The Girls (8 page)

Any of those the love of Flora’s life? And what if there were no such thing as the love of one’s life? If Jenny’s own sexual existence had been nothing but romantic illusion? How about those geese who mated for life? Was she the only monogamous human being on earth? (Leaving aside her first marriage, when she was too young to know which end was up.) Because she couldn’t swear for Paul, naturally. She knew Paul had loved her. But apparently exclusive love could be a straitjacket. There were no open signs of others in her husband’s life. She had never asked. She was afraid of the answer?

And then there was Naomi’s love life. Women, men, old men when she was young, young men when she was old, at least one black and one Asian (but who was counting colors?), a gay man offering companionship and marriage but no sex, a husband of twenty years, a pickup on the boardwalk when she was in her eighties, of a suave Italian con man looking for marriage, the whole stormy relationship complete with sex, lies, professions of love, theft of a diamond ring, betrayal, and an operatic breakup. Two long-ago abortions, illegal. Two marriages, one annulment. No children. The love of Naomi’s life? Another question Jenny didn’t ask. Naomi would probably name Sam, her handsome musician husband.

Sleep, sleep, if only she could fall asleep. She lit the dim lamp over the bed and propped up the slippery pillows, hoping that the two current magazines she had brought with her would tire her eyes enough to put her out. Instead everything she read stirred her up. The newsweekly bits were horrifying—unthinkable killings, scandals, betrayals personal and public, national and international. She switched to the slicker magazine. She couldn’t understand most of the cartoons—their references were a mystery.
I’ve lived too long,
she thought, and dropped the periodicals over the side of the bed.

When Jenny came back to the funky motel after a good enough breakfast at a health-food bar, there was a message from Flora to call her at once. She didn’t. She would do the research into Naomi’s bank accounts first.

She took a bus that was filled with passengers, though it was after nine o’clock. Her white hair immediately earned her a seat given up by a young woman tourist. The breezy, sunny morning had lured the foreign tourists out in their vigorously sporty outfits, newly tanned legs and arms bared, noses burned red, light-colored eyes opened wide to the wonders. Across the aisle was a very old Jewish woman in an all-black outfit, her scrawny legs exposed in black tights, her scrawny ass barely covered by a black skirt, her face masked by makeup, her hair drawn up into a wide-brimmed felt hat, her poor feet stuffed into papery boots with stiletto heels. A Flora type, but worse. There were a couple of the usual seedy men who seemed to be perpetually coming from or going to the track, and there was the usual mix of languages, colors of skin. The bus driver was black but didn’t speak. Unidentifiable. Two middle-aged women deep in a lively conversation in Spanish sat near a group of quiet youngsters, male and female look-alikes, toting backpacks. A young man in a yarmulke leafed through
Esquire.

Their route took them along a wide boulevard skirting a waterway lined with yachts, some for sale, some private, some large excursion yachts available for day trips. On the opposite side of the boulevard the condominiums and hotels soared in their fantasy shapes and embellishments: pyramids of Egypt, camels, swans, immense carved giraffes, a building whose huge pillars supporting the entranceway were the draped bodies of slaves. Fun and pleasure. Miami life was all about eating, drinking, loafing, swimming, boating, driving, tanning, conning, fucking, shopping, dancing, praying.

And dying.

The bus made a sharp right across a bridge into an area of chic little shops, restaurants, doctors’ offices, banks, a church, an imposing new synagogue. Naomi’s bank was on a corner of this broad tree-lined avenue. Jenny had been here on an earlier visit, before the first breast cancer operation, when Naomi had wanted Jenny on all her accounts “just in case.” That was a year and a half ago. The decor was the same—plush, comfortable armchairs and sofas, little tables, coffee served, good lavatories—but the very pleasant Cuban woman Jenny had dealt with then was gone.

The woman now handling Naomi’s accounts was a Russian Jewish émigré who spoke excellent English. Her open face had a Middle American look, with its fair-skinned, blue-eyed evenness and its beauty parlor hairdo. Her slightly overweight body was neatly held together in a light-green polyester suit, and she wore a gold chain at her neck and gold hoops on her earlobes. Jenny chatted with her about her move from Minsk to Miami Beach. She had studied English all through school back in the Soviet Union. It was a popular language there, lots of students took English. She had come to the United States because she loved
freedom
—the word as she pronounced it appeared in italics. She also loved Miami Beach. She had come seven years ago. She didn’t miss Russia, no, and anyway it was very bad there now, she had family and friends, they were suffering, they didn’t know from one day to the next what would happen. Economically. Nobody cared about politics anymore. But economics, that was a different story.

She praised Naomi. “Mrs. Rybinski is a lady. A lot of these women at her age, they’re hard to deal with, but Mrs. Rybinski is a lady. We never have any trouble. It’s a pleasure to deal with your sister. She likes to know what her balance is maybe a little too much, every few days, but she’s a lady when she asks.” She paused, proudly presenting Jenny with her business card, on which her name appeared as Tatyana Weiss. She invited Jenny to call her Anna. “More American,” she said. “Easier to pronounce.” Everything between them was pleasantries until her face closed down against whatever she was reading on the computer screen.

“You’re Flora Strauss’s sister?”

“Yes,” Jenny said.

“How many sisters are you?” Tatyana Weiss seemed to be continuing their casual conversation, but her expression was suddenly formal.

“Four, actually, counting myself.”

“And your name is …?”

“Jane Witter,” Jenny said. “I’m on my sister’s accounts. I’m the name on my sister’s accounts.”

But the pleasant face had entirely closed itself off. “I can’t give you any information about Mrs. Rybinski’s accounts,” it said, and turned aside as if the transaction had been completed.

“I don’t understand,” Jenny said.

“That’s the only information I can give you.”

“That’s preposterous.”

“Bank policy,” the woman said. “Have a good day.”

“Can you tell me if I am listed on my sister’s accounts?”

“No information,” the woman repeated. “Bank policy.”

“I filed a power of attorney with you. For my ninety-year-old sister. Are you telling me that it’s no longer operative?”

“Yes, madam. It is no longer operative.”

“And I’m no longer on her accounts?”

“I can give you no further information.”

“Can she do that? Change everything? Without notifying me? And how about the bank—shouldn’t you have notified me? Or something? Doesn’t the bank have any responsibility? To me? To the fact that the woman is ninety years old?”

“Would you like to see the manager? He will be available after two o’clock. That’s all I can do for you, madam.”

“What’s the matter?” Jenny said. “We were a couple of human beings a few moments ago. What happened? I’m just trying to determine the state of my ninety-year-old sister’s accounts.”

“Have a good day, madam.” Tatyana Weiss picked up her phone and turned her back on Jenny altogether, gathering up the remains of their formerly friendly paper cups of coffee.

There was nothing to do but face Naomi. Jenny had spent weeks with Naomi during the first breast operation, seeing doctors, lawyers, bank reps, checking on CDs, Dreyfus, money market investments, getting the power of attorney and the medical papers virtually putting her in charge of Naomi’s life and death. “Just in case,” Naomi had said. But Naomi had made a remarkable recovery. Until the cancer flared up again eight months later.

What was going on? Was she going to have to go through that whole song and dance again? Had Naomi said “just in case” to someone else? When
just in case
was clearly so much nearer now, had Naomi displaced her sister Jenny with a nearer and dearer
just in case?
Was it Flora? It had to be Flora. But it couldn’t be Flora, because for all her faults Flora wouldn’t prey on Naomi’s fears to muscle in on her money. It must be someone outside the family, trying to take advantage of Naomi. Retirement homes were always after their residents’ assets, Jenny knew.

She decided to walk to Naomi’s residence, a distance of about a mile. Though the sun was hotter, there was still a pleasant breeze. The shops had let down their awnings, and Jenny strolled, telling herself she was enjoying the splashy displays in the shopwindows. The fact was, a familiar bitterness had invaded her system, spoiling everything. Family. What a mess.

She found Naomi in the formerly elegant, dreary lobby, dressed in another silk ensemble, blue with white dots, full skirt, loose jacket, the ornate gold watch she had bought at Nieman Marcus heavy on its braided chain against her poor mutilated chest, her pretty face framed in another brimmed cotton hat pulled low over her hazel eyes.

“Jenny,” she called out. “Here, I’m here, I’m here,” and fussed with the lock of her wheelchair. “Where’s Flora? She called me at seven-thirty this morning and told me you’d moved out. You have to understand, Jenny, I can’t, I’m too old, who’s right, who’s wrong, I can’t anymore. Are you mad at me?”

Jenny laughed and kissed her.

Naomi’s eyes filled with tears. “You’re not mad at me?”

“I’m the little sister,” Jenny said. “I just do as I’m told.”

“You’re mad at me.” Naomi let the tears overflow a little. “Flora said she’d come right after her exercise class.”

“When would that be?” Jenny asked.

“About an hour. How is Eva? How did you find her?”

“You know,” Jenny said. “That medication—”

“I know. Like a balloon. And the hair all over her face. My poor sister.”

“Let’s go out on the terrace.”

Jenny wheeled Naomi through a series of hallways into the sea air, having first fetched a woolen shawl and a fine blanket to protect Naomi from the breeze. They sat under the shade of the palm trees because the sun also bothered Naomi. The boardwalk and the beach below were gay with vacationers. Little boats bobbed, the great boats claimed the horizon, the horizon yielded to the clear blue sky, the sky arched to fill the whole happy scene.

Naomi had turned sullen. “I called my bank. I needed to know my checking account balance. They told me you were there, that my sister had been there asking questions.”

“I wanted to make sure everything was in order,” Jenny said.

“You weren’t here. What was I supposed to do? I didn’t even know if you were coming. You’re always so busy, running around, lecturing, that stuff that’s so important to you. I couldn’t be sure you’d come. What was I supposed to do, with this operation next week? I just wish I could die before next week, I wish I could just go off in my sleep, smiling. I always meant to go out smiling.”

She wasn’t smiling now. She was if anything black with anger.

“I don’t care what you think of me, Jenny. I know you don’t think much of me, but that’s okay. That’s perfectly okay. It’s no more than I expect.”

“I love you,” Jenny said. “I think the world of you.”

There was a fuss going on at the other end of the terrace near the unused bar. Something about a chair. “You know that’s my chair, that’s the chair I always use,” a frail old woman was shouting in a surprisingly strong voice. “So why do you take it? Why do you deliberately take my chair when you know I’m coming any minute to use it.” Another voice kept repeating in tones of wonder, “Did you ever see such a nerve? Did you ever experience such a nerve in your life? Such a nerve?”

“Stop listening to those idiots,” Naomi yelled at Jenny. “We’re trying to have a talk here.” She cried a few more tears, dabbing at her eyes. The blackness was fading. She looked into Jenny’s face with an expression more like fear. “Am I going to lose you now? Will you go back right away now?”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because of the money. Because I changed all the accounts.”

Jenny felt a stab of apprehension but forced herself to speak calmly. “Naomi, your money is your money to do what you think best with. I just think you might have told me. I made a fool of myself at your bank this morning.” And fresh bitterness flowed through her. It had been worse than that. She had felt like a moneygrubber. As if she were after Naomi’s money.

Am I after Naomi’s money?
The thought stopped Jenny cold. And then,
Better me than the residence.

“Listen, Jenny,” Naomi said in a rush. “Here, I made out a check to you this morning for twenty thousand dollars. I arranged it all over the phone. I moved some money from my investment account to my checking account. It’s absolutely sound. A sound check. I want you to have it. I don’t need it, I don’t need any more money. Take it, take it. If you can’t use it, give it to your children. I always loved them, you know that. Take it, please, you can’t refuse me, you have to take it.” And was again in tears.

“Naomi, I was just trying to make sure your accounts were safe. I don’t want any money. I just wanted to know what’s available so that you can have everything you need, so there’s money enough for whatever you need.”

“I don’t need anything. I wish I was dead.”

“You don’t mean that,” Jenny said.

“Oh God, you’re angry with me. I know you’re angry with me. Are you going to leave me? I can’t do this alone, Jenny, I can’t. I don’t know why I listened to her in the first place. Sometimes I don’t even know what she’s talking about. I’m so tired, I just give in. You know how she is with her advice advice advice. I want you to have it, if not you, then your children. She doesn’t have to know.”

“Who? Whose advice? Who doesn’t have to know?”

“Flora, Flora, of course—who else? Please take the check, take it, take, I want you to have it.”