The Exit Coach
1.
In the west nineties, where the streets sloped down to Riverside Drive, the apartment buildings, following the incline, seemed as geologic as rock face along a canyon wall. To Marilyn, who had grown up there, it was a feeling common to that part of the Upper West Side, something about history, and how it wouldn’t let go, or the power of the river, resting below them, or she didn’t know what, maybe the actual rocks underneath the buildings. Maybe the rocks were so massive they made a whole other place, rooms and tunnels below them that nobody knew anything about, but standing next to such ancient foundations, such ordered wildness, Marilyn felt small and even silly. And to be trapped against the wall in her graduation gown, while shoppers and nannies and all the other people walked by in ordinary clothes, was embarrassing. She wanted the photo session to end, but there was no rushing Cleopatra.
“Okay, honey girl, keep still. This last one’s for the album.”
Her mother disappeared behind the camera once again and there was the same squishy sound as the Polaroid fixed another pose for all of time. Cleopatra pulled the paper out, shook it to make the chemicals dry faster, and they watched together as Marilyn’s indistinct figure swam into clarity against the granite blocks of the building. “My graduate,” Cleopatra announced, holding the photo at arms length to see it better and then sliding it into her bag to show her friends at work. Then her mother walked east to go to her job and Marilyn walked south to go to the ceremony she was relieved her mother would have to miss.
Because even with the diversity of the public school, Cleopatra would have been a question mark. She was always a question mark. Her large, heavy presence, ferocious black-lined eyes, glistening pink curls, were incomprehensible. She obeyed no categories: too unlikely to be a mother, too unlikely to be a grandmother, and too dramatic for all things, even if she were wearing her brown transit worker uniform.
After the ceremony, when clusters of family swallowed the other graduates, Marilyn returned her rented garb to the front office and slipped away in the pale and modest dress she had worn underneath the gown. Her plan for the rest of the afternoon was to find a way to become another person, a person with a different identity, someone not named after the sexiest woman of modern times.
And so, at three o’clock exactly (she knew because church bells were chiming), she pulled open the glass door of a company called Silver Linings. The woman at the desk, putting her hand over the mouthpiece of the phone, indicated a row of chairs. As Marilyn waited, the platitudes from the morning, uttered in an auditorium buzzing with perfume and heat and babies’ cries, swelled into actual fact: West Side graduates don’t shirk hard work or challenges. West Side graduates seize opportunity when it comes their way. West Side graduates are known for their willingness to learn and their uncompromising moral ethic. They are motivated and fearless and that’s why, in this great hall, friends and family have come to celebrate the achievements of the class of 1977 and usher them into the temples of continuing education that await them. And one of those temples, my friends, is life itself. Life in all of its boldness and cunning, its temptations and false rewards. West Side graduates are prepared for life’s skirmishes, large and small. Had she been there, Cleo would have whispered loudly, what a lot of horsecrap!
“You’re quite a bit younger than our average applicant,” the woman said. “This isn’t the kind of job that appeals to someone your age, but maybe you’ve already had experience? A grandmother, grandfather?” She looked up. “No?” Her eyes seemed to be stuck on the blank lines in the portion of the application labeled Prior Job Experience and as Marilyn watched her, she knew the heroic words from the morning’s address were horsecrap.
“There are people out there, I’m not saying you’re one of them, but there are lots of people who think this is easy work. That’s not true. It takes a great deal of patience, not to mention a mature attitude for things like…Well, to be frank, vomit, sickness, diapers. If that’s disgusting, this is not the job for you. But there are also benefits. That’s why we call ourselves Silver Linings. Because despite all the ugliness, and let me be specific, the ugliness of bodily fluids, of dementia, all of which is part of the care of the elderly, there’s a chance for deep and lasting friendship.”
Until they croak, Cleo would sneer.
The interviewer tapped her pen on the desktop, leaned back in her chair, and said, “I’m a little dubious. But maybe you can tell me why you think you’d be good at this?”
“I don’t know,” Marilyn began. “I’m patient. I’m really quiet. And I like older people. I like history. I think I’m unusual that way. I just graduated high school and I figure the only other thing that’s open to me probably is a waitress. But I’d rather do this. I mean, I really would like to have a job like this.”
“I see. Have you ever, at any time, for any reason, been apprehended by enforcement personnel?”
“Enforcement personnel?” She blanked. “No, I don’t think so.”
“What I’m asking is, do you have a police record? We check all of our applicants but I like to ask first because that makes my job easier.”
Marilyn smiled at the absurdity of such a mild, boring person like herself being arrested. “Oh! No, no, not at all. I’m not adventurous. I sort of, I don’t know, I guess I crave stability. I don’t like risk or change. I like things to be peaceful. It’s kind of hard graduating for that reason, not having something to go to next. It’s really big out there if you know what I mean. If you don’t have something to go to,” she finished lamely.
As soon as she walked into their apartment, Marilyn saw the pad of paper with Silver Linings and a phone number. The TV laughed. She glanced into the living room where smoke curled into the air from a cigarette burning by itself in an ashtray. An arm extended from a body hidden by the BarcaLounger; slender fingers lifted the cigarette, put it down. The arm came out again, returned a wine glass.
“Cleo? When did they call?”
There was a pause while her mother muted the sound. “Around four.”
“Did they say anything?”
“Why would they say anything? I could be anyone. They’re not going to tell your business to anyone but you. What’s it about? Who are these people? Listen, I hope you’re not going around laying yourself open for all kinds of monkey business. They take advantage of people like you. Believe me. You got to be sharp. And don’t give out our number like that.”
“How am I supposed to get a job then?”
The BarcaLounger swiveled around and a mass of pink regarded her. “What kind of name is Silver Linings? Who are they? My God, it sounds like a whore house.”
“It’s an agency that sends aides into old people’s homes to take care of them. It’s better than minimum wage and I think it would be nice. You cook and clean up and help them do laundry. You go to the doctor with them. Nothing medical. You just…”
“What you do, sweetheart, is wipe shit from their ass. That’s what that’s about. You empty commodes and put on diapers. That’s no kind of job.”
“I think I would like it. There’s no pressure like you would have in a restaurant.”
“But honey sweetheart, she didn’t say Marilyn. She said something else, some other name, Angel or Abigail. Some A sound. Though it was Prett. I heard the Prett.” Cleopatra tossed her head and the mass of curls she formed with the hair dryer every morning bounced in the wind of her movement. She never drank hard liquor or beer, only rosé, and now she drained the glass to punctuate her words. Then she pulled a Kleenex from the bosom of her slip and drew the pink bathrobe, as fluffy as ostrich feathers, around her plump body. “She musta been calling someone else. Some other Prett because I heard distinctly that it wasn’t Marilyn.”
Marilyn dragged one of the chairs over from the table and positioned it in front of her mother. “I’m Ava,” she said, sitting down and looking at her mother in the habitual way that bypassed the actual and viewed instead an abstract. She look
ed at the shape of a mother, not the real form.
“Yes! That was it. Exactly. Who is Ava Prett?”
“I’m Ava Prett.”
“Well, pray tell,” she oozed, her voice low and unctuous, the tone she used with tourists who hadn’t heard what she said the first time and her superiors at the bus company when they failed to notice that she had already told them everything they needed to know.
“I went to City Hall and changed my name. It took a month and that’s who I am now.”
“So you lied about your age.”
“No, eighteen was all they wanted. Once you’re eighteen, you can.”
“Something so terrible about the name I gave you?”
“I don’t like it.”
“How could you not like your own name?”
“I don’t like who you named me for.”
“The world’s most alluring woman? Like Cleopatra, only I couldn’t name you Cleopatra because I wouldn’t do that to you. It’s not good for people in the same family to have the same name.”
“She killed herself, Mom. She was a drug addict. She was so unhappy.”
“What am I, a mind reader? That all came later. The troubles, the suicide. When you were born she was beautiful, carefree, and happy. Very happy. Bending over that subway grate? The skirt billowing? Oh God, happy go lucky!”
“I know, I know, you’ve told me. But I can’t say it without thinking of her and it’s sad, it’s really sad. So now I’m Ava.”
Cleopatra put the cigarette to her lips and drew in a long, indulgent rope of smoke that she exhaled slowly. Then she lifted her glass and drained it. She stood up, slipped her feet into pink pom-pom toed satin slippers and padded into the kitchen. The light went on.
“You changed your name when you were young. So what’s the difference?”
“It’s a world of difference. And if you can’t see it, I’m not going to explain. Besides, it’s done.”
“You know, some people might think Esther is a better name than Cleopatra.”
“Some.” The water ran into the sink, was shut off. “But not me.”
She came back, drying a wine glass with a kitchen towel. “Okay, so who are you now?”
“Ava.”
She poured rosé into both glasses and handed one to her daughter. Cleopatra raised hers. “We’ll have a toast. To celebrate a new person, graduated from high school, entering the impossible world. May Ava Prett do more in her life than wipe shit from old people’s backsides.”
2.
“You behave yourself. And don’t you try going to the john. Use the commode when you’re alone. And if I was you, and thank the Good Lord I’m not a nasty old Jew, put away that wallet. Hide it, you hear? And not just in the cabinet. Some place nobody would think of. The teapot let’s say. You be good now and I’ll see you next week.”
Maxi Bruder, her short, thick body wrapped in the black clothing of a woman in perpetual mourning, her stumpy legs encased in compression hosiery, had been his housekeeper for thirty years, but the game of insults had been going on for only a few months.
“Not if I can help it you old, ugly Kraut. Give my regards to the bookie.”
“He’s busy. Too busy for the old wife. Has too many girlfriends.” But she smiled her bitter smile and he wondered if maybe the girlfriends she was talking about were horses. Maxi draped her raincoat over her arm and picked up the satchel that contained not only her pocketbook and house slippers, but a China figurine that, until that afternoon, had stood on the crowded shelves in the dining room.
It was a troubadour, one of thirty from his dead wife’s collection. Modeled out of porcelain and painted by hand, it was authentic Meissen porcelain, crafted near Dresden where the Bruders, Mr. and Mrs., had been born. He was leaving the entire collection to her in his will, but Harvey wondered if maybe it would be kinder just to give them to her now while he was still alive. Then she wouldn’t feel obliged to steal. He hated the goddamn things anyway.
When the door shut behind her, he wheeled himself into the music room and sat there for some moments enjoying the solitude. His apartment was on the top floor at the front of a building facing Central Park and the sunshine that spilled through the windows felt celestial. It was his bird heaven, a tree-top palace that leaned into clouds and jet trails, schmoozing with God and all his attendant saints and angels. Peace. A place to wait for death, though death certainly was taking its time. Wheelchair bound, but clear of mind, he wanted to take care of a few things before his name was called, his thread was cut, or the kindly mule kicked his particular bucket. Or that’s what he told himself. Really, he was only existing. Only breathing, shitting, thinking, admiring the view, and listening, listening with all his senses.
With the help of his son, of course, who had lowered the stereo so Harvey could get to it from the chair. Ruben had also installed handles, in the kitchen and bath, the two rooms too narrow for a chair with big wheels.
People with ulterior motives (Maxi, for instance) tried to make him dependent, but he was perfectly able to take care of himself and he preferred it that way because when someone else was in the apartment, they cluttered it with worries and obsessions and kept him tethered. Alone, he soared in the stillness of space and light and gained the purity of sounds he had always been after.
The tape that was on the player happened to be the one he wanted to hear; he pushed the “on” button and the room filled with the tune he craved: the Duke on piano, Grapelli on violin. But the first piece hadn’t even ended when a question tiptoed into his consciousness. Why did she tell him to hide his things?
The answer came that evening when he picked up the phone.
“Daddy? How’re you feeling? How’s that cold? Maxi said you had a cold.”
“Oh, that’s nothing, just a few sniffles. Maxi exaggerates.”
“You should take something for it. You don’t want it to turn into pneumonia. Please take something for it. I’ll have the drugstore send up something to make you sleep better. Some Nyquil, okay?”
“It’s fine. I sleep fine. There’s no need.”
“I would feel so much better if I knew you had it. Just in case. Know what I mean? Just in case.”
“I don’t need it,” he said. “How’s John? How’re the children?”
“Everyone’s fine. Everyone sends their love.”
“Well, everything’s all right here. I’m healthy. No need to worry.”
There was a pause. “Just a minute,” she said.
He could hear her put the receiver down, whisper to someone, and then pick it up again, but she hadn’t made a sound. Then cautiously, in a new tone, “Daddy?”
“Jennifer my love.” What he had always called her.
“Don’t be angry with me. Let’s just try it first, okay? Someone is going to come, starting tomorrow for four hours just to help, just to make things easier for you, okay? It’s a very good agency. No one they send has a criminal record. Everyone is screened, very carefully, and if for some reason you don’t like this person you can ask for someone else.”
He snorted in disgust.
“Wait…. don’t say anything. Let me just tell you how I feel, okay? It’s really hard.” Her voice cracked. “You don’t know. But sometimes at night I lie in bed just thinking about you all alone. What if you fell? You could starve to death.”
She had been like this as a child. He once told Alice that he regretted telling Jennifer how long they had tried for a child. It was almost as though she had absorbed into her being all the vulnerabilities of those eggs as they attempted the heroic journey. Alice used to sit with Jennifer on the nights she couldn’t sleep, stroking her forehead, singing the great old songs, but softly, turning them into lullabies.
“Listen, my love, I’m fine. When you can’t sleep, just put on one of your mother’s recordings. That’ll work. It’ll work better than saddling me with someone I don’t want and don’t need. Let’s not do this. Call them tomorrow and cancel it.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’m sure.”
“It’s just me?”
“That’s all it is. Trust me.”
“Oh Daddy, it would be so much easier if I lived closer. Listen, don’t you think you could try it, just for a few days? You might be surprised.”
“Call tomorrow, Jennifer. Cancel the person.”
3.
At nine a.m. when the doorman rang and said, “You have a visitor Mr. Abram,” he knew that Jennifer hadn’t canceled. And now the whole tiresome business would begin. Two weeks later, if it lasted even that long, he would decide that his privacy was more important, and feeling like an ass, he would fire the overburdened, underpaid Caribbean, Vietnamese, Puerto Rican woman who had spent an hour on public transportation and then with poor language skills and a volatile mixture of hates and fears, tried her absolute best to understand his needs.
A knock on the door came next. Soft, but he heard it. He had lived by his hearing all of his life and in old age was still blessed with it. It was his legs that had given out.
“It’s open,” he called, wheeling himself into the foyer, preparing to meet the enemy.
But the person who stepped onto the parquet Maxi kept so slick with wax he joked that she was trying to kill his visitors, promptly fell on her backside and a pair of ridiculously impractical shoes flew off her feet. “Oh! Oh gosh, I’m sorry!”
“Well, the first thing is that you’ll need sneakers for my floors. Those shoes will kill you.” He couldn’t see her face yet, but he followed the motions as a swirl of legs and arms and some kind of navy outfit (my God, did they come now in uniform?) righted herself. “And you are?” Maybe it was a new person from the drugstore who didn’t know deliveries went to the front desk.
“Ava Prett from Silver Linings, sir. Are you Mr. Harvey Abram?”
“Well, I used to be and unless something alien has claimed me, and of course it has, because that’s what old age is, but it hasn’t claimed all of me, not just yet, I still am. At your service.” He actually (oh you fool, you seductive idiot) bowed his head.
The Exit Coach Page 11