“Where did you get it?” Con said.
“It was in that little wooden box with the girl on top. The girl with the wooden shoes.”
“It was locked. I saw that you opened it.”
Joanna shrugged. “Just a silly little lock.”
“You picked the lock?” said Con.
“Maybe I should go to prison, too,” Joanna said.
“It was just a week,” Marlene said. “It was not boring. I learned quite a bit about my fellow woman.”
“I believe it was three months,” Joanna said. “He served two years. Then. And yes, jail is interesting, as I learned myself this week. Look, I don’t care if you went to prison. What I care about is—Marlene, you killed my grandmother.”
“He was my boyfriend,” said Marlene. “He thought it would benefit everyone if we got hold of that meat and sold it. It did benefit everyone.”
“You were cheating with him on your real boyfriend, who was married,” said Joanna. “My point is, you lie habitually. You told me this afternoon that you weren’t in touch with my mother during the war, but I’ve read your letters to her.”
“I’m getting old, I suppose,” Marlene said. “I’m becoming forgetful. The other day—”
“You didn’t forget that. You extorted money from her. In fact, you took money from my grandmother all her life. I think you claimed you were investing it. She didn’t really understand—and no wonder, because I don’t think she ever got anything back.”
“Wait a minute,” said Peggy.
Con looked at Joanna. Joanna must have taken the letters all those years ago, and kept them.
“Your grandmother was generous,” Marlene said. “I don’t know how well you knew her.”
Joanna said, “If she hadn’t been killed, I might have known her better.”
“Joanna,” Peggy said, “is this the best time and place?”
“She died of a heart attack,” Marlene said. “She was more generous than you can imagine. She pressed money on me, not for some scheme, but for what I needed. She had so little, with two little girls. And later—well, I was sharp about investments, and she couldn’t seem to learn what it was all about.”
“I think this is probably enough of this subject,” Peggy said quietly.
“Right,” said Con. “Let’s talk about the princess who kills her suitors. A little sadomasochism.”
“Pleasure in inflicting pain. The man in the chair with the scrap of paper…” Peggy said.
“That’s complete speculation,” Joanna said, and it seemed she would be willing to change the subject. Con ate more cake. “Nobody is sure he’s the head of the Inquisition. This is a speculation after the fact because something about that scrap of paper makes you imaginative types think of cruelty.”
“Cruelty is disorderly,” Con said.
“I don’t think so,” said Joanna. “The Nazis. Cruelty can be extremely systematic.”
“September eleventh,” said Peggy.
Joanna kept talking. “I don’t think you even call it cruel unless it’s systematic. But speaking of being systematic,” she said to Marlene, “there’s a letter in which you calmly and lovingly offer to tell my grandfather that my grandmother had already given you far more money than she could afford—for your blackmail scheme—and if that isn’t cold-blooded extortion, I don’t know what is.”
“But I didn’t kill her. You wouldn’t have known her if I’d killed her,” Marlene said. She looked down her long nose at Joanna and her black eyes narrowed with disdain.
Con wanted to be on Marlene’s side and the wish shocked her. Joanna was embarrassing. She seemed like a child, talking too loudly for a restaurant, and looking scared, so her body seemed almost clumsy. “You didn’t kill her then, of course not,” Joanna said. “Of course not. What do you think I am, an idiot? You killed her when—when she died. She died because you killed her.”
Con said, “Joanna, I don’t think—”
“You lie habitually and easily, that’s my only point,” Joanna said, her voice covering Con’s words. “You lied to me this afternoon. You lie simply and readily and automatically, so when you told my mother how my grandmother died, there was no particular reason for it to be true.”
“I was devastated,” said Marlene, in an unusually deep voice for her—a voice without her customary irony. “I was all but incoherent.”
“Actually, you weren’t,” Joanna said. Con remembered moments, scraps of minutes and seconds from the week and day her mother had died. She remembered putting on underpants and a bra after her mother had died, feeling the unfamiliarity of her motherless body. She remembered telling Barbara on the phone. She remembered looking in the Yellow Pages over and over again—or was that at another time? Had they looked for a rabbi, so as to have a funeral? They had had a memorial service. Jerry had spoken well, though she had already told him she was leaving him. She later rescinded the threat, then made it again, then didn’t act for several months. Finally, living alone in her mother’s apartment in Brooklyn—interrupted by coffee or wine with Peggy—became the norm rather than the exception. She realized she had already left Jerry, and just had to find a place of her own in Philadelphia, so Joanna, who’d been in Philadelphia all this time, could live with her. Now Con remembered Joanna, a teenager, in Gert’s apartment: disappearing for hours at a time, sorting the contents of drawers, lying on her stomach under the table to unplug the answering machine.
“What we said was recorded,” Con said to Peggy. “I hate to think. Marlene and I were both incoherent. We must have sounded like madwomen.” Joanna had taken the letters, and Con had never seen them again. Worse, she’d never inquired. She’d never thought. Her mother had left a little money—very little. She had been surprised there was so little, but too tired to think, too tired to inquire.
“No,” Joanna said. “I still have the tape. You don’t sound like madwomen.”
“You have it?” said Con. “Why?”
“I saved it because I liked listening to Grandma’s voice,” Joanna said. “I kept replacing the battery because I was afraid there might be a power failure, the battery would be dead, and the message would be lost. I’ve bought a lot of batteries for that old machine. It’s in North Carolina, in the apartment. But I remember everything. After a while I started listening to your conversation.” She turned to Peggy, who was gulping wine and pouring some more, looking as if she wanted to be elsewhere. “I guess my mother was in bed, and she didn’t pick up in time, so the machine recorded everything they said.”
“That can happen,” Peggy said. “But Joanna—the machine recorded your mother getting the news, and you listen to that over and over? Don’t you think that’s a little heartless?”
“What did I do, scream?” said Con.
“I certainly don’t remember!” Marlene said.
“You screamed,” said Joanna. “Of course you screamed. But then—Marlene…”
Con was frightened and excited, watching her child do this. It is exciting to see a taboo violated; Con had a thrilling sense of freedom. But she didn’t want to let this conversation go much further. “Isn’t this enough, Joanna?” she said. “Marlene is a complicated lady—we all know that. But that doesn’t make her a murderer.”
The waiter interrupted. Was everything all right? Did they want anything more? Peggy shook her head. “We’re fine.” He withdrew. Con had the impulse to call him back, just to prolong the moment, but she didn’t.
“No, it’s not enough,” said Joanna. “Marlene, when you found my grandmother dead, why—” Her voice became high-pitched again. She leaned forward. “Why didn’t you call 911?”
“Well, I called my doctor,” Marlene said. She looked intensely bored, disgusted with Con’s badly brought up daughter.
“Why didn’t you call 911?”
Marlene looked sideways at Joanna, and the folds of flesh under her chin quivered. “Oh, I did, of course.”
“No, you didn’t,” Joanna said. “You were ri
ght the first time. You called your doctor. These things can be checked.”
“Fifteen years later?” Peggy said.
“Maybe. But I checked a long time ago.”
“And you never told me?” said Con.
“What was the point?” said Joanna. “Mom, I’m sorry. But all these years. You couldn’t hear this. You wouldn’t.” She turned to Marlene. “How do you not call 911 when you find someone apparently dead?”
“Well, there wasn’t anything to revive, you see,” Marlene said. “I don’t want to be graphic, but she wasn’t just inert—she was dead. She was cold. There was no life to save.”
“Still. If you called your doctor, why didn’t the doctor tell you to call 911?”
“How should I know?”
“Well, I do,” said Joanna. “Because he already knew she’d be dead. He was your boyfriend. He’d given you the drug you used. You knew how to give injections from working in the vet’s office.”
“Now, wait a minute,” Peggy said. “This is serious.”
“My boyfriend! He was no boy!” Marlene said.
“Marlene slept with her doctor for years,” Joanna said. “Dr. Herbert. Nothing wrong with that. He was married, but I don’t care about that either.” She looked straight at Marlene. “You had a good reason for wanting her dead,” she said. “She was telling secrets, wasn’t she? Maybe talking about money, and talking about your husband. You didn’t want my mother to know who he was—the famous Lou Braunstein, the boyfriend you promised my grandfather you’d never see again. He was quite a character—he had a hand in so many scams and frauds and financial schemes, I couldn’t keep them straight when I started reading about them. Did you help him? I bet you were pretty good at that.”
Marlene stood. “Are we going to the theater?” she said.
“Year after year,” Joanna said, “checks to Marlene. I kept her checks after she died. A hundred dollars to Marlene Silverman, two hundred to Marlene Silverman, four hundred. Over and over again.”
“This is ridiculous,” said Marlene. “In any case, your grandmother’s death was merciful. You’d have lasted an hour with her—then you’d have wished for it too. The only way I killed her is if wishes can kill.”
Joanna kept talking. “I spoke to her real doctor, in Brooklyn. He was stunned when he heard she had died. Her heart was fine, for somebody her age. She was a little confused, he said, but she had good years ahead of her. They didn’t have a lot of drugs then, but he was thinking about antianxiety meds.”
“When did you talk to him?” Con said.
“Years ago.”
Marlene signaled the waiter. He didn’t seem to see her, but she called, “We need the check here. We need to get going.”
The waiter cleared the plates and glasses. Con had not finished her cake. The check came. Peggy picked it up and waved away Con’s protests. “Joanna,” she said, taking out a credit card, “there’s something I want to say.” As if there might be a way to change everything, they quieted, watching as she put down her card. The waiter took the check and credit card, and quickly returned them. In a quiet voice Peggy said, “Are we possibly talking about assisted suicide here?”
Everyone watched as Peggy calculated a tip and scrawled her signature.
“Assisted suicide?” said Con.
“Marlene,” Peggy said, her voice even quieter than before, “sometimes friends protect someone—I mean, did Gert ask you to do it? I don’t think anyone here would consider that a wrong choice on her part—”
Marlene looked ironically at Peggy. “Well, I thought you were sensible,” she said. “Here you are, joining in the fun after all.”
“It’s not fun,” said Con.
Marlene was pulling her coat on, and Peggy helped her with it. “Well, if that’s not what happened, never mind,” she said.
Con rubbed her arms with her hands.
“No, Peggy,” Joanna said, her voice light and unsteady. “No, she didn’t ask Marlene to kill her. On the tape, Marlene said they’d watched television the night before. So Grandma thought everything was fine. You said you watched an interview with Yasir Arafat, and Dynasty and All in the Family. I looked up the TV listings. It’s true. That was what was on. Nobody watches shows like that the night before they know they’re going to die. She didn’t ask. She didn’t know. Aside from the fact that it was inconceivable. I don’t think there’s anything wrong with assisted suicide—but my grandmother would not do it. She’d be too worried about my mother. No matter how bad off she was, she would have figured she had to stay alive to take care of my mother. Grandma would have thought that in a coma.”
Con wanted to speak but her voice didn’t seem to work. She had the feeling she couldn’t raise her arms. They hung before her, her elbows on the table, and she imagined how shocked everyone would be when she couldn’t put on her coat.
Gert’s refrigerator, by Saturday night, was empty, and Con wiped it out with a damp rag and replaced her own little store of groceries. Nothing else had been accomplished. Barbara kept saying she was jet-lagged, and interrupted everything, proposing different tasks or making objections. As for Con, she was no less distracted than she’d been all week. They had an argument about the striped tablecloth, which Con had come to love that week, and which Barbara insisted she had bought for her mother and should keep. Con knew she’d put the canceled checks into an old manila envelope, but now she couldn’t find it, though she searched and searched. She was afraid she might have thrown it out; she knew she was muddled. Together she and Barbara decided nothing and created additional chaos. After a while Peggy politely retreated to her apartment. Then the sisters sat down and talked, as if they’d been impatient to get out of sight of an exacting supervisor. Joanna, in the bedroom, slept. When she awoke they went looking for a restaurant, and found an open bar where they ate sandwiches. Barbara was too tired to drive back to the motel, and after several minutes of negotiation she slept on the sofa while Joanna and Con shared Gert’s bed. Con lay awake, next to her lightly snoring daughter.
In the morning, yet again, Con resolved to get control of her life. She had to get Barbara out of there, and eventually that happened—she went off to visit a friend, postponing the question of the memorial service. She seemed to have forgiven Con for having their mother cremated. The thought of Gert in flames was one of many topics to avoid.
Con had given Barbara a key to the apartment. She promised to return the following weekend, when they would hold a memorial service, which Barbara promised to plan. “I know bits of things to recite,” she said. “Even Jewish bits. Joanna will recite something.”
As soon as she was gone, Con and Joanna filled the suitcase they’d started the day before, and then another one. Joanna took the answering machine and her enormous garbage bag. Con left the tablecloth.
“The cat,” said Joanna.
Once again, Con had forgotten the cat. She went down to Peggy’s apartment. Peggy promised to feed him. “Cats manage on their own for quite a while,” she said, which was what Con had said vainly to her mother a bit more than a week ago.
With her cash jammed into an old brown leather purse of her mother’s that didn’t have long enough straps to hang off her shoulder—so it dangled from her wrist—and with her mother’s old brown suitcase in one hand, her own in the other, Con ushered Joanna out the door of her mother’s apartment at 3:30 p.m. on Monday, April 24, 1989, and they made their way to Penn Station.
Con’s arms seemed to work, and she put her hands to her face, which felt cold. Now Peggy stood to put on her coat, and Joanna—head down, scowling, silent at last—shrugged into her jacket. Con fumbled to get her arms into the sleeves of her jacket, standing between the tables. A man was passing and she waited and even nodded at him when he smiled. She buttoned her jacket. She was extremely tired. She needed to go to the bathroom, but that could wait.
“And what became of Grandma’s cat?” said Joanna.
Peggy turned around. “Don’t you remember
? My cousin’s neighbor took him.”
She led the other three out of the restaurant and they turned in the direction of Lincoln Center, just a few blocks away. The traffic was confusing. They spoke only when it was necessary. As they reached the sidewalk just before Lincoln Center, Con said to Marlene, “Is it true?”
Marlene looked at her, disgusted. “Gert was the only human being I have ever loved.” Even now, Con’s first thought was Not me?
They reached the doors of the New York State Theater. Con found the e-mail reservation in her bag. It was early, and the lobby was not crowded. It seemed inconceivable to attend the performance of an opera right now, but she didn’t know what else to do. The others waited while she went to the box office window to pick up the tickets, and as she joined the line, Con remembered meeting her mother in the lobby of this theater years earlier, to watch the New York City Ballet. They almost never went out together; this time, Gert had bought tickets as a present. When Con entered the lobby, excited—Suzanne Farrell would be dancing—she’d caught sight of Gert, waiting for her. Her mother had no idea how to dress up: there she stood in a familiar blue pantsuit with big pockets; Gert wore no clothes without pockets. She looked worried. Maybe she was afraid they wouldn’t be able to find each other. Con remembered the moment Gert caught sight of her, the transformation in her face. It was not just relief, it was joy—extravagant, embarrassing—at the sight of her daughter. Gert too must have been abashed at the strength of her feeling, because she greeted Con fretfully: “Is that jacket warm enough?”
But Con had seen the first expression, and knew the truth. At the time, she probably didn’t reply, but more than thirty years later, she did. “No,” she said to her long dead mother. “No, Mama, the jacket isn’t warm enough.” She waited some more, then received the tickets and returned to the others. Slowly, they began to climb the stairs.
Nothing Is Quite Forgotten in Brooklyn Page 24
