“Maggie is not zaftig. She’s perfect. She has a perfect figure.” Louise’s tone is utterly serious.
“Well, she hates me,” Portia says.
“Maggie Bucks doesn’t hate anyone. She’s a loving, kind cat.”
“Did I tell you she came out? She’s a lesbian, you know,” Portia says.
Louise laughs.
“I’ve always had a strong gaydar reading on her,” Portia says, “so it was really no surprise.”
“We’ve all known she’s a lesbian,” Anna says. “It’s like before Emery came out when we all really knew that he was gay.”
“You knew before I came out?” Emery asks. He had no idea. He had thought he was so good at hiding it—all those girlfriends, the extracurricular activities, soccer!
Louise laughs harder. She is wiping laugh-tears from her eyes.
“I think she came out because she thought you were going to die,” Portia says. “She was thinking, ‘Ah-so, now I be true self; Smoker Lady dead, I fear no judgment.’ ”
“Smoker Lady?! Is that what she calls me?!” Louise is in full rolling guffaws.
“Maggie got everyone to start calling you Smoker Lady,” Emery says, and Louise lets out one more laugh bark.
“All right, kids,” she says, “get going.”
Portia leans into her mother, working her hands under the tubes attached to her arms so she can hug her, and suddenly she is crying.
No, not crying. She is sobbing. Anna sobs, too. And when Alejandro wipes tears from his face, Emery cracks open and he, too, is sobbing. Just like their mother.
None of them can speak.
And that is how they finally say good-bye.
Epilogue
1993
In the thirty-four years since Buzzy and Louise started dating, their parents have never met. Early this afternoon, Anna picked up Billie and Otto from the airport and brought them straight to the cemetery—the one in Santa Barbara on the cliff, overlooking the ocean, not the Jewish cemetery in Los Angeles that Louise hated sight unseen. Bubbe and Zeyde flew in last night and stayed in the barn. Anna, Portia, and Emery, along with their mates and children, crowded the house like a newly immigrated family, sleeping on couches, Louise’s bed, and the floor.
It is a day where the air is so clear you feel like you’re in an oxygen bubble. Before the service starts, Emery and Anna walk Portia’s daughter, Esmé, to the cliff of the cemetery so she can see the ocean. It is a waxy blue, foamy, and alive. Esmé looks silently at the water; Emery watches her; Anna watches the sea.
“So,” Anna says. “Do you still want our eggs?”
“Yes. Of course!” Emery looks at his sister. They haven’t discussed the eggs since that night in the barn. He’s been waiting for someone to bring it up.
“Are you sure you want my eggs?” Anna says. “I’m loony. I’m addicted to everything. I eat sugar all day long, I drink tons of coffee. I’m short.”
“But there are millions of variations of you and they all come from Mom and Dad, and I come from Mom and Dad. And who knows what version of Mom and Dad that egg will have.”
“I got the shitty version of Mom and Dad.”
“No, you didn’t.”
“Well, between the three of us I did.”
“No, you didn’t. But your version is irrelevant, anyway. The baby is going to be half of Alejandro’s family, too—Cubans who originally came from Spain and France.”
“Think how dark this kid could be,” Anna says. “Between me and Alejandro—”
“Dark is beautiful. There’s nothing more beautiful than dark skin.” Emery has never understood why his sister doesn’t love her dark skin. Who doesn’t love dark skin?!
“Didn’t feel like that when I was a kid.”
“That’s ’cause we grew up in a beach culture, the land of Malibu Barbie.”
“What are you guys talking about?” Esmé asks, and she tugs her uncle’s hand.
“Eggs. I want your auntie’s egg to put with Tio Alejandro’s seed to make a baby for me and Tio.”
“Oh,” Esmé says. Emery can see she isn’t impressed. He figures she can’t even fathom the usual rituals that precede most egg/sperm unions.
“It would have part of Mom in it.” Emery wipes a tear from under his eye with his index finger.
“Yeah, it would.” Anna blinks, and tears run free down her cheeks.
“So?” Emery asks.
“You can have mine,” Anna says. “Portia and I discussed it, and we think I can handle it better. But if for some reason I die before you get them, Portia will give you hers. We won’t leave you eggless.”
Emery starts crying. He leans in and hugs his sister in a way he hasn’t done since he was about nine. Anna cries, too.
Esmé looks up at her aunt and uncle and watches them. They look down at her and cry more. Anna picks up Esmé and rocks her in her arms, then passes her off to Emery, who does the same thing.
“It’s okay,” Esmé says.
“Yeah, it’s okay,” Emery says, and he’s fully crying now. Anna leans in, puts her arms around her brother, Esmé sandwiched between them. They stand like that, crying, for a couple of minutes while the sea wind wraps around them like a shawl.
“We’re probably going to start soon,” Emery says. He puts Esmé down and takes her hand. The three of them walk back to the family, winding around headstones that are shaded with oak and eucalyptus trees. It is as pretty here as any city park. Probably as pretty as any place in the world. It even smells good—the musky oak with the clean smell of salty ocean.
Aluminum folding chairs have been set up beside the hole where the coffin sits. As Louise once requested, only immediate family is here. It has been two weeks since Louise had her surgery. She was home, recovering, when she had a heart attack in her sleep. Buzzy didn’t even know until late the next morning. He thought Louise was sleeping in.
No one is sitting yet except Buzzy. Portia has barely spoken to him since she arrived, and every time she has, all she could think of was his Stinky: if he was going to see her again, if Louise had found out. Portia sits next to her father.
“Dad,” she says. “Mom would be so disappointed to know that you’re wearing a yarmulke.”
“You’re right.” Buzzy reaches up and pats the blue velvet skullcap, but doesn’t remove it.
“I guess she won’t know,” Portia says.
“I’m sorry about my girlfriend,” Buzzy says.
“Did Mom ever find out?”
“No.”
“Are you seeing her again?”
“I haven’t yet. But I probably will eventually. I’m not dead yet, and I’m not that old.”
“Yeah.”
“And I know it was shitty. And what Patrick did to you was shitty. People are shitty sometimes.”
“Yeah, they are.” Portia leans her shoulder in against her father’s.
“I’m sorry, honey.” Buzzy puts his arm around his daughter and kisses the top of her head.
“Were you and Mom getting along when she got home from the hospital?”
“We were getting along great! It was really a wonderful couple weeks. Much better than before the heart attack.”
“I was worried that she died being mad at you for something.”
“It was one of our nicest times ever,” Buzzy says. “I stayed home from work. We played Scrabble. We watched movies. It was really good.”
Portia imagines herself home recovering from a heart attack. There would be no Patrick with whom she could play Scrabble. And then she realizes that she wouldn’t want him there. Not for Scrabble, and not even for a bad TV movie. He never took proper care of her heart before; he surely wouldn’t treat it right after a heart attack. Portia takes a deep a breath, and when she exhales, she can almost see the ghost of Patrick leaving her. She knows he will soon be sweated out of her, excreted from her pores like too much garlic.
Following the service, where Buzzy, Anna, and Emery spoke in turn (Portia couldn’
t speak without crying, and so said nothing) the family is hanging around, with no one giving the signal or sign that they should leave. Esmé and Blue gather acorns and hoard them in their pockets. Anna is on a chair next to Billie, who is beside Otto. No one else is sitting. Bubbe walks toward them, audibly crying, wiping her nose and face with an embroidered-edge handkerchief. She has on a black nubby suit and a black hat with a veil over the front. Zeyde is standing near the edge of the hole looking up toward the tops of the trees. Anna imagines he’s seeing how high they go, so he can tell his pals at the Golden Ages Club for Jewish Seniors what cemeteries in Santa Barbara look like. Every time Anna sees him he tells her what he’s told his friends at Golden Ages. Once, years ago, he told Anna, Portia, and Emery how he had regaled the crowds at Golden Ages by explaining to them what a taco was. The kids didn’t think he was serious at first; it seemed impossible to them that someone wouldn’t know what a taco was.
Like Buzzy, Zeyde is wearing his yarmulke. In the Jewish tradition of mourning, Zeyde has a ripped piece of cloth pinned to his shoulder. Bubbe has one pinned to her shoulder, too, but it’s smaller, more delicate-looking. “Baruch dayan ha’emet,” Bubbe says, and she picks up both of Billie’s stiff hands. Anna leans forward in her chair to find her brother and sister. She wants them to witness what she is witnessing. She catches Portia’s eye.
“Pardon?” Billie says. She frowns and looks toward Otto, who is sitting up tall as if to get a better look at Bubbe. Portia approaches and stands beside Bubbe. Anna gives her googly eyes.
“Oy!” Bubbe says, and she starts crying, clinging to Billie’s hands. “Sarah, Sarah, Sarah! We will miss her so much!”
“Who the hell is Sarah!?” Otto says. Billie pulls her hands from Bubbe’s and places them firm on each of her hips.
“Oy yoy yoy!” Bubbe daps the handkerchief against her face, then blows her nose and walks away.
“Who the hell is Sarah?” Otto is speaking to Anna. Anna shrugs. She turns her head away from Portia, because she knows her sister will make her laugh.
“Portia!” Otto says, and he stares at his other granddaughter. “Who the hell is Sarah?”
The only person Anna knows who would find this as funny as she and Portia is their mother. This exchange would have made her laugh so hard she’d have to stub out her cigarette and put down her cup of coffee before it spilled.
“It’s her Jewish name,” Portia finally says.
“What the fuck does that mean, her Jewish name? Since when does she have a Jewish name?!”
“Since she converted,” Portia says. “Right before they were married.” Anna looks at everyone but Portia. If they make eye contact it will all be over.
“Oh my,” Billie says, and she shifts in her seat, pulling down the legs of her black pantsuit as if to adjust the fit.
“Louise goddamn converted to Jew?!” Otto’s mouth is open. He looks like he can’t quite breathe.
“Well, yeah,” Portia says. “Remember? She had a Jewish wedding. Isn’t that why you didn’t show up?” Anna is stunned by how bold Portia is. She used to be so quiet around Billie and Otto.
“Oh, yes,” Billie says. “I remember that she was planning a Jewish wedding.”
“But that doesn’t mean she converted to Jew! I fucking didn’t know that she actually became a Jew!” Otto says.
“Well, you might be happy to know that she tried to unconvert later. She ended up hating the Jews,” Anna says. A hiccup of a laugh hovers in her throat. She sees Portia’s shoulders bounce and knows her sister is pinning back a laugh with the force of a barricaded door.
“So are we at a funeral for a goddamned SARAH or for my daughter LOUISE?” Otto asks.
“Louise,” Anna says. “The only one who called her Sarah is Bubbe. Everyone else called her Louise. I swear.”
Zeyde approaches in his black bow tie, his black yarmulke, his black sideburns that he seems to grow in thick to make up for the dearth of hair on his head.
“Oy!” he says, and he leans in and kisses Billie. Billie’s back shoots straight up as if someone has goosed her. “Oy!” He kisses Otto and Anna has to turn her head so no one will see her laughing. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Portia has turned her head away, too.
“You’re not going to call her Sarah, are you?” Otto asks.
“Yetta called her Sarah,” Zeyde says. “She loved her like a daughter. And let me tell you, there is no one on this side of the Mississippi who cooked better kosher food than your daughter!”
Anna gasps out a small chortle, then turns and rushes to Emery. Portia slips in behind her. The three of them cluster in a circle.
“Bubbe called Mom ‘Sarah’ when she was talking to Billie and Otto,” Anna says. “And then Zeyde told them that no one—” She starts laughing so hard she can’t finish the sentence. Emery is laughing, too. Portia is wiping tears from her eyes, crying as she laughs.
“Zeyde told them that no one—” Anna tries to continue but can’t.
“Say it!” Emery says, still laughing.
“That no one cooked better kosher food than Mom!” Anna says, and she breaks open with full crying laughter. She doubles over, and Portia and Emery fold with her, holding each other up by the arms, tears streaming down their faces.
“God, I wish Mom were here,” Portia says, as the laughing dies down. “She would have loved that.”
“I know,” Anna says. She looks around and sees everyone watching them: her husband, Brian, who is grinning as if he knows what is going on; Alejandro, whose eyebrows are raised as if to ask what’s up; Billie and Otto, who both look like they are about to scold their grandchildren; Bubbe and Zeyde, who have their arms around each other and heads cocked together with curiosity; and Buzzy, who is smiling with so many tears on his face that his cheeks shine.
Back at the house they eat corned beef, turkey, rye bread, coleslaw, and sliced cheeses that Buzzy ordered and had delivered from a kosher deli in Los Angeles. Louise’s aunts, uncles, and cousins call from Vermont and the phone is passed around as condolences are given to Buzzy, Anna, Portia, and Emery.
By the end of the night, after Otto has drunk some scotch with Zeyde, after Anna’s husband, Brian, has fallen asleep in Louise’s bed while reading to Esmé and Blue, and after Alejandro has fallen asleep sitting upright in the wing chair Louise had recovered herself with ticking stripes, Anna, Portia, Emery, Buzzy, and the four grandparents nestle together in the living room. On one couch, Anna sits between Billie and Otto; Emery sits beside Billie. On the other couch, Portia is between Bubbe and Zeyde with Buzzy on the other side of Bubbe. Everyone is thigh to thigh, shoulder to shoulder, tucked in like pack animals, a brood.
“That was a beautiful service!” Bubbe says, and she squeezes Portia’s knee. “A beautiful service.”
“It was what she wanted,” Buzzy says.
“So Dad,” Anna says, “does this mean you’re going to forgo the Jewish cemetery so you can be buried next to Mom?”
They all look at Buzzy expectantly. He takes a slow, deep breath and lifts his hands open as if asking a question. Zeyde adjusts his yarmulke on his head.
“I’ve been wondering all day,” Zeyde says, “why wasn’t she in a Jewish cemetery?”
“She had a tattoo,” Buzzy says. He had mentioned to Anna and Emery and Portia earlier that if Bubbe and Zeyde questioned the funeral location, he would tell them this lie.
“She had a tattoo?!” Otto asks. “She was a goddamned hippie, wasn’t she? Where did she have the goddamned thing and what was it?!”
“Oy! A tattoo!” Bubbe says.
“Jews don’t get tattoos!” Zeyde says, then he turns to Billie and Otto and explains, “You can’t be buried in a Jewish cemetery if you have a tattoo.”
“Will somebody tell me what goddamned piece of art my daughter had engraved on her body!” Otto says.
“A marijuana leaf,” Emery says. His sisters seem to appreciate the imagery. Anna smiles and Portia winks at her brother.
“Jesus Christ! She had an illegal drug tattooed on her body?” Otto says.
“Oy yoy yoy!” Bubbe lifts her handkerchief to her face and tamps her eyes.
“Isn’t it illegal to tattoo illegal substances on your body?!” Zeyde asks.
“It was on the center of one ass cheek,” Anna says, and Portia bursts open with a giggle. Emery and Anna laugh, too, and as quickly as it started, they all three begin weeping.
“She lived a beautiful life,” Bubbe says, when the crying has stilled. “We’ll forgive her the marijuana leaf on her tuches.”
“Well, I have some good news,” Emery says. He decides he might as well come out to everyone who hasn’t figured it out already. He’ll drop Alejandro and the baby on them in one clean detonation. Who could freak out about something like this when his mother has just died? Also, Emery has made an oath to himself that he’ll keep in better touch with his grandparents. He imagines them as the tops of a circle that loops him to his mother. And his grandparents need to know with whom they’re looped.
“Oh, yeah,” Otto says. “What’s your news? I haven’t heard you say three words since you called me ‘fucker’ when you were a little sissy boy!”
Emery smiles. He stopped being afraid of Otto around the time he grew taller than him. “Alejandro and I are going to have a baby.”
“Wonderful!” Bubbe claps her hands. “If it’s a girl, you name it Sarah after your mother. If it’s a boy, you name it Sheldon.”
“Yetta!” Zeyde says. “Did you hear who he’s having this baby with? His roommate! That Mexican boy who’s sleeping in the chair over there!” Zeyde points with his thumb toward Alejandro, who is as still as Lincoln sitting in his stone memorial.
“Yes, yes, Emery and his friend are having a baby!” Bubbe claps her hand and actually bounces on the couch.
Emery wonders if Aunt Sylvia had told the truth about Bubbe praying for Buzzy not to be gay. Bubbe seems perfectly fine with the gay thing, as if she’s been around gay couples the past eight decades.
“Wait a goddamned minute!” Otto says. “Let me get this straight. You and that Mexican are homosexuals?!”
Drinking Closer to Home Page 30