“I didn’t know you believed in heaven,” I said. “How do you know you’ll go there, anyway?”
“As I get closer,” said Dr. Frechtvogel, “I believe it more. It is pleasant to think about. A quiet place, some splashing water, just like in the Heinrich Heine poem. A nice girl like you to bring lunch and some decent cigars. But I would also find eternal nothingness very agreeable.”
“I need you,” I said.
“And for what?”
“I need you to be in my life,” I said. “You know things I don’t know. Where I come from, everyone is the same. We grew up, the same. Nothing terrible ever happened. We’re the treacherous innocent Americans you rail about all the time.”
Dr. Frechtvogel patted my hand. “You have Leo,” he said. “Although he is like a library book and must be returned, yes?”
“Yes,” I said. “But it isn’t the same.”
“You will learn, my dear child, when you get older, that it is all the same,” said Dr. Frechtvogel. “Or very near.”
60
One morning I was taken aside in front of the school by Paulette Goldberg, the former Pixie Lehar.
“Oh, hey,” she said. “I hope you don’t mind, but I put your name in to the board as entertainment for the school fair.”
I stared at her.
“It’s traditional to have parents perform. Remember last year? We had Janice Bracken, who plays the fiddle. She’s done it for years but her daughter is graduating, so I thought you would be perfect.”
I continued to stare.
“They were thrilled and amazed,” she continued. “I mean, when I said you had backed up Ruby. Nobody knew that about you. They were just overwhelmed. They want to advertise and everything.”
“It’s totally out of the question,” I said.
“Oh, come on,” Paulette said. “It’s for the school. No one’s asking you to take your clothes off. Think about it.”
I thought about it. “No,” I said.
“You could get Doo-Wah to back you up. He’d do it for you, right? There’s a couple of musicians in the school. You could do ‘You Don’t Love Me Like You Used to Do,’” she said. “Or ‘Hi-Heel Sneakers.’”
“That isn’t really one of Ruby’s songs,” I said.
“She did it once at the Newark Armory. I saw her, and you were backup,” Paulette said.
“It’s totally out of the question,” I said.
“I don’t get it,” Paulette said. “I mean, are you ashamed or something?”
“Why don’t you do it?” I said.
“Because I was a dud,” Paulette said. “It wasn’t just drugs why Vernon fired me. I was really pretty terrible. He did some deal with Big Thing, or maybe it was Little Ed, I don’t remember, and he like owed them. That’s how I got hired in the first place, and then Vernon realized that I was a lousy singer and a terrible dancer, and in addition to which Spider used to come around with his neat brown heroin and that was Vernon’s excuse. But you were sensational. You had it all right. I heard Vernon say that you were the best he had ever seen, so think about it, okay?”
I had plenty of time to think. That weekend we were going to Johnny’s parents in the country. Each year they gave their enormous presummer party to which the entire community was invited. My parents would be there, and I was pressed into service. The lake would be open for swimming. Family photographs would be taken. I would be introduced and reintroduced to a large number of people and their accomplished offspring, who sat on plaid blankets on the beach with an air of perfect security—the product of peace and prosperity, good schools, balanced diet, high-tech dental care, up-to-the-minute immunizations, continental travel, and enough money to foster excellent sleeping habits.
As I packed for the country I told Johnny that Pixie Lehar had nominated me as entertainment for the school fair.
“Great!” Johnny said. “I think that’s wonderful. You never sang enough with Ruby. I remember the first time I heard you. It was in Portland, or someplace like that. You sang the beginning of ‘Love Makes Me Feel So Bad.’ It was thrilling.”
“It’s out of the question,” I said. “They want to advertise it.”
My husband sat on the bed wearing his lawyer’s trousers and a ruined T-shirt with a faded picture of Little Richard on it. On the back it said THE QUASAR OF ROCK. He was barefoot, and the Wall Street Journal was spread in front of him. His duffel bag was neatly packed: he was an organized fellow, my Johnny.
“So what if they advertise?” Johnny said. “It’ll make a lot of money for the school.”
“Listen,” I said. “I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to be identified as something I can’t do anymore. It only reinforces my feeling that I’m a used-to-be.”
“You can still do it,” Johnny said. “You can’t be a backup, but you can be a front-up.”
“You don’t want me to let this go,” I said. “You need me to keep this thing going so you can feel that the real world of adults and lawyers hasn’t sealed you up. If I stop being an ex-Shakette, the last shred of your old true self is gone.”
Johnny was silent. He knew this was perfectly true.
“Okay,” he said. “So maybe I do need you to be an ex-Shakette. What’s so horrible about that? What’s so horrible about the fact that you need me to be an adult and a straight-bag so you can be marginal? If you weren’t married to me you would be living in some furnished room someplace, working at some marginal job.”
Now I was silent. That was quite true, too.
“It’s pretty depressing,” I said.
“No, it isn’t,” said my always optimistic husband. “The past is undeniable. You were a Shakette. You were a terrific singer. You were a great dancer. Wouldn’t you like Little Franklin to see you perform?”
“Sure,” I said. “And then I’ll take him down to court and he can watch you argue a case.”
“Listen, honey. It’s the same thing. I have to wail and boogie too. That’s what arguments in court are all about.”
We discussed it the next morning at breakfast.
“It’s out of the question,” I said again.
“What’s out in the question, Mommy? What is it? What did Daddy mean?” said Little Franklin.
“We were just having a family discussion,” I said.
“I want to have a family discuss too!” said Franklin.
“Please eat your breakfast,” I said, “and then I have to pack your clothes for the country.”
“Can I take my bathing suit?” said Franklin. “I want my bathing suit. Can I take it with me, Mommy?”
“You can take it, but it may not be warm enough for swimming,” I said.
“I want it to be warm. Okay, Mommy?”
He said this several thousand more times while I packed his bag, made the bed and put away the dishes.
As we walked to school he said, “Can I swim without my swimming wings, Mom? Can I go out to the float? Can I run on the dock? Will Evelyn be the lifeguard? Will Jessie give me swimming lessons? Can I go frogging? Can I go swimming all day long? Can I swim in the big people’s part? Look, Mommy! There’s Amos.”
Ann and Amos came up alongside us.
“I’m losing my mind,” I said.
“And I, mine,” Ann said. “I’ve lost my verbs, a bad sign.”
“They think I should perform at the school fair,” I said.
“Hey, far out,” said Ann. “Theme night! I’ll wear my tie-dyed dress.”
“Johnny wants me to.”
“I want you to,” Ann said.
“I can’t stand up in front of all those people,” I said.
“You used to stand up in front of thousands of people,” said Ann.
“But these people are people I know,” I said.
“So what?”
“So I’m Little Franklin’s mother,” I said. “I can’t just throw on my dance dress and be someone else.”
“You won’t be,” said Ann. “I mean, they’re both the same pers
on aren’t they? Besides, you’re not going to let a little thing like being Franklin’s mother stand in your way, are you?”
61
As we pulled into the long driveway of Johnny’s parents’ house, a striped caterer’s truck pulled up in back of us and out hopped two sleek young men dressed all in white carrying dozens of large white paper boxes. Johnny dropped his duffel bag to help bring them in; I was left with Franklin’s bag, my bag and the duffel, and a child who had been transformed from a zippy, bouncing person to a dreamy infant crawling along the ground.
“Franklin, what are you doing?” I said.
“I’m looking for worms,” said my boy. “I am a worm. I’m a worm today, Mommy. Daddy said there would be lots of worms and I could take them home in a jar. Okay?”
The Millers’ summer house was a low, Japanese-looking sprawl set beautifully along a winding forest road in a clearing in the sun. In the front of it was Dolly’s cutting garden, and in the back was Herbert’s attempt at shrubbery, each winter eaten down to little stubs by white-tailed deer.
The Millers spent every weekend of their existence in this place, and their annual summer party was a tradition.
It was abnormally hot for May. The sky was gray and heavy. It looked as if it might eventually storm. The gnats and no-see-’ems swirled around my head like a turban. But inside Dolly’s house everything was crisp. There was no surface that did not feel clean to the touch, and there was not a frill or unnecessary object anywhere.
“This party is going to be a steam bath,” Johnny said.
“Well, we’ll encourage everyone to go outside,” Dolly said. “Herbert, get the flambeaux and the mosquito coils. We’ll need them for the bugs.”
In the cellar were enormous candlelike incense sticks that emitted a strong, pleasantly flavored smoke. Dolly uttered a prayer against rain, and went down to the cellar to bring up the carton of citronella candles in little tin buckets.
Down at the beach it was easy to see that by nightfall it would storm. The lavender and gray clouds hung heavily over the water. The beach was a sandy sward cut out of the forest, with a gravel path leading down to it.
It was as hot and as close as August. Dolly, who kept in excellent trim, wore a tank suit under her white ducks and sailor shirt. She brought a big plaid stadium blanket, a basket of fruit and fruit juice, and the morning paper. There was hardly a soul at the beach she did not know, and if some young couple she had never seen before—some new summer renters—appeared, she had them pegged within three days.
This comfortable beach, Dolly’s comfortable house, the abundant good food, the beauty of the landscape, somehow made me feel that there was not quite enough oxygen for me. In the comfortable bedroom, from whose picture window I could see grosbeaks, juncos and chickadees perched on the bird feeder, I longed for my own home.
There was no escape. I longed to fall asleep or take a walk, but this weekend, like many of Dolly’s weekends, was rigorously planned. The day after the party we would have pancakes for breakfast and then go walking to see the Devlins, and then we would have lunch at the beach, followed by a barbecue at the beach club. My one out was Little Franklin, who would, after all, have to go to bed early.
I never got over my intuition that I was not presentable enough for Dolly, and the beach always gave me a quiver of dread. At the height of the season, arrayed on towels, were her friends, their children and numerous, stunning grandchildren. These small children wore T-shirts announcing the schools they went to, all approved of by Dolly, who did not like the idea that her grandchild went to a school so few people had heard of.
Fortunately the beach was almost empty—it was too muggy, too stormy. Three white-haired ladies played cards. Two big boys—at least eight years old—horsed around by the dock. Johnny and Franklin splashed in the water, or Franklin practiced jumping off the dock, crying out “Geronimo!” as his father had taught him.
I heaved myself off the blanket, where Dolly and Herbert sat reading the paper. I put on my cap and goggles.
“I’m going for a swim,” I said.
I stood up to my shoulders in water and closed my eyes. When I looked back at the beach it seemed the whole world had frozen—an optical trick. The next instant the color came back into everything, but in that eerie purplish light everyone seemed drained, like people in a faint.
The water was perfect: not cold, not warm. The lake spread out in front of me.
I swam a slow, easy crawl, out to the float and past the markers. I felt my body move easily through the water. I was a fish, a whale, a creature that belonged in water. There was perfect sympathy between me and the lake. When I looked back, I saw the beach had grown considerably smaller, and when I finally heard shouting, I was halfway across.
It was wonderful and terrible. I had never swum so well, I could not bear to stop. Life gives few moments of such ease—dancing on stage was one, sitting in a rocker with the infant Franklin was another. I was not going to stop. I was going to cause a hitch in this perfectly set-up day. Johnny would have to drive the car around to the other side to get me. I would drip all over the seat, even though Dolly would have remembered to send a towel.
My happiness, for the moment, was boundless. I thought of Mr. Jacobowitz—I pretended he was swimming next to me like a big, friendly seal. I savored the silver taste of lake water in my mouth and swam, arm over arm, to the destination before me.
62
Dr. Frechtvogel died in his sleep on the very morning that his cleaning lady came, which, as Gertje pointed out, was so considerate of him, rather than, for example, dying on the weekend when no one would have found him.
It turned out he had left detailed instructions for his funeral. It was to take place at a small Italian funeral parlor in the Village—his cleaning lady’s husband’s funeral had been held there, and Dr. Frechtvogel had found it congenial. He left his money to Gertje and his books to Bernard. To Buddy he left his gold watch. He had had few personal effects, but he had set something aside for Franklin.
“Geraldine,” Gertje said. “There are a few things I must talk with you about for the funeral. And here is something for Little Franklin that Ludwig wanted him to have.”
She put a heavy package in my hand, wrapped in batting.
“Now, before you open it,” she said. “I must tell you that Ludwig left a letter of instructions for his funeral. No preaching, no service. He wants me to speak, and Bernard, and a few old friends. He wants no music except you to sing.”
“Me to sing?” I said.
“Yes,” she said. “He wants you to sing ‘The Tennessee Waltz.’ Do you know this song?”
I nodded my head.
“Well, will you sing it? I will introduce you and say it was Ludwig’s last wish, so you will not feel strange to sing a popular song at a funeral.”
There was no way out of this, I knew. “It’s too corny,” I said.
“Well, Ludwig was an old cornball, I believe is the expression,” said Gertje.
“Why did he want this?” I said.
“Well, he loved you and you are a singer,” Gertje said. “He often said it was the only American song he knew.” She gave me a hard look. “I think this singing business is hard on you,” she said. “Here, open Little Franklin’s package.”
Inside the batting was a silver elephant that had been Dr. Frechtvogel’s as a child. I looked away, but Gertje put her arms around me.
“Come, come, Geraldine,” said Gertje. “He knew you loved him so.”
“I didn’t get to know him long enough. I wanted to know him forever.”
“You do know him forever,” Gertje said. “He is in your memory. Come, call the florist. Ludwig would have hated flowers, but his ladies will expect them.”
The little funeral parlor was like a bower. Dr. Frechtvogel’s ladies had sent flowers by the tubs. They came in bunches themselves, looking like flowers. Hannah Hausknecht wore a peacock blue linen suit and wiped her eyes with a big lace handkerchief.
Mrs. Gusta Klein and Mrs. Eva Klein walked in together, and behind them came Mrs. Charlotte Klein, who had married the American captain who liberated her from Buchenwald. Dr. Frechtvogel had told me that she emerged from her barracks, half dead of typhus, a walking skeleton, and said to Captain Klein, “Thank you for rescuing us. We are not so glamorous as we once were.”
There was Mrs. Weinberg, who had watched all the windows of her father’s department store smashed on Kristallnacht, and old Mrs. Yvanski, whose entire family had perished. The lady in purple turned out to be the waitress from the coffee shop where Dr. Frechtvogel had his morning oatmeal, and there were dozens more: people who had worked for the original Hansonia Society, old men who had come to Dr. Frechtvogel for legal advice.
Buddy, splendid in an English suit, expensive shoes and a silk scarf around his neck, performed the function of usher.
Once they were seated, everyone peered around. No one had ever been in a room like this before.
The walls were covered with silver paper flocked with fuzzy red fleurs-de-lis. In several large niches were statues of the Virgin Mary and the Infant of Prague. On either side of a small altar stood two urns containing sprays of electric roses: in the center of each rose was a tiny light bulb. In a corner candles flickered in red glasses. The room smelled of incense and candle wax.
Because I was to sing, I sat down in the front, but, turning just a little, I could see Leo with his mother and his aunt, who wore a picture hat.
When everyone was settled, Gertje stood up. She was wearing a black suit I had never seen before and carried a large, flower-printed handkerchief.
“It was Ludwig’s wish to have a memorial service in this place,” she began. “He had been to a funeral here and he liked it very much. Ludwig felt it was the ideal place for him. His mother was a Jew, and his father was a Catholic. All of us who knew Ludwig know how distrustful he was of religion of any kind, but he made an exception for this little funeral place. He said to me, ‘When I die, let them come to this place and sit together, and let whoever wants to speak, speak. Then feed them some cakes and tell them to go home.’”
Goodbye Without Leaving Page 21