I still have a hell of a lot more bags buried all over the Audubon Trails in Westchester County, and once in a while I still like to step out onto my rooftop and shout, “Fuck you world! I’m free!”
Last week, I drove up to Chappaqua. The trees were barren. Most of the leaves were piling up on dank ground. I brought a pick and shovel. I dug up a dozen black bags. Pretty damn good for a guy who started with a $25 bet. I tore up the ground. I needed to reimburse myself. Replenish my cash flow. Besides, before I know it, Squirt will be moving on to college. And that costs Franklins.
Today there’s something on my mind, even more so than when I first read it in 2014. Elizabeth had left me a note on the kitchen table when I returned to our North Salem home.
Our first year together I was still recovering from a double mastectomy. I was in desperate need of all that you provided. You extended yourself in a million ways, and if not a passionate lover, then you were a tender one. Our sex life has always been from you to me. After our first two years together, I gradually withdrew. Yet, there has never been any silences or big gaps between us. You were growing older day by day. I was becoming more and more terrified. I don’t think you’ve ever noticed any of this. That feeling of dread that to this day keeps building inside of me. That’s why I kept pushing you away. I’ve been seeing a counselor. That’s where I am at this moment. He’s helping. Bear with me, David. We have an amiable friendship. A companionable existence. Liam is a great son. It’s more than enough for me. But inside, I live in a constant state of fear. There isn’t a second that goes by that deep inside, my mind isn’t occupied with your dying.
That letter has never been discussed. Not once.
I remember women as if it were yesterday, while things like the HIV crisis, those horrific murders of Medgar, Malcolm, Martin, the never-ending wars, Nixon’s impeachment, Kennedy’s inspiring deeds, Johnson, FDR, Truman, are distant memories.
“Your choice, Adele. Bra or panties. Remove one or the other.”
“David, don’t be fresh!”
Then there was June Cheever and her penchant for oral sex. And Rhoda Lane. Tit fucking. I graduated NYU, went on for a master’s at Columbia and, somehow, at the same time, managed to work in Harlem. And there were more women. “I’m taking my Masters in Anthropology, David. I graduate Brooklyn College at the end of the year. That’s when I’m going to turn my attention fulltime on finding a husband. Do you want children, David?”
The first woman with whom I had something super-serious was a luminous African woman born in Ibiza. She had studied drama at the Obafemi Awolowo University and was new to the city. What I remember about Mumbi Emecheta were her parents. Dignified people. Originally from Lagos. Mrs. Emecheta insisted on chaperoning her daughter whenever we went out in the evening. My friendship with Mumbi ended badly.
It was me. It’s always been me.
Searching the collages, my eyes fix on Cantor Lazar. My father never forgot to take me to Mr. Pollock’s candy store. We would sit at the ice cream counter. He would throw down two shiny pennies for a pretzel, and when he splurged, it would be a nickel for three. He never forgot to make sure that I got what I loved. That was an extra seven cents for a chocolate milkshake.
My mom yakked a great deal on the telephone. What I remember best is that near the end of her life, when she needed a walker, a wheelchair, and often an oxygen tent, Mom never stopped making those fundraising phone calls, soliciting contributions for the many charities she worked with. Haven’t thought much about my mother in these years that have passed. Have been dangerously detoured by more pedestrian concerns, but now, as I’m recalling these yesteryear events, I’m remembering things that I’ve let slip my mind. Perhaps things were disremembered because of my pathology. That’s a word I’ve abused. And still abuse whenever I’m groping for answers to who I am.
Better off sticking to Mom. She was a professor of psychology at Barnard College for years and years. And then, after she was blindsided by a Buick coming down a one-way street, she became an invalid, was chained to her bed, she started to work with autistic children and other small fry with speech impediments. Mom was great with children. She had been mentored as a Barnard student by Gordon Allport. Allport was more than impressive in his day for his contributions on personality, psychology, and trait theory. So was my mom.
And so, the question remains, “How did I get to be the fuck-up I am?”
Not every bounce is predictable.
My dad had been a child prodigy. As a boy of eight, Dad traveled the country earning a living, giving concerts, living with strangers, sending home dollars, and when he evolved to manhood, he took over a synagogue of historic repute. He chose a wife, had a son, soon began doing radio on the Jewish Hour every Sunday, performing at garish weddings in magnificent catering halls, the Waldorf, the Pierre, the... all those other opulent places where people showed off their money. What I remember as not tacky was the salmon and whitefish and pastries that my father brought home after those weddings.
My father did other things, too. How I loved going to Yankee Stadium with him. Sitting in the grandstands for a buck twenty-five. Doing something that to this day brings a smile to my face. My dad and I chased down baseballs during batting practice. We’d position ourselves in right field. Wait for the left-handed Yankee sluggers to take their swings. We’d jump over benches, dive over the hard wood aqua-colored chairs, ignore our bruises, end up chasing down as many baseballs as we could. I always took my baseball glove to those Yankee games. I must have brought home over 100 American League baseballs during my early years. The Yankee Bombers who hit those baseballs into the right field seats most frequently were Dick Kryhoski, George McQuinn, Gene Woodling, Tommy Henrich, Charlie Keller, Joe Collins, Cliff Mapes and, of course, number thirty-six, the lumbering Big Cat, Johnny Mize. The tobacco chewing Mize was near the end of his great career but still a magnificent hitter. My dad and I officially titled him “The MVP of Batting Practice.” The Big Cat’s blasts traveled as if in slow motion as they drifted over the 344-foot sign, most of the time three to eight rows deep. We’d be positioned there waiting for them, many times into my glove’s waiting web. When Mickey Mantle arrived in ’51, his thunderous celestial blasts would soar halfway up the bleachers or to the very top of the third deck in right field. Mickey was not one of my favorite batting practice hitters.
It’s 4:30 in the morning. I’ve awakened from a restless sleep. Tossed and turned most of the night. Kept thinking of my son. Liam’s everything I am not. He’s the good in my life. Elizabeth is aware of that. She realizes that never once until meeting her, did I have the guts to try to have a committed domestic life. Liam and Elizabeth scrambled my center. My raison d’être for a radically different kind of loving, authentic life: Liam’s little feet, his perfect hands, the smell of his hair. Even at sixteen he emanates the whiff of the infant he once was.
July 15th, 2015 was the worst day of my life. I have had contracts put out on my life. Two of them with door buttons down, ugly men in black Lincolns, ready to finish their job. I was never terrified, just living my life. I didn’t whine or squeal to those two ugly men. I used my wits, called Solomon Lepidus, and I’m still here. But what took place with my son Liam, that scared the life out of me.
Liam was self-conscious. He hated the way he looked because his spine was bent. Elizabeth started researching and learned everything she could about the problem. Elizabeth even learned medical jargon, scientific reasons. She has the kind of mind that can pick up on these things. She did all the homework that was needed. Our son is everything to us. Our life! The main reason—probably the only reason—that Liam and his mother took a trip to Japan three weeks before his surgery was so that he would be distracted from the upcoming operation. I didn’t go. I would have only slowed them down. For me, walking is hobbling. My stamina sucks. I would have screwed up their trip. And one thing I do admit, as perfect as my son is, he’s terribly impatient. “B
a! You’re not keeping up! Can’t you walk any faster?” So, I didn’t go. Best decision I could’ve made. Elizabeth and Liam had a great time. And when they returned to New York, it was time for
his surgery.
Squirt was fifteen years old. We decided on New York Presbyterian Morgan Stanley Children’s Hospital at 165th Street and Broadway. Elizabeth and Squirt selected the surgeon, David P. Roye, a St. Giles Foundation Professor of Pediatric Orthopedic Surgery at CUMC Pediatric Orthopedic, Spine. That’s what it says on Dr. Roye’s business card. In real time, let’s just say that Dr. Roye is a saint. Never met a humbler human being. A more soft-spoken, empathetic, decent fellow. My son immediately had confidence in him, so did Elizabeth. Dr. Roye wore nothing-to-brag-about ties. He certainly did not look like or carry himself like a Wall Street New Yorker or a Greenwich hedge fund greed-monger. He looked like who he was, a man taking responsibility for helping children on a Triple Crown level. Every day leading up to the surgery was impossible. Small talk doesn’t help. Intellectualizing just gets on everyone’s nerves. Hollow words, large thoughts, babbling goes out the window. Your child’s life is hanging by a crippling cord. You worry! You’re frightened! You think of all the nightmare scenarios. Spinal fusion means you must cut bone and meat. Open the back to get to the spine. Put in rods to straighten the spine. My son’s spine. Anything can go wrong. Everything! Liam was the bravest of the three of us. He was quiet but determined. He wanted the surgery. He didn’t look forward to it, but he was resolved. I don’t want to think what he looked like. Let’s just say he didn’t look like your average fun ‘n’ games teenager.
After talking about it, thinking about it, worrying about it, going out of your mind about it for 310 days, the day finally arrived. We took an Uber to Children’s Hospital. Checked in. Went to the room we’d been assigned. The clinic nurses introduced themselves. We’d already completed volumes of paperwork. Signed all the documents. My wife is good at handling stuff like that. My son also waded through it. He grasped it, nodded his head but didn’t talk about it. When it comes to the important things in his life, Liam invariably depends on his mom. I would, too. I’m a misfit. Hopeless, helpless, and just about a nothing male to have around under these circumstances. Elizabeth is the bulwark, the competent one. The one upon whom both my son and I count.
Thank God my wife loves me. Her love for Liam is a given. So are Elizabeth’s sacrifices. Her competence. Her going a thousand miles forward and backward and whatever else it took to get our boy prepared for this miserable day. Dr. Roye also prepped us.
Now we’re in the waiting room. Liam is silent. Elizabeth and I keep looking at him. Peeking is a better word. He looks nervous. He looks as if his upper and lower lip are fighting one another. It’s as if his entire face is at war with his mouth. His mouth is where he is living. No words, just a taut holding-it-in look, blue innocent eyes that keep communicating with his mom. I’m there but not really. It was Elizabeth who was there. And then, an aide appears. “It’s time.” And my boy stands up. Walks through the door. Out of the room. He never looks back. Elizabeth and I stand up and helplessly watch as our son leaves our jurisdiction and passes into the hands of strangers. We don’t say a word. I feel as if the curtain is coming down. All that love, all that time spent bringing him up, worrying about him. Protecting him. Giving him everything you have to give. He’s gone. It’s out of my hands. You’re powerless. You’re useless. Liam’s alone. With strangers. You don’t even know their names.
My son was on the operating table for six hours. All that time Elizabeth’s two best friends—Jody and Lavina—were with her (and me) in the hospital waiting room. Both kept talking, providing distraction and love. I’m glad they were there. Both women were great. Are great. They gave a whole lot more than what I had to contribute. I stood in the corner, paced the room, went to the bathroom, and was dying all six of those hours. Then it was over. Liam was finished with that part of the ordeal. Dr. Roye—thank God for Dr. Roye. He got Liam through it, and the painful recovery period began. Four days in the Medical Center with his mom sleeping in the hospital room, staying around-the-clock, with nurses in and out, scurrying around at Liam’s beck and call. We took our son to our country home in North Salem, and Elizabeth provided 24/7 care for the next ten days. Liam was in terrible pain at first. Even with the painkillers. Elizabeth was there every minute. Me? I was useless. If I entered Liam’s room, he gave me a look. He knows whom he can depend on when things get out of sorts, and it’s not me.
Through the recovery period, Liam had more courage than I would’ve ever had. The pain was rough. The medications not much use at night.
“Don’t worry, Ba. I’ll get through this. It’s hard but think how lucky I am. In six weeks, this will all be a blur. I’ll be back at Choate. Looking normal.”
It’s over now, Dr. Roye. Thank you. When Liam was in the hands of Dr. Roye and his team, I held my breath, “Please, God,” I whispered under my breath, “just give me back my son. That’s all that I want. Take all my dollars. Just give Liam back to me. He’s everything to me!”
Chapter 18
I’d rather hold hands with my wife than with any woman I’ve ever known. I love her honesty, her overall goodness. I’m thinking how we hooked up.
Julie Rizzo called. She reminded me of my line comparing my rooftop streak with women to the great DiMaggio’s fifty-six game hitting streak.
“That was inane,” I said.
“Yes, but it made me chuckle,” Julie said. “My boyfriend and I broke up. I’m depressed. I thought of you. All the laughs we had,” Then she asked, “How old are you now?”
“SIXTY-TWO.”
“Oh, my God!” she uttered.
Our conversation changed direction.
“I have a friend who has had some success with a dating service.”
“I could never do that.”
“What if we joined together?”
“My name is Elizabeth Dunn,” she said, sputtering.
Elizabeth and I spoke on the phone. Within minutes, I knew that we had a special connection. Sometimes you just do. We arranged to meet.
In front of the door, two cartons of cat food. I winced. Rang the buzzer. Once...Twice...Three times. It took several minutes for Elizabeth to unlock the door. Then she darted back to her sofa. She had the look of an abused woman. I had seen that look when I worked for the Welfare Department. You never forget. “This woman needs help,” was my first impression. Elizabeth didn’t utter a word.
“Do you want me to stay?” I asked.
Not a peep.
“Do you want me to leave? Do you want to go get something to
eat?”
Elizabeth finally stood up. We went to dinner at a Thai restaurant in her neighborhood.
That was the beginning of these past nineteen years. When I took Elizabeth Dunn home that night, she told me, “I’ve never been happy one day in my life.”
When I heard that, something unlocked in me. A river of real emotion. I thought it best not to rush things.
I moved toward the door.
“Must you leave?” she said.
I had never met anyone who needed me more.
When I got home that evening, I raced to my Smith Corona and wrote the following:
Elizabeth Dunn reeked of torment. Pressure that kept building and building. There were sealed trunks. Piles of clothes in disarray. No open windows; no fresh air. Nothing but dark isolation. It resonated everywhere. Especially within. Not a moment of peace. Not a moment without pain. Not a second of let-up. Elizabeth Dunn functioned in a minimal way. Each social function dreaded. Each victory pyrrhic. Each momentous step forward causing exhaustion. Her body didn’t lie. Mutilation everywhere. The inability to do the big things. The little things. Everything for Elizabeth Dunn was overwhelming. There was no place to go. Nowhere to escape to. No door to open. Puritanical shame wherever you
looked. Nothing came easy. Everything was hardscrabble. Everything Elizabeth accomplished was courageous. Every defeat crushing. The crucible she carried was from yesterday. And yet, the largest sadness was in the present. It was me. When I walked into Elizabeth’s life, I could not adjust to the mutilation. My raised eyebrow, grimace, my value judgment—imagined or real—what was the difference? Elizabeth Dunn felt my reproach in every increment of thunderclap silence. My invisible wincing complaints. I could not sweep away what was there any better than I could hide what wasn’t. I was not pure of heart, but I was pure in my wanting to help her. I could not help her at first. She could not help herself. She lived with her wounds. The wounds that were still screaming inside of her. She heard my criticisms before they were uttered. And they were never uttered. She could feel disapproval though there was only praise, concern and compassion. Her throbbing pain seemed endless.
That was our first date. Elizabeth was thirty-one; I was sixty-two. In those days, I was still telling everyone that I was ten years younger. I didn’t tell Elizabeth the truth for the first three or four weeks. Elizabeth was unwell. I was her first male experience since her breast cancer surgery. She was terrified.
The one thing that I was always able to do was babble.
I’m a babbler. I’m boorish. I’m egocentric. At times, I can be obnoxious. I know my flaws. What did I babble about?
Mostly Jessica, Leslie, Debbie, Amy. How did Elizabeth respond? With nods and shrugs. Sometimes, with an expression of doubt. Sometimes, a word here. A word there. Sometimes she bit her lip or wrung her hands or touched her knee or just sat opposite me on that scratched up blue leather sofa with her three cats on her lap, frozen. That’s how it went for the first three or four months. Why did I stay? What made me keep returning? I felt needed. I felt something I hadn’t felt in a very long time.
David Lazar Page 14