The Last of the Wise Lovers (20 page)

   The man on the other end of the line
wanted to keep it short.  That was clear from the way she pleaded,
"Just a few words."

   He said something else.  

She responded, "I already told you I don't
believe it.  It's completely crazy...”

   Again he spoke.  She listened in
silence, then said, "Nothing's going to happen.  It's not possible.
 They wouldn't dare, in broad daylight, in the United States of America.
 I'm sure everything's going to be just fine."  Again she
listened in silence and then added, "You'll see me there.  We won't
be able to talk to one another, but you'll see me.  I'll be wearing your
favorite shirt, the pink one with the black stripe, and I'll be sending you my
love...”

   That's when I realized she was
talking to the man who was going to die.  Now I knew two more things about
him: he worked for that company for nutrition and care and all that; and he
knew
what was going to happen, and was worried.  I tried vainly to remember
everything you'd told me, all the reassuring things you'd said.  They were
all worthless at that moment, with you sitting in your apartment in Manhattan
(perhaps vainly trying to get us on the phone, to talk to Mom, as you'd promised),
and her here beside me, talking to
him
, for real.

   For a minute I wondered why he'd
agreed with Mom's optimistic assessment, her making light of the threat,
instead of getting out of town or locking himself up in his house.  Then I
remembered how your interpretation of the situation had calmed me down, and I
was able to understand his hunger for anything that showed the vaguest glimpse
of hope.  I felt an urge to end their conversation, to free the guy from
Mom's influence.  

I was planning to clear my throat or make some
kind of noise when she said, "I want one more night with you."

   Now as I write this it seems like a
line from a bad poem, or from some lousy movie, like the ones that play up in
Spanish Harlem.  But then it sounded full of pain, and supplication, and
even despair. The guy on the other end must have felt it too, because he
assented immediately, and Mom asked, "Tomorrow?"

   The guy asked something, apparently
about Dad.  Mom said, "He's not coming back for another three days,
not till the middle of Rosh Hashanah."  The betrayal in those words
made me blush.  At the same time I realized something else about her
lover: he was Jewish.  Note: she didn't say
our
New Year, or the
Jewish
New Year; just "Rosh Hashanah", in Hebrew.

   "Good," I heard her say.
 "Let's say 7:00, at the usual place?"

   He answered something in her ear.
 Mom hung up.

   I waited, frozen, until she walked
away.  Then I pounded up the stairs, calling out "Hi!" as loudly
as I could.  Mom was already sitting on the sofa, her shoes off.  I
felt I couldn't speak.  I went to my room.  On my bed was the letter
I had left for Debbie that morning, torn into a million pieces.  I
remembered everything I'd promised we'd do that evening.  I looked at the
clock.  Almost 11:00.  Too late.

   I went to the kitchen and opened my
fist above the waste basket.  The pieces of paper fluttered out of it.
 Mom saw me through the open door and said, "I thought you, at least,
would be different."

   She spoke slowly, heavily.  I
didn't answer.  I went to my room.  As I passed down the hall she saw
me again, through the other doorway.

"You shouldn't have done that to
Debbie," she said.  "Even if you have met someone else, you
could have hinted at it, without hurting her."

   She still had the nerve to preach to
me?  I came back at her, enraged.

"I haven't got anyone else.  Debbie
bores me, and maybe it's time I called her and made myself clear."

   "Don't you dare," her head
lolled against the back of the couch.  "She loves you so very
much."  There was a bottle of brandy on the table in front of her; a
quarter of it had been drained.

   "I don't love her."

   "What hasn't she got?"

   What could I say?  Could I tell
her about my fantasies?  About my hope that someday we'd do something
really crazy?  Once I would have told her such things, but I couldn't any
longer, not with all the lies and deception between us.

"She's insipid and dull."

   "Not so long ago that didn't
stop you from racing to be with her every afternoon...”

   "Meanwhile, things have changed.
 I think I've matured.  I used to be sure that her squareness and her
straightness and her good family and all that "all rightness" she
exudes signified the constraints of normality into which I had to fit myself.   But
lately I've begun to realize that my defiance is also all right: my curiosity
and my sensitivity, my restlessness and my wanting to try new things - they're
not exactly deviant."

   "And what made you come to this
conclusion?"

   I hesitated. I thought about Miss
Doherty, and K.

"Maybe," I tried, "maybe the
discovery that everyone has some dark secret."  I stared straight at
her.

   She closed her eyes and said,
"You'll hurt her very deeply.  Give her another chance.  Maybe
you'll feel differently."

   "What's more hurtful, to tell
her the truth or to go on, grudgingly?"

   She mumbled something about the
heartache men cause.  That made me even madder.  Hadn't she always
warned me against making such generalizations?  I wanted to ask her what
heartache Dad had ever caused her, but it was clear that he wasn't associated,
in her mind, with that league of men who were worth feeling hurt over.
 Her head dropped forward, and she mumbled something to herself under her
breath.  Suddenly I realized that I could ask anything,
anything
, and
that, under the brandy's influence, she'd answer me with an honesty and
directness that were usually completely foreign to her.  I felt a little
guilty taking advantage of her state, but I couldn't resist.

"Dad, for example.  What hasn't
he
got?"

   "Passion," she answered
immediately, "passion and a little insanity."

   I was floored.  Do you
understand?  That was
precisely
my problem with Debbie.
 Defined in three words.  Did this mean that when I got to be Mom's
age I would suffer, like her?  And Dad - was he dry and dull, orderly and
unexceptional and uninteresting, like Debbie?  How could a man who loved
art - let alone made a living by stealing state secrets - lack passion and
intensity?  Besides, what did the man
she
loved have going for him?

   She leaned forward and hiccoughed.
 Her breathing became a gentle snore.  She looked so different than
the image she usually tried to portray that I was embarrassed for her.  I
grabbed her hand to keep her from falling over.  She responded by
squeezing my hand real tight.  I felt the heat flowing from her hand into
mine, and I couldn't help thinking what the man she loves must feel when he
clasps this hand, the hand that was once the best in the world.  I asked
the question of questions.

"Who is this guy who's going to die on the
7th of September?"

   She didn't respond.

   I asked again.  She still didn't
answer.  Just when I'd begun to think she'd dozed off, she said hoarsely,
"You men, you're all so afraid of death... there are things far worse than
that...”

   "What things?"

   "Loneliness, for example."

   Her words were suffused with such
suffering that I embraced her and said, "You're not alone, you've got us,
Dad and me."

   She sneered bitterly.
 "You, you'll have your own life to lead and your father - he's a
lost cause."  For a moment her eyes were crystal clear, as if she
hadn't drunk a drop.  "It's not easy, this loneliness, after being
surrounded by people all your life...” she spread her arms out and rocked back
and forth on the couch.  "It's all over."

   "Nothing's over," I said
(without really having anything to go on). "If only you'd opened up to
me...”

   "Why should I burden you?"

   "It's much harder for me to
watch you pretend than it is for me to listen to what you're
really
feeling."

   "You'll get over it.  Most
people aren't interested in what others feel.  That's why you have to keep
up your facade, so they won't see your weaknesses."

   She fell asleep suddenly, looking old
and helpless.  I went to bed, too, but not before I'd turned on all the
lights in the yard and looked out all the windows to make sure that everything
was all right.  I couldn't fall asleep.  Again I tried to weigh
everything I knew, to decide if I mightn't be able to see things in a different
light.  Even at that stage, I wasn't 100% sure that Mom was wrong.  I
still hoped she might be acting according to some hidden truth which, because
of my tender age or lack of experience, I couldn't yet see.  Maybe it was
because she'd experienced more fully and impressively several things that
others supposedly experienced all the time: Dad, for example, dealt with
espionage - but Mom was the real spy.  Aunt Ida had run several
photography shops and workshops in her lifetime, but Mom was the plucky
photographer.  I was at an age when people usually have passionate love
affairs, but Mom's was a more burning passion.

  
I thought about these things almost all night.  Toward morning I heard Mom
move from the couch to her bed. Immediately afterwards I fell asleep,
overwhelmed by the feeling that I would never, ever know the truth.

Next thing I knew, it was morning.  That is,
late morning.  Mom was still asleep, maybe because of the alcohol.
 The sky was dark and a summer rain was falling in big, fat drops.  I
tore yesterday's page off the calendar in the kitchen.  The number 6 that
stared back at me off the new page made me edgy.  I felt like tearing it
off, too.  But behind it was the 7th of the month: doomsday.  I remembered
what Mom had said yesterday on the telephone: "... I'm sure everything's
going to be just fine." And, "You'll see me there.  I'll be
wearing your favorite shirt, the pink one with the black stripe...” My anxiety
turned to concern.  What if what was supposed to happen was going to
happen while she was there?

If things had been different, perhaps I wouldn't
have been so worried; I might even have hoped that the guy's death would have
brought peace and tranquility back to our home.  But I was afraid that
something terrible, some awful punishment or tragedy would befall Mom or Dad
because of his death, so I
had
to know where they were supposed to meet.
 The calendar in the kitchen didn't offer any clues. But that was to be
expected.  Mom wrote her appointments down in a little, red leather-bound
book that she always kept in her purse.  I snuck into her room.
 Inside her purse, which was open by the bed, the leather date book stood
out like a maraschino cherry.  I took the purse and left the room.  Mom
didn't move.

   There were two things listed on the
page for that day, the 6th of the month: one, in the afternoon, said:
"Ida, released from hosp., room 202."  The second didn't say
anything, but 7:00 p.m. was circled - their evening meeting.  On the next
day, the 7th of September, there was a circle around 12:00 noon.  There
was no explanation.  Toward the bottom of the page, the word
"TEMPLE" was written in big letters; but the hour wasn't circled.

   From Mom's end of the telephone
conversation I knew exactly what kind of meeting I was looking for: an event
where they would be able to see each other, but wouldn't be able to talk to
each other.  The Temple was out of the question, of course (after all,
everyone talks to everyone there; in fact, it seems that's what they go there
to do). Their evening rendezvous, the one set for the 6th at 7:00 p.m., didn't
fit the bill, either.  All that remained was the meeting that would take
place on the 7th at 12:00 noon.  But this was the one I knew the least
about. I closed the diary, carefully putting it back in the purse, and carried
it, half-open like I'd found it, back to her room.  As I was going down
the corridor, something white poking out from among the lipsticks, blusher, and
tissues caught my eye.  I pulled it.  It was an envelope, and it
contained a decorative card: The Society for Proper Nutrition and Care of the
Body invited Mrs. Ninette (she hated the name she had been given in Israel,
Naomi) Levin to a lecture and demonstration on Preserving the Skin's Freshness
in autumn.  The meeting would take place at the company's offices in
Nyack.  The time: September 7th, 12:00 noon.

   I'm sure you'll agree that it now
seemed as if everything was falling into place: I already knew that the guy
worked at this company; and Mom, as you well know, invested a lot of time and
money in how she looked.  I could even guess that they must have met at
one of those courses, and that that's how their affair must have started.
 Everything seemed so neatly arranged that all I had to do was make sure
that
she
didn't show up there tomorrow at 12:00 noon...

   Except that I'd promised you not to
do anything.

   I'd already broken part of my
promise: I'd poked around, listened in, peeked where I wasn't supposed to.
 I could easily justify everything: I had to know what was going on, in
order to tell you.  But what justification could I find for breaking the
rest of my promise not to do anything, to leave everything to
you
?

   No matter how hard I thought, I
couldn't find any such justification, and our relationship didn't leave room
for me to break a promise for no good reason.  I decided to call you.
 The answering service only picked up after six or seven rings.  This
time a man answered.  I asked that he tell you to call me.  He
repeated my name and telephone number.

"It's urgent," I added; he repeated
that, too.

   I waited.  In the meantime, I
couldn't help thinking about how to prevent their meeting tomorrow, at noon.
 At first it seemed practically impossible, especially after overhearing
Mom promise to be there for moral support and to prove everything was as it
should be.  I toyed with all sorts of ideas: should I mess with the car?
 No, she'd just take a cab.  Should I fake sick?  No, she'd
leave me home alone for two or three hours and go anyway.  Should I call
her and, in a disguised voice, tell her that the meeting at The Society for
Proper Nutrition etc. had been cancelled?  No, she was capable of calling
him
to double check. What could I do?

   I sat in the kitchen and stared at
the calendar.  Finally I got an idea, but I couldn't do anything until I'd
spoken to you.  I tried to pass the time: I read the small print on the
ketchup, mustard, and salad dressing bottles.  I cleaned the grooves in
the refrigerator door handle with a toothpick.  I made myself toast and
coffee.

   Waiting wore me out.  I thought
about you, and about what the chances were that your answering service could
get a message to you at this hour, just when you'd fallen asleep after an
exhausting night of golf on your carpeted course.  Then I remembered the
part of our conversation that dealt with K.; the fact that you hadn't made it
clear how you felt about him made me uncomfortable.  Did his appearance in
my life just now mean he had something to do with what was going on?
 Maybe he was connected to Mom in some hidden, roundabout way.  Or
maybe there was a simpler explanation: now that I'd become aware of the dark
side of our family, maybe I was more open to seeing the dark side of other
peoples' lives?

   I looked at the clock.  Half an
hour had passed.  I realized that I might wait an hour, two hours, maybe
even all day.  In the meantime I thought I might try and work out some of
the details of the plan I'd hatched, and not only so I could present it to you
when you called.  I called the hospital where Aunt Ida was being treated.
 It took some doing, but I eventually got to talk to the doctor who was in
charge of releasing patients.  I told him I was the
son-of-the-niece-of-the-patient, and I asked if Aunt Ida would be able to stay
alone in the house for a day or two.

   The doctor flipped through her file.

"Physiologically speaking, she's fine, but
mentally, you know...”

   "She's a bit confused," I
assented, and I told him that my mother, who was supposed to be picking Aunt
Ida up today, wouldn't be back from Syracuse until tomorrow.

   He mumbled something about Mom having
promised to pick up her aunt that afternoon.

   I explained that Mom's flight home
had been accidentally overbooked, so she'd been bumped off it.

   He
sounded as if he believed me. "When will she be able to come, then?"

   "Tomorrow," I suggested,
"at around noon."

   "You realize she will have to
pay for another day of hospitalization...”

   "Yes, I know."  The
trust fund that Marvin had left Aunt Ida could easily absorb a $400 loss.

   "All right then, tomorrow it
is...” said the doctor.

   "Wait a minute, I want to make
sure...”

   "There's not much room for
doubt, is there, if there won't be anyone at home to take care of her?"

   And that was that.  For a minute
I felt a bit awkward, but then I realized I hadn't really done any harm.
 Who would mind that I had pushed up Aunt Ida's release date 24 hours?

   It would be more difficult to wake
Mom up.  My usual noises - the ones I make when I'm in the house and she's
asleep and I'm feeling kind of lonely - didn't help.  Opening the window
only got a grunt out of her.  Finally, I shook her by the shoulder.
 Two reddened eyes popped open, then immediately shut again.  I shook
her once more.  She sat up in bed.

"What day is it?"

   "The 6th."

   The date didn't seem to cause her any
trepidation.  But she remembered Aunt Ida right away.

"We have to go get...”

   "That's impossible," I
broke in immediately, "that is, not today."

   "But I promised...”

   "They called and asked that you
come tomorrow."

   She narrowed her eyes at me
suspiciously.

"I don't understand.  They're going to
hear from me...”  She stuck one leg out from under the blanket.
 Somewhat sheepishly and not without regret, I brought her
house slippers; but the effort of standing on the
little rug at the foot of the bed seemed to drain her of her fighting spirit.
 

All she said
was, "Actually, maybe it's better this way.  That way she won't be
dependent on you tonight."

   "Tonight?"

   "I'm meeting a girlfriend,"
she said with such ease that any regret I'd felt about my own lie vanished
immediately.  "I'll be back very late, don't wait up for me,"
she shuffled off to the bathroom.  "I'll leave you...”

   "Food in the oven," I
couldn't help but finish her sentence.

   But she didn't hear me.  All I
had left to do was tell her what time she had to pick up Aunt Ida.  I
waited by the bathroom door until I heard the toilet flush.  Then I
knocked.  She opened it and mumbled something with a mouth full of
toothpaste.

"Before I forget," I said quickly,
"they said you should come tomorrow at noon; 11:30 would be even
better."

   She stopped brushing.
 "When?"

   "11:30."

   She rinsed her mouth out.
 "That's not very convenient.  I have something that I...”

   I was more than ready for
this
excuse.

"That's the only time they can...” I began
ardently.

   But she broke in immediately.
 "On the other hand, I don't mind missing it."

   For a moment I could hardly believe
my ears.  

"Missing what?"

   "This thing that I've got
tomorrow.  I don't mind missing it to bring Aunt Ida home."  She
walked back to her room, suddenly fuming: "Not that she'll appreciate
it...”

   It was too good to be true.  I
hurried after her.

"Are you sure about tomorrow?"

   "Why are you so anxious about
it?"

   "No reason, it's just too bad
you'll have to miss something."

   "Sometimes we don't have a
choice.  There are some things we simply must do," she said with that
determination that seeps into her voice whenever she gets the opportunity to
prove how wonderful she is.  "Even if
your aunt is ungrateful, it doesn't make me feel any less pity for her.
 We mustn't judge the elderly.  One day she won't be with us any
longer, and I just couldn't forgive myself if I felt I hadn't done everything I
could for her...”

   You'll be amazed, but I actually felt
insulted for the man who would be waiting for her tomorrow at noon, full of
fear and doubt, anxiously looking for the pink shirt with the black stripe.
 I went to my room, trying to feel good.  In vain.  I felt so
angry with her for giving in so easily.  I hate it when people don't keep
their promises.

   And then I remembered the promise
I
hadn't kept.

   No, not the promises I'd made to you
(I'd already convinced myself that I'd had every right not to keep them, since
they had been meant to protect
me
), but another promise, far more
important, which I'd completely neglected: my promise to K.

   The plastic membership card was still
in the pocket of my jeans. I took it out, turning it over and over in my hand
and wondering whether I could put off going to his club for another two days,
until September 7th had come and gone - uneventfully.

   Mom went clicking down the hall in
her high heels.

"You leaving already?" I called after
her.

   She came back and looked at me with
some surprise.

"In a minute.  Why?"

   "You said you had a date for
this evening...”

   "I thought I might leave a
little earlier and do some shopping in Manhattan."

   In retrospect, it's hard for me to
remember which came first: the realization that it was pointless for me to stay
home to watch over an empty house, or the idea of catching a ride into the city
and fulfilling my promise to K.  

Whichever it was, it came out as, "I'm coming
with you."

   "I...” she started to object.

   "Just for the ride," I
reassured her, "and only to where it's convenient for you to drop me
off."

   "Great," she said, as if
she'd never had any intention of refusing to take me along.

   It was 2:00.  I had to wait over
an hour until she had finished getting herself ready.  At 3:20 I again
called your answering service.  Even before I'd left my message, the
operator said, "I was just about to call you," and read me instructions
to stay home and act exactly as we'd agreed.

   I left a new message.
 "There's something I have to do in the city, and
she's
going
out anyway, so there's no point in my staying home alone...”

   Mom was still in her room, sitting
opposite the mirror.  I sat down next to her on the bed.  Our eyes
met in the mirror.

She asked, "What exactly are you planning to
do today in Manhattan?  The library's closed."

   "I'm meeting someone," I
said without thinking.

   "Someone I know?"

   "No."  It was annoying
to have to account to her when I knew she had been lying to me systematically
for such a long time, but I didn't have the energy to argue.  "A guy
who works with me in the library."