Time to Go (19 page)

Magna says “It's Ruth. She sounds a little upset,” and hands me the receiver, collects her students' exam papers and goes into the bedroom.

I say “Hello, mom, how are you?” and she says “I've some bad news for you, Will. Aunt Rae called a few hours ago and said Uncle Saul died last night.”

“Oh God, that's terrible, awful. I'm very sorry.”

“His heart. I just spoke to him last week. We all knew he didn't have that long to live—the doctor told Rae that a few months ago. That he was just waiting around to die. But when you hear that it's happened, it always comes as a shock. I'm just glad he never knew how bad off he was.”

“I'll say. It's awful, awful.”

“He in fact called me—when was it?—two months ago and said he'd be in for Christmas for a week. I told him he could stay with me, there was plenty of room here, but he said he'd be staying at his sister-in-law's—Rae's sister Dolly. I don't think you ever met her. When I spoke to him last week I asked what about his Christmas plans and he said they'd have to be pushed back a ways but he'd see me in no later than three months.”

“I'm really sorry, mom. I loved Saul. He always took an interest in us—in you, your kids. He was like a second father. In some ways, what I wish dad had been more: interested.”

“Your father was interested. Maybe in a different way than Saul.

Silently. He didn't express himself much, except maybe to his cronies, but he certainly felt things. Saul was actively interested in all of you—that's true. You want to hear how it happened?”

“If you want to say.”

“Rae said he was watching television last night. That that's where she last saw him—in front of the TV—when she left him to take a shower. He was watching the eleven o'clock news, or the ten. I forget exactly what time she said.”

“I think the news comes on at ten in L.A.”

“That's right, you lived there. But maybe it's changed since then, or like us some of their stations have an hour of local news and then national. When she came out she said ‘Anything important happen in the news today, Saul?' and he didn't answer. She saw him slumped over—just a little to the side—his head. So he died peacefully.”

“That's good at least.”

“He had no means to prevent it. It was the heart muscles—there was no way to repair them with a new valve and he was in no condition for a heart transplant. He knew he was going to die, though nobody told him. I could tell by his voice in that last phone call we had that he knew he'd never see us again.”

“It's terrible, mom—I can't tell you. For you, for Rae, for myself. I hate to think of him gone.”

“I know he knew you appreciated him. He felt the same to you. He always respected you. And since they moved out there, when we talked he asked after you every time.”

“How are you holding up?”

“You mean by knowing it?”

“Yes, is anybody with you? Maybe you should go to Leslie's tonight or have her and Ben or just Leslie stay with you there.”

“I'm all right. He's not my first brother to go, just my youngest. I miss him already. I wish I had called him yesterday when I thought of it. I always get the time zones mixed up. I think eight here is eleven there and he might be in bed. I forget it's the other way around. But I don't need anyone with me. It's good talking to you about it. That's what happens when you come from such a large family. So many brothers and sisters to lose. Sometimes I wish I'd gone first. Before my parents even. I'm sad, though, that's true. I've had two drinks and feel tired already, so I'll sleep okay. But tell me what you think. Rae wants me to hold some kind of ceremony for Saul in New York. He'll be cremated out there, but she wants me to put an announcement in the
Times
about his death and a brief service at my place for his family here and friends. It'll be a lot for me to do, I don't think I'm up to it, but I'll do it if Leslie and Ben help out.”

“I'll come in for it and help.”

“I was hoping you could. I'll make it on a Friiday—you don't teach that day I remember—and you can get back to school by Monday. You think Magna will want to come? She met Saul, didn't she?”

“A couple of years ago. I'll ask her. It'll also give her a chance to see her folks and you.”

“I look forward to seeing her. Probably next Friday or the one after. Before sundown, because it has to be. All right, I don't want to keep you any longer. Give my love to Magna.”

“Goodnight, mom. Thanks for calling.”

I hang up and go into the bedroom. “What was it?” Magna says.

“Something wrong as I thought?”

“My Uncle Saul died last night.”

“Oh, I'm sorry, Will, I'm sorr.” She puts her pen down and comes over to me. I start crying. She holds my hand, touches my cheek. I break down and she puts her arms around me and pats my back and I sob for a while. I try to speak. I say “I loved…I loved…” I wanted to say “I loved the old guy very much,” She says “I know how you feel about him, you don't have to say. He was a very nice man. He was like a second father to you.” I nod. “Did he have it rough?”

“At the end?”

“It wasn't bad for him, was it? I remember he had a very bad heart. The walls. I hope not.”

“He died peacefully while watching the news. He must have just went—quick. Nothing painful. Maybe just a second—I don't know. He didn't suffer if he only felt pain for a second or two. That's not suffering.”

“No. You poor dear. And his poor wife. They didn't have children, so she must feel very alone. Want me to get you a drink?”

“No, I'll be all right. And it'll only make me sadder.”

“It also might relax you. No? Water then? Some apple juice?” I shake my head. “Maybe I better rest.”

“Maybe you should. Want me to work in the other room?”

“No no, I like having you here.”

I lie on the bed. Magna goes back to grading papers, turning around to me every other minute. I close my eyes. Images and thoughts of Saul go past. Shaking hands. Wagging a finger at me. Talking to me through his car window. Smiling. Smiling Saul his family called him because of his cheerful disposition. His very bald skull. Wearing a hairpiece for a year before he gave it to Goodwill. “Too vain,” he said, “and what am I hiding? I happen to have a very nice-shaped head.” Teaming up or playing one on one basketball with him in Central Park. He'd been first-string forward for NYU and he was only five-seven. “In those days, “he said, “if you were five-ten you automatically played center.” He wrote me encouraging letters when I was out of work and included a ten or twenty dollar check in the envelope. “Go out to a fancy lunch with it. You'll feel better after, which will make you more appealing to your interviewers.” He'd get miffed if I didn't tell him the more important personal and professional news of my life. “Remember, I'm the official Bederman Family Circle chronicler.” He once took a composition class with Thomas Wolfe. “We called him The Giant, but only because of his size. We didn't know who he was then. We were all sons of European immigrants, so his southern accent had to be translated.”

“Will, your mother on the phone again,” Magna says. I've been asleep for more than an hour. “She sounds even worse than before.”

“Something about Saul?”

“I'm not sure. When I told her you were sleeping she said not to wake you, but she's so distraught I knew she had to speak to you.”

I go to the phone. “Mom?”

“I'm sorry to wake you. I told Magna don't. I have some more bad news to tell you. I didn't want to so soon after Saul, but I promised Mr. Koven I would.”

“Larry's father? Something happened to Larry?”

“Not to. Larry. Mr. Koven said he didn't have the heart to tell you himself, but as Larry's best friend you had to know.”

“We haven't been best friends for twenty years. I mean, I like him and I've seen him when he came to Chicago on one of his business trips and lance visited him in Phoenix—”

“That's just it. His trips. He was away—for over two days—I don't know to where—and the previous week their dog had died.”

“Their dog died?”

“I know it sounds strange, but it's important to what happened.

Larry's very rich according to Mr. Koven. Lives in a mansion with a big swimming pool.”

“It's not a mansion, but what is it I'm supposed to know? Their children?”

“No, they were safely away at college. I don't like telling this, but he insisted. I said I just told you your uncle died, and he said he was sorry and gave us both his condolences but that this was more important. That uncles die of old age—heart, blocked arteries—but that this is today, somebody young wiped out by tragedy. He wouldn't sleep unless he knew I told you tonight, because right after it you were supposed to call Larry. He said Larry had asked him for you to call.”

“His wife?”

“‘Murdered!' he screamed into the phone. ‘Murdered, murdered!' The dog died naturally a week ago, and when Larry got back from his trip he found the house ransacked and his wife strangled. “

“Oh God no.”

“They have windows that come right down to the ground, he said. Maybe that's how they got in. And with no dog barking—maybe they saw Larry leave with his bags and knew about the dog and that the children were away and so came in. They took a few dollars and the stereo and that's all.”

“What's that got to do with it?”

“I wasn't being petty. Believe me, it's horrible for me speaking about it. I knew Larry as a boy for twenty years too and Mr. Koven and his wife are always polite to me on the street and several times he's helped me with legal papers and tax forms. I was talking about the absolute senselessness of it all.”

“I know. I'm sorry, mom, sorry.”

“So you'll call him?”

“I'll call. But you sure he wants me to?”

“Mr. Koven said Larry had definitely asked you to tonight.”

“Then I will. But what a day, huh? Unbelievable.”

We say goodnight, I hang up and look at Magna.

“I heard,” she says. “Are you going to?”

“What do you think I should do?”

“I think you have to, don't you?”

“But tonight? After Saul?”

“If you can't, you can't, and I can certainly understand why you couldn't, but he might be expecting your call.”

“What do I say to him?”

“You say how you feel. Or that you're too numb to feel anything now. Though I think you're just supposed to ask what you can do for him. If you can also tell him how I feel about it, please do.”

“Okay. But I'm not going to wait.”

I get a glass of vodka and ice and call Larry. He answers and I say “Larry, it's Will.”

“Yeah, my dad just phoned and said he spoke to your mother and you were calling. I didn't ask him to ask you. He got it in his head to speak to you. That maybe only you, because we were so close for so long, could help get me through this, but I told him it wasn't necessary. But he hasn't been the same since the funeral Sunday. He's actually been a bit crazy—wants to sell everything and pack up and go back to Germany, but I told him ‘Nobody's there now, dad.' He'll be okay though.”

“I can well understand him. And I'm sorry, but I didn't know around when it happened. Maybe my mother told me, but if she did it went past.”

“Sure. And my dad told me about Saul. That's when I almost blew up at him for getting you to call me, but kept it in. I liked Saul. Great guy. Powerful too—oh boy. He was like your oldest brother almost, so to me like my best friend's oldest brother. Or let's just say your favorite uncle, right? I loved it that he used to play ball with us. I told June about that a lot. How he came around a few Saturdays a year and got us out to the park with a bat and gloves, or even into the street for stickball, and played till we got tired, not him. A fantastic athlete. So my condolences to you.”

“And I can't tell you how I feel about June.”

“I can't tell you how I feel either. Maybe they'll get the crazies who did it, but you never know. Even if they do, where's it leave me? Oh, questions—forget it. If I say another word about it I'll crack up right over the phone to you. The girls are with me. They're fine, they look good. They're staying another week, so we're all okay for the time being. I'll write you maybe. And visit you next time I get to Chicago. I'm a mess, Will, no doubt about it, that's the biggest truth I've said to you so far about me, but a mess is the only way I should really be now, right? And I'm awfully sorry about Saul.”

“Thanks. Magna wants me to tell you how she feels about June too.”

“I'll speak to you.”

I hang up. “How my going to get to sleep tonight, Mag? How my going to?”

“Why not just finish your drink, have another if you want, and then call it a night. I still have a dozen papers to grade by morning, but if you want me to I'll come to bed with you now.”

“No, I'll be all right.” I finish the drink, kiss her goodnight, take off my clothes, get into bed and shut off the light.

My father follows me on the street. He says “Don't go into that store and don't go into the next one you might want to go into either. Go into none, that's what I'm saying.” But I stand in front of the door of the jewelry store I heard was the best in the city and am buzzed in. My father's right behind me, and I nod to the guard and say to the saleswoman after she says “Can I help you?” “Yes, I'm looking for a necklace—amber—I mean jade. I always get the two mixed up. But jade's what I want: long-lasting, forever, is the symbol, right? This might sound funny, but I want to present the necklace to my wife-to-be as a prenuptial gift.”