A Ticket to the Circus

by Norris Church Mailer

  Maggie and her husband, John, had come from the Berkshires. The rest of the kids—Betsy, Kate, Michael, Matthew, and John Buffalo—were in New York already, along with their spouses and their children, as well as Norman’s sister, Barbara, her son, Peter, and his wife, Alice. Our cousin Sam Radin and his wife, Pam, were there. Everyone was there except for Stephen, who was trying to get back from Arizona, where he was performing in a play. Today was the day we were all gathering to decide whether or not to turn off the ventilator.

  Norman had been steadily going downhill since he’d gotten to Mount Sinai, and had been in the ICU for five weeks. He was lying there now, unable to speak, with his leg laid open from an emergency surgery to remove infection that had set in from so many IV needles. He had been good about it all, never complaining—at least not overly much—but we were all worn out. I had a fever of 102 from an infection that would send me to the hospital myself soon, and I felt like crawling up into the bed with him. Before the tube took away his voice, we had spent our days talking about everything that needed to be talked about, and now all I could do was hold his hand, kiss his fingers from time to time, and talk in a one-sided monologue that was most unsatisfactory. We had begun talking nearly thirty-three years before, and had never not had something to say to each other. He slept on, hovering somewhere above his body, I imagined, watching with interest.

  The kids started arriving, and soon there were so many of us that they sent us to the biggest conference room. We patched Stephen in on the phone and started going over all the reasons to turn off the machines. Dad hadn’t wanted them in the first place, had in fact left a living will to that effect, but when a doctor tells you that it is temporary, that the breathing machine will be on for only a few days and then he will be better, the choice is either to do it or in effect say “Don’t do it. Kill him.” So a few days went by, then a few weeks; it proved to be impossible to take the ventilator out. His powerful brain was still in there, working furiously, but he was mute and couldn’t breathe on his own. He tried at first to write on a pad, but frustratingly, no one could decipher his scrawl, which had never been an easy task. For the first time in his life, Norman Mailer was silent. Still, his eyes were the clear blue that rivaled Paul Newman’s, and he could say a lot with those eyes. He wanted to go.

  He and I had had endless conversations about death over the years. We both believed that there is another life after this one, and we believed in reincarnation. He loved to tell a joke about dying and going in front of the angel in command, who asked him what he wanted to be his next time on earth. “I’d like to be a black athlete, Your Honor,” Norman said, humbly. “I don’t care what poor circumstances I’d be born into, and I don’t care which sport, I just want to be a successful black athlete, like Muhammad Ali—maybe not as grand, but of that order.” The angel flipped through the book. “Well, Mr. Mailer, unfortunately, that is a popular category. Everyone wants to be a successful black athlete. It’s already way oversubscribed. And it says here that we have you down for… Oh, my… a cockroach. But don’t worry. I can guarantee you’ll be the fastest cockroach on the block!” He laughed and laughed, but I think down inside he was laughing because he was afraid it might be the true scenario.

  In the conference room that morning, the family hashed over all the various ways to take him back to Provincetown to die, but the logistics were insurmountable. He couldn’t be moved. Finally, after exhausting every possibility with the doctors, we decided to turn off the ventilator the following morning, when Stephen would be there, and put an end to his suffering. Heartsick, we all went back to his cubicle to spend a little time with him. To our surprise, he was sitting up in the bed, eyes wide open, as clear as an October sky. He grinned when he saw us all, and by now several of his close friends such as Ivan Fisher, Hans Janitschek, and Larry Schiller had arrived. People were coming in and going out of the ICU like it was a train station. Rick Stratton was there, and our old friend Christina Pabst arrived again from Wisconsin. Diane Fisher and her twins, Kitty and Clay, came in. The room was crammed. Everyone was trying to talk to him at once. He was nodding and trying to respond as best he could.

  “It doesn’t seem like he’s dying,” I said to Michael. “He seems better.” His doctor overheard me, came over, and said, “Don’t let it fool you. It happens sometimes, when a person is dying. They get a little gift at the end, a jump of energy, a few hours of clarity, but all it means is that the end is near. Just enjoy him for now. Let him know you all love him.” I remembered my father and his last few moments, when he spoke so clearly and told me to take my mother down for breakfast. It was true, it was a last little gift. So we had a party in the ICU, much to the consternation of the other patients and their nurses, I’m sure. Norman thumb wrestled with the guys, hugged the girls; he gave Christina a big wet kiss right on the mouth, which popped my eyes, to everyone’s amusement.

  Then someone—Michael, maybe—said, “It’s too bad we don’t have any booze.” Norman’s eyes lit up like a pinball machine and he started pantomiming a drink. Michael or Peter or someone went out to get some orange juice and rum, his favorite drink, and mixed a real drink. All we had was plastic glasses, which were anathema to Norman, and he turned up his nose at them, so one of the nurses found a clean real glass. The next problem was that he couldn’t drink, with the tube in his throat. It could choke him. So we got one of those lime-green sponge sticks that are used to moisten a dry mouth, and dipped it in the drink. He made a face and spat it out. Then he grabbed the glass and started taking real sips, one, two, three, four, five… I had to laugh because he’d always had a habit of taking seven little sips of a new drink, and he actually made it to five this time. He didn’t choke.

  He pointed to the drink and then to all of us, wanting us to each have a sip. We passed it around, everyone taking a tiny sip, and then it came back to him, seasoned with the germs and the love of everyone in the room. He finished the drink; I still don’t know how he did it. All day, people drifted in and out, others coming to take their place, to touch him, to say goodbye. He glowed in the attention. Late afternoon set in, Norman’s least favorite time of the day. It seemed the harsh afternoon light would never fade into cool twilight, but finally it did. He began to tire. The doctor said he was getting weary and needed to rest. Most of the friends left.

  The hospital was giving us, for the night, one of the expensive private suites on the eleventh floor that rival the best hotel rooms. We could stay with him up there as long as we wanted. There was even a chef on the floor who would make us all dinner. So we, all of us who were left—his family and a few dear friends—trooped beside his bed as they moved him into the elevator, up to the fancy room, and got him settled into his comfy bed with the blinking lights and the monitors. He closed his eyes and fell asleep then, exhausted from his last triumphant party. We were still having a party ourselves. Nobody wanted to go home. Then ten o’clock came. And then eleven. Only the family were left. We decided to come back early the next day, to all be there together when the machines were turned off for the last time. I was feeling awful at that point, so sick; my fever was raging and my infection was hurting. But I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want to leave him. “He’s asleep,” the kids said. “You need to go get some rest. You are going to have a big day tomorrow and you’ll really be sick if you don’t go home.” So I let them talk me into it, and I went, tears running down my face as I said goodbye.

  Stephen arrived on a late night flight and came to the hospital room sometime after midnight. He was sleeping on a fold-out cot when the machines started going off around four. He jumped up and called for the nurse, afraid they were malfunctioning. Then Norman sat up in the bed. He looked over at Stephen, as Stephen later said, his eyes wide open, and then he looked away, toward the distance. His mouth spread in a huge smile, and his eyes were alive with excitement, as if he were seeing something amazing. Then he was gone.

  DWAYNE HAD COME to stay with me and say goodbye, and he helped
me bring Norman’s clothes to the funeral home. Norman was going to be wearing his L.L.Bean sweatpants, his rust-colored suede cloth shirt, and his black fleece vest that Russell Crowe had given him on the set of Cinderella Man, a movie on which he had been a boxing expert a few years before. He and Russell had gotten along, and Norman loved the vest. In fact, he’d seldom taken it off, just long enough for me to wash it, and then he’d put it back on again, warm and toasty from the dryer. He would also be wearing his UGGs, the boots that he had worn summer and winter for the previous few years. He could no longer tie his shoes, and he could slip the UGGs easily on and off without the need for socks. They kept his feet an even temperature all the time. I wanted him to be comfortable. He’d be wearing them a long time.

  We went out to get into the car and a New York Post reporter was hanging around outside. Dwayne went over to talk to him and asked him not to bother me, and he didn’t. I think he discreetly took a few pictures, but he didn’t get in my face, which I appreciated.

  We all met at Campbell’s, where his mother had had her service, and we picked out a coffin that was not the most expensive, but certainly not the bottom, either. Even the bottom was expensive, I thought. Much more than in Arkansas, that’s for sure. The one we chose had inlaid wood, like a table we had in the living room, and I thought he would like it. After we signed the papers and I wrote the check, Maggie wandered into the next room and discovered a whole roomful of less expensive caskets that they had not shown us. I suppose they thought we wouldn’t want anything but the best, and what the heck—you only get one.

  We all caravanned to Provincetown for the funeral, and met at McHoul Funeral Home there. It was a big room, with nice flowers, and they set him up at one end of the room where we had a visitation that night. Everyone in Provincetown dropped by to say goodbye. His hair had been slicked down too much, and I fluffed it up a little. It was so thin now. When I’d met him, it had been like sheep’s wool. I started cutting his hair when we first met, and he had never been to a barber since. In the beginning, I was as besotted as a teenager and used to save his hair and put it into a white satin heart-shaped pillow. By the time the pillow was full, I was over it. It would have been silly to fill more of them. I wondered how many pillows there would have been over the years.

  I hated to leave him there alone, but we were coming back the following morning for the funeral. I hoped my health could hold out until this was all over. I’d been taking antibiotics, which weren’t doing their duty, and I knew it was more than a bladder infection.

  The day of the funeral was beautiful and sunny and cold. As we were getting ready to go to the funeral home, a girl came up onto our deck and knocked on the door. Danielle was standing in the living room and let her in. She was a bleached blonde wearing an outfit that can only be described as L.A. beach, with high platform sandals, a too-short skirt, and a too-low-cut top. She had on a skimpy cardigan sweater, but the outfit was much too cold for a November day on the Cape.

  “Hi,” she said to Danielle, “I’m a friend of Michael’s from L.A. Can I use your bathroom?” Of course Danielle said yes and showed her the small guest bathroom off the living room. She was a little strange, but we didn’t question that she knew Michael. He was a movie producer and knew all kinds of weird people. She didn’t come out of the bathroom for a long time, and finally Danielle and I looked at each other and knocked on the door.

  “Are you all right?”

  The girl came out with a dreamy look on her face and said, “Yes, thanks,” and walked out the door. At the funeral home, we were organizing everyone to go to the cemetery when she came in the door. She ambled over to the coffin and knelt down on the bench beside it. She was making me nervous, as she was several other people. She rubbed Norman’s hands and touched him, and just as Larry Schiller made a move to go over to her, she got up, taking a huge piece from the flower arrangement on the casket, and started walking toward the door with it. Larry stopped her and took it away from her, and she wandered on out. I was appalled, but had other things on my mind.

  We lined up, and the hearse led the way to the cemetery. I told them to drag the town instead of taking the fast way there. We used to do that every time we went out to dinner. “Want to drag the town?” Norman would ask, and we’d go from one end of town to the other, just looking at the shops and lights, and then at the farthest end, Norman would always tell his story of the landing of the Pilgrims, how they had stolen the Indians’ cache of winter corn and killed a couple of them and then had had to flee to Plymouth, which then, unfairly, got all the credit for the landing. “And on your left is the fabulous motel they put up in memory of that event,” he’d say, and he’d point to the Provincetown Inn, a perfectly nice motel right at the end of the Cape where the Mayflower had indeed made its landing. It was something he never tired of. We led the string of cars through town, and people on both sides of the street stopped, and some took off their hats; some put their hands on their hearts. They were all saluting a man who’d been one of them, a man who’d loved that place and wanted to spend eternity there.

  THE CEMETERY WAS set up with chairs under a green awning, and as many of us as could sat down. The rest had to stand. There were several great speakers that day—his close friends, some of his children. Mike Lennon, who had always been there for us no matter what, had passed a kidney stone that morning. I don’t know how he did it, but through an act of sheer will he was there, standing during the service, speaking, and taking care of everyone. He must have been in pure agony, even with pain pills. I’ll never forget it. Stephen got up and sang “Your Song,” by Elton John, and his children went up there with him, dancing and helping him. Then Michael got up and began his speech by saying, “Dad would have been appalled by that song, Stephen, but you did it well.”

  Doris Kearns Goodwin told a funny story about the last time we’d spent the night at their house. Norman had had a terrible time with the toilet in our room, because the water level had been too high, and in the morning he’d told Doris that she needed to get a new toilet if she was going to have him come back, because every time he sat down, his balls dipped into the water. To hear sweet, proper Doris tell that story was hilarious.

  Some of the speakers brought tears to our eyes, some were funny. All loved Norman, and it was a good and proper goodbye.

  Over to the side was some kind of small commotion, but I couldn’t see what was going on. I noticed Michael get up, but I didn’t think much about it. Later they told me that the blond girl from L.A.—who was not a friend of Michael’s, although he said she had once auditioned for one of his movies—had started to do a little dance and had begun to take off her clothes. She had kicked off the sandals and the skirt and was starting on the top when he reached her and grabbed her and got her out of there. We never knew if she was stoned or just crazy. Maybe a bit of both. She disappeared, and we never saw her again.

  It was such a Norman Mailer funeral. How could it be otherwise? I’m sure he loved it.

  Epilogue

  I went to the hospital five times the year after Norman died. But I’m still here. Somehow, it doesn’t worry me. I’ve been told three times to get my affairs in order, and I think by this time they all are. I’m living in Brooklyn, in the apartment Norman brought me to the first time I came to New York. It is home to me, more than any other place in the world. My mother still lives in Park Slope, John and Matt live near me with their families, and I see the rest of the family all the time. We had an incredible memorial at Carnegie Hall for Norman in April 2008, one he also would have loved, and his spirit is definitely hanging around. We’ve all felt it. So life goes on. As long as there are Mailers, there will be stories of Dad—funny stories, sweet stories, stories of his misbehavior, his exploits, his achievements. Norman changed my life, that’s for sure, and the ripples from that first meeting in Arkansas have spread through many lives. I am not in a hurry to leave this life, but I won’t be greedy, either. I’ve had so much more than most. I wouldn
’t trade with anybody in the world. And who knows what Norman is doing on the other side? I’m curious to catch up with him and find out.

  BROOKLYN, NOVEMBER 2009

  Acknowledgments

  I want to acknowledge my wonderful family, who have given me such joy over the years, and who keep growing! I love you all so much:

  My mother, Gaynell Davis

  Susan Mailer and Marco Colodro; Valentina, Alejandro, and Antonia Colodro

  Danielle Leslie Mailer and Peter McEachern; Isabella Mailer Moschen and Hayley and Colin McEachern

  Elizabeth Anne Mailer and Frank Nastasi; Christina Marie Mailer Nastasi

  Kate Caliean Mailer and Guy Lancaster; Natasha Annabelle Lancaster

  Michael Burks Mailer and Sasha Lazard; Cyrus Force Mailer

  Stephen McLeod Mailer and his fiancée, Elizabeth Rainer; Callan Marx Mailer and Theodore Marx Mailer

  Maggie Alexandra Mailer and John Wendling; Nicholas Maxwell Mailer Wendling

  Matthew Davis Norris Mailer and Salina Sias Mailer; Mattie James Mailer and Jackson Kingsley Mailer

  John Buffalo Mailer and his fiancée, Peri Lyons

  Barbara Mailer Wasserman (Norman’s sister)

  Peter Harper Alson (Barbara Wasserman’s son) and Alice O’Neill; Eden River Alson

  Sam and Pam Radin, our cousins.

  I have been blessed all my life with dear friends, and I can’t list everyone here who has been important to me—I would leave someone out—but I’ve tried to be a good friend, and I would hope you all already know who you are and how much you mean to me.