He knew by now he was better off to leave it alone. Once Allen got a notion in his head, there was no budging it.
Milo dutifully ate his bitter herbs and matzoh, murmured along with the prayers and songs, the whole time wishing he could get all excited about the young lady across the table and make everyone happy. Esther herself looked none too happy to be there, and kept looking out the window each time Mrs. Schwartz tried to impress her with another quote from a Hilarity review, or another story of when Milo met someone famous.
Milo wanted to climb inside his shirt collars and hide, since he’d told those stories to thrill Leah, not so that his mother would run them up a flagpole for a potential bride.
When at last the hidden matzoh was consumed, and the Seder concluded, Mrs. Schwartz observed wistfully that there were no children yet at their table, casting a glance at Max and his bride that made Miriam blush powerfully.
“We could have joined the Kleins,” noted Max, with a reassuring smile toward his wife. “They have little children and I’m sure had a festive Pesach.”
“Feh. We can barely fit in this hovel as it is, and their apartment is no bigger,” pronounced Mr. Schwartz. His words crashed down over the table with the force of a hammer strike.
Milo blinked rapidly to keep his eyes open. The lengthy dinner with all of its rituals, and the burden of being waved around in front of a single young woman, made him wish for his own narrow bed in his own quiet apartment. Not that Esther wasn’t a fine gal, and not that he didn’t want to settle down some time or another, but he had enough on his hands with trying not to be a showbiz failure and keeping his family out of the gutter. Also, Esther hadn’t looked at him more than twice throughout the evening, which was not much of a romantic atmosphere.
“Moshe, you will see Esther home. She lives in the next block from you,” declared his mother.
And so it was settled. There was no argument to be made. He took his leave from the family and they stepped out into the chilly April night. Their breath fogged the air, taking the place of conversation they might have had if they’d liked each other in the least.
“I’m sorry you got stuck with me tonight,” Milo offered. “You must’ve had someplace else better to be.”
“Not really. My parents are stuck in Bavaria now, some nonsense about their passports. They were visiting aunts and uncles. It was a kindness to have me here, else I’d have been alone.”
“Oh gosh, I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Too bad we don’t fall madly in love and make them all happy.” Esther said this with no bitterness at all.
“I was thinking the same thing. If only we could flip a switch, eh?”
“I have a beau, but my parents don’t like him. He’s Russian and lives on the East Side. I met him at a labor rally, and they don’t like that much, either.”
“Good for you. May you marry your Russian and have ten children.”
“I can’t marry him while they’re gone. It wouldn’t be right.”
“No, you’re right. I think this is your place, here?”
“Thanks for the escort.”
Milo saw Esther disappear through her apartment doorway, and thought if admiration were something like love, he might have it. A little bit, anyway.
Once inside his own small, quiet apartment, Milo noticed the stack of mail he’d tossed on his table before heading over to work with Allen. Just peeking out from other envelopes, he spied some feminine handwriting that looked familiar.
He tore open the envelope.
Dear Milo,
I’ve missed you, and I’ve been so bored without the music. I forgot how much I appreciated working around such artists! I haven’t forgotten how you helped me in Boston. It didn’t convince them to keep me on for another show, but I could at least save some face, and I’ve never forgotten that. Would you let me treat you to a friendly cup of coffee? Phone me at the number below and we can meet. It’s the least I can do, considering all you’ve done for me.
Yours musically,
Vivian
Milo smiled through his yawn, as he dropped the letter back onto the table. Just when he thought she’d forgotten all about that day when he’d lied for her. Not until he saw her spiky, slanty writing did he realize how much he did miss having her around. He could well imagine Allen’s rolling eyes, but what of it? Allen wasn’t in charge of him, nor was anyone else. He’d call her, but first thing in the morning, after he’d finally had some sleep.
Vivian pushed back from the counter with a sigh and a feline stretch of the arms.
“You sleeping okay?” Milo asked, slurping the last of his bitter coffee and reaching for his wallet.
“No, as a matter of fact, but that’s why this coffee is just the thing.” She grabbed for the check. “Mine. I insist.”
“No, let me…”
Milo lost the tug-of-war for the check and felt his cheeks flush. He could only imagine what his father would say about letting a girl pay for him.
“Let me walk you home?”
Vivian smiled by way of assent, and swiveled gracefully off the counter stool. Milo scooped up his hat, and together they stepped out into the bright bustling spring.
“If only it could be like this every day!” she cried, tipping up her face to the sun, her pert nose leading the way. Milo put his hand on her back to guide her around a woman pushing a pram in front of them.
“We wouldn’t appreciate it,” Milo observed. “I bet those guys in Florida complain about sunburn.”
Milo wondered if that would make a good lyric idea, something about complaining about sunburn on a sunny day. One of the characters in The High Hat was a fussbudget so saw the downside of everything.
“Milo? Are you in there?”
“Sorry, got to thinking about the show. Anyway, Vivian, we talked about me the whole time. What’s going on with you?”
Vivian pointed up. They were passing under the Sixth Avenue El, and the train was rumbling closer. They fell into silence as they crossed under the metal latticework, which sliced the spring sun into splashes about their feet.
Safely past, she answered, “I have nothing much to tell.”
“Well, how are you getting by? If you don’t mind my asking.”
“Why should I mind? I just don’t have much of an answer.”
Milo looked over her clothing, which was natty as ever. He didn’t know from dresses, but as a tailor’s son he knew fine work when he saw it.
“Do I pass inspection?”
“Sorry. You see much of Mark Bell these days?” Milo shot her a sidelong glance.
“Not very much, no.”
She led the way, turning down a leafy side street at a corner with Fifth Avenue. “Well, here I am,” she said, indicating a tall, narrow brownstone.
Milo let out a low whistle before he could stop himself. “That’s prettier than any boarding house I ever saw.”
“That’s because it’s not. I’m watching it for a girlfriend. They just got married and they’re traveling abroad,” she replied, rooting around in her pocketbook. “She knew I was in between apartments, so to speak, so I’m caretaker. Ah, there’s the key. Would you like to come up for a tour?”
Milo looked at her sideways.
Vivian dropped her arms to her sides, impatient. “What, do you think someone’s going to rat you out to your family, that—oh, my!—you walked into the apartment of a single woman?”
“No, I just… I don’t want to get you in trouble, with the landlady or something.”
“Stop acting like it’s the nineteenth century and come in already.”
Milo looked at his feet to avoid being eye level with Vivian’s derriere as she walked up the narrow stairs with an ornate wooden railing. She stopped at a second-floor apartment and pushed her way inside.
It wasn’t large, but it was prettily made up in floral and soft colors. The wood furniture was curvy, the upholstery bulging and tufted. Milo saw no evidence of another human living there. T
hey had the place to themselves. He felt overly warm, and pulled at the knot of his tie.
“I’ve got a beer. Want one?”
“Early for beer. But I’m likely to melt over here, so that’d be swell.”
“Sit down already, you look like you want to float around the room like a dirigible.”
Vivian swung her way back to her little sitting area, where Milo had perched on the sofa. She handed him the dark brown bottle and helped herself to an unladylike swig.
“Nice place.”
“Yeah, it is, isn’t it? Too bad I don’t get to keep it forever.”
Milo took another drink, regretting that he’d accepted it. Now he was stuck for a beer’s length of time, or he’d have to abandon it half-drunk on her table, which seemed wasteful and ungrateful. But their relaxed chatter over the coffee had shriveled up and died.
Vivian dug in her pocketbook again until she found her cigarette case. Milo struck a match and leaned forward, grateful to do something other than sit there like a statue among the pigeons. She cupped her hand over his to steady it and took a deep inhale. Milo had a close-up look at her bright green eyes, irises flecked with gold, before she released his hand and sat back with a smile that looked serene and satisfied. Milo had the sense that he’d played right into her hands somehow.
How many times had he lit a cigarette for her, and why only now did he have to clench his fists to keep his hands from shaking?
“So, what are you going to do? When the happy couple gets back?”
“Hmm? Oh. I’ll think of something.”
“I suppose if you had to, you could always go back home? You got people in Chicago?”
“Ha!” She waved her cigarette so hard a bit of ash flew into the air. “And slink back to my sister Estelle who would say, ‘I told you so, Vivi, I told you that was a mistake! I told you!’” Vivian performed this mockery of her sister with expert malice. “No, I’ve got time, they’ll be touring around for ages. He’s loaded, you know. Very successful of late.”
“Lucky him, these days. What business is this fella in?”
Vivian puffed out a line of smoke. “Showbiz.” She fixed Milo with a look that made him feel a blush creep all the way up his neck and over the tops of his ears.
He performed a double take at his watch that would have done Barrymore proud. “Oh sheesh, I gotta make a move. I’m late to meet Allen, we’ve got some songs cooking. Thanks for the beer, it was great seeing you, stay in touch, okay?”
He kept up the chatter, choosing to ignore the wry grin that had taken up residence on Vivian’s pretty face. His dominant emotion as he gained the sidewalk outside her place, seeing no one he knew, was profound, through-and-through relief.
New York, 1999
I’m just clambering into bed when a sound rends the air, a sound that’s barely human. I scrabble around for my glasses and trip over the hem of my nightgown running into the hall, as a chilling understanding crashes over me. I fly down the hall as fast as I dare and into my grandfather’s room.
The yellow hall light knifes through the dark and lights up his terrified face. I run to his side and clasp his hand.
“Grampa! It’s me! Are you sick?”
Without his glasses he looks vulnerable and sick, just like he did in the hospital. He trembles. I put my hand on his forehead and it feels cool and normal, though his hands in mine are clammy.
“Take deep breaths,” I command him. “Try to sip in the air slowly. Does anything hurt? Point to what hurts.”
He doesn’t seem to be hearing me, and I understand, oh, maybe this is what an old man’s death looks like. I’m not ready to lose him, I don’t care how old he is, how infirm, I’ll never be ready, he should stay with me forever. I squeeze his hand tighter. “I’m here, don’t be afraid,” although he might have reason to be—I sure as hell am, my heart is galloping and I’m shaking— but this is what you say to the vulnerable. This is how you talk to children, to your father who is riddled with tumors, to your aged grandfather. You don’t say, you might be dying. You lie, because that’s the right thing to do. Don’t go, Grampa Milo, please not yet, but I only say that in my head, keeping up the façade of being calm and strong.
His trembling eases, and his breath slows, but not in a scary, shallow way. No, this is the breathing of someone calming down. His eyes search out mine at last, and he nods, as if just registering my presence, oh yes, Eleanor.
He stretches one arm over to the table and fumbles around it. I hand him his glasses and he scoots his way slightly up the pillow. I help him prop up.
“I’m going to pull up a chair. Stay put.” An idiotic thing to say. Where would he go?
I bring in the vanity stool from my room for lack of anything else handy, and draw it up close to his bed, taking his hand again. His knobby bones protrude; I could almost read them, like Braille. I think of the many tunes he’s played, the songs he’s written, the contracts he’s signed bringing plays and musicals to life. The times he’s patted my hair as a girl, or when he’s tickled one of his great-grands. So much has passed through these hands.
“I know you can’t tell me what happened,” I say, and he rests his head back, closes his eyes. “But I’m going to ask you some yes or no questions.” He nods his understanding. I ask him a series of questions about physical symptoms that Joel said could indicate heart attack, or another stroke. He shakes his head no for each one. “Was it a nightmare?” He doesn’t answer right off, and at first I think he’s asleep. But then he looks me straight in the eye, still not replying. “You saw it again, didn’t you?” Tiny nod, and a darting look over my shoulder that sends a shiver down my back. I can’t help but look, too, though there’s nothing there at all, of course.
He leans forward then, and strokes my cheek with his good hand. It’s shaking again, whether from fear, or adrenaline, or just because he’s old and tired, I can’t say. But the look on his face sends tears spilling down my cheeks. This is a look of goodbye. I ought to know because I’ve seen it before. I’ll call Joel, he’ll know what to do, if this might really be the end, or maybe he can reassure me, if he has any reassurance to give.
I grab Grampa Milo’s hand and bring it to my lips for a kiss. I don’t speak either now, because what does a person say?
He tugs his hand slightly, and so I let it go. He closes his eyes, wearing the small sad smile of one who grieves.
The morning finds me not having slept any more that night. Esme lets herself in, and nearly jumps out of her shoes as I approach her. I apologize for scaring her, and then explain our evening. Joel had come over late, hair still rumpled from his pillow, and checked him over, declaring Grampa Milo no worse than he had been the day before, though of course he couldn’t give me the guarantee I’d been childishly hoping for. “El, I wish I could promise you a life expectancy but I can’t do that,” he’d said, and folded me in a tight hug.
After Joel left, I sat curled in the chair next to Grampa Milo’s bed most of the night, except for when I paced anxious circuits around the room, checking his chest constantly for rising and falling. I tried to talk myself back into bed many times, reasoning that there was no actual indication that he would die in the night, and even if that were to happen, my sitting next to him would hardly prevent it.
Now that Esme has arrived, I choose this moment to shower and change out of my thin nightgown. By the time I come back downstairs, I am faint with relief that he is awake. Still in bed, but awake.
He’s got a tray across him on the bed with some coffee and toast. I force a smile to bloom up through my worried frown that he’s eating in bed. He’s always managed to get to the eat-in kitchen, and just last night was in the dining room having his whiskey and soda at our lively dinner.
Esme explains, “Mr. Short is feeling tired today, perhaps because of his nightmare last night.” She and I share a glance. We have something in common, we two. We’ve both witnessed him seeing things and behaving strangely, and have hidden this from most people.
We are also, I suspect, both ambivalent about having made this choice. Here we are, both still keeping our secrets.
The use of the word “nightmare” pricks my memory. I sink down onto a low bench at the end of the bed, remembering that scream. A real, loud scream from my mute grandfather.
Grampa Milo catches the look on my face and he tilts his head, questioning. I shake my head and wave my hand as if to say “it’s nothing,” forcing another smile.
Grampa Milo eats only a hard-boiled egg for lunch, and has only gotten out of bed long enough to dress, before he has climbed back in. By this time, family members have begun trooping in and out of the house, holding whispered conferences on the stairs, in the kitchen, in the upstairs library. He’s getting weaker. He’s frail. He’s sleeping so much. Maybe it’s just a bad day. Maybe it’s the end. Should he go to the hospital?
Dr. Joel checks him out once more. He’s as fine as his mute eighty-eight-year-old self has been for the last several weeks, aside from the lethargy. Uncle Paul asks my cousin if he thinks Grampa Milo is going to die soon, and Dr. Joel says maybe. The best he can say is maybe, or maybe not. And Joel looks briefly angry as he glares down at his shoes, as if his medical degree and all those excruciating hours as a resident have failed him in answering simple questions.
All the while I’m hovering at the edges of the Shorts that flow in and out, as I usually do. I hate to do so, but I tear myself away during one of Grampa Milo’s long naps that day and go to the library where I scroll through microfilm records of telephone directories, city directories, and old census data, looking for Vivian Adair. The census data is not helpful at all. She came to and left New York between the years of 1930 and 1940, and that much we knew already.
Vivian In Red Page 21