“I love you. I don’t much act like it most of the time, but I do.”
“I know, shhh, c’mon.”
Still, he wept, pressing his face into her shoulder. “I wish I’d given both of you a better life, that’s all.”
“You’ve given us a good life, and that’s enough.”
I couldn’t watch any longer; I was an intruder, a spy, a voyeur, so I turned and left them there, a silhouette against a closed window, two people I now knew I’d never really known at all, a tableau frozen in the shadows: husband and wife.
God, how I wished that Beth and I would someday love each other like that.
I wasn’t surprised to find myself crying as I got back into bed. I’d found out more about my parents in those few minutes than I would have ever found out if it’d been left up to me. What did their memories mean, anyway? Who cared about their hopes? I was young and had better things to busy myself with.
I wasn’t the biggest fan of myself right then. I had never stopped to think that maybe it was important to them to share things like this with me, so that I might keep some small part of them alive after they were gone. Here is one of my best moments, would you keep it safe for me? Here is the dumbest thing I ever did, remember it for me, please? This was your great-grandmother, try to keep her in your thoughts.
It suddenly occurred to me that Mom hadn’t told Dad that I loved him, too. Had she been too caught up in comforting him to remember? Did it just slip her mind or – or was she as uncertain about it as Dad seemed to be?
There was such stillness in that room, and it found its way into the center of my chest, whispering of a man’s anger at seeing himself as being less than he really was; of a woman’s need to give comfort even if it meant making herself vulnerable to that anger; of a young man’s (really still a child in many ways) need to understand why he’d never seen them as being anything other than keepers and providers; and, most of all, in the stillness of the center, there in that house with its chronic angers, in that room, a final whisper from some dimly remembered poem about love’s austere and lonely offices.
I told myself that I would find a way, a right time, a good moment to let him know that, yeah, I thought he acted like a son-of-a-bitch sometimes, but that I understood why a little better now, and that I loved him. Loved them both.
I drifted off to sleep to find myself on a downtown corner, and here was an old hound dog waddling up to meet me. I looked around to see if I could spot the little boy who would grow up to be my dad. I wanted to say hi, and to thank him.
Shortly after my nineteenth birthday, the Cedar Hill Healthcare Center fell into some financial difficulties-I never understood the specifics-and had to make some cutbacks in personnel. Luckily, Mabel wasn’t among those who were laid off, but the woman with whom she often carpooled was among those let go. As a result, I began taking her to and from work, which was no burden; for one thing, I liked Mabel very much; for another, on those nights when she worked both the units and cafeteria, it was easier to just stay over at the house with Beth (the CHHC was only a fifteen minute drive from Beth’s house, thirty from mine). Any excuse Beth and I could find to be alone (excepting for the Its, who soon learned that once that bedroom door was closed, it wasn’t opening again anytime soon) was welcomed.
No, we weren’t a couple-not publicly, anyway. Beth still went through relationships like most people went through tissues during allergy season, but during the frequent “breaks” in her love life, whenever we were alone, there was no such thing as “hands off.” Even then I suspected that it was all going to break my heart in a major way sometime in the future, but when you’re a teenager it’s a lot easier to convince yourself that you’re made of sterner stuff than you really are.
So I willingly became Beth’s “fuck-buddy.”
It wasn’t just the sex-though I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that was a factor-it was the companionship. I don’t know if that’s something a lot of people under thirty ever really grasp-it doesn’t have to be the naked, sweating, rolling, groaning, shrieking do-me-do-me-do-me christ I’m-gonna- come routine all the time. Sometimes just sitting next to the person you love and watching a movie on television while their fingers brush lightly over the back of your hand is infinitely more satisfying, simply because they get you; they know that this twitch means one thing and that little shiver something else; they can tell by the way you clear your throat that you’re about to laugh, or that when you stretch your neck to the left and no bones crack it means you’re anxious about something: companionship.
Beth was splendid company. Even after she disappeared, the memory of those nights of doing nothing-watching television, listening to records, sorting through grocery store coupons, clipping one of the Its’ toenails-made me smile.
And to a large extent, I have Mabel to thank for that-if I hadn’t been the one driving her to and from work, I never would have truly understood that sometimes tenderness marks you far deeper than passion can ever dream.
Usually I’d get to the nursing home a few minutes before Mabel’s shift ended and would wait in the cafeteria area, or chat with whomever was working the station while Mabel made her last rounds on the unit. The people there began to recognize me after a while, and by the time I turned twenty my presence there at the end of Mabel’s shift was something of an evening staple; if I were even five minutes late, both eyebrows and questions would be raised: You don’t suppose he forgot, do you? It’s just not like him to be late, is it? Doesn’t seem right, not having him around at this hour, huh?
Because I always used the same entrance and took the same route to Mabel’s unit, I always passed the same doors. Most nights these stood open (a closed door, I came to find out, meant only one of two things: fast asleep, or dead and waiting for the funeral home to pick up the body) and I came to have “on-sight” relationships with some of the residents. You know the kind: pass the same person at roughly the same time often enough over the course of a day or a week or month and you both become something of a fixture in the other’s life, even if you never speak or learn his name. Nine-fifteen, time for Mr. Pickup to saunter by my door. I wonder if he’s going to wear the leather jacket tonight or that gray windbreaker. Let’s see, where is he? Ah, here he comes. Hmm. The windbreaker tonight. Good choice. Seems like he’s in a good mood-maybe he got some earlier. Looks like a nice young man, though. Time to wave to him.
The flip side to this was Mr. Pickup unintentionally made himself an expected part of the Door People’s routine; the woman in 106 who blared Later with Tom Snyder from her television set just couldn’t enjoy the second half of her program unless I stopped to hear her comment on how awful it was that they had to have so many gosh-darned commercials on these days; the two sisters in room 112 just had to know how the weather was tonight, and had I heard anything about tomorrow’s forecast?; the silver-haired guy whose wheelchair was always parked near the vending machines would not-repeat, not -pop open his evening soda until I passed by so he could lift the can in my direction and say “ Salute, my boy! ”; and the two old farts in 120-who for some reason called me “Captain Spaulding”-could have their evening ruined unless we ran through the same shtick:
Old Fart #1: Here comes Captain Spaulding!
Old Fart #2: The African explorer?
Me: Did someone call me “Shnorer?”
Them: We weren’t talking to you!
Followed by uproarious laughter from them.
(Hey, I never said it was a clever shtick.)
One night I had the mother of all sinus headaches and passed by their room without so much as a glance. I heard one of them start the shtick-“Here comes Captain Spaulding!”-but was well past the room before his buddy could do his part. I stopped for a moment when a dribble of pain moved from between my eyes to the back of my throat, then turned back toward the water fountain that was only a few feet away from their room. I downed a couple of decongestants then figured, What the hell, I’m here, and poked my head around
into their room.
They weren’t looking at the door, nor were they looking at each other-in fact, they didn’t seem to be looking at anything at all. They just stared. At an empty space where their laughter should have been ringing. At a place where a visiting child should have been sitting. At a lifetime of Maybe-Next-Year places they’d always meant to take the wife, but the old girl had gotten cancer too young and left this world before they could ever get away together.
There is a very thin scrim that keeps the ruined things behind the curtain of everyday life, and one of the weights that held that curtain in place had just been removed. Now, with no Captain Spaulding shtick, the edge of that curtain was fluttering, and something of infinite sadness and disappointment could be seen shifting: Here we are, pal, two old sons-of-bitches at the end of our lives and no one else but each other to give a shit. It would’ve been nice to have our nightly laugh but that’s gone now, too; just like our families, our good women, our strong young-man notions. It was nice while it lasted, though. Maybe they’ll serve buttermilk pancakes tomorrow, huh?
“Excuse me,” I said.
They both started, blinked, then turned in my direction. The look on their faces suggested that something with three heads and a dick growing from its left nostril had just entered the room.
“I, uh… I was passing by and could have sworn someone in this room called me ‘Shnorer.’ Was that one of you gentlemen?”
It took them a moment.
It is him, right?
I believe so, yes.
Hey, the curtain fell back into place.
Damn good thing, too; I think tomorrow’s poached eggs.
“‘Shnorer,’ did you say?” asked Old Fart #1.
“Yes, I believe that’s what I heard.”
They looked at each other, then: “We weren’t talking to you!”
Uproarious laughter. This time I actually joined in.
“Sounds like you got yerself a mighty nasty cold there, Captain.”
“I do. I’m kinda dizzy and my ears are clogged.”
“Have trouble sleeping?”
I nodded.
“Neither one of us can sleep worth a tinker’s left nut, either.”
They both smiled and told me I should take some tea with a little whiskey in it, and while I was at it could I sneak a little in for them? Maybe they could get one of them young nursing assistants a little tipsy and she’d give them an extra-long sponge bath.
I grinned and mimed tapping the edge of a cigar. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I ever hoid.”
That got a big laugh out of them, though I’m damned if I know why. I waved at them, sang a quick “Hooray-hooray- hooray! ” and headed back down the hall. I made it a point after that to stop by their room every night and do the shtick until the night that door was closed and the names which I had never bothered to read were removed from the outside slots. I knew neither one of them slept worth a tinker’s left nut, so that limited the options.
But, for that night, I felt better about myself and the world and my place in it. My sinuses, however, were having none of this fun and frolic and warm squishy happiness. I’d decided to give Mabel the keys and let her drive the car that night; the decongestants weren’t helping, my chest felt like it had been filled with rubber cement, and I couldn’t see clearly past five feet or so.
Which is why it took me a moment to locate the voice coming from another of the opened doors.
“You did the wrong routine,” it said.
Here I go, stumbling around, looking for the speaker, banging my knee against one of the wall rails used by the patients who didn’t get around so well on their own anymore.
“Hello?” I said.
“To your right, Baryshnikov.”
I blinked, wiped my eyes, and found him.
Seventy, seventy-five, but he wore it so very well. Think of Burt Lancaster in Atlantic City. Class and style; shopworn and a bit craggy around the edges, but still commanding. If it hadn’t been for the wheelchair and the gnarled branches that had once been his legs, I would’ve expected him to grab my collar and warn: “Don’t. Touch. The suit!”
“Hello,” I said. Then: “What did you mean, the wrong routine?”
“When you blew your cue back there and had to go back and cover your ass. Instead of trying to pick up the old routine where you’d left it writhing in a heap on the floor, you should’ve hit ’em with Groucho’s ‘Hello, I must be going’ line.”
“Hello, I must be going?”
He nodded. The light danced across his startlingly white hair. “Right. ‘I cannot stay, I came to say, I must be going.’ ”
“Ah.”
“Not a Marx Brothers fan?”
“ Big Marx Brothers fan,” I said, a bit defensively.
“That’s good. You’re young enough to be one of those Three Stooges people. That’d be a damn shame.”
“Why?”
“Because there are only two types of people in this world: those who like the Stooges, and those who like the Marx Brothers.”
“Buster Keaton was always my favorite, actually.”
“He’d’ve been embarrassed, the way you were stumbling around out there. No grace. No style. No art.”
I cleared my throat. “Well, thank you, James Agee, for that blistering review, but I came to say I must be going.”
He clapped his hands loudly. “ There you go! Not the most clever or smoothest transition back to the opening gag, but a damn good outing your first time. No doubt about it.”
“Thanks. I think.”
“You’re welcome. Maybe. Hey, you got a minute?”
I checked my watch. “Actually, I’m here to pick up someone.”
“Who? If it’s your mom or grandpa or someone like that, they tend to discourage late-night roustabouting. Afraid if we actually have some fun it’ll improve our dispositions and make us a bit more clearheaded, and then they’ll be forced to deal with us like we possess honest-to-Pete personalities and feelings. Keepers gotta keep the kept kept, know what I’m saying? Ever had anyone talk to you like you don’t have the brains God gave an ice cube? After a while you start to wonder if maybe they aren’t right in addressing you like that because maybe, maybe you have taken up residence in Looney-Toons Junction and spend all your time discussing Heraclites’s River with Elmer Fudd while out here in, the happy world, they’ve been changing your diapers and drawing lewd grafitti on your butt with permanent markers. By the way, in case you lost track of what I was talking about before I wandered off the highway subject-wise, I’d just asked you who you were here to pick up. If I’m not being what you’d call a buttinsky. Too inquisitive. Nibby. Et cetera.”
“Mabel,” I said.
“Ah, our Angel of the Cafeteria and Catheters. I know her well, Horatio. Your mother? Aunt? Mistress-or are you a kept man? A heartless gigolo using her for your distasteful carnal pleasures while racking up charges on her credit card?”
“Your minute was up about thirty seconds ago.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you had such a jam-packed social calendar. How thoughtless of me. No wonder the Kremlin will return none of my calls. Can you set the clock on this damn thing?” He pointed to a brand-new Betamax unit that sat on top of his television. “It works just fine, I can record and all that, but I can’t seem to set the clock.”
“No problem.” I’d been eyeing one of these for a while, but had held off buying because of the six-hundred-plus dollar price tag. But it would be nice to actually record movies and television shows to keep.
I set the clock for him.
“A wizard, that’s what you are.”
“I’ve been thinking about getting one of these.”
He snorted a derisive laugh. “A gift from my daughter. She’s in Los Angeles. She’s in the entertainment business. These things are supposedly going to be all the rage in a few years. Thing is, for as much as it costs, you can’t find all that many movies to play in it. There’s a plac
e over on Church Street that just opened, claims they have the biggest selection in the city-which amounts to being the most gifted ballerina in Hoboken, if you ask me, which I realize you didn’t, but I’m old and lonely and like the sound of my own voice and, besides, you haven’t exactly been taken hostage here, have you?”
“You in show business too?”
“Used to be.” He extended his hand. “Name’s Weis. Marty Weis. Friends call my ‘Whitey’ because of my hair. You can call me ‘Mr. Weis.’ ”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Weis. I think.”
“Pleasure to meet you, too. Maybe. Hey-did you know that back in the heyday of vaudeville, Cedar Hill used to be one the biggest tour stops?”
I leaned against the door. ‘Whitey’ needed to talk to someone, I suddenly felt so sick I wasn’t sure I’d be able to walk another ten feet, and after the near-miss with Old Farts #1 and #2 my guilt tank was already on ‘F.’ I wasn’t going to take any chances.
“No,” I said. “I didn’t know that. I know it was once the boxing capital of the country.”
“Back in the late thirties, early forties, you bet it was. It was the same thing with vaudeville. You know the Old Soldiers and Sailors Building?”
I shook my head.
“‘Course not-you’d know it as the Auditorium Theatre.”
“The one across from the Midland?”
“The very one. You ever get the chance, you ought to go in there and head down to the basement. There’s a wall directly underneath the front of the stage that’s covered in autographs from all the acts who played there. Houdini’s autograph is there, so are the Three Keatons’. I’ve been there, I’ve seen it. There must be a thousand autographs on that wall. Now that the place doesn’t show movies or book acts anymore-”
“-not in about twenty years,” I said.
“Thanks, I wasn’t feeling enough like a fossil tonight.” He shook his head. “It’s a damn shame, all that history down there, all those names-some of famous people, too-just stuck down there in the dark where no one can see them.”
“I never knew that.”
“Not too many folks do, and the ones who are old enough to remember, can’t anymore.”
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