A Piece Of Normal

by Maddie Dawson

  "Then you're happy about the baby?" I say when I can locate the power of speech.

  "Oh! The baby. Well. Everyone knows that shouldn't have happened this way." He shrugs, very Teddy-like. "Why couldn't I just do things the proper way, I ask myself. Why not—if I find I'm in love with a woman—why not marry her, get to know her well, and then have the baby, after we've figured everything out? That's my way. Taking a long time, as you know. But that just didn't happen. This baby came roaring into my life, just the way Dana did." He sighs. "But it wants to be born, this baby. It's coming, ready or not."

  "Yes," I say. "Apparently so."

  The waitress brings our plates over and asks, "Anything else?" When we both shake our heads at her, she rips off the check and puts it down on the table, in the wet ring left by a water glass. I see that the ink from her ballpoint pen leaves a little mark on the table. At another table, somebody is playing the little jukebox: "Love Me Tender" by Elvis. Outside the window, cars are crawling past on Main Street.

  Teddy doesn't touch his eggs; he just looks at me. His hands, I see, are shaking slightly. "Anyway, here's what I've just learned. News flash," he says. "Love doesn't always come in the package you think it's going to come in. I never would have dreamed it was going to be your sister, for God's sake. That's just trashy, is what that is. Sleazy, even. So that's why I want to thank you. I owe you such a debt—"

  "Me? I had nothing to do with her."

  "Yeah, you—for not going back to me that night when I said we were two misfits. Remember that? You were right. We weren't misfits. Well, hell, maybe I'm still a misfit, but somebody loves me now, and that's good enough for me. You know what else I figured out?"

  I am just the slightest bit weary of all these proclamations, but I'm a little mesmerized, too, at this new Teddy.

  "I'm always so scared of everything, like even your getting those eggs uncooked. I'm going to stop doing that kind of thing. I realize that everything is eventually going to go to hell; it's all going to disappear. My body is going to get old and die. Long Island Sound is probably going to get so smelly and polluted that fish grow hind legs and start walking on land—and so what? So what? Dana's not my type, Lily. She doesn't stick with anything. We know that. She just goes off to whatever is next, whatever is bright and shiny. But you know something?" His eyes are so bright I think they might have tears in them. "I don't care. The thing about people like her is, they're just these bright lights. That's who she is: a bright light. And who knows? This may last for the next eighty years, or it might end after eighty days. Hell, I might be raising this kid all by myself while Dana goes off to new worlds. But who cares? That's life. It's worth it."

  "Teddy, what has happened to you? Are you on drugs?"

  He laughs his hyena laugh. "No. I think this is love," he says. He hasn't touched his food, and he reaches over and takes my two hands in his. My fork clatters to the plate. "Listen, Lily. Listen to this. I hope to God this Alex guy is worthy of you. You're excellent, you know that? Just too put together for a wretched type like me. You're the kind of person who can do anything. Dana and I can't do half of what you do. But I'm just so sorry if we've hurt you, if along the way you got wounded because of us. That would be the very worst thing."

  I actually feel my eyes welling up a little. I can't think of what this feeling is, but then I know. Well, I think I know. I'm relieved. Maybe this is what relief feels like, after all these years with him. He's doesn't need me. He's not going to turn to me and try to make me help him get out of this. I don't even have to worry about him.

  "Teddy," I say slowly, "this is it. This is the day of our divorce. Our decree came through more than two years ago, and yet this is the day I finally feel divorced from you." I don't add that I think he's clinically insane.

  35

  When I get back to Alex's house, I find out that Leon Caswell is dead.

  He died while we were at the diner. The message is on Alex's answering machine. It's from Dana, saying that Krystal called looking for me. Leon had had another episode and had been rushed to the hospital unconscious—and when he arrived there, they pronounced him dead.

  "So," Dana says in the message, "sorry to bother you in your new life, but I thought you'd want to know. Call Krystal at the emergency room." And she gives me the number.

  I sit back on the bed, stunned. A million things are going through my mind, not the least of which is that I should have told Krystal I was leaving home, should have given her Alex's number. But when you leave in a snit, in the middle of the night, you don't call as many people as you might otherwise.

  I get in the car and drive to Yale–New Haven Hospital, and find Krystal at last in a back room of the emergency unit. She looks young and pale but very brave. This is her element, I remember: she's a nurse. They are just about to take Leon's body out of the room, but she persuades them to wait for another few minutes. "Could you hold on for a moment? Lily was practically Leon's daughter," she says. Then she turns to me. "Do you want to sit with him and me for a moment?" she says, as if I'd just shown up on their deck to find the two of them drinking a beer together.

  I don't want to, actually. I don't think I can bear to see Leon's face without Leon inhabiting it, but I can tell she needs me to do this. So we go in and sit in the chairs by his bedside, and she and I hold hands, dry-eyed, while we watch him. All the machines hover around his bedside as though they feel the same grief we do, now that their services aren't needed and they've been disconnected. I make myself look at his face; it's gray and calm and empty. I've never been with someone who's dead before. I never really thought, when I saw him the other day, that this was going to happen so soon. After all, he talked so much, he was so clear and sharp—how could somebody that present in life now be dead?

  Krystal's staring off into space. She looks like she's been crying for so many hours she has nothing left in her. "Remember the last time we were here? You told me all the things he did for you when you were young," she says. "I wish I had known him then."

  "Well," I say, "you had him at the end—at the culmination of all his Leon-ness. You may have gotten the best possible Leon there was."

  I don't want to ask her what she's going to do next. It seems impossible to think of her remaining at his house, remaining in the colony. But it doesn't seem like a conversation that should take place before the body is quite cold. I look over at him. It's beginning to get to me, sitting next to his body, and I tell her I think we should say good-bye to him and leave. I'll help her with whatever arrangements there are—phone calls, anything she needs.

  "Oh!" she says, and reaches into her bag. "The envelope. He wanted me to be sure to give you this."

  I take it out of her hands. "Shall I read it now, do you think?" I ask her and she nods. So I open it up and read two sentences and immediately start laughing. "Come on, Krystal. Let's go find a comfortable place to sit while we hear from Leon."

  It seems weird, leaving his body in favor of a piece of paper. But the truth is, this paper has more of him living in it than the shell of his body does. I blow him a farewell kiss and we go downstairs.

  We find a little table in the hospital atrium, by the fountain. People are milling around everywhere, so we pull our chairs close together.

  "Lily," I read aloud. "I'm speaking to you from the Eternal Peace and Quiet, and if you think it's fun being here, think again. I can tell you right now that even up here in the afterlife, even if there are angels and harps and God Himself stopping by to wish me a good morning, I would rather be sitting next to you while you read this. I hope to hell you are someplace comfortable, because I've got a few requests to make. First, kiss Krystal for me and give her a big hug. I know she's just handed you this envelope, and she's probably a little bit sad. I'd kiss her myself if I could."

  I look up at her, and we blow each other kisses. "Go on," she says.

  "I've been giving a lot of thought to how I want to be sent off to the afterlife. Never mind a funeral in a church.
I want a memorial service, and I want it to be the biggest party this colony has ever had. I made this letter out to you because I think you're the only one who can make it all happen. My only regret is that I'm too dead to see it. However, if there is an afterlife—and if I'm not too pooped out from being sick these last few months—you can bet I'll be looking down and watching to make sure you follow all my instructions. And boy, if you don't, when you get here—in sixty years or so—I'm really going to let you have it."

  The next page lists his requirements for his service:

  It's to be held on the beach, rain or shine, cold or hot, on the first Saturday evening after I die. (A lot of people work on weekdays, and I don't want to exclude anyone.)

  No complaining is to be tolerated. There will be no griping or whining of any sort at this wingding. Even if it's raining or freezing, everybody has to buck up.

  Frank Sinatra music is a must. There must be dancing like in the old days. Everybody who knows how must try a tango. Yes, I know the sand makes it difficult. Suck it up. You want to complain about it, when I'm dead here? You know how much I'd like to be there doing the tango with you? So just pipe down.

  I'd like all the colony people to come, even though they were pains in the ass when Krystal and I got married. (And yes, now that I'm dead, I can use whatever language I want, so don't roll your eyes.)

  I want someone (Sloane?) to be the sergeant-at-arms to keep people in line and to enforce the no-complaining rule. If people complain, or if they say bad things about each other, or argue, there will be fines levied. The fine is a hundred kisses to the person you've most wounded—and there have been a lot of wounds in this colony, so pucker up.

  All topics of conversation are allowed, and even insisted upon. Nothing is off-limits except insults. You think death is fun? You think I want eternal peace and quiet? Just be glad you can be there with each other, and be glad somebody's taking the trouble to point out how much time you've already wasted with these petty squabbles.

  I'd like my ashes to be flung out into the Sound, with everybody flinging just a little bit.

  I want people to join hands and sing two songs: the first is "We Are the World," because I've always liked that song, and it just doesn't get enough radio play these days. Oh, and then, while you're still there, a chorus of "It Had to Be You," because whether you know it or not, you're all stuck with each other for reasons none of us knows. (Words are enclosed.)

  I'd like you to make a bonfire on the beach (don't forget to get a permit; we don't need the police here), and once you're around the fire—this is the tricky part—I'd like you all to apologize. That's right. Don't even try to skip this part. The following people need to apologize for crimes I've observed over the years, and if anyone knows of any other crimes that I perhaps didn't see, they should apologize for those as well. You don't have to specify the crime you committed, but do not make me come down there! You have to apologize, and it has to be public and heartfelt and real.

  SCHEDULE OF APOLOGIES: Lily must apologize to Dana. Dana must apologize to Lily. Both Lily and Dana must apologize to Gracie. Gracie must apologize to the memory of Avery Brown, and to Dana and Lily. Teddy must apologize to Lily and to Simon. All of the colony kids must apologize to their parents, and then all the parents must apologize to their kids. Grandchildren need not apologize to their grandparents, except for Bert's son who sold drugs in Bert's house. Anginetta must apologize to everyone, and everyone must apologize to her. Mark needs to tell Maggie he's very, very sorry. And from heaven, believe me, I'll make sure all the deceased ones are apologizing right then to the rest of you. They have a lot to answer for, too, believe me.

  And then I want you to dance all night, eat the lobsters and shrimp and prime rib that I am buying for you and having delivered. On second thought, better do the eating first and the apologizing afterward. And then you can go and live the rest of your lives any old mean way you want to. Only I hope you've learned something—that each of you is precious. I have loved you every one. Wish I was there. Love, Leon.

  That night, I can't help it: I talk about Leon on the radio show, telling the radio audience all about him—how he took care of me when my parents died and how he kept trying, always, to get me to be a braver person, impossible though that was. I mention that he was always available for killing horrible bugs, even in the middle of the night, and that when I was distraught, he taught me how to play the ukulele, because he knew music could be a solace. I tell them about his marriage to Krystal, his wife's nurse, and how people always thought he'd disgraced his dead wife's memory, but that he insisted he'd enhanced her memory because he loved marriage so much he had to get married again. I almost start to cry as I'm describing how he could do the best imitation of Jimmy Durante ever seen outside of Las Vegas, and that recently I threw a dinner party and he was the only guest who let himself try to have a good time.

  Then I tell about the social will he made up to be read when he died, and I even read it on the air, leaving out the names of all the guilty parties, of course.

  Throughout the evening, people call up with comments. This seems to hit a nerve with the general population. One woman says he was a great guy to go to the trouble of trying to bring people together even after he was dead. Another caller, a man, says it sounds good on paper, but that he doesn't think people can be bossed around into doing the right thing.

  "If his friends don't want to do it, I don't see how a piece of paper is going to make them," the guy says. "But good luck."

  "I'm not exactly sure it's going to work, either," I say into the microphone, knowing that nobody in the colony will be listening. "But if anybody could make it work, Leon could. We'll have to see."

  When I go back to Alex's apartment, he meets me at the door and draws me inside. Then he leans me up against the wall and covers my face with hundreds of silent little kisses, all along my lips and cheeks and hair and jaw. "I know we can't make love or anything with Simon here," he says at last, "but I just wanted you to know that that was so beautiful and spontaneous, what you said on the radio. And I love you." He kisses me some more.

  "Listen," I say when all these little kisses have turned me to jelly. "Maybe it's time we see if the lock on your bedroom door really works."

  36

  By the time the memorial service takes place the following Saturday, I'm a jumble of nerves and doubt. Who am I kidding, thinking this is going to work? More important, who was Leon kidding? The colony people are not docile little children, ready to fall for this. And I should know: I had to call them all to invite them, and just from their incredulous reactions when I told them what was expected, I can tell that the no-complaining rule alone is going to be broken in the first five minutes. And will they pay the fine of kisses? Oh, please.

  Saturday morning I wake up feeling jumpy, nervous, and sad. I call up Krystal, and she says she's been feeling the same way.

  "If we cancel, though, he'll come down from heaven and beat us up," I say, and she laughs.

  Before we hang up, she says, "I just hope everybody sees in this how much Leon loved them. But I'm just so afraid they're going to take all his instructions the wrong way."

  "They take everything the wrong way," I tell her. "Oops—is that a complaint? Has the no-complaining ordinance gone into effect yet?"

  "Not yet," she says. "I think you can complain right up until the thing starts, at four. Which is exactly what I intend to do."

  I sigh. "Well, I think you and I just have to let it unfold the way he wanted and not be too attached to the outcome," I tell her. "It's his show, not ours."

  ***

  Just before four, Alex, Simon, and I walk down to the beach. The sky is the color of slate, with puffy clouds that seem to be piling up toward the west, and even though it's not fall yet, it's the kind of day that seems to be advertising summer's demise. When I look back at my house, I can see fallen leaves bunched up near the flower beds, and the slant of light is already different across the porch. I also
can't help but notice that the hose has been left out, and that from here, at least, it looks as though all my daisies and geraniums are dead in their flower boxes. Things sure have gone to hell fast.

  To my surprise, when we get to the beach, only Krystal is already there, plus a bunch of natty little uniformed waiters setting up tables and blankets on the sand. They have big coolers and boxes and evidently an oven of sorts that they've made in the sand. It's a clambake, I realize. Leon always talked about wanting a clambake.

  I try to make conversation with one of the waiters, but he's almost robotic in his reply. Krystal, who's wearing a floaty-looking gypsy skirt and a black shirt, nervously whispers to me that these waiters don't seem to talk at all. "I think that might have been part of their instructions," she whispers. "Leon didn't want us to have outsiders to talk to. He wanted us to talk to each other."

  Simon goes running off down the beach happily, windmilling his arms and leaping over to the edge of the water and then jumping back. I call him to come and take off his shoes. Krystal and Alex and I sit on a blanket and watch the clouds racing across the sky. No one else comes.

  One of the waiters brings us over glasses of wine in long-stemmed goblets.

  "What time is it?" I say to Alex.

  "Four thirty."

  "See? They're not coming," Krystal says. "Is this unbelievable? They've been so mean, and now..."

  I feel the same. Worse, I think, because I'll have to announce this on the radio on Monday. "Folks, no one showed." I can't believe that even Dana and Teddy aren't here.

  "Oh, wait. Look," Alex says, standing up, "they're coming all together. They're just fashionably late." Sure enough, I turn and see Anginetta, in a black parka, walking over the little embankment, leaning on Bert's arm, followed soon by his three kids, who are kicking up sand and throwing stones at the reeds like the hoodlums they are. The Artertons come soon after, Virginia frowning and leaning on Bob. And Mr. Wiznowski looks pained, as if he's arriving for the emotional equivalent of a root canal.