Ask Again Later

by Jill A. Davis

  Wendy eyes me suspiciously. Hopefully.

  “It was obvious,” I say.

  “Was it?” Wendy asks. Tears roll down her cheeks.

  “Yes,” I say, hugging her.

  Perry walks toward me. He hugs me, and the hug feels like it arrived just in time. Like it is the only thing keeping me standing on two feet.

  “The bartender is serving mud slides. Is there any chance they confused this with a bachelorette party?” Perry asks.

  “Thanks for coming,” I say.

  “Well, if it’s a bachelorette party, there’s the guy I want to see in the G-string,” Perry says.

  I look in the general direction of his lust. It’s Sam.

  I pegged Sam wrong. I thought he was the sort of person who would require an invitation to a funeral. He certainly wouldn’t show up without knowing he was welcome. Except that he did.

  “Sam,” I say, quietly to myself.

  His being there is more important to me than I would have imagined. And that makes me cry again.

  When I see Sam there, in our living room, I don’t go over to say “hello.” Saying “hello” might be the permission he needs to leave. His appearance will have served its purpose.

  Mostly I remember the whole event seeming like some sort of advertisement for meatballs. You manage not to see ball-shaped food for a good portion of your life, then suddenly you’re surrounded by it. There are Swedish meatballs, turkey spheres, crab balls, and for the oft-ignored vegetarian funeralgoer, orb-shaped food made of cheese and also saffron risotto.

  Nana is seated at a table near the front door. When people walk by her, she asks if they’ve signed the guest book. There is a line for a signature, and a line for a comment or greeting. No one can muster a greeting. So instead we have a record of attendance.

  I go to my mother’s bedroom to find Nana’s coat. As she slips it on, I notice she smells like mothballs. We’ll all be old someday.

  “My fur has that awful mothball smell, doesn’t it?” Nana asks.

  “Oh, thank God it’s your coat,” I say.

  “Excuse me?” Nana says.

  “I’m sorry,” I say. I never will get the knack of grieving gracefully.

  I sit down on the bed. I decide to take a nap, right there on top of a soft sea of coats belonging to my parents’ friends and acquaintances for the past thirty years. I’m not sure how long I’m out before I am awakened.

  “There you are,” Sam says. “Too many meatballs?”

  “Too many people,” I say, sitting up.

  “Don’t move,” Sam says.

  He turns out the one dimmed light in the room. He lies down next to me. And kisses my forehead. It’s not enough. I kiss his lips, his neck. I pull him to me, on top of me.

  “I’ve missed you,” I say.

  “I can tell,” Sam says. “I’ve missed you, too.”

  My Father

  I CLEANED OUT his stuff. I did his closets, because when Wendy tried, she broke down. She did the fridge, the kitchen cabinets, the impersonal stuff.

  It’s not clear if she’s crying because she’s being flooded with regret over what could have been, or if she’s so moved to be included in the decision making and chores usually left to a wife. Either way, my sister Marjorie would not help me, so I called Wendy because I knew she’d be careful with his belongings. Maybe a little too careful. She treats every dish as if it were a piece of pre-revolutionary porcelain.

  His closet is an archaeological find. In the back of the long closet were the suits he hadn’t worn in years, the earliest layer of history. There is a tennis sweater that might have even been from his college days. I have a vague recollection of it. But it’s vague enough not to be true. He is a paper doll, and I’ve dressed him in my head, in each suit in this closet. Fact: His waist grew from size 36 to 38 to 40, and then down to 36 again. His heart wanted more than that, apparently.

  There is a wooden tray covered in felt. Cuff links sit there tarnishing, not knowing he’s dead.

  When you don’t know what you’re searching for, it’s hard to know you’ve found it. There’s no eureka moment. It’s hard to determine what was important among the wallpaper of gray suits.

  In the back of his closet, in a plain cardboard box, I discover the strata that I must have been looking for. My secret goal. Not Jurassic, but early Emily. There is a yellowed tissue paper–covered bundle, inside which is a ceramic Santa Claus mug. The kind that has Santa’s whole face on it. His beard is chipped, and on the brim of Santa’s hat in gold paint it says “Emily.” There is one belonging to Marjorie, too.

  We used to leave the mug out for Santa Claus on Christmas Eve, with a plate of cookies, and he’d dutifully drink the milk, and eat the cookies, and leave a massive pile of gifts as thanks for the snack. I always felt I was getting the better end of the deal.

  There are paper chains made of faded construction paper. There is still some glitter stuck to the paper chains, but most of it has fallen off. There were other homemade wooden ornaments, hand-painted, that I vaguely remembered.

  At the bottom of this treasure trove is a shoe box. Inside were some black-and-white photos of my father. Some from high school. Some from the air force. There was a photo of my mother in Central Park holding Marjorie while pregnant with me. Another one of me sitting next to Marjorie. I look like I’m about two.

  I think you can measure a family’s happiness by how many photos they take. They want to capture the feeling on film, because they are buoyant enough to believe capturing happiness is possible.

  All of the evidence of his marriage was neatly stored in one brown box. He was working as hard on forgetting as I was. We were very much alike.

  Marking Time

  IT’S HARD NOT to see things as beginnings and endings. When someone dies, you want to mark time before or after…but time is time. It’s a continuous motion, and we divide it into increments to pretend to have some control over it. To make it neat and manageable.

  My mother has been reminiscing.

  “The first time I held his hand, it fit,” Mom says.

  My mother has told me this before. But I always assumed this was my mother’s delicate euphemism for sex. Now I’m pretty sure she’s actually been talking about handholding the entire time.

  “It didn’t just fit, it fit perfectly. Your father was a fascinating man. No one could forget him,” Mom says.

  “You really loved him at some point, didn’t you?” I ask.

  “You don’t live with someone for ten years and have children and manage to not be in love. It’s not possible,” Mom says.

  “That’s what I figured,” I say.

  “I want to talk to you about something,” Mom says.

  “What?” I say.

  The familiar sinking sensation comes over me. Don’t let the cancer be back. Is this how I’m going to feel forever? Every time she tells me she needs to talk to me?

  “A few months ago we were talking and you said you couldn’t remember when your father lived with us,” Mom says.

  “Yeah?” I say.

  “There’s something you should know,” Mom says. “I left your father.”

  “You mean you kicked him out?” I say.

  “No. We had an argument, and I left. I was gone for four weeks. I left you here,” Mom says.

  “Why did you leave?” I ask.

  “There was no reason good enough, Emily. I left because I’d had it with your father…and his friends. Girlfriends. I was tired of wondering where he was. Maybe I wanted him to wonder where I was for a change. It was childish,” Mom says.

  “Oh. But you left…me?” I ask. “Not both of us? Not me and Marjorie?”

  My mother sits and stares for a while.

  “No. Not Marjorie. You adored him. I thought you’d miss him more than you’d miss me,” Mom says.

  “Did you also think his extracurricular activities would be hindered by having a five-year-old to care for?” I say.

  “Some part of
me must have,” Mom says.

  I hate her for answering that question honestly, and I respect her for answering that question.

  “Where did you and Marjorie go?” I ask.

  “To my mother’s house,” Mom says.

  “That’s why you and Nana stopped speaking?” I say.

  “She’s never been able to forgive me for leaving you,” Mom says. “The truth is if it wasn’t that, it would have been something else. Oil and water don’t mix.”

  “Neither do insanity and child rearing,” I say. “Did I really prefer him that much?”

  “Yes, you and he were a lot alike,” Mom says. “I mean his good qualities, Emily. He could be very empathetic. But he was frightened of being close to people. That’s what led to all of those women. It’s not something either one of us was prepared to work on.”

  Affairs

  IT WASN’T ONE WOMAN. It wasn’t something in the moment that I can romanticize away as one true love; it was many women. She knew. My mother knew about the other women. He knew she knew, yet could never bring himself to tell her the truth. And she didn’t hate him, so I started to hate him for her. I did what she refused to do.

  But nothing is ever what it seems to be, because you can never see the back while you’re looking at the front, or the top while you’re looking at the bottom. One side, that’s mostly what you get. Especially if you’re living with one of the sides, and that side is the one who is making you dinner, and checking your homework, and doing the job of two people.

  Date Book

  THERE WAS A DATE BOOK that he’d kept. The old-fashioned kind, the kind you write in with a pencil. He had a dentist appointment booked three weeks after his death. As a courtesy—okay, out of curiosity I went to the appointment.

  “Hi, my father was Jim Rhode,” I say. “He died a few weeks ago. So I thought maybe I’d take his appointment.”

  “Oh,” the receptionist says. “Well, you’ll need to fill out a new patient form.”

  She hands me a clipboard. I fill out the paperwork. I’m escorted into Dr. Johnson’s work area. A few minutes later she appears.

  Dr. Johnson is the prettiest dentist I’ve ever seen. She’s wearing a black skirt, and she’s tall. She has horn-rimmed glasses, and a white dentist-type jacket. Black pumps.

  “I’m so sorry, Michele told me Jim died. He seemed so…full of life,” Dr. Johnson says.

  Oh my God, my father slept with his dentist, too. He must have. There’s no way he wouldn’t have at least tried.

  “Yes. Well, it was very sudden,” I say. “Anyway, I had my teeth cleaned about two months ago, but I’ll go again. You can never make them too clean. Although some people are going a little nuts making them too white. Have you noticed how people’s teeth actually glow now? It’s disturbing.”

  I sit in the big chair. Dr. Johnson puts the enormous paper bib on me. She moves the chair into the reclining position.

  “Open,” Dr. Johnson says.

  She peers inside my mouth and pokes around with some stainless steel tools.

  “Your father had quick buildup of plaque, too,” Dr. Johnson says.

  “Really?” I say.

  Another gem I’d never known about him. It makes me miss him. Tears form in my eyes.

  “How long did you know him?” I ask.

  “He was a handoff from Dr. Kramer, so I’d say I’ve known your father nine or ten years.”

  “What was he like?”

  “He refused X-rays, and avoided us as much as he could,” Dr. Johnson says.

  “Hmm,” I say. “Don’t most people avoid X-rays and dentists?”

  “Yes, I guess it’s pretty universal,” Dr. Johnson says. “Oh, and he did take antibiotics before cleanings because he had a heart murmur. That was pretty much it.”

  I pay the receptionist. She hands me some forms to submit to my insurance company. I’m not even sure I have dental insurance anymore. Dr. Johnson walks into the reception area. She watches me put my jacket on.

  “I’m very sorry about your father,” Dr. Johnson says.

  “Thank you,” I say. “Can I ask you something kind of personal?”

  “Okay, but I may not answer the question,” Dr. Johnson says.

  “Did he ever ask you out?” I say.

  “We had a few dates,” Dr. Johnson says.

  I knew it!

  “Did he seem happy?” I ask. “Not on the dates, just in general? Did he seem happy to you?”

  “He seemed satisfied,” Dr. Johnson says.

  Almost Home

  I STOP AND BUY a succulent plant. Don’t know why exactly, it seems like a manly plant. I had choices. Green grass in a wooden crate. An orchid. Or this succulent plant. Anything but funeral flowers.

  The doorman looks at me without a hint of recognition. Why should there be? We didn’t spend much time at Sam’s. We didn’t spend much time at all. We were planning to. Still, if he’d looked at me with any familiarity, I could have relaxed. I could have felt almost home.

  “I’m here to see Sam in 12A,” I say.

  “Name?” the doorman asks.

  “Emily,” I say.

  He speaks into a phone. Nods his head. “Go on up,” the doorman says.

  “Oh, I don’t want to go up, I wanted to go for a walk,” I say.

  “Oh. Well, you have to take the plant up, right?” the doorman says.

  “Right,” I say. The plant was the excuse to get through his front door. My shopping subconscious knew this. The doorman knew this. Yet, I am gleefully oblivious—without actually being gleeful.

  Sam opens the door. He’s wearing jeans and an old button-down.

  “Hey,” Sam says.

  I hand him the plant, as if it explains everything.

  “What’s this?” Sam says.

  “A plant,” I say.

  “Yes, I see. For what?” Sam says.

  “For you,” I say.

  “Why?” Sam says.

  “I don’t know. Because it’s easier than just asking if I can come in,” I say. “Can’t you just take the plant and stop asking the questions?”

  “Okay,” Sam says.

  “Should we go for a walk?” I ask.

  “You just got here. Why are we running out the door?” Sam says. “Would you like something?”

  “Sure, the ability to be comforted by another human being without living in terror would be nice. Or, if you have water, I’d take that, too,” I say.

  “I’m not sure I should make this easy for you,” Sam says.

  Science

  WE ARE LYING IN BED.

  “Run while you still can,” I say.

  “What now?” Sam says.

  “Sometimes—I practice being blind,” I say.

  “That’s normal,” Sam assures me. “Everyone does that. Just don’t do it while you’re driving.”

  “Does everyone know it takes twenty-one steps to get from my apartment door to my elevator? Fifty-two steps from lobby to curb? That to correctly push the button for the twenty-third floor, one can measure two hand lengths, plus the tip of my pinky, just to the first knuckle? Sometimes I panic because I realize I haven’t measured every scenario I will encounter.”

  “So you’ll need some help,” Sam says, “if you ever do go blind.”

  “Yes,” I say. “That’s what makes me panic.”

  “That would make anyone panic,” Sam says. “Even if she were prepared.”

  “That’s one of my favorite things about you,” I say.

  “What?” Sam says.

  “The way you entertain my hypotheticals…but not too much,” I say.

  When he falls asleep, I perform experiments on him. Nothing too invasive. No amateur angioplasty. I try to avoid actions that will get me apprehended.

  He breathes heavily, until his breathing becomes snoring…I lightly, barely even touching him, put one finger on his arm. He stops snoring. His breathing slows. I wait a minute. I remove my finger. Slowly, his breathing turns into snoring
again. I do this over and over again, each time touching him for a different length of time. Each time, my touching stops his snoring—it calms him down—even though he’s not conscious of being touched. That kind of trickery would never work on me.

  I actually have started to cry several times, sitting cross-legged next to him as he sleeps. I’ve started to cry thinking about his death. It’s disturbing for all sorts of reasons: mainly, because he’s perfectly healthy albeit an impressive snorer. I remind myself that Sam has never left me. I left Sam.

  I review the data. I touch his arm lightly, his snoring stops. I lift my hand from his skin, and he snores again. In repeated trials I get the same result. The study reveals that he is consistent, and that I am troubled.

  He Whose Name Cannot Be Spoken

  I’M IN PERRY’S KITCHEN talking about Christmas shopping. I recognize it’s a real breakthrough that I am looking forward to celebrating Christmas again. That because of Sam this holiday will be an unspoiled one. At the same time, this realization is at odds with my sudden urge to run out on Perry.

  “I’m swimming in debt,” he’s saying hysterically. “It’s not even my debt. He used my credit cards. He paid half of our mortgage. I’m stuck with all of this. On top of that, he’s been dead for seventeen months, and I’m still paying off his hospital bills.”

  “Cancer isn’t cheap,” I say.

  “Roger didn’t have cancer,” Perry snaps. “He had HIV. It’s just such a cliché. I hate it. And I hate it that I’m embarrassed by how he died. Why couldn’t he have died of a heart attack like your dad? That’s so American it’s patriotic.”

  I’d love to ask Perry what combo of drugs he’s on. But I have a feeling that he’s not on any medication, that he’s finally dealing with the stuff he didn’t deal with when Roger died. Instead he kept us all at arm’s length, even lying about the diagnosis, I’m stunned to find out, and started opening more T-shirt shops.

  “I’m proud of you for getting to the stuff about Roger. Not that you need me to be proud of you or anything,” I say.

  He was always hiding behind the mythical combination of drugs that would cure loss. His pharmacologist had become Oz.