Excuse Me for Living

by Ric Klass

  “No, it’s not part of the treatment,” Bernstein says startling the sleeping couple awake before dragging Topler outside. The sight of his daughter lying nude with Daniel made him nauseous and near tears. He collapses onto a bench outside. “That’s my daughter.”

  Albert senses the discord and vexation in the doctor and wisely voices a solitary correct word for the tense situation, “Oh.”

  Inside the room, Laura takes one of Dan’s jerseys from the closet, dresses without looking at her lover, and leaves without a word. By the time she’s out the door, both Albert and her dad have left.

  “John and Margaret didn’t know whether to laugh or cry when they were caught by their parents in their torrid, forbidden liaison. She slowly left his desolate garret room without a turning back, knowing she could never see her impoverished demigod again,” the hopeful author writes in the white pad she never fails to carry with her.

  Should I Go?

  Dan asked himself a hundred times today as he lounges by the pool Sunday chitchatting with Ally. Bernstein didn’t say not to. I have every right to date, if that’s what you can call it, any girl I want. If I don’t go, then I’m admitting I did something wrong. He did tell me not to call her. But I didn’t call her. She grabbed me. Maybe he’ll think I think that I can get away with not going to the meeting tonight since I slept with his daughter. But if I don’t go he can use my not attending to get even with me and put me back into a straitjacket. I’d better go, he continues to agree with himself on the drive to Temple B’Nai Israel.

  Now he massages the appropriate greeting to Dr. Bernstein. Hiya doc? Way too familiar. Good evening, Dr. Bernstein? Stilted, and the group might wonder why the formality. I’ll try to get away with just nodding, Dan finally concludes as he pokes his head into the temple library. The gang’s already here, seated and schmoozing around the circle in the middle of the room.

  “Hi, Daniel, glad you could make it. Have a cup of coffee if you want to and join us,” Jack says.

  What a pro. Bernstein practically gave up the ghost when he saw me this morning and now I’m his med school disciple again, Dan reflects. “What’s up, guys? Nice to see you all,” Dan struggles to say pleasantly, leaning on his childhood training to be a nice, well-mannered boy. Even in his own West Village co-op, Dan still puts the toilet seat down in case a lady should need to use it. Some good habits die hard, too.

  “Good,” Jack says. “Let’s begin the meeting. I thought that perhaps we would discuss depression tonight. Some of us, I’m sure, have suffered through it, and maybe by sharing our experiences we could all learn to cope if it’s a problem now or perplexes us in the future.”

  Silence, and a stiffening in the room. Then finally. . . .

  “Well, sure. We’ve all experienced it, haven’t we, men?” Harry says, searching around and getting nods from all but Sam, whose stony expression says no comment.

  “When I first got out of college I was laid off from the accounting firm and couldn’t get a job for months. I felt like a failure. Here I was an honor student in the NYU business school and I’m unemployed. I was already married, and Frances was pregnant with Marc, our first one. I didn’t know what to do. Stayed in my room and didn’t talk to her for days at a time.”

  “I had to start taking Zoloft just two years ago,” interjects Rob. The group members now lean back in their chairs, feeling comfortable speaking frankly with men they trust. Dan leans forward, engrossed in their confessions. “I don’t know why I was so depressed. I couldn’t work and started making mistakes in my trades. Wrong symbols, and buy instead of sell. The other guys in the trading room started looking at me funny when the operations head caught obvious mistakes and called them to my attention in front of my desk partner. I feel much better now.”

  David jumps in. “I guess I’m just lucky. I’ve never really felt that down, but I know my wife has from time to time. It’s a good thing I still have a couple of publicity clients left. It keeps me sane. I couldn’t do like some of you and have every day completely free without any schedule. My weekly bridge game helps, too.”

  “Yes, I know what you mean, David,” Jack says in a faint voice. “My consulting at a rehab clinic and the one medical school class I still teach at Stony Brook helps me to contain the fear I have over my coming surgery.”

  “Who’s going to lead the discussions while you’re . . . uh . . . recuperating, Jack?” Barry tentatively asks.

  “Daniel has volunteered, if you all don’t mind.”

  “That’s great, Daniel.” Barry shakes his hand. “It will be good to keep some young blood in the meetings.” The group smiles in approval.

  “You know, when we first started New Beginnings ten years ago, the wives joined us,” volunteers Morty.

  “Has it been ten years already? Barry asks. “I was just a fifty-year-old kid then.”

  Now the normally aloof Glen. “But their issues weren’t the same as ours.”

  “So we threw them out,” Morty says, completing the thought.

  “Now he’ll really give up on geriatrics, huh, fellas?” Harry says to chuckles from the others.

  I’ve been had again, rattles inside Dan. “Thanks for the totally undeserved vote of confidence, men,” he tells them. Never at a loss for words, at least.

  The rest of the conversation eases away from life’s real difficulties to the latest French film – Dan never considered that men their age had ever seen a foreign film – and the new Asian exhibit at the Met in the city. Jack concludes, “If there’s no other business, let’s break until the Wednesday meeting, fellows.”

  “I’ve had depression,” Sam gloomily erupts out of nowhere just as some stand to leave – his first comments to the group since Dan joined. “I want to kill myself. I would if I knew it wouldn’t hurt my family so much. Just step in front of a car or something. There’s no point in continuing. I just want it to end.”

  For a few seconds Jack doesn’t know how to respond. The time is up, and these meetings technically aren’t therapy sessions. The men retake their seats.

  Dan takes the lead. “Thanks for sharing that, Sam. Is the operation on your leg getting you down?”

  “I can’t walk without this cane now,” holding up the object of contempt. “And I’m bored. Bored to death. I don’t do anything all day except watch TV.”

  Jack surveys the faces and sees that despite the compassion the others have, it’s nearly 9 PM and the gang is restless. Time to go. “Can we talk about it the first thing next time, Sam? Would that be all right?”

  “Sure. Why not?” Sam says, casting his gaze down away from his friends’ faces.

  This time Dan takes his time leaving the temple. When he gets to the parking lot, the slam of Bernstein’s passenger car door reverbs in Danny’s head. Laura sadly turns her head away from her lover with what he perceives as a final goodbye and drives off. Daniel Topler knows now what he must do.

  This Funeral Seems Even

  More Somber Than Usual,

  divines the Very Reverend Francis X. Pilatus as he completes the eulogy. The clouds have blackened the skies in the gray overcast afternoon and now lightning strikes make the crowd want to run for cover. I don’t much like Monday wakes anyhow. I could have begged off. A prior meeting with the church council.

  He delivered his best performance the day before in his sermon at the renowned Riverhead Episcopal Church. But, today, he can’t whip up any enthusiasm to deep-six this near-stranger. Offering memorial prayers at the burial of a man he hardly knows no longer has appeal at this point in the career of the distinguished cleric. I wouldn’t have agreed to perform the service except for the colossal donation his daughter handed me yesterday. What a piece of work she is. She specifically tells me not to mention Jesus or say “in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost.” And she put a coin in the corpse’s mouth. This could be my first pagan service, he tells himself, nearly laughing out loud while watching a long line of he-has-no-clue-who sprinkl
e dirt on the lowered bronze casket.

  Most of the sizable crowd want the ordeal over with. A monster, black-anvil, cumulonimbus cloud crackling with thunder hovers directly over the head of the deceased man’s daughter. Dressed in a diaphanous white tunic, she stands elevated on a grassy and flowered hill next to her father’s resting place. Her ethereal yet powerful appearance dominates the assemblage and makes the word awesome mean what it says.

  To her right and slightly below, Laura Bernstein stands holding her hand. The assembled scores of G.F. Davison’s relatives and business associates certainly do feel solemn – but for a dissimilar reason. To be sure, some openly sob as the final spade of black, fertile soil on the sarcophagus tops the mound, since it signifies no hope forever of inclusion in G.F.’s sizable will. The fountainhead of their grief looms above them – the witch lives – and, from the aura of her vitality, maybe forever.

  Seven Goldman Sachs bankers stand in a row, identically nattily dressed at this obligatory business – for them – convocation. Even the singular woman wears a dark blue suit with a Windsor-knotted red-and-black-striped power tie. They stare with wonder at the formidable offspring. The corporate play-makers struggle to hide the intimidation they feel at her presence. The worldwide head of the structured finance department himself came to offer condolences, note the underlings.

  All for a good reason – good old G.F. kicked the bucket before signing the merger documents with Aramark. Now they need the approval of a warrior deity who, by the way, doubles as a dreaded divorce attorney, to earn an over one-hundred-million-dollar investment banking fee. They feel certain that heaven will not forgive G.F. for this transgression against their nearly-as-mighty firm.

  Reverend Pilatus concludes the burial with “May God. . . .” Hesitation for a second. I can say His name, can’t I? “. . . rest his soul, and let us all leave now with hope for the forever after.” The reverend’s own spirits brighten with the thought, I also pray Peggy has that egg salad sandwich with pickle and curry the way I like it ready when I get home. Then he scuttles off before he has to make small talk. The Very Reverend’s hungry.

  “You must be Zoë, my dear,” startles Charlotte. No one but Charlie’s dad used her middle name.

  The stranger, something of a giant teddy bear, approaches and takes her hand. He’s a bit overweight perhaps, but his handsome, chiseled features and powerful physique remind her of the statue of Zeus in her father’s home on Central Park South. He warmly smiles in a way that only an older man can that tells a woman he’s sincere and not making a pass. The heavyset man’s well-made, but disheveled, clothes hint at his academic career.

  “Ganymede and I were great friends. I hope now that he’s gone you will give us your permission to acknowledge your father’s generous anonymous contributions to the university’s Classics Department over the years. Columbia University, that is.”

  The multiple revelations catch the normally prescient heiress by surprise. How is it she never knew what her father’s first initial stood for? He always laughed off the question. Dad loved to read over and over Thomas Bulfinch and Edith Hamilton’s mythology books, but not once did he mention gifts to the study of the subject or bring up this man. A man who, although he doesn’t resemble her father whatsoever, somehow reminds her of him. “You are?” Nevertheless, she maintains some caution.

  “Please forgive me, I’m Professor Blackmun, semi-retired professor of Greek and Roman history. Your father would be so happy to know that you’re dressed as you are, Zoë. In the ancient Greek tradition of white – celebrating the immortality of the spirit. Not in black – mourning a passed soul.” Stepping back to take her in, “He often told me over a glass of wine that his daughter is beautiful, but I had no idea how understated his words were. I should have guessed as much from the mouth of a man named for the most handsome among mortals and cup bearer to the gods.”

  Charlotte can’t remember how long it has been since a compliment pleased her. Flattery arouses her fierce and combative instincts. But these words aren’t blandishments – they’re the reflected thoughts of the only man she ever loved. And he’s dead. But this strangely appealing man isn’t. “Perhaps, we could. . . .” she begins.

  “I’m sorry to interrupt, but I have a meeting downtown and I just want to say before I go. . . .” the worldwide head of structured finance starts to say as he grasps her arm. But Zoë takes back her limb and turns, her cheeks flushed with anger, to sternly face him. She appears to physically grow in stature as he stumbles back, nearly wetting himself. Her ice-violet eyes mirror into his a lightning bolt from the ominous cloud looming above them and a fear he had never known in his life grips his heart. “Another time, Miss Davison. Another time,” and Davian Corbeille, more accustomed to inspiring terror than experiencing it himself, practically runs away amidst the roar of the resulting thunderclap.

  “You were saying, my dear?” asks the gentlemanly professor, sublimely oblivious to the fright of the fleeing man.

  Turning back to Blackmun, the hole in his brown jacket – no doubt from his favorite meerschaum pipe – makes Charlie giggle. The red ire in her cheeks turns to a girlish pink. “Perhaps, we could get together at your office or dinner to discuss how I could continue dad’s love of antiquity.”

  “But, of course, Zoë. How sweet you are to consider it. And who is this charming friend of yours, may I ask? Do I know you?” he says turning to Laura, who thoroughly enjoyed witnessing the financial world leader scramble before her best friend.

  This familiar-looking prof has won her over, too. “I’m Laura, Professor.”

  A gleam comes into his eyes. “You know, seeing you two marvels together, with glorious blonde and dark hair, reminds me of the myths of the conflict between fire and ice.” Realizing the possible gaffe of comparing the young women to rivals, “But this is not the time for such tales.” More thunder, and a light rain starts to fall. “When shall we meet again, Zoë, in thunder, lightning, or in rain?” Blackmun’s Macbeth allusion makes all three laugh despite its impropriety at a funeral.

  “Why don’t I pick you up at your office Wednesday at noon and we’ll have lunch.”

  “Splendid. You can find my disheveled college haunt on the college web site, I’m told,” and he ambles away sprightly muttering about the Viking tale of the fall of Ymir and Surtr begetting the birth of the world. Charlie follows his departure with wonder, as if he were an apparition.

  “Thanks so much for coming, Laura. It meant a lot to me to have a real friend here.”

  “It seems that you have two now, Charlie. Or is it Zoë?”

  “Charlie. Zoë was the pet name my father used for me.”

  “The professor called you Zoë.”

  Thoughtfully, “Yes. He may if he wants to.” Attention back to Laura, “Why don’t we have dinner some night to catch up?”

  “Can we make it Wednesday? I have to pick up dad that evening since he can’t drive at night anymore,” a true enough excuse. But though she’s made a promise to herself not to betray her father’s wishes again, Laura wants at least to see Daniel.

  “Wednesday it is. I need to find out what you did to my latest conquest, the one you stole from me Saturday night – and how he knew your name. I don’t give up my trophies to just anyone. Please don’t bother to walk me to my car. I’m going to stay here for a few minutes.”

  It just now strikes Laura who The Dandy Man is that Charlie referred to days before. “I’ll call you,” and she leaves Charlotte standing silently alone next to the grave of her father as the wind picks up.

  The sad woman considers the loss of the only man who ever cared for her. She has extraordinary energy and an uncanny ability to dominate most people. But, except for her friend Laura, she feels alone and vulnerable as she never has before. Her thoughts turn to the commanding presence of Professor Blackmun. The first man other than her father to treat her as just an attractive young woman – not some imposing freak of nature. Someone who could show her a normal man
’s affection. Perhaps as an ordinary woman’s lover. The rain continues to fall, but somehow not on Charlotte Zoë Davison. As if it didn’t dare.

  “Is That Two-Timer

  Still Seeing Her?”

  Dolores asks with just the right amount of compassionate indignation required by the best friend of an injured woman. Still, she knows better than to come down too hard on Albert Topler. Harriet wouldn’t be her first friend to reconcile with her husband, and she could find herself and Jon dining with both of them again at the club. Rain, thunder, and lightning or not, they’re meeting at their favorite luncheonette on Long Island’s North Shore this Monday to avoid the chance of being overheard by either one’s maid.

  “Sugarbush hasn’t caught them yet. They’re too clever,” Harriet replies.

  “Sugarbush? You’ve kept that incompetent bloodhound? I thought you fired him, dearie,” as Dolores squeezes the last drop of lemon into her scalding tea with an Olympic-wrestler ferocity.

  “They’re all incompetent. I told him he’s not getting paid anything until I get results.”

  “I hope that strategy pays off. I’m so sorry about Jonathan. Men are thick as slimy thieves.”

  “Don’t worry yourself, Dolores. I called Albert’s bookkeeper and said I was asking for a friend. The dummy recommended what he heard was the best divorce firm in New York City. Maybe anywhere. I’m seeing a senior partner Wednesday.”

  “How’s Danny?”

  “He’s just fine as always,” Harriet says lightly, not having the slightest clue of the truth about her son. Trying to seize her server’s attention, “Waiter, I asked for no butter on my toast.” Pedro keeps walking past the tea room’s frequent and infamously low tipper, nevertheless. My eye not so easy to catch, he sniffs.

  “He is? I heard he was arrested after he attempted suicide again and was committed under court order to Live Free or Die.”

  “Oh that. Just more of his childish foolishness. I wish he would grow up already. He’s making quite a nuisance of himself and here I, his mother, have real problems to contend with.”