Tales From the Crib

by Jennifer Coburn

  Great. Just what every woman wants to hear. The man she loves is drifting off into thought about Orthodox adolescents whose skirts have been blown up by the river breeze.

  “And I was thinking that I miss you,” Jack said. I tried to remain calm, knowing that peeing on the couch was a definite mood killer. A Glamour Don’t for sure.

  “How can you miss me when I’m right here?” I said innocently.

  “I miss the way it used to be between us. I miss the Lucy I fell in love with in Ann Arbor.” This isn’t good.

  “What made you think of that?”

  “Because I’ve seen that side of you again recently. And it’s made me want it back.”

  I sighed, and held back tears of joy. “Come here,” I coaxed with my finger. I wrapped my naked arms around his shoulders and kissed him with the single-mindedness I hadn’t had in years. I felt the warmth and fullness of his lips pressed against mine, and thought if ever there was a night I might be able to give Tantra a real shot, this was it. “I’m still here, Jack,” I whispered, kissing him lightly, teasingly. “And so are you.”

  Adam let out a wail from his room. “And so is he,” Jack said, smiling. “Lemme get this one. You stay right there, and hold that thought.”

  Chapter 31

  Hours later I was awakened by the alarm of Adam’s needs. I squinted in the dark, startled to see Jack’s arm draped across a pillow. The sight brought an immediate smile to my face. I brought Adam back to my bed and watched his father sleep as I nursed him. I didn’t know what the future held for our family. Jack very well may have woken up and announced that our brief reconciliation was a mistake, a fleeting moment of passion between two old friends. Or, it could’ve begun our journey back together. Whatever it was, I wasn’t naïve enough to think that one night together would be the panacea for years of resentment between us. But this was a very nice start.

  I never got the chance to debrief with Jack. That sounds terribly unromantic, but I didn’t want to get my hopes up and characterize it as morning-after pillow talk. The phone rang a few minutes before six the next morning. It was Cousin Ralph, Aunt Rita’s son-in-law. He was a Chanukah card relative—one sent by his wife nonetheless—so I knew he was calling with news of death or illness. I wasn’t prepared for it to be the fatal heart attack of Aunt Rita. She was an elderly woman with a heart condition in the Florida summer heat, but still, it was completely unexpected. After getting the details of the funeral, which would be in New York later in the week, I called Bernice at her cousin Sylvia’s in Miami.

  “We had such a gorgeous day yesterday,” Bernice began. “We should all die like this.” I glanced at Adam and Jack still sleeping in the bed together. I walked down to the kitchen and opened the fridge to pour a glass of tomato juice, a drink Rita always had well stocked. “In the morning we found the perfect condo for ourselves. In Hollywood. Right across the street from the beach, which we’d nevah go to, but the breeze helps keep things coolah. And the apartment has a balcony with a view of the Intracoastal.”

  “The what?” I asked, wondering why she wasn’t wailing with grief.

  “It’s a wartah-way. I could sit there for hours wondering where the boats were heading. Rita loved it too, which, as you know, dawling, is no small achievement. So we signed the paypahs, then went to Sylvia’s for the matinee of Goys and Dahrls, which is Rita’s favorite musical evah.” She sang a few notes. “Luck for my lady tonight.” She sighed and sniffed. “I will miss her. So aftah the show is ovah, a group of ladies decided to go to the Red Lobstah for dinnah. Now, I don’t know if you know this, but Rita adored lobstah, but was always too frugal to spend like that. But you know how it is when you go out with a big group. The bill comes and some big shot says we should split it, nevah mind if she had the lobstah and you had nothing but a bowl of chowdah ,” she said. “So Rita figures she’s going all out and ordered lobstah and rock shrimp. Have you ever had rock shrimp?”

  “Huh? Oh sorry, no,” I said.

  “Next time you come to Florida, you must try rock shrimp. It will be our tribute to her! I don’t know what got into Rita last night, but you know how we’re always dieting? Not last night! Aftah she ate her lobstah and rock shrimp, with buttah—they’re so succulent, they taste exactly like lobstah—my sistah decides to ordah key lime pie. Lucy, I can’t tell you what comfort it gives me to know that she ate every last crumb of that pie before she died.”

  What is it with older women and pie?

  Bernice continued. “It was like that story about the Buddha who ate the grape before he was eaten by tigahs.”

  “Do you mean the Zen Buddhist?” I asked.

  “Exactly! My sistah Rita, the Buddha of Red Lobstah. Oy, she’d die if she heard me say she was like that tubby Chinaman.”

  “So Rita just died right there in the restaurant?!”

  “As soon as the waitah gave her the check, she started clutching her chest. We all thought she was joking, saying the bill was so high, but she fell ovah onto the floor and we all started screaming. The manager thought she was choking and started giving her the Heimlich maneuvah, but some other man came over and checked her out and said she was having a heart attack. By the time the ambulance arrived, she was gone,” she said, sniffing again. “I’m heartbroken, of course, but it was such a Rita way to go. She ruined everyone else’s dinnah at the Red Lobstah. Can you imagine watching someone die at the next table while you’re trying to enjoy dinnah? Anyway, the manager was absolutely lovely. Our meal was one hundred percent on the house. You know how she could always get our restaurant bills reduced by complaining that this wasn’t right, or that didn’t please her? She wasn’t even trying to get a discount this time. I only wish she were here to laugh about it.”

  “Wow,” was all I could say. “You sound like you’re taking this very well.”

  “I’m devastated,” Bernice said, her voice growing heavy. “We were together every day. We were going to live together like we did when we were girls in Brooklyn. She perked up. “I’ve made a decision, though, and before I tell you I want you to know that I’m not crazy. I had a lot of time to think about this last night, so promise me that even if you don’t agree with it, you’ll help me.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’ve decided that if I make it to ninety, I want to check out the way Rita did.”

  “Auntie! You can’t plan a heart attack at Red Lobster.”

  “Listen to me, big shot! What I want is to have a gorgeous day with the people I love most, have a delicious dinner-rock shrimp-then I’m out.”

  “What do you mean? “

  “I don’t want to be caught by surprise. Irv died on the bathroom floor. Rita left a mess on the table with all those lobstah shells.”

  “You want to tidy up before you die?”

  “I’ll be ninety! I’ll have a girl take care of that. My point is that I’m not going to let death catch me off guard. After my perfect day, I’m going to jump off my balcony into the Intracoastal.”

  “What?!”

  “I’m going to jump off the balcony and into the Intracoastal,” she repeated as though I was a dullard for not absorbing it the first time. “And I need you to help me climb up onto the rail. I couldn’t pull that off now, much less in eight yeahs.”

  “Auntie, I think you may be in shock,” I said. “It’s been a stressful twenty-four hours. Why don’t we talk about this in a few weeks?”

  “Okay,” she said sweetly. “So what’s new with you?”

  “Auntie, I think you need some sleep,” I suggested.

  Aunt Rita was not the expert on funerals that her sister was, but she had definite ideas about how hers would be conducted. She left behind a twenty-four-page typed manual on handling her burial and memorial service. She even wrote the eulogy for her son.

  Whenever someone dies, some moron always says, “This is the way she would have wanted it.” And chances are the deceased is rolling over in her grave wanting the exact opposite. To clarify what it is that
I do want, I am leaving behind a few notes. Think of it as Death’s Little Instruction Book.

  Rita was right. No one would have ever guessed that she would have wanted such a lavish memorial service. Not once in her life did she entertain in the manner that she would for her death.

  As directed, after Rita was buried next to her husband at a Jewish cemetery in Queens, her friends and family gathered at Tavern on the Green for lunch. I sat in this same room for my high school prom—the large room that looks like a greenhouse with windows covering most of the ceiling and wall space. We overlooked a quiet patch of lawn with thick-trunked trees and chipper squirrels. Each table had a clear glass vase with large white stargazer lilies. Black rocks sat at the vase bottoms, holding the stems in place. A string quartet played Mozart. Unobtrusive waiters laid decorative plates of food before us. Filet mignon with tiny sprigs of asparagus rested over a Rorschach design of hollandaise sauce. I was impressed by their ability to lay more than one hundred plates before us in just a few minutes.

  “How are you doing?” Jack whispered, as he placed his hand on my knee.

  “Sad,” I answered, patting back. Adam was at Candace’s for the day as Rita unapologetically specified that no one under the age of thirteen could attend her funeral or memorial. When I heard this, I half expected there to be some juicy content in the eulogy. Rita always hinted that she was a hot number during in the war. I imagined Rita and Bernice with their hair rolled neatly, brown skirts to their calves, and fabulously wide-heeled shoes one can only find in retro shops. I saw Rita with red lipstick and a cigarette walking the boardwalk in Coney Island, turning her limp into a sexy swagger. But at the memorial, there were no tales that required a PG-13 rating. Rather, Rita didn’t want any children’s chatter to detract from her memorial. Especially after she’d worked so hard on the eulogy.

  Jack patted my hand again, but this time left it there. “It’s gotta be rough,” he said.

  “It is,” I returned. “Plus, she was right there near my dad’s plot, so I feel a double whammy of grief. And I feel guilty about it. I keep hearing Rita’s voice saying, ‘This is my day. Mourn your fathah on your own time!’” Jack laughed. “Don’t laugh,” I whispered. “We’re going to get in trouble.”

  “Bernice is holding up remarkably well,” Jack said.

  “She’s out of her mind,” I whispered. “She’s working the room like a bride. I overheard her say that she was sorry that Rita wasn’t here to enjoy the party, but she was sure glad she was.”

  “Give her a break,” Jack said. “She’s been through a lot.”

  “I just wish she’d act normal.”

  Jack smiled. “Define normal.”

  I glanced at my cousins seated around the table and leaned in toward Jack. “Obviously, this isn’t the time, but I think we need to talk about the other night.”

  “You think it was a mistake?” Jack asked.

  “No!” I whispered, then shot my eyes around to look at my cousins. “Let’s talk about this later.” After a moment, I rapped his knee under the table. He leaned in and I whispered, “Do you?”

  “Do I what?”

  “Do you think it was a mistake?”

  Jack shook his head emphatically. “I’m glad it happened.”

  Our smiles broke when we heard a fork tapping a glass. Bernice in her green sequined gown called for the group’s attention. “Excuse me, everyone,” she said as the guests began to settle. “On behalf of my family, I’d like to thank you all for coming to Rita’s farewell luncheon.” She blew into the microphone and asked if it was on. “I wanted to share a little story with you about grieving Rita.” Finally some admission that this was, in fact, a memorial reception. “The rabbi asked me this morning how I planned to grieve the death of my sistah. We saw each othah every day. We tawked on the phone. We knew every secret the othah had. I was there when she was born and she’s been my best friend evah since. I’m an old woman, and life is getting a little more rocky than it’s evah been. Friends are dying. A few years ago, I went to my sixty-year high school reunion, and seven people were there—two in wheelchairs, one with a walkah. I don’t hear at all in my left ear any more, so when I go to the movies, I have to sit with my right ear pointed toward the screen, which means I get a crick in my neck from trying to see what’s going on. I don’t complain, but that doesn’t mean I don’t have troubles. So, at eighty-two years old, I’m not going to make myself any more uncomfortable than need be. When I remember that Rita has passed away, I’m going to simply pretend it nevah happened.”

  A hundred faces glanced nervously at each other, wondering if we should interrupt her or let her continue with her toast to denial. “When I think to call her, I’ll just pretend she’s on vacation. Or, I’ll just close my eyes and pretend she’s there. I know what she would say. After eighty yeahs with her, it’s not like she could shock me with some new revelation anyway. So, if you feel a hole in your heart today, where Rita used to be, fill it by pretending she nevah died. Raise your glasses with me and toast her. To Rita. Pretend she nevah left us. Pretend she’s still here. Just pretend.”

  Again, the guests looked around at each other for guidance. Should they toast to insanity concocted during Aunt Bernice’s obvious breakdown? Could they raise their glasses and say “Pretend” in unison?

  “To Rita,” Jack said, filling in the awkward silence. “To Rita and her beautiful life!”

  “To Rita!” the crowd repeated, relieved.

  Chapter 32

  When Jack’s cell phone rang during dessert, half of the room glanced at their own, then looked annoyed at him for forgetting to turn his off. He knit his brows with concern when he saw who the call was from, so I gave him a look as if to say it was okay, that he should answer. He stepped outside, then returned twenty minutes later.

  Still standing, Jack asked, “What would you think if I sold the gallery and we ran off together and joined the circus?” He kissed my forehead then sat beside me.

  “Look around, hon,” I said, gesturing to my family, and Aunt Bernice in particular, who’d just recently suggested we all go out for karaoke after the luncheon. “Marrying into this family was joining the circus.”

  “Seriously, Luce,” Jack persisted. “What would you think if I sold the gallery and spent more time on my own painting?”

  “Wow, this is out of left field,” I said, wondering how long Jack had been unhappy with the gallery.

  “So was the car that nearly killed me,” he said. “Everything’s changed, Luce. And here we are,” he gestured to our empty table with half-filled water glasses and chocolate crumbs. “Rita was an old woman, but still. One day she’s on heart medication, thinking everything’s under control, and the next week we’re at her funeral.” He sighed and reached for my hand. He turned his body squarely toward mine and leaned in to speak more softly. His eyes gazed up at mine and I knew that whatever he asked of me, I was already halfway there. “I’m not happy running the gallery. I was once, but now I want to paint again. What do you say we take a drive out to The Berkshires and look at some land? With what I could sell the gallery for, we could buy a house on a couple acres, then build the artist community little by little. I’ve been looking at the real estate ads, and I think we might be able to swing it. In ten, fifteen years, we could be living our dream.”

  Anjoli always says that anxiety is two equal portions of excitement and fear, and to work through it, a person should separate them and address each individually. Excitement: Jack is talking about us being together ten years down the road. He is referring to “our” dreams. The artist community would be heaven. At the very least, it wouldn’t be Caldwell. Fear: Jack is talking about us ten years down the road. One more good whack to the head and he could go the other way again. Or, more likely, the sunny optimism of survival will eventually become a dim realism, and life with me might not look so appealing anymore. Okay, real confession here. The artist community always sounded like a splendid idea, but I sort of always knew it
was never going to happen. The fact that it might was thrilling and terrifying. I could finally write my novel. In fact, I’d be expected to. And God knows, Desdemona is barely on speaking terms with me anymore.

  “What do you think?” Jack asked again, looking expectantly.

  “I don’t think we should make any rash decisions,” I said, pleased with my levelheadedness.

  “What’s so rash about it? We’ve been talking about this for years.”

  “Is this really a good time to sell the gallery?” l asked.

  “I’d say so,” Jack said, smiling. He knew he was making headway with me. “I’d make a shitload on the real estate alone, and the business is profitable. It’d be a great investment for someone. Plus, I’m done with it. I want to paint, Lucy. I don’t want to spend my time running back and forth from home to work, hustling to make other artists successful. I want to do my own thing.”

  Excitement took over and I saw myself at the keyboard of my computer with a large window in front of me that overlooked lush green trees. It is lightly raining and bulbous drops of water glisten on the leaves outside. A diversity of wildlife from boldly colored birds to gray squirrels find refuge in my yard, which always offers a full plate of nuts and seeds. My office is all wood and glass. A framed silk scarf with large pink flowers on it hangs over the main wall. I sip peppermint tea. I am happy.

  “Let’s talk about it tonight,” I offered.

  “It’ll have to be,” Jack said. “That was Wex. I need to go in for a few hours.”

  “Now?!” I whined.

  “Luce, this is what I’m talking about. That gallery owns me.”

  “Do we really have enough money for this?” I asked.

  The smile melted from Jack’s face. “Not quite. We’d have to take a loan for some of it. I haven’t sorted out all the details, but don’t write it off, Luce. We could do this.” He told me he’d be home in a few hours and kissed me good-bye, this time on the lips. It was a memorial service, after all, so a peck was all I got. But at least we were moving in the right direction.