by Nina Solomon
Just as she had poured her second cup of tea and was about to reach for a packet of raw sugar, she sensed she was being watched. She glanced up quickly. Across the wide table she saw a man, the brim of his hat pulled down over his brow. He was leafing through the peach-colored pages of The Observer. She noticed the headline: PULITZER PRIZE RESCINDED FOR KOSOVO CAMP ACCOUNT. The man nodded to her. A complete stranger. She gave a sigh of relief that it hadn’t been Mr. Dubrovsky, but part of her was disappointed. For all the uneasiness the idea that she was being followed caused her, in some way it gave her a small amount of comfort. Someone, for whatever reason, would have been watching over her. She nodded back to the gentleman as the sugar crystals dissolved into her steaming cup of tea.
GRACE STOPPED IN the hospital gift shop for a pack of gum before going up to her father’s room. As she was on line to pay, she noticed a stack of Hadassah cookbooks. Grace leafed through one, turning the pages and looking absently at the familiar, tried-and-true recipes. She was nearing the end of the book, having just passed a kugel recipe made with pineapple and maraschino cherries, when she saw a recipe for Trudie’s Famous Sweet-and-Sour Meatballs. She read through the list of ingredients: two parts chili sauce to one part Welch’s grape jelly. A bag of minimarshmallows were needed to sprinkle on top for a glaze.
Grace was about to close the book when she recalled the incident with Francine in the Food Emporium, Francine’s cart precariously loaded with enough jelly and chili sauce to drown several cows, and it all began to make perfect sense: everything from Francine’s adamant refusal to give away her secret recipe to her quick exit at the supermarket, and finally her excess baggage. She had obviously smuggled the ingredients in her suitcase for a recipe even the French would not be able to duplicate. All these years of subterfuge, and here was the recipe in bold type for the bargain price of ten dollars.
Although the vehemence with which Francine had guarded this secret was out of proportion to the reason, the idea that a secret—even one so seemingly insignificant—had grown to such consuming magnitude was as familiar to Grace as her favorite pillow. She had an overwhelming feeling of compassion for Francine. She understood the impulse to maintain the illusion. Indeed, there was safety in it, but at the same time it invariably kept everyone at arm’s length. Grace and Francine were in the same self-made predicament. The deception wasn’t just for them. The result of going this far and with such success was that everyone around them became invested in it. Francine may have known this, protecting her illusions like a mother lion her cubs. Taking it away seemed wrong, although Grace knew she must. The dilemma now was about finding the right time for it to be undone.
Grace’s father was asleep when she entered the room. She recalled a phrase she had heard her mother once use when his mother died. It took the starch right out of him. She imagined her father hanging limply on a clothesline, as if all that was required to resurrect him now was the simple addition of the right solvent to the rinse cycle.
Bert and her mother were nowhere in sight, the Scrabble match abandoned midgame. Grace read the words on the board: frigid, agog, genus, kin, null. The usual assortment of esoteric words. She wondered how many words Bert had challenged. She glanced at her father’s letters. In front of his tile holder, next to the plastic pitcher of water on the wood-grained Formica swinging table, he had spelled out the word grace.
Even Grace, a novice in the world of etymology, could see that there was no place on the board where it could possibly fit.
Grace sat at her father’s bedside and waited. She hoped the words would come when she needed them. She looked at her left hand, and saw that she had forgotten to put her rings back on. Strangely, there was still a deep indentation in her skin where the rings had been. Her father began to stir. Then he opened his eyes.
“Grace,” he said. “How long was I sleeping?”
“Not long.”
“You should have woken me.”
“Dad?” she said, quietly. “I need to talk to you about something. Is this an okay time?”
“It’s always a fine time to talk to my daughter.” The room began to grow dark. Grace looked out the window. She could see menacing storm clouds gathering in the distance. She thought about the rain showers her father used to give her.
“Do you still have that Mary Poppins umbrella?” she asked. He smiled, closed his eyes again.
“I think it’s in the front hall closet. Why?”
“Just asking.”
“What’s it like out today?”
“It looks like it’s about to storm.”
“Did you wear boots?”
“Yes,” she said. Grace touched her father’s hand.
“What is it, Grace? Something wrong?”
“It’s just that I miss you.”
“I’m right here, sweetie.”
“This is hard,” she said. “It’s about Laz.”
“Laz?” he repeated, slowly.
“He’s not coming tomorrow.”
“Hmm,” he said.
“He’s not coming tomorrow or the next day. He didn’t come today. He doesn’t even know you’re in the hospital. He’s been gone. Since Halloween. I know this won’t make any sense to you right now, but I did all this to protect you and Mom. I thought he was coming back. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. If I could change things, I would. Please forgive me.” Grace stopped. The words seemed disembodied, even though she knew they had come out of her mouth. Tears ran down her cheeks. She looked at her father’s face. His expression was calm and placid. He touched her arm.
“What’s that, honey?”
“Laz is gone,” she said, reaching for a tissue and blowing her nose.
“That’s nice, dear. Send him our best.” Grace wiped her eyes and watched the rain pelting the windowpane.
“I will,” she answered. “As soon as I see him.”
28
THE UNINVITED GUEST
The next morning, when Grace arrived at the hospital, a resident was talking to her mother in that disturbing hushed tone that doctors use when something’s wrong.
“His enzymes are high. We think there may still be a blockage in one of the arteries.”
Grace walked closer. Her heart began to palpitate, and she considered asking for her own thallium stress test. Her first thought was that the conversation she’d had with her father the day before had registered on some corrosively subliminal level, and that it was now wreaking havoc on his system. She wished there were a version of the M.R.I. to determine whether her words had penetrated his consciousness. She feared that the truth might have done more damage to him than withholding it. Maybe the truth was vastly overrated. Maybe lies were the glue that bound people together like connective tissue, maintaining the fibers of interpersonal relationships, allowing for freedom of movement without pain. Maybe some truths are not meant to be known. Grace couldn’t forgive herself. She should have let him be.
She stood next to her mother and listened to the prognosis. Then, as they wheeled her father down the hall for his second procedure in two days, Grace ran downstairs and onto the street, heading to Kane’s. She would tell him everything.
SHE RODE THE elevator to the ninth floor and rang the bell. She rang again. She was about to leave when she heard sounds from within. The door opened. Before her stood a woman with long, tousled dark hair, wearing only a large blue hockey jersey. Grace checked to make sure she had rung the right bell.
“Can I help you?” the woman asked.
“Is Kane here?” She hesitated, then said, “It’s Grace.” The woman smiled and motioned for her to come in.
“Hold on, I’ll get him.” She turned to walk into the other room, and as she did, Grace saw white lettering on the back of the shirt. It spelled out the name Gregg. Grace’s mind tried to assimilate the barrage of information that was whizzing by her. Slowly, it began to make sense. This person in front of her was Kane’s Greg, only this Gregg was a long-legged, half-naked woman who spelled her name
with two gs. Grace heard Kane from the bedroom. She wanted to bolt for the elevator, but he appeared before she could make her getaway.
“Grace,” he said when he came out, wearing only a pair of boxers. Between the two of them, they had one complete outfit. “Is something wrong?”
“I just wanted to let you know that my father’s going into surgery again. There’s another blockage.” Grace thought about her father undergoing surgery, entering that state of twilight sleep where there is no pain.
“Come on in. Let’s talk.”
“No, I really should get back,” she said, glancing at her watch. She couldn’t stay. Not now, with Gregg here. She knew she had no right to feel jealous, but still, with all her might, she wished this long-legged interloper would disappear. Kane was supposed to be hers—gay, straight, or otherwise.
“Stay for a little while. Are you hungry? Gregg’s making blueberry pancakes.” Grace imagined the wheat-free, gluten-free, egg-free, dairy-free, fat-free concoction and shook her head, knowing that she was being offered a breakfast without ingredients.
“I’d really like to, but I need to get back to the hospital,” she said again. What she really needed at that time was, as her father would say, a mystery to her.
“We’ll be thinking about you,” Kane said, giving her a hug. “Let me know how it goes.”
“Nice to finally meet you, Grace,” Gregg said, slipping her arm around Kane’s waist. “Kane never stops talking about you.”
“You, too,” Grace said, and then quickly walked to the elevator.
THE SURGERY WENT WELL—Grace’s father was back in the recovery room sucking on another lollipop, Bert was in the hallway in yet another hat, and Grace’s mother was giving makeup tips to a woman about to undergo radiation treatment. Although Grace had no proof that her confession had actually penetrated deeper than the surface of her father’s tympanic membrane, it was a beginning, and her faith in the curative power of truth was once again restored.
“Makeup is for life,” she heard her mother say. “It makes all the difference. For you and everyone around you. That, and a great outfit, of course.” Grace had visions of an infomercial hosted by her mother, and she avoided looking at her for fear of being doused with some hypoallergenic beauty product or accosted with an implement supposed to endow her with perfection. Grace stayed until visiting hours were over, kissed her still groggy father on the cheek, and told him she’d see him in the morning. Then she rode back to her apartment through the park.
José held the door open for her when she stepped out of the taxi. He looked her up and down as her mother had done numerous times since her return from Chicago, and Grace prepared herself for whatever comment awaited her.
“Nice coat,” he said, after appraising it. “I like your new look.”
She smiled. As she passed him and walked toward the elevator, she said, “It’s not new, actually. Just something I’d forgotten I had.”
When the elevator doors opened and Grace stepped out into the hall vestibule, she saw dry cleaning hanging from her front door. Through the plastic, she could see Laz’s leather jacket and pants, returned like homing pigeons. On the small table next to the door there was a package tied with kite string. It was about the size of one of her father’s old cigar boxes, and written on the front in black marker was Grace’s name and apartment number. There was no return address. She wasn’t in the mood for any more surprises.
She brought the dry cleaning and the mysterious package inside, hanging Laz’s jacket back in the closet. She looked down at her polyester-blend, faux-leopard coat and grazed the soft pile with her hand. She wondered if it, too, wasn’t just another kind of wrapping.
But then she realized the difference—she had chosen it not to fit in or to transform herself in some way, but because for once it fit her, instead of the other way around. Maybe another day she would feel like wearing pink polka dots, or white tulle with sequins, or nothing special at all. The only thing that mattered was that it would be her choice.
She went into the bedroom to unwrap the package, and just as she was cutting the string, the telephone rang.
“Grace,” her mother said, cheerfully. “Thank you for the raisin biscotti. Daddy loved them.” While her mother was talking, Grace went into the bathroom, cradling the phone under her chin, and reached under the sink for the jar of ammonia. She fished her wedding and engagement rings out with a pencil, dried them, and slipped them on her finger—but they wouldn’t go farther than her second knuckle. Her mother had always told her never to take off her wedding ring. Now she understood why.
“Cholesterol-free, and no one would ever know it,” her mother continued. “If you dip them in coffee, they’re just perfect.” Grace was about to say that she had no idea what her mother was talking about when she realized what was in the package that was lying on her bed. She lifted it up and weighed it in her hands.
She could visualize the words, the lines, even the spaces between the words—the silent, blank patterns that emerged like breaths separating the lines. Her mouth moved as she recited a phrase from memory: Life is poetry, if people don’t distort it. Her life was more like Silly Putty, stretched and contorted, rendered silly beyond recognition. Her life, far from poetic, was collecting dust.
She slid her finger underneath the butcher paper and let the book fall into her hands. It was Mr. Dubrovsky’s beaten up, scrawled-upon copy of Oblomov. She had no idea how it had gotten there and even less how to return it to him. The definitive edition of Oblomov Uninvited. She tossed it on the comforter. Oblomov was back in bed once more.
Unless, like the raisin biscotti, it had delivered itself, Grace preferred not knowing who had sent it.
“I’m glad he liked them,” she said to her mother.
29
SPRING CLEANING
A week after her father’s first surgery, and three days before Christmas Eve, Grace decided it was time to tell her parents the truth.
“To what do we owe this pleasure?” her father asked, when he answered the door. He was wearing a button-down shirt and pajama bottoms.
“Why didn’t you call first?” her mother asked, rushing down the hall and untying her apron. “We might have been out.”
“We’re not out, Paulette. You haven’t let me out in a week, except to go to the doctor’s.”
“How are you feeling, Dad?”
“Fine. The doctor says I’ll be back to my old self in no time. Better than new.”
“Can we sit?” Grace asked. “There’s something I have to tell you.”
“Sure, honey,” her mother said. “I’m making some turkey broth for your father. You’ll stay for lunch.”
Grace and her parents walked into the living room and sat down on the couch. The shades were drawn to block out the afternoon sun. She began to tell them the story of the past three months, this time unabridged. While he listened, Milton sighed deeply and grasped for his wife’s hand, which she pulled away, running it through her hair.
“There’s no point in saying I’m sorry.” Grace paused, then ended by saying, “It won’t make this easier or take away the pain. But I am. And I love you both very much.” After she was finished, the three of them sat in silence.
Finally, her mother spoke. “He’ll be back—he wouldn’t leave us. And we’ll just act like nothing happened.”
“I can’t do that anymore,” Grace said quietly. Her father began to sob, covering his face with his hands.
“What, Dad?” Grace asked, moving closer to him and putting her arm around his shoulder.
“I can’t help you,” he said, through his tears.
“That’s okay. I don’t need help now.” Grace held out the box of tissues. He took one.
“How are we going to tell Bert and Francine?” he asked, blowing his nose.
“Why involve them yet? Nothing’s definite,” her mother said. Grace looked at her parents. She knew that they weren’t ready to see the finality of the situation, and that this w
as all they could do. For now. But she also knew she had to do more.
THE ONLY DIFFERENCE preconfession and postconfession was that where before every conversation had been peppered with references to Laz, now his name simply never came up. With Grace’s parents or the Sugarmans, his name was not only avoided, it was verboten, but not for the reasons that might be commonly expected. It wasn’t to spare Grace’s feelings or to protect her from what they feared might turn out to be a harsh reality; it was as if the mere utterance of Laz’s name might in some way actually awaken the dead. It was a shonda—a word that almost defies translation. So, instead, they went through the motions and kept things hushed, in the hopes of not jinxing what they secretly wished would turn out to be a happy reunion.
For Grace, though, it was significantly worse than before. Now she was truly alone. While in some ways her parents’ denial looked like a rather comfy choice, it was an option no longer available to her. Denial was not a gift certificate in a self-addressed, stamped envelope, redeemable at any time. It had run its course in Grace’s case. She’d invented this story of a stable, stationary husband in order to keep things in place, a bracket around the relationship, a scaffolding to hold things up while she contemplated an entirely new marital strategy. But there was nothing left to hold up. The bricks were coming down.
ON CHRISTMAS EVE, Laz’s mother hosted an annual evening of caroling at her building on Park Avenue and Ninety-second Street. Grace arrived early to tell her about Laz. Nancy Brookman was the only one who wasn’t at all fazed by her son’s departure. In fact, she had anticipated it all along. “Like father, like son,” she said. It wasn’t a matter of if he would leave, but when.
Nancy had hired a choir of Juilliard students to lead the carols throughout the building, with the party eventually winding up upstairs at her penthouse duplex for crepes and Irish coffee by a roaring fire. The carolers stopped in each of the four stairwells, singing several traditional arrangements as the sound echoed up the marble vestibules. The stairs were lit with votive candles, the air perfumed with frankincense. The caroling culminated with Silent Night around the brilliantly lit twenty-foot Douglas fir in the center of the courtyard.
