“Give it to them.” Hayden hands her the cordless phone. “I do’an’ want it.”
“But it’s next to Mom. And what if I want it or . . .” Diana hesitates before she can add “Joey,” wanting to avoid bringing up the worst-case possible scenario, that her son should predecease her. Or else put a curse on him. “Dominick never even met Mom . . .”
“It’s not like being buried is a networking opportunity, Diana.” Hayden solemnly nods his head toward the phone to indicate that she should call her sister. “I loved your mother very much and she’ll always be in my heart, but I just do’an’ want to be buried, simple as that. Not at Lakewood, not anywhere. Your mum and I lived our lives together, ’til death did we part. And even though it’s not going to be eternal, it was nonetheless very blessed.”
Diana is conflicted but finally takes the phone and offers the gravesite to her sister’s family. What follows is a lot of “No, no . . . we couldn’t possibly . . .” by Linda and her husband, Ted, Dominick’s father. Finally Hayden gets on the line to conclude the negotiations, which he does in less than a minute, by making Linda and Ted feel as if they’ll be doing Hayden a favor by taking the plot off his hands. And despite the fact that the circumstances of the conversation are abysmal, in an odd way it cheers Hayden to know he hasn’t lost his touch—since all that is left for him now is the big close, The Final Sale, the one that only pays a commission to your beneficiaries.
After some more to-ing and fro-ing about deed and plot number it’s agreed that the Brooklynites will drive the paperwork over to Linda’s house in Flemington, New Jersey.
The three MacBrides and Rosamond silently clamber into the station wagon. Without saying a word Diana hands Hayden her car keys, a sign that she must indeed be terribly distraught. She knows that he’s still a capable driver, otherwise she would never let him squire around his grandson, but since the diagnosis he’d been relegated to passenger status anytime they ventured out together.
“You definitely don’t want to be buried then?” Diana asks Hayden as they leave the neighborhood.
“Nope!” Hayden glances in the rearview mirror to see if Rosamond displays any reaction to this statement. But she appears not to have heard. She looks serene sitting there and silently gazing out the window, like a dove with its wings folded.
Indeed, Rosamond is contemplating all the unexpected turns that life can take, and how death can arrive suddenly, announcing itself loud and clear, or else sneak in like a bank robber under the cloak of night.
“Joey’s going to scatter my ashes,” Hayden continues. “He knows where.”
“I can only imagine.” Diana rolls her eyes up toward the sun visor and releases a sigh that threatens to fog the vanity mirror.
Hayden knows his daughter is envisioning the ballpark, and not the toboggan run where Diana and Linda used to love to be taken when they were little girls.
“I’d still like to have a memorial service for you.” Diana doesn’t turn to look at Hayden as she says this. Instead, she reflexively checks the intersection ahead for oncoming traffic. “I mean, if you don’t mind.”
“Fine. But no prayers. Just poetry or a personal memory.” Hayden raises his voice slightly so that Joey can hear him from the backseat. “Joey, how’d you like to recite a poem at Grandpa’s funeral?”
“Do I have to memorize it?” Joey asks.
God, to be eleven again, thinks Hayden.
“No. Just read it out of a book. Anything by Robbie Burns will do.”
“Of course you’ll memorize it!” Diana says curtly to the backseat. “Of course he’ll memorize it,” she assures Hayden in a more soothing tone.
“Then you’d better go with ‘Scotch Drink,’ bein’ it’s one of the shortest.”
Diana’s good humor begins to evaporate with the suggestion of odes to alcohol at Hayden’s funeral. “I’m sure Joey will have no problem memorizing something longer. After all, he seems to have no trouble with Sir Walter Scott’s ‘Lochinvar.’ All eight stanzas.”
“Whatever you want,” says Joey.
Joey is an easy kid in most ways, muses Hayden. You could give a person like that a job where he has to be on the road and he’ll get the work done without constant supervision.
“Anything else?” asks Diana.
“Yes,” says Hayden. “I just read a new study saying that oncology patients live longer if they have a dog. I’d like to get a dog. Maybe a border collie or a Labrador.”
“Dad, what about Joey’s asthma?”
“So we’ll get a doghouse.”
This time he catches a faint smile on Rosamond’s lips. Hayden steers the car under the viaduct and they pass the Little League fields where boys and girls in brightly colored mesh shirts and white stretch pants dot the neatly mowed baseball diamonds. With the windows rolled down it’s impossible to ignore the loud whoops coming up from the set of bleachers nearest the roadway.
In the rearview mirror Hayden sees Joey trying to catch a glimpse of the game that is providing all the excitement. “Can you see anything Joe-Joe? Is it a double? A homer?” But the light flickers green and Hayden must turn the car in the opposite direction.
Upon hearing her son’s name Diana instinctively swivels her head to check on Joey in the backseat. Who will be Joey’s best friend when Hayden is gone? she wonders. For the first time, Diana considers that she may have made a parenting mistake with regard to baseball. It was so difficult being the single mother of a growing boy. After a moment’s pause she asks her son, “Honey, do they give you one of those uniforms or do we have to buy it?”
Joey suddenly bobs up between the two seats like a hungry seal about to be fed a fish. “They fund-raise. Why? Can I really play baseball?” he asks incredulously. It’s become such a lost cause that he’s even abandoned his regular Saturday morning pleading sessions. He can’t believe what he’s hearing! Thank God that Rosie and his grandfather are witnesses to this miracle. “You heard what she said, right, Grandpa?”
“From her lips to my ears,” confirms Hayden.
“Well, you’d better wear one of those hardhats,” insists Diana.
“It’s a helmet, Mom. You wear it to bat,” he shoots back, a result of reflex annoyance and sheer disbelief.
“I don’t care what they call it, you’d just better wear it, the whole time. I’ve got enough gray hair on my head as things are right now, and don’t want it to turn white overnight. All I need is a child with brain damage or amnesia. Or worse, a son in a coma.”
chapter thirty-two
They drive through Bay Ridge and over the Verrazano Narrows Bridge, giving Joey an opportunity to point out to Rosamond one of the peregrine falcons that nest in and around the graceful suspension bridge. The water below them is alive with choppy white waves and sailboats making good progress as a result of the steady breeze.
Then it’s across Staten Island toward the Goethals Bridge and the turnpike. The industrial parks of northern New Jersey are gradually replaced by double carriageways with jug handle turns, auto dealerships, strip malls, and finally leafy green suburbs with bags of fresh-mown grass stacked at the curb.
A hush falls over the car as they turn into Chicory Circle and pass one starter-mansion after the next, all hermetically sealed in white aluminum siding, made starker by the surrounding bright green chemically treated lawns. Rosamond assumes that the sudden silence is out of respect for the deceased, unaware of Hayden and Diana’s collective dread regarding family visits.
“All the houses are so white,” says Joey.
“That’s not the only thing that’s all white,” says Hayden.
“Dad,” objects Diana, “not now.”
By this time Joey is the only one smiling as he strains to peer down the street and make sure that his aunt and uncle’s basketball hoop is still intact. This was leftover from the previous tenants but, Diana presumes, Ted had decided it gave the house a nice family atmosphere and left it up. She also notices that the maroon shutters and ga
rage door have recently been painted and stand out against the immaculate ivory siding. The surrounding grass and hedges are practically emerald-green and so perfectly manicured they could serve as a backdrop for a movie.
The navy blue Lincoln Continental and shiny red Ford Mustang convertible glow in the driveway as if it’s a showroom, thinks Diana, especially when compared to the beat-up station wagon that pulls in behind them like a mongrel dog. In the days back when they’d been getting along better Linda had confided to Diana that she desperately wanted a Lexus but her politically minded husband insisted that they buy American. At least this was true when it came to the items that potential voters could see. Ted had no problem accepting imported Cuban cigars for himself and designer French perfume for his wife from businessmen in need of favors.
Diana sits biting her lip and holding tight to the dashboard even after the car has come to a complete stop in the driveway and been parked for several minutes.
Hayden doesn’t move either, already having visions of being trapped by a decade-long homily from his congenitally campaigning congressman of a son-in-law. Ten minutes with Ted is like listening to every public service announcement ever aired on television without so much as a commercial. The sight of a neighbor washing his car and using a white bucket for the soapy water triggers a flashback to his last visit, when Hayden was forced to collect silt from the nearby Raritan River downstream from the manufacturing plant where Ted’s political opponent was a part owner, so that it could be tested for chemical pollutants.
After Rosamond opens Diana’s door her friend still doesn’t get out. Rosamond glances around the yard to see if there’s an attack dog lurking in the bushes.
Diana, however, is preoccupied with mentally reviewing a self-help book she’d recently read on how to have a better relationship with your sister. “Don’t rise to the bait,” she repeats the book’s mantras to herself while anxiously clasping and unclasping her hands. “Just smile and take it in stride.” “It’s her, not you.” But Diana can’t banish the feeling that even as children Linda hadn’t taken nearly as much pride in her own perfection as she had pleasure in the failings of others. Linda’s constant stream of well-meaning but condescending-sounding advice has always been a source of tension between the two sisters.
Though Linda is two years younger than Diana, she’s a matronly looking thirty-three. And though there had at one time been talk of fertility drugs and adoption, she has apparently resigned herself to being childless, and instead concentrating all her efforts on making a perfect home and being a good political wife. It’s Diana’s secret belief that Linda has purposely gained a few pounds and fixed her hair in a manner suited to an older woman so as to appear the perfect match for her husband, Ted, who is thirteen years her senior, soft in the middle, and bald except for a gray fringe that flips up at the bottom if not subjected to regular pruning.
Finally they all go up the front walk together. Linda opens the door wearing an expensive yellow linen suit with a fitted jacket that accentuates her plump hips. Her dyed-to-match helmet hair is perfectly coiffed and set, and a canary diamond weighs down her left hand and catches the light whenever she moves.
Diana immediately feels self-conscious, having dashed out of the house in her sneakers, jeans, and T-shirt, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. The cool greeting Linda offers Rosamond in comparison to the Oscar-winning hugs she presses upon Hayden and Diana serve to make clear to them her displeasure that they’ve brought a non–family member to such a solemn occasion.
Tears run down Linda’s face as Diana and Hayden say how sorry they are, and Ted is uncharacteristically somber as he ushers them inside. His blue button-down oxford cloth shirt, navy blue blazer, and tan chinos are as new and tidy and perfectly coordinated as the interior of the house. Hayden’s first thought whenever he sees Ted is that those big white Chiclet front teeth must be dentures. But then who would get dentures that looked like that?
Tea is served in the formally appointed living room on Linda’s best china and starched linen napkins. Diana wonders if this is because she thinks the occasion of a visit by her Brooklyn sister is so special or, more likely, because she uses it to remind Diana that her older sister doesn’t have any china of her own. Diana’s elopement at twenty-one had not exactly attracted gifts in the same way as Linda’s four-hundred-guest wedding at the country club. However, down deep, Diana believes that the real reason Linda feels the need to show off her finery is because whenever they’re out together people mistake Diana for the younger sister. Or worse. One time Linda was wearing a hideous babushka, caftan dress, and sunglasses, and the waitress mistakenly thought that she was Diana’s mother.
When Linda brings out the teacups she says pointedly to Rosamond, “Do you plan on being part of our family discussion?”
Diana opens her mouth to say something she’ll regret, but Rosamond tactfully excuses herself by saying that she’ll keep Joey company out in the front yard. Soon the regular thud of the basketball hitting up against the backboard and Joey and Rosamond’s playful shouts can be heard through the open window.
For a long time Ted, Linda, Hayden, and Diana pass around photos of Dominick and talk about what a fine boy he was and contemplate aloud the million to one chance of such a freak accident ever occurring. Diana finds it odd that there are no photos of Dominick after elementary school and wonders just how close he and his father actually were. She knew that Ted and his first wife had split up only a few months after their son was born, and that Dominick had always lived with his mother, but she assumed that they’d continued to see each other, at least once in a while. On the other hand, Diana vaguely recalls Linda talking about an argument when Dominick formed a band, peroxided his hair, and pierced his cheek. Or was it his lip? Either way, when the recollections of Dominick’s elementary school career eventually run out of steam, the details of transferring the burial plot are settled once and for all.
After that business is finished they sit in silence until Ted begins explaining how the census has just determined that for the first time New Jersey has a higher median household income than Connecticut. This is followed by a detailed list of the ramifications that this “startling fact” is expected to have on the political landscape in the tri-state area.
Hayden twitches through the long-winded exposition and drains his scotch glass. Dear Lord, he silently performs a mock prayer, If you’re really up there, please don’t let Ted become president. This is my one and only dying wish.
Diana follows Linda into the kitchen carrying the empty cookie plate and napkins. The large, airy room is perfectly organized with bright copper pots lined up according to size above the island in the middle. A tall, neatly ordered spice rack stands next to all sorts of modern and undoubtedly expensive gadgetry.
“You would just adore this new Cuisinart,” says Linda, fully aware that her sister can’t even afford a new set of wooden spoons.
Diana ignores her kitchen commentary and gets straight to the point. “You shouldn’t have given Dad two glasses of whiskey,” she chides her sister.
“Honestly, Di, what difference does it make? Let Dad enjoy himself while he still—”
“Linda! They’re working on something right now, maybe even a cure. Just look at the progress that’s been made with AIDS. And you could help me by encouraging him to try this experimental treatment instead of attempting to kill him with booze. How will you feel at the funeral knowing that you were an enabler?” Diana’s breath comes in short gasps and she appears ready to sob or explode.
Placing her hands on her older sister’s shoulders Linda says, “Calm down. It’s just that you know Dad—he’s going to do whatever he wants to do. Which is something we need to talk about,” she adds in a sinister hush, as if hatching a conspiracy.
“What do you mean?” asks Diana. “If it’s suicide you’re thinking about, he’s already—”
“What I mean is financial suicide,” says Linda and she nods toward the kitchen window, th
rough which they can observe Rosamond and Joey playing some sort of a game in which they move farther from the basket after every successful shot. “What if that woman tricks him into marrying her so that she can inherit his money? I mean, she shows up out of nowhere right before he’s supposed to die . . . don’t you find that a little bit odd?” Her eyes narrow as if she’s a TV detective about to unmask the murderer.
“Linda! For one thing, Rosamond is a very nice person. You’d find that out if you’d stop being so rude to her. And second, she’s a nun! She took vows of poverty and celibacy.” Diana carefully avoids mentioning that Rosamond appears to have resigned from the convent.
Linda purposefully towels the crystal cookie platter so that every potential water spot is thoroughly eradicated. “How do we know she’s really a nun? I mean, who’s to say she doesn’t get reports from a friend at a medical lab and go around town with this sister act. You can pick up a nun’s habit at any costume shop. Honestly, dying men must love that—a sexy virgin who can grant forgiveness for all their sins.”
Diana’s mouth opens in amazement at the contemptibility of her sister’s imaginings. “You can’t be serious. Linda . . . she’s dying! You should hear the way she used to cough when she first arrived. Look at how thin she is.”
Linda glances out the window just as Rosamond sinks a basket from the grass next to the driveway and she and Joey cheer and high-five each other. “She looks pretty healthy to me.”
But Diana has become too emotional to argue with Linda, between dealing with Hayden’s illness and the unfortunate circumstances of their visit. “It’s getting dark. I’m going to call Joey inside.”
“He’s fine. There’s nothing to worry about out here. It’s not like Brooklyn.”
That’s another of Linda’s favorite jabs, that Diana isn’t raising her son in a well-to-do neighborhood. By now Diana’s livid and ready to stick Linda’s head in the new Cuisinart as a way of testing just how well it really works. “Have you forgotten that Joey has asthma!” Diana shouts and storms out of the kitchen.
Last Call Page 17