Says to his mother and brother “Well, I’m going now to get the deli and stuff and take care of the house before all the people come, so I’ll see you.” His mother says “Do you have enough money?” and he says “You gave me more than enough, but if I need more, I have some of my own.” “No, I don’t want you paying for anything,” and reaches for her pocketbook. His brother says “He has enough—he told you—and if he doesn’t, you’ll give it to him later,” and to Howard “No tongue or fatty pastrami or meat like that. Just simple stuff, trimmed well, and get more than you think we need, because more people might be coming than we think. Also, we could use it while we’re sitting at Mom’s the next few days.” “By ‘simple,’ what do you mean?” and his brother says “Turkey, roast beef, lox, the best bologna, but nothing where the guests have to start picking off pieces because of the gristle and fat.” “OK, but I don’t want to be feeding and cleaning up after people the next few days. Making sandwiches, getting them drinks, people thinking it’s a restaurant we’re running, as Dad used to say,” and his brother says “That’s what you have to do when you sit. Not make things for them—they do that for you and serve you it and clean up after. But a lot come a long way and some around lunchtime and they’re hungry, naturally, also from sitting there for so long, so there should be food and pastries and coffee for them to help themselves. So get another can of coffee while you’re at it, and pastries too—little ones, big ones, but nothing with icing or that fluffy cream on it or goo in it. Coffeecakes and babkas—that’s what I mean you should get. Two or three of them, but simple ones, with mostly walnuts and raisins in them,” and hands Howard two twenties. “I told you, I have my own money and what Mom gave me,” and his brother says ‘Take it, I earn more than enough to play the sport, and I don’t want you holding back on what you buy.” He kisses his mother, brother, sister-in-law, says “I’m going to pay my respects a last minute,” his brother and sister-in-law nod, his mother seems to be off somewhere else, sitting erect, head arched back, eyes open but on nothing it seems, remembering, probably, maybe in a daze. Goes into the next room, sits on the front bench opposite the box, shuts his eyes, bows his head, folds his hands in his lap, hears the sound sonebody mentioned before and wanted to know what it could be: “There a pipe around that’s leaking?” Dripping, from the ice his father must be on, probably into a metal pan, from the sound of it, on the floor under the platform the box is on. Holes through the platform so the water can drip through? How do they do it? Something the rabbi insisted on if he was going to conduct the service? No modern refrigeration, which would be against his religious tenets? So why’d they get an Orthodox rabbi if his father hasn’t been Orthodox for forty years and they’d have to put up with this dripping? Going to be like this during the funeral? Then realizes; when the funeral home official—the salesman, really—showed them the caskets and then in his office asked lots of questions, like if they wanted their father embalmed, or rather “Of course you’ll probably want your father embalmed,” his brother and he said what for? He’s going into the ground tomorrow, around twenty-six hours after he died, so why do all that to the body and pay a couple-hundred more for it too? So probably on ice to preserve him for the funeral, which the embalming fluid probably would do, and where he won’t smell. Maybe that’s it, maybe not. Says “So I’ll see you in the morning,” closes his eyes again, lets whatever it is come in—nothing does; it’s all blank or flashing dots—and stands, moves his hand above the casket, then below the platform close to the curtain; doesn’t feel any colder. Thinks of lifting the curtain to see what kind of pan and the water, but maybe he’s got it all wrong; maybe it’s blood dripping, maybe something worse, and goes. Outside the home he thinks why didn’t he do what he was going to when he went into that room: hasn’t seen his father since in the hospital this morning, so open the casket to see the job they did on him and maybe for his last look. Forgot, that’s all, nothing deeper; got caught up in other things. Gets at the deli soda, seltzer, beer, coffee, milk, bread, sugar substitute, pound of this, two pounds of that, slice it thin, slice it thick, slice it regular, trim it a little more please, his brother says no fat, only the best, whatever’s the best, sure, salami too, nobody asked but he’s sure people will eat it and kosher salami’s supposed to be the finest, but only half a pound, same with the bologna, Isaac Gellis, any good brand like that, ham he knows they don’t have or nothing like it, right? sour and new pickles, lots of them, sour tomatoes, some of those pepper things with the long stems, couple of gefilte fishes, or fish for the plural, how do you say it? with plenty of carrot slices on them but not too much juice, it’s going to be eaten in an hour, cole slaw, potato salad, whitefish, nova, gravlax, whatever that is, he was told by his brother to get it, some of that spread there—chopped liver; of course—he thinks that’s it; maybe some roast turkey. Asks them to deliver but please make it quick, lots of hungry people will be flocking soon to his folks’ apartment from the funeral home and the food should be there when they come, and the counterman says “Oh, someone in the family? My condolences, all around, and don’t worry, our boy will be there before you, I bet, if you don’t get a cab and take it home right after you step out of here,” and he says “Don’t make it that fast; nobody will be there to receive it,” leaves, snaps his fingers outside, goes back and says “And could you throw in some of that nice deli mustard you prepare—enough for thirty people?” and stops off at a liquor store for several liquors, then at a bakery. At the apartment he opens the dining room table, puts a tablecloth on it—his mother told him which cloth—lots of paper napkins, no time to fold them into triangles, silver, plastic cups and paper plates—she told him where to find them—opens the liquor bottles and sets them on a side table with a pitcher of water and a few swizzle sticks, fills the ice bucket with ice, gets the cakes on dinner plates and puts them on the table with a bread knife between them, makes himself a drink, drinks it, makes another, pulls out two breakfront drawers of old photos his mother’s kept there since they moved from Brooklyn thirty-five years ago, buzzer from the building’s vestibule, forgot to get the coffee ready, buzzes the ringer in, deliveryman and lets him carry everything into the kitchen though his mother told him for what could be bugs at the store to have him leave the delivery at the door, gets the electric percolator going, slices the fish, pickles, tomatoes, puts everything on platters and into bowls, cleans a bag of radishes and garnishes the food platters with them, brings the platters and bowls to the dining room table, looks for serving forks and spoons. Arranges the table till it looks right to him. His idea, from right to left: tableware first, main food next, salads and accessories after, pastries last. Turns the kitchen radio on and is glad to get sad music: churchlike, possibly Bach, a cantata, maybe the Easter one or the Passion, for it’s familiar and Easter’s only days away. Makes himself a drink, sees there’s one in the dining room he didn’t touch and drinks it down, bourbon instead of scotch, starts on the new one. Soda and seltzer on the side table. Salt, pepper, mustard in a bowl on the main table. On the kitchen counter by the percolator: milk, sugar, sugar substitute in a dish, glass of teaspoons with the handles up, all the cups and saucers and mugs in the house. Phone rings. Doesn’t want to answer it. It’ll be somebody with his condolences but then it could be his brother about his mom. His mother’s cousin from Florida. Her condolences. He was the most wonderful good-natured man. Brought people together who never would have been. Almost matched her up with someone after her husband died but she decided taking care of one sick man for years and then burying him was enough. Just like his mother did but for twice as long as she and with his sister and dad, but she’s a saint. Which son is he, the oldest or youngest? Last time she saw him, but he wouldn’t remember her, was at a seder his parents gave more than twenty-five years ago. Funeral at Riverside? She won’t be able to come up for it, she never travels a mile from her home these days, but tell Mother she called. Beer he’ll leave in the refrigerator but how will people know it’s there
? They’ll just have to snoop around or ask. He leave anything out? Phone rings. His father’s nephew. He couldn’t make it tonight but he’ll be there tomorrow. He knows it’ll be in the paper but sometimes they don’t get it right so what time’s the funeral? And because he’s not sure about these etiquette things, he’s expected to get there to pay his respects a half-hour before? So, what can he say? Uncle Cy’s the last one on the Tetch side from that age group and the oldest. Next it’ll be their generation. What’s he talking about, since they’ve already lost a few; both of them their sisters and his middle brother, right? Tomorrow, then, and love to Aunt Pauline. Toothpicks, for some of these people, and a few more ashtrays. But why encourage them? and last thing he wants after everyone goes and there’s still a mess is to empty and clean ashtrays. Gets the garbage can from under the sink. Phone rings. Though it’s only half filled, wants an empty can to start with. Takes it out to dump and then relines it. Newspapers; maybe now that his father’s dead, plastic trash bags. Collects all the photos he can find of a certain time of his father. Phone rings, yells for it to go to hell, doesn’t want to speak to anyone, no one, has enough things to do and is just plain drained and not in a talking mood, picks up the receiver, hand over the mouthpiece, presses the disconnect buttons and leaves the receiver off the cradle. Drinks, pours another, but doesn’t want to get sloshed, his mother might need him and there might be all that cleaning up, so puts it to the side. Beeping from the phone, drinks while it’s doing it, and then it stops. Leans about fifty photos of his father against the wall above the dining room mantel, tapes several to the wall above it. Graduation photo from high school he’s been told, though looks five years too old for it. Bar mitzvah photo: hat for an old man and too big, tefillin, prayer shawl, mantilla, poncho, whatever it’s called, face radiantly self-confident and mature while he in his official bar mitzvah photo looked like a shy kid. Rowing a boat. Swinging a bat. Feeding a duck. Throwing an apple down from a tree. Reading a newspaper on his favorite park bench. On their honeymoon cruise to Bermuda, back of it says. Sitting on bar stools at Sloppy Joe’s in Cuba, sign on the interior awning says. Glasses raised, he raises his, here’s to ya, pal, phone rings. When he put the receiver back on? What else he do he doesn’t know about? Should go to the john so he doesn’t have to when there’s a line for it. Goes, makes sure to zip up. Phone rings, ah shit. Deliveryman came and left twenty-something minutes ago so should be back by now: delivered, gave him a tip, that was it. Standing on a diving board ready to dive in, one-piece swimsuit but looking good and fit. Dad and she or just him alone and lots of other people, relatives at family functions, friends or associates at professional or fraternal affairs, half with their heads twisted around or chairs turned. Between Alex and him during a summer camp visit, hairy gray chest, big belly, skinny legs, galvanizing smile, his dead brother looking so ungovernable, though his father’s got them both around the neck in a good grip, with his wild curly hair and cocky face and dark suntan and budding build. Standing, if that’s him, with his arms on the shoulders of two buddies, with his basic training unit. His mother and brother and sister-in-law come in, aunts, uncles, cousins, friends. Door never shuts. Outside buzzer and cigar smoke never stop. Opens a window but someone says too cold so he closes it. Phone always ringing or being dialed. They’ve been detained longer than they thought so go ahead with dinner. What’s doing with gold in Hong Kong and Tokyo? What’s he think about Nixon’s newest antics? someone asks him. Hasn’t read the paper or listened to the radio in days, what’d he say? Food being picked at or wolfed down and wonders if he should start cleaning up now or just bring in the kitchen trash can if nobody’s put something terrible in it or a couple of opened shopping bags and let everyone help themselves. His brother signals him with a finger, corners him. What’s with these photos? Thanks for the great job getting the food and setting up the table, but he go out of his mind? People haven’t said anything because they’re too embarrassed to. Sorry, thought it’d be nice, seeing him as he was, not sick as he’s been for years, and maybe his typical misdirected spontaneity and too much to drink. But this one he particularly likes: in his office bending over a patient, his dark hair, starched white smock, and look how rugged he looks and glittering his dental equipment is, and the photo seems professionally lit and taken, as if for a magazine. Was it? Brother shrugs, sort of doubts it, but it with the others if he can has to go. And look at this one of them in Paris, at the Café de la Paix of all places, which took them twenty years to get to once they’d planned it, and where he had what she called his first ministroke. Maybe that one should go right away because of its associations for her, and stuffs it into his back pocket. But he’s tired and it’s been a big one and last night at the hospital when he barely got a wink sitting by Dad’s bed, so he’s afraid he’ll have to call it a day. Please do whatever he pleases with the photos himself. Kisses his brother, says good night to his mother; she doesn’t seem to recognize him, then calls him Alex, corrects herself and calls him Gerald, then says of course it’s her youngest child Howard—she means her youngest son; Vera was her youngest child—but then she’s always been awful with names, and he leans over to hug her and she kisses his forehead. He’ll be in the boys’ room all night in case she needs him, he says, and goodnights to everyone he passes on his way to his old bed.
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