“How are you doing?” Jack whispered, as he placed his hand on my knee.
“Sad,” I answered, patting back. Adam was at Candace’s for the day as Rita unapologetically specified that no one under the age of thirteen could attend her funeral or memorial. When I heard this, I half expected there to be some juicy content in the eulogy. Rita always hinted that she was a hot number during in the war. I imagined Rita and Bernice with their hair rolled neatly, brown skirts to their calves, and fabulously wide-heeled shoes one can only find in retro shops. I saw Rita with red lipstick and a cigarette walking the boardwalk in Coney Island, turning her limp into a sexy swagger. But at the memorial, there were no tales that required a PG-13 rating. Rather, Rita didn’t want any children’s chatter to detract from her memorial. Especially after she’d worked so hard on the eulogy.
Jack patted my hand again, but this time left it there. “It’s gotta be rough,” he said.
“It is,” I returned. “Plus, she was right there near my dad’s plot, so I feel a double whammy of grief.
And
I feel guilty about it. I keep hearing Rita’s voice saying, ‘This is
my
day. Mourn your fathah on your own time!’” Jack laughed. “Don’t laugh,” I whispered. “We’re going to get in trouble.”
“Bernice is holding up remarkably well,” Jack said.
“She’s out of her mind,” I whispered. “She’s working the room like a bride. I overheard her say that she was sorry that Rita wasn’t here to enjoy the party, but she was sure glad
she
was.”
“Give her a break,” Jack said. “She’s been through a lot.”
“I just wish she’d act normal.”
Jack smiled. “Define normal.”
I glanced at my cousins seated around the table and leaned in toward Jack. “Obviously, this isn’t the time, but I think we need to talk about the other night.”
“You think it was a mistake?” Jack asked.
“No!” I whispered, then shot my eyes around to look at my cousins. “Let’s talk about this later.” After a moment, I rapped his knee under the table. He leaned in and I whispered, “Do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Do you think it was a mistake?”
Jack shook his head emphatically. “I’m glad it happened.”
Our smiles broke when we heard a fork tapping a glass. Bernice in her green sequined gown called for the group’s attention. “Excuse me, everyone,” she said as the guests began to settle. “On behalf of my family, I’d like to thank you all for coming to Rita’s farewell luncheon.” She blew into the microphone and asked if it was on. “I wanted to share a little story with you about grieving Rita.” Finally some admission that this was, in fact, a memorial reception. “The rabbi asked me this morning how I planned to grieve the death of my sistah. We saw each othah every day. We tawked on the phone. We knew every secret the othah had. I was there when she was born and she’s been my best friend evah since. I’m an old woman, and life is getting a little more rocky than it’s evah been. Friends are dying. A few years ago, I went to my sixty-year high school reunion, and seven people were there—two in wheelchairs, one with a walkah. I don’t hear at all in my left ear any more, so when I go to the movies, I have to sit with my right ear pointed toward the screen, which means I get a crick in my neck from trying to see what’s going on. I don’t complain, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have troubles. So, at eighty-two years old, I’m not going to make myself any more uncomfortable than need be. When I remember that Rita has passed away, I’m going to simply pretend it nevah happened.”
A hundred faces glanced nervously at each other, wondering if we should interrupt her or let her continue with her toast to denial. “When I think to call her, I’ll just pretend she’s on vacation. Or, I’ll just close my eyes and pretend she’s there. I know what she would say. After eighty yeahs with her, it’s not like she could shock me with some new revelation anyway. So, if you feel a hole in your heart today, where Rita used to be, fill it by pretending she nevah died. Raise your glasses with me and toast her. To Rita. Pretend she nevah left us. Pretend she’s still here. Just pretend.”
Again, the guests looked around at each other for guidance. Should they toast to insanity concocted during Aunt Bernice’s obvious breakdown? Could they raise their glasses and say “Pretend” in unison?
“To Rita,” Jack said, filling in the awkward silence. “To Rita and her beautiful life!”
“To Rita!” the crowd repeated, relieved.
Chapter 32
When Jack’s cell phone rang during dessert, half of the room glanced at their own, then looked annoyed at him for forgetting to turn his off. He knit his brows with concern when he saw who the call was from, so I gave him a look as if to say it was okay, that he should answer. He stepped outside, then returned twenty minutes later.
Still standing, Jack asked, “What would you think if I sold the gallery and we ran off together and joined the circus?” He kissed my forehead then sat beside me.
“Look around, hon,” I said, gesturing to my family, and Aunt Bernice in particular, who’d just recently suggested we all go out for karaoke after the luncheon. “Marrying into this family was joining the circus.”
“Seriously, Luce,” Jack persisted. “What would you think if I sold the gallery and spent more time on my own painting?”
“Wow, this is out of left field,” I said, wondering how long Jack had been unhappy with the gallery.
“So was the car that nearly killed me,” he said. “Everything’s changed, Luce. And here we are,” he gestured to our empty table with half-filled water glasses and chocolate crumbs. “Rita was an old woman, but still. One day she’s on heart medication, thinking everything’s under control, and the next week we’re at her funeral.” He sighed and reached for my hand. He turned his body squarely toward mine and leaned in to speak more softly. His eyes gazed up at mine and I knew that whatever he asked of me, I was already halfway there. “I’m not happy running the gallery. I was once, but now I want to paint again. What do you say we take a drive out to The Berkshires and look at some land? With what I could sell the gallery for, we could buy a house on a couple acres, then build the artist community little by little. I’ve been looking at the real estate ads, and I think we might be able to swing it. In ten, fifteen years, we could be living our dream.”
Anjoli always says that anxiety is two equal portions of excitement and fear, and to work through it, a person should separate them and address each individually. Excitement: Jack is talking about us being together ten years down the road. He is referring to “our” dreams. The artist community would be heaven. At the very least, it wouldn’t be Caldwell. Fear: Jack is talking about us ten years down the road. One more good whack to the head and he could go the other way again. Or, more likely, the sunny optimism of survival will eventually become a dim realism, and life with me might not look so appealing anymore. Okay, real confession here. The artist community always sounded like a splendid idea, but I sort of always knew it was never going to happen. The fact that it might was thrilling and terrifying. I could finally write my novel. In fact, I’d be expected to. And God knows, Desdemona is barely on speaking terms with me anymore.
“What do you think?” Jack asked again, looking expectantly.
“I don’t think we should make any rash decisions,” I said, pleased with my levelheadedness.
“What’s so rash about it? We’ve been talking about this for years.”
“Is this really a good time to sell the gallery?” l asked.
“I’d say so,” Jack said, smiling. He knew he was making headway with me. “I’d make a shitload on the real estate alone, and the business is profitable. It’d be a great investment for someone. Plus, I’m done with it. I want to paint, Lucy. I don’t want to spend my time running back and forth from home to work, hustling to make other artists successful. I want to do my own thing.”
Excitement took over and I saw myself at the keyboard of my computer with a large window in front of me that overlooked lush green trees. It is lightly raining and bulbous drops of water glisten on the leaves outside. A diversity of wildlife from boldly colored birds to gray squirrels find refuge in my yard, which always offers a full plate of nuts and seeds. My office is all wood and glass. A framed silk scarf with large pink flowers on it hangs over the main wall. I sip peppermint tea. I am happy.
“Let’s talk about it tonight,” I offered.
“It’ll have to be,” Jack said. “That was Wex. I need to go in for a few hours.”
“Now?!” I whined.
“Luce, this is what I’m talking about. That gallery owns me.”
“Do we really have enough money for this?” I asked.
The smile melted from Jack’s face. “Not quite. We’d have to take a loan for some of it. I haven’t sorted out all the details, but don’t write it off, Luce. We could do this.” He told me he’d be home in a few hours and kissed me good-bye, this time on the lips. It was a memorial service, after all, so a peck was all I got. But at least we were moving in the right direction.
I slipped out of the restaurant without saying good-bye to anyone, knowing exactly how my well-intended brood would handle Jack’s disappearance. They couldn’t conceive that a thirty-nine-year-old woman could find her way home alone, so we’d spend a half hour in a conversation that would have me begging for a noose. It’d go something like this:
ME: I’m going to get going now.
IDA: (Looking around) Where’s your husband?
ME: Oh, Jack had to go to the gallery. I’m going to take the train back home.
IDA: You’ll do no such thing! Izzy, tell her she’ll do no such thing.
IZZY: Listen to your Aunt Ida. (It’s always been commonly accepted that Ida and Izzy are my aunt and uncle, though they are really cousins of my Uncle Irving.)
IDA: The trains are dangerous for a young girl. Your cousin Richard will drive you.
ME: That’s very sweet, but really not necessary.
IZZY: Don’t tell your Aunt Ida what’s necessary, big shot. You’re a mother now.
BERNICE: What’s all the commotion ovah here?
IDA: Richard offered to drive Lucy home, but she refuses to ride with him.
BERNICE: Well, if Richard’s going that way, Lucy, why be such a big shot? Richard,
mamaleh,
come here.
RICHARD: (Clueless) Bernice, I’m so sorry.
BERNICE: You don’t need to apologize. It’s Lucy who’s being rude.
RICHARD: Why, what’d she do?
ME: Hello! I’m right here.
RICHARD: What’d you do, Lucy?
IDA: She refuses to drive with you!
IZZY: Says it’s not necessary.
IDA: She’d rather take the subway than be in a car with you, I guess.
ME: Richard, this has gotten out of hand . All I said was that it wasn’t necessary for you to drive me home. I can take the train. It’s not even a subway. It’s a nice, clean train.
IDA: You think my Richard’s car isn’t clean?!
IZZY: My boy is as clean as they come!
IDA: Mr. Big Shot had to leave in the middle of a funeral to do his music deals, and leaves his wife here to take the subway home alone.
FERN: What’s all the
mishegas?
IZZY: She refuses to ride in a car with Richard. Says he’s dirty!
FERN: Dirty?!
ME: I never said he was dirty! I said thank you, but I could find my way home. I don’t want to inconvenience anyone.
BERNICE: It’s no inconvenience. We’re family.
RICHARD: Hey, doesn’t she live in Jersey?
ME: Yes, I do!
RICHARD: I live in Queens.
FERN: Close enough!
IZZY: He’s angry about being called dirty! Who can blame him?
ME: I didn’t say he was dirty.
RICHARD: I’m not mad, but it is kind of out of the way.
IZZY: They are horrors! Ever since we stopped having the cousin’s club, they forgot they were family.
RICHARD: She said she can take the train.
IDA: She’s just saying that.
ME: No, I’m not.
IZZY: You’re a pregnant woman!
ME: No, actually I’m not.
FERN: Don’t be a
schmuck,
Richard. Take your cousin home. It’s not too far for you.
RICHARD: I don’t think she wants the ride!
ME: I don’t!
FERN: Don’t be a moron. You’ll put a little Purell on your hands after you get out of the car, and you’ll be fresh as new.
Instead of enduring some variation of this, I slipped out the door and decided to take a walk through Central Park. I don’t know why people say New Yorkers are unfriendly. Bikers smiled as they zipped by me. The Sabbrett’s vendor jovially tempted passersby with promises of the best hot dog they’d ever eaten. Even the hardest vogue bitch stopped to snap a photo of tourists when she was asked. As I walked past hundreds of people lounging on beach chairs and blankets in Sheep’s Meadow, I heard the familiar clopping of horse hooves behind me.
When I was a kid, horseback riding was my sport. I was shuttled to every competition in New York state by my father in his yellow Gremlin. A holdout from the hippie era, my father probably always imagined I’d take up noncompetitive rock collecting or something equally peaceful (and inexpensive). Instead, I dragged the poor man to equestrian clubs, one more posh than the next. He didn’t complain, though looking back I realize the entry fees and private lessons probably matched the rent on his Brooklyn studio.
As I heard the sound of hooves hitting the ground, I felt my youth behind me, which in the height of coincidence, was exactly what it was. When I turned to look at the horse, I immediately recognized the rider. It was none other than Richie Cantor, my apparently not-so-dead college love.
Chapter 33
“Richie?” I said, standing in his path.
“Holy shit, if it isn’t Lucy Klein. How the hell are you?” His smile was contagious. I self-consciously attempted to turn down the wattage on my own smile, knowing I was too happy to see him again.
Richie wore jodhpurs and a blue blazer over a white button-down top, which I couldn’t help thinking must’ve been miserably hot. On his head, he wore a black velvet helmet with the strap hanging loose. I imagined someone made him wear the helmet, but he immediately unstrapped it upon leaving her sight. God, he looked good. Like a men’s cologne ad. I looked at him carefully, trying to decipher whether he really looked as sexy as I thought, or he just looked good compared to the dead guy I thought he was for the past few months.