“Mr. District Attorney.”
“Manny’s not so bad, Frank. He’s been very helpful.”
“Manny’s a jailhouse lawyer. The woods down here are full of them. Self-important experts and know-it-alls. Manny’s base, Maxine. That junk he fed us about Enoch Eddes? How he jabbed him with a left, and another left, then finished him off with a right hook?”
“Don’t be cruel, Frank. He told that story on himself.”
“Well, then he ain’t very reliable, is he?”
“They both see things in the dark, I think,” Maxine said.
They had less than twenty-one hours between them. Maxine’s flight was scheduled to leave Fort Lauderdale at nine the next morning, Frank’s an hour and a half later. While Mrs. Bliss was still in the kitchen, preparing at two o’clock in the afternoon the dinner she would not put on the table until at least six, her children concluded that Dorothy had not yet come to terms with her grief, that it was devouring her, and that in a kind of way she was reemigrating, first leaving the old country to flesh out the substance of a new life in America, and now quitting America to abandon what was left her of life in a sort of old country of the soul and spirit where she could be one with that bleak race of widowed grief cronies, woeful, keening sisters in perpetual mourning for the deep bygones of their better days.
The trouble was they had no real clout in Florida, no one to whom they could turn in a pinch. Their dad’s doctor hadn’t given him such a terrific run for his money. Diagnosed, dead, and buried in just over a year from a relatively slow-growing tumor. He was the last one they’d turn to. The little details of life were a sort of word-of-mouth thing, a piecemeal networking, but one needed one’s own turf before that kicked in, and the truth was that neither Maxine nor her brother had any. Their only contact was Mrs. Ted Bliss herself, so where did that leave them? High and dry. Nowhere. Between the devil and the deep blue sea.
Meanwhile, during Mrs. Ted Bliss’s sudden appearances in the living room, bearing gifts from her labors in the kitchen—bolts of kishka; sips of soup; little offerings of chopped liver in the making; k’naidlech; defrosted, freezer-burned challah; bites of jarred gefilte fish; ragged flags of boiled chicken skin; strings of overdone brisket—Frank and Maxine, shushing each other, making all the smiling, sudden, guilty moves of people doing ixnay and cheese it to one another, all the high signs and rushed semaphore of lookouts feigning innocence, their meter running out on them, less than nineteen hours to go now, eighteen, eleven or twelve if you counted the seven or eight they’d be asleep, nine or ten if you figured in the couple of hours it would take them to shower and dress, call a taxi to take them to the airport, eight or nine if they were caught up in rush-hour traffic. And no closer to solving their problem than when Maxine first suggested they had one.
“You know what I think?” Frank said.
“What?”
“I think we’re going to have to turn this one over to Manny.”
“Manny’s ‘base,’ Frank. You said so yourself. Nothing but a jailhouse lawyer. Self-important, a know-it-all.”
“He’s the only game in town, Maxine,” Frank said, sighing, resigned.
So that night while Dorothy was going back and forth from the dining room to the kitchen, they put it to Manny and Rosie that they thought Mrs. Bliss ought to be seeing someone with whom she might talk out her problems. Was that possible? Did either of them know of such a person? Someone reliable? He or she didn’t have to be a psychiatrist necessarily, they could be a psychologist, or even a counselor, but someone reliable. Was that possible?
“What, are you kidding me?” Manny wanted to know. “Half the people down here are nutty as fruitcakes. Rosie, am I right or am I right?”
“More like three-fifths,” said his wife.
So that’s how they left it. With Mr. Buttinsky, the eminent shyster, Manny from the building. Charging him not only with the duty of securing a reliable therapist for Mrs. Ted Bliss but with the responsibility of actually getting Dorothy to agree to see one. The children would help out of course, though all four—the Tresslers (Manny and Rosie), Frank and Maxine—agreed it would be unwise to spring their campaign on Mrs. Bliss the very night before her kids were scheduled to go back North. They had time yet. Their window of opportunity wouldn’t slam shut for a while. Tonight should be given over to the feast Mrs. Bliss had been preparing since just after her morning shower. Mrs. Bliss passed out hors d’oeuvres—herring with sour cream on Ritz crackers, chopped chicken liver on little rounds of rye, pupiks of fowl, egg-and-olive salad—and, though Dorothy didn’t drink, cocktails—Scotch and Diet Coke, bourbon and ginger ale.
Then they sat down to a heavy meal.
And then, dealer’s choice, they played cards—gin, poker, Michigan rummy. Dorothy, no matter the game, offering up the same comment over and over: “You call this a hand? This isn’t a hand, it’s a foot!”
It wasn’t until after midnight that the game broke up and Dorothy’s guests left.
“Ma,” said Maxine, forgetting she’d be gone the next day, “what are you doing? Leave it, we’ll do it in the morning.”
“Darling,” her mother said, “go to bed, you look exhausted. It’ll take me two minutes.”
“You’ve been working all day.”
“So what else have I got to do?”
Maxine and Frank fell in after their mother, clearing the dining room table of cups and saucers, emptying Manny’s ashtrays, picking up the jelly glasses, the liquor in most of them untasted, adulterate in the melted ice and soda pop. Frank sat down with the poker chips, sorting them according to their values and depositing the bright, primary colors into their caddy like coins into slots. Afterward, he scooped up the cards and tamped them into smooth decks.
Mrs. Ted Bliss scraped food from plates, then rinsed the dishes and cutlery and scrubbed down her pots and pans before placing everything in the dishwasher.
Maxine and Frank sat at their mother’s kitchen table, watching her through half-shut eyes.
“You know,” she was saying, “neither of them are big eaters, but I think Manny loved the soup. It wasn’t too salty, was it?”
“Of course not, Ma, it was delicious.”
“It wasn’t too salty?”
“It was perfect,” Frank said.
“Because nowadays, with their hearts, people are very finicky about the salt they take into their systems. You ask me, soup without salt tastes like pishechts.”
“Pishechts is salty,” Frank said.
“All in all,” Mrs. Bliss said, “I think it went very well. I think everyone had a good time. I know speaking for myself, having you here, I don’t think I’ve been so happy since your father was alive.”
She looked as if she were about to cry.
They needn’t have worried. Not two days later, Manny reported she hadn’t needed much convincing after all. It was no big deal. He’d not only arranged an appointment for her, she’d already had her first meeting with the therapist, someone, he said, with whom she was evidently very pleased.
“You know what she told me?” Manny said. “She said, ‘Manny, I think I made a very good impression.’ ”
“Oh,” said Maxine, “her therapist’s a man.”
Mrs. Ted Bliss was not without sympathy for the women’s movement. Indeed, if you’d asked, she’d probably have said she was many times more comfortable in the presence of women than in the presence of men. She had an instinctive sympathy with women and, though she’d never have admitted it, she secretly preferred her sisters to her brothers, her aunts to her uncles, her daughter to her son. (Marvin, her dead son, she loved in the abstract above all of them, though that was probably because of the wide swath of grief and loss his death had caused, all the trouble and rough, unfinished business his passing had left in its wake—his fatherless child; Ellen, her hysteric, fierce, New-Age daughter-in-law in whom Marvin’s death had loosed queer forces and a hatred of doctors so profound that when her children were young and ill,
she so deprived them of medical attention that they might as well have been sick in an age not only before science but prior to the application of any remedial intervention—forest herbs and leaves and roots and barks and grasses, sacrifices, prayers and spells, and left them to cope with their diseases and fevers and pains by throwing themselves onto the mercy of their own helpless bodies.) Ted was merely an exception. And if she had loved her husband almost beyond reason it had more to do with reciprocity than with romance. Quite simply, he had saved her, had given the unschooled young woman with her immigrant’s fudged age a reason to leave Mrs. Dubow. It was as if his proposal and Dorothy’s acceptance had suddenly lifted the shy young salesgirl’s mysterious indenture and released her from the terror of her ten-year bondage. Terror not only of her employer but, even after a decade, of the customers’ shining, perfumed, and profound nudity, rich, lush, and overwhelming in the small, oppressive dressing closets, fearful of all their lavish, fecund, human ripeness, steamy and vegetal as a tropical rain forest. Dorothy was still more lady’s maid and dresser than clerk, and had become a kind of confidante to women who wouldn’t even talk to her, beyond their few curt instructions—“Button this, hold that”—let alone solicit opinions from her or offer up secrets; privy to their measurements, to the ways they examined their reflections, studying blemishes or lifting their necks and turning their heads back over their shoulders to catch glimpses of their behinds in the wide glass triptych of mirrors. These confidences struck like deals between the ladies and the bewildered, untutored maid, done and done, and signed and sealed by the unschooled young girl barely literate in English but who could by now read numbers well enough on the nickels, dimes, quarters, and fifty-cent pieces slipped to her by women, the secret of whose fragile disappointments in their female bodies she not only well enough understood but by accepting their coins was positively sworn to protect. Terrified, or, at the least, made terribly aware and uncomfortable by the awful burden of what she perceived to be a sort of collective letdown and discouragement in their even, enhanced appearance in their new gowns and dresses.
Which may actually have been at the core and source of her sympathies with her gender. It was men these women dressed for. (“I hope this blue isn’t too blue, I’ll die if it clashes with my husband’s brown suit.”) Dorothy had not, beyond the universe of her own family, known all that many men, but even in her family had noticed the tendency of the women to leave the choicest cuts, ripest fruits, even the favorite, most popular flavors of candy sourballs—the reds and purples, the greens and the oranges—for the men. The most comfortable chairs around the dining room table. The coldest water, the hottest soup, the last piece of cake. Her smallest little girl cousins cheerfully shared with their smallest little boy cousins, voluntarily gave up their turns in line. They worked combs through the boys’ hair gently; they scratched their backs.
She was not resentful. Her sympathies were with her sex because that was the way she felt, too.
Indeed, if she resented anyone, it was her employer, Mrs. Dubow, she resented. A resentment that was something beyond and even greater than her fear of the terrifying woman who not only chased her through the confines of a dressmaker’s shop no larger than an ordinary shoe store, clacking her scissors and flicking a yellow measuring tape at her, but shouting at her, too, her mouth full of pins, and calling her names so vile she could only guess at their meaning and be more embarrassed than hurt. Because now she remembered just what it was Mrs. Dubow was supposed to have done to become the first wife in the history of Illinois ever required to pay alimony to the husband. She’d thrown acid in his face! Thrown acid at him, defiling him forever where the tenderest meat went, the sweetest fruits and most delicious candies.
Mrs. Ted Bliss shuddered.
Because there was a trade-off. A covenant almost. Women honored the men who put food on the table, who provided the table on which the food was put, and the men saved them. That was the trade-off. Men saved them. They took them out of awful places like Mrs. Dubow’s and put food on the table and kept all the books. Women owed it to them to be good-looking, they owed it to them that the shade of their dresses did not clash with the shade of their suits, to hold their shapes and do their level best to keep up their reflections in mirrors. It wasn’t vanity, it was duty. And it was what explained her calm when neighbors had marveled at her beauty, her almost invisible aging, the two or three baths she took each day. You needn’t have looked farther when people had complimented her than at the benign smile on Ted’s face (even in that last, malignant year) to see that she had kept up her end of the contract, had proved herself worthy of being saved.
So of course Mrs. Ted Bliss, having been saved once before by a man, and who saw no reason to fiddle with what worked, chose to see a man to save her this time, too, when her children thought she was going crazy.
Her therapist, Holmer Toibb, was not Jewish, and did not live in the Towers. He’d been recommended by Manny’s physician, who thought the lawyer had used the story of a depressed “friend” as a cover for his own bluff despondency. Manny, at sixty-eight, was at a difficult age. A few years into his retirement and the bloom off his freedom, the doctor thought Manny a perfect candidate for the sort of recreational therapeusis in which Toibb specialized, offering options to patients to open up ways that, in the early stages of their declining years, might lead them toward fresh interests in life. Himself in his sixties, Toibb had studied with Greener Hertsheim, practically the founder of recreational therapeusis, after twenty-or-so years still a relatively new branch of psychology whose practitioners eschewed the use of drugs and had no use for tie-ins with psychiatrists. Like a page out of the fifties when doctors of osteopathy faced off with chiropractors and spokesmen for the AMA on all-night radio talk shows, RT, in southern Florida at least, had become a sort of eighties substitute for all the old medical conspiracy theories. Mrs. Bliss, apolitical and passive almost to a fault, couldn’t get enough of controversial call-in shows. She had no position on the Warren Commission findings, didn’t know if she was for or against detente, supply-side economics, any of the hot-button issues of the times, including even the battle between traditional psychiatry and the recreational therapists, yet she ate up polemics, dissent, her radio turned up practically to full volume—she was deaf, yet even at full throttle their voices on the radio came to her as moderate, disciplined, but she was aware of their anger and edge and imagined them shouting—somehow comforted by all that fury, the baleboosteh busyness and passion in their speech. It was how, distracted from thoughts of Ted in the mutual family earth back in, and just under, Chicago, she managed to drift off to sleep.
So she was totally prepared when Toibb undertook to explain the principles of recreational therapeusis to her, and what he proposed (should he accept her as his patient) to do. Indeed, she rather enjoyed having it all explained to her, rather as if, thought Mrs. Bliss, Toibb was a salesman going over the good points in his wares. Faintly, although she was familiar with most of it from the call-in shows, she had the impression, always enjoyable to her, that he was fleshing out the full picture, a fact that (should he accept her as a patient or not) she liked to believe gave her the upper hand.
“I don’t want to leave you with a false impression,” Holmer Toibb said.
“No,” Dorothy said.
“You’d have to undergo an evaluation.”
“Of course.”
“A medical evaluation.”
“You’re the doctor,” Dorothy said.
“I’m not a doctor,” Holmer Toibb said. “I’m not even a Ph.D. You have to see a physician, someone to do a work-up on you before I’d consent to treat you.”
“Specimens? Needles?”
“Well,” Toibb said, “whatever it takes to give you a clean bill of health.”
Mrs. Bliss looked concerned.
“What?” Toibb said.
“Nothing,” said Mrs. Ted Bliss, “it’s just. You know something, Doctor?”
“I�
�m not a doctor.”
“What do I call you you’re not a doctor?”
“Holmer. My first name is Holmer.”
“I can’t call you your first name. I won’t call you anything.”
“Suits me,” said Holmer Toibb. “So what were you going to tell me?”
“Oh,” said Dorothy, “Ted, my husband, may he rest, took care of all of the paperwork. Medicare, supplemental, Blue Cross, Blue Shield—all the forms. The year he lost his life even. You know something, I haven’t seen a doctor since. Isn’t that crazy? It ain’t just the forms. I can’t look at them.”
“Here,” Toibb said, “use these. Please don’t cry, Mrs. Bliss.”
She was crying because, in a way, it was the last straw. What was she, stupid? Frank and Maxine had shpilkes to get home, out of Florida, away from her. To ease their consciences they dumped her with Manny from the building. Speaking personally, she liked him. Manny was a nice man. Generous, a lovely neighbor. She needed him and he always tried to be there for her as they said nowadays, but you know what? He was a clown, Manny. He was putting on a show. Perhaps for Mrs. Bliss, or other people in the building, maybe even for God. But a show was a show and anyway every time Manny did something nice for her, every single time, Dorothy felt like someone too poor to buy her own being offered a Thanksgiving turkey. So of course, overwhelmed as she was by the prospect of paperwork, official forms for the government, and the supplemental insurance gonifs, of course she was crying.
“Mrs. Bliss,” Holmer Toibb said.
“I’m not Mrs. Bliss.”
“You’re not?”
“You’re not a doctor, my husband is dead, I’m not a Mrs.”
“Please,” he said, “please Mrs. Bliss, all right, I’ll see you. If you want me to see you I’ll see you.”
That was their first appointment.
“Just out of curiosity, Doctor,” she said, and this time he didn’t correct her, “just out of curiosity, I don’t look healthy?”
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