Close Relations

by Susan Isaacs

  “You know that’s in Philadelphia and stop being fresh, Marcia. Anyway, you haven’t told me a thing about your campaign. I hope you’re writing good speeches, so he wins. That Governor Parker is such a bulvon, with that fat nose. And how he spits when he talks. James Gresham must be turning over in his grave when he sees Parker. Did you know he went to the same prep school as Philip? Gresham, I mean.”

  My mother arrived an hour later, as my Aunt Estelle was beginning to move in on me, unsheathing her fairy godmother wand. “Hilda,” she said, “I was just trying to persuade Marcia to try a little makeup.”

  “I don’t like makeup,” I said.

  “I’m not talking about heavy pancake makeup so you look cheap. If it’s done with a light touch it can enhance your features.” She turned to my mother. “Look at Marcia’s eyes. Gorgeous. Aren’t they gorgeous?” My mother barely glanced at me but nodded enthusiastically to her sister. “See, Marcia?” my aunt continued. “You should emphasize them. You could look like Grace Kelly.”

  “Please, Aunt Estelle,” I said.

  “Your eyelashes are very pale,” my mother observed.

  “I think I hear Julius at the door,” my aunt said. “Marcia, go upstairs to Barbara’s bathroom and wash up.”

  At dinner, Uncle Julius agreed with his wife that I should wear eye makeup. Fortunately, the conversation then turned to Uncle Julius’s bookkeeper, Nadine Silverstein, who wore cheap false eyelashes and too much rouge, and, from there, to Nadine’s daughter Tammy, who could not decide between secretarial school and a junior college. Aunt Estelle decided for her and, after she had swallowed the last of her cherry strudel, announced she would speak to Nadine in the morning and tell her what Tammy should do. “Leave the dishes,” she said. “I’ll take care of them when we get back from the Leventhals’. Marcia, a little lipstick?”

  “No.”

  “Ready?” Uncle Julius boomed. He held the front door for us and we scurried by him, three short, slightly broad-beamed Goldilocks past the Papa Bear. The early spring air was chilly and moist.

  My mother sniffed and looked back at her sister’s house and sighed. Aunt Estelle sighed back, misinterpreting, perhaps, her sister’s melancholia. “Hilda, darling, I know shiva calls are painful for you, but…”

  “It has to be done, Estelle,” my mother responded, in the family tradition of noblesse oblige. We walked over to present our condolences to the bereaved Leventhals, mourning a hundred feet down the block in a miniature Tudor manor house.

  “I’m sorry,” I managed to say to Mrs. Leventhal. She was a big woman, but not overtly fat. Her size seemed derived from large bones covered with solid tissue, not from sloppy flab. Naturally, she wore black, a severe dress in a stiff fabric, relieved only by a slight scoop neck. Big Mrs. Leventhal’s appropriately large breasts, pushed together by a hard-working bra, made a long, thin furrow that continued beyond ordinary cleavage territory and on up to a couple of inches below her neck. One of the pearls from her necklace had caught in the furrow; it looked like an egg being devoured by a large-mouthed monster.

  “Thank you, Marcia,” she murmured, acknowledging my sympathy. “So sweet of you to come. Ira would have appreciated it.” Mrs. Leventhal was seated on an avocado-colored cut velvet couch, obviously not aware that monotones were elegant. I stood before her with Aunt Estelle’s arm around my waist, so everyone would know that I was under my relative’s noble chaperonage. My mother had been left behind near the threshold of the living room.

  Whether by chance or some subliminal caste recognition, my mother had paired off with the only other woman in the room who did not meet even the fairly flexible standards of northern Queens chic—wrinkles were acceptable, overweight in the second generation countenanced as long as it was neat and solid and swathed in expensive clothes. But my mother’s companion, chattering a little too gaily, was stupendously obese, with a bagel-sized roll of fat about her ankles that hung over the edge of her tan laced shoes. She was encased in a yellow dress with fat white polka dots, so she looked like a great slab of Swiss cheese.

  “Marcia’s terribly busy with her politics right now,” Aunt Estelle was saying. Her grip around my waist had tightened when she noticed me glancing away from Mrs. Leventhal. “She goes everywhere with him, you know.” Mrs. Leventhal nodded. I smiled and tried to break from my aunt’s control, but failed. “He wouldn’t be running for governor if it wasn’t for her.” Of course, “he” was Paterno. I wasn’t sure if Aunt Estelle was avoiding his name because she had forgotten it or because she thought it bad form to utter the name of a Democrat before the soul of a Republican had a chance to rest in peace.

  “He’s running for governor?” Mrs. Leventhal asked. “I’ve been”—and her voice fell—“well, preoccupied lately.” My aunt’s hand left my waist and reached out to her neighbor. “I used to follow all the news before Ira …” Mrs. Leventhal’s voice faded into silence.

  “Oh, Lydia,” Aunt Estelle said fervently. “I know. I know. And you’ve been a pillar. An absolute tower of strength.” She turned to me. “Taking him for radiation treatments. Do you have any idea?”

  “I used to read the Times every day,” Mrs. Leventhal continued, “all four sections, before …” A large tear slipped from her left eye.

  “I’m sorry,” I said once more.

  “That’s all right.” Mrs. Leventhal sighed. Then she looked at Aunt Estelle. “She’s such a sweet girl.”

  “Very,” my aunt agreed. “Lydia, darling, there are so many people here, I don’t want to monopolize your time. I’ll drop in again tomorrow, with some lentil soup. Marcia made it. She’s a fine cook. Is Butch here? I want to extend my condolences to him. Such a good boy.” Thirty-seven years old.

  “A wonderful son,” Mrs. Leventhal concurred. She gazed at me, a momentarily grief-free, clear-eyed gaze. “He’s a graduate of the Wharton School.” I nodded. “That’s a part of the University of Pennsylvania.” I nodded again.

  “Is he around, Lydia?” My aunt was not impatient, but she wanted to get on with it, before Lydia Leventhal began her hymn to Butchie’s major in management, her ode on a Master of Business Administration.

  “I think he’s in the kitchen with a few of his associates.”

  “Come, Marcia.” I managed a quick good-bye before Aunt Estelle led me off, past my mother, now alone—deserted even by the fat lady—through the hall, into the dining room, and up to the double door of the kitchen.

  “Please, Aunt Estelle. I don’t know him. There’s really no point—”

  “What do you mean, no point?” Her whisper was so harsh it could have been a scream. “His father died.”

  “But I don’t know him.”

  “Of course you do. You met him several times. I was there. I introduced you myself.”

  “But I don’t even remember him. It must have been years ago.”

  “So?” she demanded. “Do you need another introduction? Are you going to stand on ceremony in a house of mourning?”

  “If it’s a house of mourning,” I hissed, “it’s a hell of a time to be playing matchmaker.”

  “Don’t think you can get out of this with a temper tantrum, Marcia. I happen to know for a fact that your mother told you that Butch would be here, and if you didn’t want to see him you wouldn’t have come, so let’s go. Or do you want to spend the rest of your life with that shikker? Is that your ambition? He’s too old for you. You’ll be taking care of him when his liver gets yellow. Is that what you want? Because if it is I’ll just leave you alone. Now come on. Be nice to Butch.” And with one hand pushing my back and the other opening the door, Aunt Estelle propelled me into the kitchen. And there, sitting at a tiny glass table on a wrought-iron pedestal, apparently abandoned by his associates, was Butch Leventhal.

  It would be pleasant to report that under the fluorescent fixture was Butch the Beautiful, that beneath his white shirt were powerful shoulders straining to break through the polyester blend, that compared with him, Jerry paled
to a small-potatoes Celt. Or it might be comforting had it been Butch the Crass, a drooling, thick-lipped oaf, a Semitic Stanley Kowalski without the sexuality. Or that he was Butch the Blessed, a gentle soul who scribbled sonnets on ledger paper. Or Brainy Butch, the Wizard of Wall Street.

  But of course when Ira’s and Lydia’s Republican genes intermingled, the product was predictable. Nice. Balding, with a few limp hairs still growing on the top of his shiny scalp. Stood up when introduced to me by Aunt Estelle. Said thank you when I said I was sorry about his father. Nodded when Aunt Estelle told him I was a very important speech writer to a very powerful politician—so powerful that his name, like Yahweh’s, could not be invoked. Responded with a short list of Anglo-Saxon surnames when asked by my aunt what management consulting firm he belonged to. And shook my hand after I offered mine and told him, “Nice meeting you.”

  This time I led, followed by Aunt Estelle, Uncle Julius, and my mother, all the way out the front door. They scurried behind me for the ten seconds it took to get back on Lindenbaum turf.

  “Something wrong?” Uncle Julius asked.

  “Of course not,” his wife answered quickly.

  “Well,” my mother began.

  “Well,” I said, trying to sound lighthearted, “when they hand out the awards for great love stories that shook the Borough of Queens, the tale of Marcia Green and Butch Leventhal will not be among them.” But I was no Noel Coward.

  My mother looked beyond me, at her sister. “How can you tell after just two minutes?” Aunt Estelle demanded. She pursed her lips and glanced up at the streetlight, which I assumed stood for heaven-ward. “And you certainly didn’t go out of your way to make conversation.”

  “How could I make conversation with Butchie? It would be like talking to a pot roast. He has as much vivacity as—”

  “Boy-oh-boy,” crooned Uncle Julius, singing Aunt Estelle’s song. “My little niece is a tough cookie. Such high standards, Marcia. Seriously, sweetie, don’t you think you’re demanding a little too much? I mean, you’re an adult now, not a kid like the first time.”

  “I am demanding,” I began, “just a touch of understanding from my family.” Off to the side, I could see my mother’s anticipatory shudder. I raised my voice. “I am demanding not to be trotted out—in the middle of a primary campaign—to meet some semi-comatose conservative who’s in mourning!”

  “Marcia!” my mother’s voice broke out, snapping at me in anger and humiliation.

  “And while I’m demanding a little too much, I’ll also demand that you remember that I am living with Jerry Morrissey and that you cannot make it go away by parading a bunch of jerks who have the I.Q.s of parakeets and whose only attribute seems to be that they’re Jewish and have a natural sense of compound interest.”

  “Marcia.” That was my mother again.

  “You’ve become a Jewish anti-Semite,” my aunt announced coldly. “The lowest of the low. I hope you realize that.”

  “Estelle, don’t be so hard on the kid,” Uncle Julius interceded. “What has she got? Huh?”

  My mother could not look at me. But Aunt Estelle swallowed saliva and pride simultaneously. “All right,” she said. “It’s my fault. I’m sorry. I didn’t know. Maybe I shouldn’t have pushed.” Her voice grew softer, caressing. “Marcia, I just want for you the happiness Barbara has.” She spoke to my mother. “Maybe Butch Leventhal isn’t right for her, Hilda. I don’t know. His real name is Cyril. Maybe it had some effect on his personality.”

  My mother shrugged. “I’ll help you with the dishes,” she said.

  “Then you won’t need me,” I murmured. “I’ve got some work to do at home.” My mother shrugged again. I looked away.

  “Don’t be discouraged, Marcia,” my aunt said. “We’ll find something for you. Don’t worry.”

  “I’ve got to get home,” I said.

  Less than an hour later, I leaned against the cold metal door of the apartment as if it were a treasure discovered after a long hunt. I put a key into the lowest lock.

  Suddenly I heard a tiny voice. “Hello.” Heart banging, mouth dry, I froze. The ultimate irony, to be killed in the hallway of the house my family had tried to save me from. “Marcia?” The voice was thin and distant but finally recognizable. I rushed and fumbled to open the rest of the locks. “In the bedroom.”

  I threw my handbag and key ring on the floor and dashed inside, prepared to leap onto the bed and do anything I could to enchant Jerry sufficiently to make him announce that this would always be my home. “Jerry!” I shouted, rushing in.

  “Muscle spasm,” he barked. “I called headquarters from Buffalo and then here from LaGuardia, but you weren’t in. Joe Cole had to drive out to the airport. He got me upstairs and waited for the doctor. Where the hell were you?”

  “At my Aunt Estelle’s.”

  “Jesus!” Jerry cried out in pain. He tried to move, to ease himself, but he could only wince. “I’m a goddamn mess.”

  I waited for his agony to subside. “Jerry …”

  “Wait a second.” It took several, but finally he spoke. “How are you? You look tired.” He spent a moment settling into a comfortable position. His body relaxed. “Your family work you over again?”

  “A little.”

  “Figures. Come here. Give me a kiss, but do it lightly. No pressure on the back. I have to stay flat with a pillow under my legs for a minimum of four or five days, and the doctor says I can only get up once a day, to take a crap. I’ll have to pee into a bottle or jar or something. Is that okay? It’s up to you. Otherwise, I’ll have to go to the hospital. My mother offered to take me in, but she’s crippled with her arthritis, and my sister has the five kids. So it’s your decision.” He exhaled and smiled. “How’d you like that for a greeting?”

  “I think I’ll go back to my Aunt Estelle’s.”

  “That bad? Well, come on now. Bend down and kiss me hello.”

  I knelt down on one knee, like Al Jolson about to deliver a mammoth “Mammy.” I was afraid of falling over, of putting too much weight on him, of collapsing and immobilizing him for life. I brushed my lips against his.

  “More,” he ordered. “Come on. Open your mouth and close your eyes.” We kissed such a prolonged, warm kiss that I nearly fell onto the floor with exhausted contentment. “I wish we could do more,” he whispered. “Maybe by tomorrow we’ll figure something out.” I took his hand and planted small kisses on the pads of each finger. “Marcia, listen to me. I know you’re going full steam with the campaign, and if you want me to check into a hospital, I will. No problem. No guilt trips.”

  “This is your home.”

  “You’re great, sweetheart. A real trouper. Come on. One more kiss before lights out.”

  Eleven

  Lyle LoBello wore a musk cologne to the meeting, and the entire staff seemed dazed by its heaviness. People slumped in folding chairs with half-closed eyes. Not a single person moaned in dismay as Paterno’s daily schedule was read.

  “Any new business before I go on?” LoBello demanded. He took off his suit jacket and rolled up his shirt sleeves, displaying both sides of each impressive forearm: the solid upper and the bulging veins and muscles of the lower. “Any new business?” Most of the women and two of the men stared at his arms.

  Before the campaign, when Jerry had run staff meetings, he had been stared at too. But people had noticed more than one part of him, more than arms, voice, cleft chin. Eyes glistened at his charm, jaws drooped at his entire countenance, toes curled with each movement of his body, and minds leaped with excitement over his ideas. Jerry was more than just a sum of parts.

  LoBello sat on the edge of his desk, his hand resting on his powerful thigh. “Come on, people. Now is the time to speak up.” The key members of Paterno’s campaign staff—about twelve of us—remained silent. We had not meshed. Half of us were from Paterno’s City Hall staff, but the others were strangers, LoBello’s hired guns, people who knew the rest of New York State the way we knew
New York City.

  “All right,” LoBello continued, loosening his tie and opening his top collar button. “Let me make my announcements, and then we can all get to work. First and foremost, you probably know by now that our friend and colleague, Jerry Morrissey, injured his back upstate—working for the cause—and he’ll be out of commission for a while. Anyhow, we all hope he gets better fast. Would you give him our regards, Marcia?” I nodded. “Marcia?”

  “All right.”

  “Good. For those of you who are new, Marcia and Jerry are—um, close personal friends. Am I right, Marcia?” He stood and strolled toward my chair. The odor of his cologne was so powerful and animal that for a second I forgot not merely who Jerry was but who Lyle was also. But then he spoke again. “Marcia? Huh?”

  “I’m sorry, Lyle. I wasn’t paying attention. What did you say?” Since he had begun working on the campaign, I found myself resisting his authority in the most adolescent ways possible. I’d yawn while he spoke, declare in front of Paterno that an idea LoBello had just presented was unworkable and amateurish. Every time Lyle remonstrated with me, I’d threaten to quit. After witnessing one of these skirmishes, Paterno had muttered that I seemed a little “testy,” but he did not seem interested in refereeing any conflict between LoBello and me.

  “Forget it,” LoBello said, trying to unclench his teeth enough to appear casual. He reacted to my challenges in different ways. Sometimes he’d ignore them. Several times he hissed “bitch” at me, and once he screamed at me to shut up. In a crowded elevator he stood behind me and pressed against me, rubbing his pelvis up and down, whispering, “You need to get laid, baby. Look at how tight you are.”

  He strolled to the front of the room. “All right, everybody. Let’s get down to serious business: Sidney Appel.”

  I peered at my watch. It was a few minutes after eleven, and I had promised Jerry I’d be home by noon to empty his urine jar and give him lunch.

  “Are you interested in this campaign, Ms. Green?” LoBello called out.