but exuberant? Rachel? No. She seemed the same as always. Fine.’ David pauses. ‘Even keel.’
‘Even keel.’
‘Even keel. Like I told Tim.’
‘You told the cop.’
‘And I told Search and Rescue.’
‘You told Search and Rescue.’
‘They have to know about the mental state of the person they’re looking for. Search and Rescue have to know what they’re dealing with, whether the lost person could have gone off the rails, or maybe tried to … you know, and apparently they often get old people going missing. Because of dementia.’
‘Rachel doesn’t have dementia.’
‘Of course she doesn’t. But they ask about the mental state of everyone. They have to.’
And you had to answer, thinks Morris, and he remembers David mumbling into the telephone and walking around so that he can’t overhear. Gossiping with a policeman when Morris is out of the room.
Don’t get all uppity about that. David was trying to protect you.
To protect me.
You know how protective he is.
Protect me from what?
Well, what do you think?
They keep looking at the dead television for a while, then David says, ‘I’ll tell you if there’s been any change in the weather.’
Don’t let him go. Call him back. Ask him if she’s happy. Ask him if she’s lonely.
He said even keel.
At the door David turns back. ‘Dad, there is one thing. I guess Debbie and I were wondering about something—’
‘Um, you were wondering about something?’
‘Well, Debbie wondered, and I did too, whether it’s quite normal for Rachel to … I mean, what type of person goes tramping alone? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with it, and Tim said it’s fairly common. We just wondered. I mean three days is a long time to be alone and isn’t the whole point of going tramping that you get to have time with someone else? Chatting under the stars, sharing the beauty of nature, that sort of thing.’
Miss Robson gave Morris tips on answering exam papers.
‘The first and most important thing … Are you listening?’
He nodded and her head seemed to go up and down. He thought scarves were completely stupid. They could get caught in doors or …
‘The first and most important thing is to Read. The. Question. What must you do, Morris?’
‘Um, you must—’
‘Read the question. That’s right. Read it carefully. Ask yourself what is being asked of you. Find the key word. Are you being asked to explain something? To give an example? To describe it?’
If a scarf was really long, a woman could trip on it. She might fall over. Wasn’t there an actress who …
‘What must you ask yourself, Morris?’
‘Um, I must ask myself—’
‘That’s right. You must ask yourself what is being asked of you. Now David, for example, he is asking you to do what?’
‘To describe something.’
‘That’s right, Morris. Good boy. David is asking you to describe the person who goes tramping alone.’
When Miss Robson leaned back out of the light, she didn’t look bald any more.
Describe—the key word is describe. David is asking for a description. But how can Morris describe this person? It could be anyone. Anyone who’s alone.
Morris says, ‘I don’t know. Normal people. Like the policeman said, it’s fairly common.’
He doesn’t say, except in the Tararuas. The Tararuas are not for tramping alone. The Tararuas are my mulberries.
David says, ‘I guess so,’ and he’s gone to check the weather.
You could have described your father.
My father.
Your father used to tramp alone.
There’s a window seat in the bay window. Six-year-old Morris lies flat on his stomach on the cushion with the green flowers, and kicks his feet. He screams, ‘I want to go too. I want to go with him. He promised.’
His mother stands beside him. ‘Morris, Morris, stop screaming.’
‘But he promised,’ Morris wails.
‘Morris, listen to me. Stop crying and … and … I know what we’ll do. We’ll go and see Joan’s new little puppy. That will be fun—to play with the puppy. We can take something nice for tea. You’ll like that.’
‘Don’t want Joan’s puppy. I want … I want.’
Pearl talks to the window. ‘It’s out of my hands. Maybe next time. Try to understand.’
Morris will not understand. He is six years old and cannot imagine a next time.
He is burning.
Pearl stands up, smooths down her skirt. ‘That’s enough, Morris. I’m leaving now.’ At the door she turns back. ‘Morris, please.’
‘He promised.’
‘Joe Goldberg’s promises,’ she mutters. ‘The sooner you learn …’ and she is gone from the room.
Morris peeps over the edge of the bay window. His father is facing the boot of the car. He has his back to the house. Pearl walks towards him, then stops at a bit of a distance and watches him. Joe turns to her, and she looks away to inspect a plant. She pulls something off a leaf and stamps on it.
He says something and takes a step towards her. Then he walks past her to go into the house.
‘I want to go with. I want to go too.’
‘Morris,’ Joe says softly.
‘You promised I could go. I packed my bag.’
‘Morris,’ louder.
‘I want—’
‘Morris,’ angry now, ‘I’m leaving. Are you going to say goodbye to me?’
‘You prom—’
‘Oh, for goodness sakes. This is ridiculous. I’ll be back in two days. Stop bawling and I’ll bring you something. Just stop bawling, will you?’
‘But, but, I want to go—’
‘I said. Stop bawling. Just stop.’
Joe’s hand is lifted. His face is red. He bangs his hands on the side of his pants, turns and walks from the room. Morris gasps, holds his breath and hears his father asking the walls if it’s any bloody wonder he needs time on his own? God, he needs a bit of peace and quiet. Two bloody days, is that too much to ask?
A bit of peace and quiet. That’s all Rachel wanted. She works too hard and her job is tiring with its loud music and exclamation marks. Its passion. Its bouncing. All that bouncing will take it out of you. Not to mention the flashing lights. She’d need some peace and quiet.
A bit of peace and quiet. That’s all his father wanted. But there’s no peace and quiet when your wife is complaining about your friends and your ridiculous son wants to sleep in his clothes. It’s enough to make you wish you’d never bought the damn shorts. To make you wish you’d never invited him to come along.
It is ridiculous to sleep in tramping clothes. It is ridiculous to think that his father will go without him. He is six years old and should know better. He shouldn’t have nagged his mother. He shouldn’t have slept in the shorts. They’re scratchy. Maybe he should go to his parents and tell them he’s sorry. His father will ruffle his head and tell him that he wouldn’t dream of going without him, and his mother will take him back to bed and tuck him in and tomorrow he’ll go tramping with his father. Only the two of them. Man and man.
He climbs out of bed. Goes down the passage. To his parents’ door which is closed.
He pauses at the door.
Open the door, Morris.
He’s not supposed to go into his parents’ room.
Ope
n the fucking door.
He puts his hand on the handle, turns it, opens the door.
What’s the wording on a Jewish telegram?
A what?
A Jewish telegram. It’s a joke. What’s the wording on a Jewish telegram?
A joke?
Start worrying. Stop. Details to follow. Stop.
Morris looks at his watch. It’s six o’clock. He must have fallen asleep. David must have come and gone with his news of the weather. There’s light coming through the curtains. Footsteps coming down the passage.
Wendy comes in. She’s wearing a white bathrobe, like she’s in a hotel. Her hair is wet. Morris looks down to her feet, half-expecting to see a pool of water. Her toenails are painted bright red.
She says, ‘Jeez, you look terrible.’
So terrible that she can’t bear to look at him, for she’s covered her face with a towel. When she starts rubbing at her head, he looks away.
Sadie used to rub at her hair like that. He liked watching it. First she’d cover her whole head with a towel—face too. Then she’d … well, attack herself. Morris would watch the towel pummelling away at her head and marvel. How did she come to be so secure, so confident?
From beneath her towel she’d keep talking to him. ‘So I bumped into that woman who used to work at the pharmacy today and she said that …’ and he’d be wondering whether she wasn’t hurting herself.
When she lifted the towel, her face would be glowing and her hair puffed out around her like iron filings exposed to a magnet.
Until she rubbed it off entirely.
She enjoyed rubbing at her hair, Morris thinks. She would have missed it.
‘At least it’s getting light,’ Wendy says. ‘That will make the searching easier.’ She turns to open the curtains, then turns back. ‘About what I said last night, about Sadie and the touching …’
Morris says, ‘We were both stressed,’ and is surprised to see a flash of anger burn across her face.
‘Of course we were stressed. We still are stressed. But that doesn’t make it … it doesn’t make it wrong what I said. It’s still right, what I said.’
She wants to start the fight again. She’s still burning with it. All that stuff about Steve was just a layer of ash hiding the coals which are, right now, going to flare up again. Morris doesn’t think he can bear it. He needs to stop her.
‘You were right,’ he says. ‘There is something the matter with me.’
She takes a step forwards.
‘Sadie knew there was something the matter with me. She always knew.’
Still she advances.
‘She knew. She understood. It’s just … it’s like … in some things I need instructions. Sometimes I need instructions.’
Wendy stands still, fiddles with the towel, is quiet for a while before saying, ‘You know, if there was one thing Sadie loved, it was giving instructions. Sadie Bossy Boots. Used to drive me nuts when we were kids. And did she take as good as she gave? No she did not. She hated being given advice.’ Her voice is drenched. The burn is gone. She is damp again. ‘My sister managed to avoid advice-givers for most of her adult life only to find herself completely at the mercy of do-gooder nurses and know-it-all doctors. How unfair is that?’
‘How unfair—’
‘Grossly unfair. Anyway, I’d better get dressed,’ and she is gone from the room.
She has forgotten to open the curtains.
Drink this. Swallow that. Try not to think of the pain. The nurse knows what’s good for you. The doctor knows better. The visiting specialist knows best of all.
They pared away at Sadie with their instructions, down to bald bone.
She just lifted a languid hand, lay back and was told.
They left her with only one thing to instruct Morris on: what to do when she died.
She chose early morning to give Morris his what-to-do-when-I-die instructions. Before the day wore her down.
‘Don’t be squeamish, Morris. Write down what I say. In your notebook. Humour a dying woman.’
Morris took some time in finding the right page in his notebook. Sadie didn’t complain. She lay back and breathed, and he was reminded of the evenings when they used to sit together after dinner, Sadie turning a glass of wine by its stem, Morris writing down what time he should collect the children, what bills to pay when he went to the bank, who would be coming to David’s birthday party. They were comfortable those evenings. Sadie sat still and his notebook filled with the knowledge of what he needed to do.
Later, when he re-read Sadie’s death list, he wondered whether she’d noticed that he didn’t feel uncomfortable about being instructed on her death. Had she seen that he felt relief? Had she known that he’d considered and reluctantly rejected the possibility of writing his own list?
He couldn’t write his own list. Someone might see it and ask questions. But if Sadie insisted, that was different. He would humour her.
First she had instructions on how to deal with the instructions. ‘When we’re done I want you to tear these notes out of your notebook. Put them somewhere you’ll remember. Next to the phone.’
She paused to breathe, and he wondered whether she was expecting him to make a note that he was to rip the pages out. She knew that he hated ripping pages from his notebooks.
‘If you don’t rip the pages out, you might not be able to find your notes. I’ll be rotting away while you flip frantically through your gazillion notebooks … gazillion notebooks … looking for the one that contains the bloody instructions.’
Did she have to use so many words? When every one was tiring. ‘Bloody’, for example.
‘Sadie, I …’
‘Okay, I’m exaggerating, but let’s not forget that you will be overwrought and …’
Should he be timing her pauses, remembering how many words she managed per breath? Would the nurse want to know that?
‘… overwrought will be the appropriate emotion. Your wife will just have died.’
‘Sadie …’
‘Don’t fight with me, Morris. I don’t want you alone with my body. That’s all.’
But it wasn’t all. There were three instructions. ‘First you phone the Chevra Kadisha—you know, the people at the shul.’
How do you spell Chevra Kadisha? Where do I find the number of the shul?
‘Then you phone Wendy and the children. Then go and sit in the front room and wait.’
Only three.
Sadie closed her eyes and sighed, and the nurse came in and said it was almost time for the patient’s painkillers, and what a funny angle she was lying at. It couldn’t be comfortable.
That evening, when Morris went to answer the phone, he saw that there was already a note above the phone. Wendy had written the number of the Chevra Kadisha on a Post-it and stuck it on the wall. When Morris tried to pull it off, he discovered she’d stuck Blu-Tack on the back of it. If he pulled it off he might damage the paint. Why did she use a Post-it if she was going to stick a great wad of Blu-Tack on the back of it? And why that particular Post-it? The one with the estate agent’s logo on it and those words—We Go Beyond.
Sadie and Wendy probably thought it was funny. ‘I wonder how far beyond the Chevra Kadisha will go with me? To hell maybe?’
‘You should be so lucky, darling. It’s off to heaven for you. You’re an angel.’
Morris was alone in the house when Sadie died, just as she’d known he would be. Early in the morning, after the night nurse had left, before Wendy arrived. Before the visitors or the children or anyone.
He didn’t flip through a gazillion notebooks and he didn’t need to check Sadie’s list. He’d learned it off by heart. It was that short. Phone the Chevra Kadisha. Then the children and Wendy. Then sit in the front room and wait.
Rachel was at the house within ten minutes. Still in her gym clothes.
One of the men from Chevra Kadisha looked at her skimpy shorts as if to say what kind of a daughter? What kind?
The
kind of daughter who finds her father sitting in the front room and doesn’t try to stop him when he says he’d like to see the body before they wrap it up. The kind of daughter who walks behind him down the passage and doesn’t try to hug him when he stands outside the spare-room door unable to turn the handle, who doesn’t take his hand or burst into the room and disturb the men who have closed the door behind them. The kind of daughter who walks away from the door so that he follows, then sits opposite him and says nothing.
The men were finished when Wendy arrived. David got there soon after.
‘We will drive away slowly,’ said the older of the two Chevra Kadisha men. ‘You, her family, you walk behind us. Down the road, till the end of the road. You accompany her on this last journey.’
Wendy took David’s hand and put her arm around Rachel. Morris pulled back to walk behind them. At the end of the road the car sped up and merged with the morning traffic.
I wonder if the Chevra Kadisha was involved when your father—
When my father.
I wonder who followed your father down the road? Do they even do that when someone—
Who would have washed and wrapped his father’s body? Not the careful man who had actually met Sadie at someone’s birthday party and remembered her laugh, who was sorry for their loss and wished them long life. Not his younger partner who knew someone who’d been taught by Sadie and was silent and respectful and kept his eyes down.
It was a well-matched pair who took Sadie away. Balanced and synchronised. They eased her smoothly from the world. They went further.
And the two who took Joe away? A hunchback banging his club foot behind him, the box balanced precariously on his bent back. Holding the other end of the box, an impossibly tall, horribly thin pale man who stops every now and then to wipe his bulging forehead. When he stops he puts his end of the box down but doesn’t tell the hunchback, and the box is dragged along for a few clumping seconds before the hunchback realises and throws his end down, spits, shouts something guttural. Raising dust. Always raising dust.
