Happy Any Day Now

by Toby Devens

  Theodora shot me a frustrated look. “In any event, he’s been a potent male influence. And now this accomplished and caring man is dying, and waiting in the wings is Irwin, whom you know only for abandoning and subsequently neglecting you. Not a fair trade, is it? A transaction that might very well elicit a need for denial on your part.”

  My denial was undeniable. I blew into my scrunched-up ball of Kleenex.

  “The point is, you’ve gotten past it. You’ve self-corrected. You made phone calls. You went to his home yesterday with the intention of seeing him. That tells me you’re showing compassion even while adapting to the inevitability of his moving on.” As if he and his furniture were being hauled to New Jersey. “And you’re preparing yourself to take over his seat, I assume.”

  “Yes, but if I can’t perform solo, I won’t be able to do that. Will I?”

  She gave that a moment’s thought and took pity, I suppose.

  “Very well.” She scrawled and tore off the scrip. “I have to tell you, Judith, Inderal will help you get a handle on the physiologic manifestations of your stage fight, but it may not cover the emotional panic.” She reached for a clip of papers on her desktop and handed them over along with the prescription. “You can begin to practice the breathing and relaxation techniques on these handouts. They should help. Long term, though, you’ll have to deal with the underlying issues that are sapping your confidence. All right, next week same time?”

  Not good. I’d be just returning from Maine. Among the details I’d skipped with Dr. G.

  I mumbled something about a heavy schedule and calling to fit something in and watched her face crimp with disapproval.

  “Don’t wait too long,” she warned.

  “I won’t.” I was already on my feet and moving toward the door. I flipped her a good-bye with my precious prescription.

  • • •

  A half hour before curtain Friday evening I popped my first Inderal. Fifteen minutes later, my heartbeat, which had jolted at my first glimpse of Berenson Hall and pounded with each reluctant step toward my doom, had slowed and evened out. By the time I finished my warm-up, I’d lost the tremor in my hands and my salivary glands had kicked in. In my chair onstage, I closed my eyes against the terrifying audience taking their seats and visualized myself floating high above the concert hall, clouds supporting me, sun warming me. Deep breath. Sun. Clouds. Breathe from the gut, not the lungs. Hold to a count of three, exhale slowly through the nose. That’s what Dr. G’s handouts instructed. I’d been practicing.

  My solo in the first half of the program was brief. I felt a twinge of unease as I drew the initial bow stroke; then I timed my breathing to the leisurely rhythm of the music and I was fine. Slid right through it. Better living through chemistry. Woohee! as Marti would have exalted.

  I wanted to share my triumph with Geoff. He managed to avoid me all evening. But after the concert, on a survivor’s high and just about dancing to the exit, I crashed into him.

  “Judith,” he acknowledged. The last time we’d seen each other had been on my porch with Charlie. My lingering image of Geoffzilla was from the rear, scaly tail dragging, monster claws retracted. Rodan had thrashed him. “You seemed to be handling the anxiety up there. Crisis overcome?”

  “I saw Dr. Gottlieb and she agreed I could try a little Inderal. She said . . .”

  While I babbled on, his attention drifted to his watch. When I came up for air, he said, “Yes, I thought you might be on the meds.”

  “You could tell? How could you—?”

  He cut me off. “We’ll have to talk some other time, I’m afraid. I’ve got people waiting.” Deliberately vague, but what wasn’t vague at all was his impatience to be gone and the chill in the air.

  What had I expected? A liege lord ready to do my bidding when I decided to bestow my royal favors? That wasn’t Geoff.

  “We’re on for Monday?” I hooked him with that.

  “I am.”

  “See you then.”

  “Right.”

  “Great.” We had work to do. I had an audition to ace.

  I rode that surge of euphoria until the drug wore off.

  • • •

  I got home at eleven to find my answering machine flashing three messages. Charlie clocked in at nine fifty-two, oblivious to my anxiety issues because I hadn’t shared them. Would he, a civilian, have understood? Also, we hadn’t reached the point in our relationship where I was willing to show weakness. Would I ever? Who knew? I’d been there, done that, got the T-shirt . . . and the boot, first time around.

  He was sorry he’d missed me. I needn’t call back tonight. He was early to bed, figuring he’d better bank as much sleep as possible to face that Mother’s Day lunch with Kiki on Sunday.

  I’d sent my own mother a card, though this year it had been a half-hour project at the Hallmark store looking for something that didn’t gush, because I was still exasperated with her. Also it had to be a simple sentiment—she missed subtleties in English—and not funny. Greeting card humor eluded her.

  The day before, I’d e-mailed her to see if my presumed father might be persuaded to take a powder for the holiday so just the two of us could have brunch at Miss Shirley’s Café. It wasn’t a time-honored tradition, but we’d done it last year. She’d e-mailed back: “You don’t say we do something Sunday you and me, so I make other plan. Tomorrow morning good time to come. Father not here after ten.”

  When I listened to the next message, I was reminded of the Korean saying my mother recited: “When you’re healthy, have many trouble. When you’re sick, have only one. Be happy for many trouble.”

  Richard Tarkoff’s voice was slushy and he spoke slowly, but I could hear him straining for the old lilt. His labored breathing was a sure sign of slippage.

  “Sorry I missed you yesterday, my dear. Sleep seems to be my default these days, but I do want to say thanks for the books. The large type really makes a difference. Just what the doctor ordered. They tell me loss of coordination is next on the list of top ten plagues for mets to the brain,” he said. Then a beep sounded and the message cut off. I pressed for the next one.

  “Apologies,” he resumed. “I’m simultaneously short-winded and long-winded. What I was about to say is I can still manage around fifteen minutes daily on the cello, but that’s not going to last without working fingers. And just as I was getting the hang of Paganini’s twenty-fourth Caprice after fifty years—” A dry laugh led to a cough. “I may have to ask Sarah to move the damn cello where I can’t see it. The idea of that beautiful Goffriller sitting ten feet away taunting me to play it—ach, it’s just too much to bear.”

  And then he surprised me. Although he’d announced after the last futile round of chemo that he was finished with treatment, and vowed to spend whatever was left of his life without an anti-nausea suppository shoved up his ass, now that the time had actually come to give up the fight, he’d changed his mind. He was nudging his medical team to find a miracle. His oncologist was turning over every rock to come up with a clinical trial that admitted the most desperate cases.

  “If I’m lucky, I’ll live to regret my decision.” He sighed. “I’m just not ready to surrender.” Proving once again that the life force is stronger even than the gravity of death. “So them’s my parting words for now: Never give up the ship. Be well, sweetheart. Speak to you soon, I hope.”

  “Yes, you will,” I promised the glowing zero on my phone. Promised myself.

  Chapter 25

  Irwin Raphael, decked out in white duck pants, a blue-and-white-striped T-shirt, and a white cap embroidered with a gold anchor, emerged from the elevator into the Blumen House lobby. Spotting me, he doffed the cap. Behind him, struggling to keep up but encumbered by the fishing gear he carried, was another surprise: Geoffrey Birdsall. Geoff was suddenly fishing buds with my . . . with Irwin? Oh no. Definitely no.

/>   Irwin approached, checking his watch. “You’re early. I hope you’re hungry because Gracie’s got a feast prepared. By the way, kiddo, I’m sorry I screwed up your schedule with her. We’re going to AC tomorrow. They have a special Mother’s Day promotion at Bally’s.” As if he were royalty, the Emperor of No-Goodniks thumped the grip of his fishing rod on the tiled floor.

  “Lovely. If you’ll excuse me—” I just short of snarled. I wanted to get my hands on Geoff, preferably around his throat. How dare he barge into my family, cozy up to Irwin the Invader!

  I strode over to the traitor, who was trying to juggle a tackle box, his own rod, a cooler, and a couple of windbreakers.

  I snatched the cooler from his arms so he was forced to look directly at me. “What’s going on here?”

  “Trying to get organized. Not very successfully, it appears.”

  “You know that’s not what I mean. What are you doing with—?” I hitched my neck toward the Saturday sailor.

  “I’m taking him down to Sandy Point to land some croaker. After that, we’re heading for the Inner Harbor. We’ll tour the Constellation, then grab the water taxi to Fort McHenry. If he isn’t tapped out by then, we’ll go for high tea Dundalk style. Crabs and beer. I’ll have him back here by five so I can get to the Berenson by seven.” He gave off a satisfied vibe. He’d answered his version of my question.

  “I repeat. What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Ah, you’re going for motivation. Two things: a) giving you some time alone with Grace to do your Mother’s Day’s thing, and b) showing him as many sights as I can cram into a single day, which might hasten his return to the desert from whence he came.”

  He took my measure and produced a thin smile. “You seem to be unhappy with my involvement in the Raphael family.” He was tapping his foot, a sure sign he was irritated. “Let’s get something straight, Judith. We may have split, you and I, but you didn’t get custody of Grace in the settlement. She’s my mate, my chum as well.”

  So was he being manipulative, trying to stay attached to me through my family in some twisted way? Or was he just being a mensch, a man of high moral character? Geoff was a musician, used to waiting a few beats. He vamped as I considered whether to give him the benefit of the doubt.

  “Go,” I said finally. “Catch a fish. Ride a boat. Maybe he’ll fall overboard.”

  Geoff threw me a disappointed look as if to say, Beneath you.

  The ancient mariner hollered over to us, “Nu, Geoffrey? Time is a-wasting and the fish are a-biting. And if we’re going to fit in hang gliding, we’d better hustle.”

  “Hang gliding? He’s eighty years old.”

  “And strong as an ox. Don’t worry, we won’t get to it today. Maybe next time.” Geoff called back, “Be there in a jiff, Irwin.” He nodded at me. “Enjoy your mum. We should be gone all afternoon.”

  “Thanks.” I’d decided finally that thanks were in order. “Really. I owe you.”

  “Put it on my tab,” he said.

  • • •

  My mother had prepared brunch.

  I stood in her cramped dining area, awed by the spread, feeling as if I’d stumbled into some fantasy Disney park Herringland where any moment Mickey Herring would descend from Mr. Herring’s Wild Ride to offer me maybe a glass of tea with a sugar cube to suck between my teeth. And some herring.

  Plattered and bowled on the plastic lace tablecloth were herring in wine sauce, in sour cream, chopped with onion, chopped with beets and apple. Also nova lox and kippered salmon. Hard-boiled eggs. Bagels, bialys, and three kinds of cream cheese, one low-fat.

  Incredible. All the more because there was no such thing as brunch in Korea. Maybe in a trendy neighborhood in Seoul there was an imitation New York luncheonette offering blueberry pancakes, but Koreans traditionally ate the same foods for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, the only meals they acknowledged.

  “That kipper herring. Kipper mean smoke. Very good.” My mother smacked her lips. “Lox. I don’t like, but maybe you like. You love lox when you baby. Daddy bring home.”

  What she didn’t remember was that as soon as Irwin took off for points west, we never had lox in the house. And after finding out he’d made half a living selling it, I’d always turned up my nose when Aunt Phyllis served it.

  “We go to deli on Liberty Road owned by Russian people. Your father know all about lox. Russians very impressed.”

  “Did he pay for this?” The bagel would stick in my throat.

  “No, why should he pay? I pay. I have money.” She sat herself firmly at the head of the table.

  I parked myself in the chair next to hers, speared a bagel, sliced it, and shmeared cream cheese. I took a sip of my mother’s homemade horicha, barley tea with honey.

  The conversation was surprisingly easy, as if there’d never been a breach, until I mentioned Geoff’s trying to cram in Baltimore’s sights to nudge Irwin’s return to Arizona.

  “That so stupid. He not go back so fast. Maybe not go back at all.” She concentrated on peeling the white from the yolk of a hard-cooked egg. “Maybe stay here.”

  “Here?” I had a serrated knife in my hand. The question was in which direction I would plunge it.

  “Not here in 4C,” my mother clarified. “We look for big apartment in Blumen House. Two bedroom. For hobbies. He make Indian doll. Ka-chi-na.” She pronounced it carefully, as if she’d been coached. “He have space. I have space. Bigger kitchen so I cook more.”

  I felt myself flushing. “The idea of having you here was so you’d cook less. Oh, for heaven’s sake, Uhm-mah, you can’t be thinking of taking him back. What are you, dol dae ga ri?” Literal translation: stonehead. Colloquially: a dolt, a dunce.

  Now she slammed the bagel on her plate. “Don’t insult. Terrible to insult mother on almost Mother’s Day. And I am smart, Judith.” This was an important enough statement to warrant the use of the verb.

  “Yes, you are, Mommy. But he’s smarter,” I said, not meaning to insult her. “In a sneaky, underhanded way. Can’t you see now that Lorna’s dead he needs someone to take care of him? Cook for him. Do his laundry. Look at him with goo-goo eyes.”

  “What goo-goo eyes?”

  I rolled an adolescent lovesick glance.

  “That not me.” She laughed. “Old days maybe, but not now. My heart also smart. Even sneaky a little. He make me laugh. Buy me things. Show me good time. We go places. Atlantic City. Arizona. Maybe we go to Seoul. I never been back. He promise Seoul end of summer.”

  “So this is about money. He has money and . . .” I couldn’t finish as my rage bubbled up to my throat. I forced a deep breath and found my voice. “He left you, a stranger in a foreign country, to fend for yourself with a six-year-old daughter who loved him, who thought she was crap because he left and he didn’t care enough to even stay in touch . . .”

  Now, I have been known to tear up in my time, but full-out weeping with torrents of splashy sound effects? That I usually saved for films featuring dying lovers, doomed mutts, or abandoned kids. Abandoned kids—bingo!

  My mother eased herself out of her chair and came around to me. “Nonono. Judith. Judith.”

  She tried to stroke my hair, but I jerked away. “How can you take him back?” I sobbed. “He’s a real bastard, to his core.”

  “Not to core, Judith. You don’t know.” She patted me helplessly on the shoulder.

  I whirled on her. “You tell me I don’t know. Aunt Phyllis tells me I don’t know. What’s the big secret? What’s to know? I’m forty-nine years old, for chrissakes. Whatever it is, isn’t it time to tell me?”

  She pressed a fresh napkin on me. “Blow nose. Wipe eyes. Okay? Okay. You right, you big girl now. I tell you.” She settled herself in the chair next to me and took my sparrow-boned hand in her dove-soft one. “Ay, aigoo.” She expelled one of her incomparable sighs. �
��I tell you, but don’t throw fit.

  “At beginning, I very mad at your father. Leave me for chippie. First month he send stuff. Then I don’t hear from him many months. When he make phone call, I hang up. He call again, ask for you. I hang up. Bad mother. But I very, very hurt inside.” She was nervously peeling the nail polish from her left thumb. “He send card from California. Card from cruise. He go with her to England, send card. Address: Judith Raphael. Sign, ‘Love, kisses, Your Daddy.’ I find in mailbox and tear up. So bad mother.”

  I’d sunk my head in my hands when she mentioned the phone calls. Covered my eyes. What I really wanted to do was stuff my fingers in my ears.

  “Aunt Phyllis tell me I do wrong, but he hurt me very, very bad here.” She banged a fist against her chest. “I don’t want this bad man in your life. I think you do okay. After year or two you stop asking question, Where my father? Why Daddy not call? Why not visit?

  “He stop calling after I hang up so much. But he keep writing. And start sending checks.”

  At that, I snapped my head up so hard I gave myself one of those teeth-jarring shocks to the jaw.

  “When you in six grade he start sending checks.” The rest I heard in a state of heightened awareness, my mother’s voice coming through magnified, the colors in the room shining bright and sharp, the sentences running into one another like streams converging.

  Irwin hadn’t been working until then. The chippie wanted him at her disposal. To dance with her on the cruise ships, hold her handbag on their world tours. The globe-trotting stopped when Lorna was diagnosed with lupus. From then on, they were home in Tucson for long stretches, which meant he was able to hold a job. Not a full week, just part-time. “Your father very good salesman. Sell cars, sell Amway, work different places. Not steady, but he send me check here, check there from what he make.”

  He’d never held on to any job long enough for Grace to rely on his payments for rent in a better neighborhood, but she’d squirreled the money away. “And he pay for your cello lessons.”