One More Stop

by Lois Walden

  ‘How do you make antique furniture?’ I ask.

  ‘Think he uses a bellows. Blows dust on his mother’s old tables and chairs. She’s senile. Doesn’t sit at the dinner table anymore. Eats in her room. He makes a lot of money off her furniture.’

  Snow falls … Blankets of white powder puffs fill the sky as my vehicle and I pull up to the Sheraton Hotel. I check in, go to my room, unpack, organize my toiletries, open the curtains, plug in my air purifier and pick up the telephone.

  Saul Rudman, my personal Peter Pan, a flamboyant gay motel owner in Wyoming, keeps a loft in Denver. I’m hoping that we can connect. His machine tells me that he will be out of town until Friday. So, I swim 200 laps in the bacteria-laden, over-chlorinated, ninety-degree, ten-foot, kiddy pool.

  Out my window is a wall of white. I’m thinkin’: ‘It’s Colorado. They know how to deal with snow.’

  I eat a lemon zest Luna protein bar for dinner. I meditate, file my nails, loofah my dry skin, try to call Simone to congratulate her on having had an impact on my niece. Of course, Simone is not home. Read Susan Weed’s Menopausal Years. Women have so much more to deal with than men. As if I didn’t already know that one.

  Then I sit in the hotel lounge surrounded by some honest-to-goodness cowboys. We watch television. Mad King George wages war on Iraq: The famous weapons of mass destruction, protect the world from the Axis of Evil.

  I return to my room. I cry for mankind. I lay me down to sleep on my own feather pillow.

  ‘Now I lay me down …’

  ‘Go away. Please.’

  At six thirty a.m. it is a veritable white Christmas, even though Bing Crosby is dead. At seven thirty a.m. the phone rings.

  ‘Hi. It’s Bobbi.’

  Who the hell is calling me at this hour? Oh! I fumble for my school folder, the teacher. ‘Hi. How are you?’

  ‘I’ve been shoveling. Got to get a handle on this blizzard. They say it’s going to last for at least seventy-two hours. Turn on the Weather Channel. Won’t be any school today.’ She continues her monologue. ‘My kids were really looking forward to working with you. I told them that you were going to jam their computers. Told them they would have to use their imagination. Kids just don’t dream anymore, do they?’

  ‘Some do.’

  ‘My daughter does. She’s an actress. She’s back east. Lives in Park Slope. Lives with an antique-furniture maker named Steve.’

  ‘Goodman?’

  ‘No. Feingold.’ Pause.

  ‘Sorry that we’re not going to meet today. Bend your knees.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Your back. Shoveling. Bend your knees.’

  ‘I always do. How’s your room?’ Before I can answer she shouts, ‘Bruno! Get in here! Damn dog. Call you tomorrow.’

  For three consecutive mornings, Bobbi does not call. Phones are dead, cable’s out, Denver is completely shut down. No external distractions. An array of internal disturbances.

  I dine on undetectable, inedible hotel rations for a record-breaking seventy-two hours. I finish off my last lemon zest bar, steal apples from the front desk, and convince myself that as long as I eat the bristles on my toothbrush I will have enough fiber in my diet to survive. I read whatever’s in the hotel’s lending library; no comment.

  Finally, on Friday, the snow stops. Bobbi calls. ‘You won’t believe it!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘No school.’

  ‘Why?!’

  ‘They’re afraid the roof might cave in. It’s flat.’

  ‘Hope you and the kids get to see the show next week.’

  ‘We will, if I can get the parents to sign the waivers. Most of them don’t read English.’

  ‘They don’t?’

  ‘No. This is an English as a second language class. Almost all of the parents don’t speak it at all.’ Thank God for the blizzard. ‘Are you busy tonight?’

  ‘Yeah. My friend Saul Rudman’s in town.’

  ‘Saul? From Wyoming?’

  ‘Saul from Wyoming.’

  ‘I went to one of his Halloween parties. Tell Saul, Bobbi, the dominatrix, says hi.’

  ‘Sure will.’ Another missed opportunity.

  ‘Come back soon.’ Click.

  At eight p.m. Saul Rudman, the dearest man I know, picks me up in his Cadillac SUV. I pole vault up, over, and down into the passenger seat. We hug, howl and get high. We drive through a snowy Denver, pull up in front of a trendy nouveau restaurant.

  Saul orders a gin martini. I order a vodka martini. They are cowboy drinks, bigger than the state of Texas. Saul downs his in a blink of an eye. I take one sip of my martini and spit it out. I hate gin. Saul grabs my glass, downs my drink, orders another. I get my first. He drinks his third. He regales me with stories about his audience with the most famous back specialist in the world; who is, of course, located in Santa Monica, California. Dr Painfree has Saul on a cutting-edge medical protocol. Yes, Saul is on the muscle-relaxant, raw-juice diet. The boy hasn’t eaten solids for three days.

  His eyes cross. He sways like an American flag on a windy night.

  I shout. ‘SAUL, CAN YOU HEAR ME!?’

  ‘What? What’d you say?’

  I slap my hands in front of his face and talk deaf talk to him. ‘CAN … YOU … HEAR … ME?!’

  ‘I better break my juice fast.’ With his right hand, Saul reaches for a piece of bread. It drops onto the floor. With his left hand, he places something into his mouth. ‘Bite, crunch, crack, yech.’

  ‘Saul, what the hell are you eating?’

  He spits out little pieces of plastic and wire into his right hand. ‘My hearing aid. My two thousand dollar hearing aid.’ Saul has one more Martini for the road. I take a cab back to my hotel.

  Late the next morning I hear from Saul. ‘I am so sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be. How’d you get home?’

  ‘I hitched a ride.’

  ‘Are you crazy?’

  ‘No. He’s in the kitchen making me coffee.’

  ‘I can’t believe … Guys. Can’t keep it in their pants.’

  ‘You’re just jealous.’

  ‘I probably am.’

  ‘Did I make a fool of myself last night?’

  ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘Don’t tell anyone.’

  ‘Who am I gonna tell? Do you even remember last night?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘In memory nothing is foolish. Experiences make us who we are.’

  ‘Did you make that up?’

  ‘No. Got that one from my dear dead mother.’

  ‘She must have been something.’

  ‘When she was, she was quite something.’

  ‘When she was good

  She was very very good …’

  ‘I suggest that you stop taking muscle relaxants. Meditate instead.’

  ‘I will. I’ll call and tell you when I’m coming to New York … How’s Simone?’

  ‘Rough patch.’

  ‘Therapy. You need to get yourself back in therapy.’

  ‘She doesn’t believe in it.’

  ‘I’m talking about you not her … Oh fantastic. Eggs Benedict

  and coffee.’

  ‘Love you.’

  ‘I love you too.’

  ‘How fortunate for me,’ I reply.

  Saul shouts, ‘What’d you say?’

  ‘I SAID GET A CHEAPER HEARING AID!’

  Rear End

  The rear end of any extraordinary adventure is much more sensational than the front end. On a rollercoaster, when you are seated in the last car, you experience a giddy near-death feeling. As you dive down and your gastric juices rise up into your esophagus, believe me, the people up front are not having half the good time that you are having in the rear. On the rear end of the blizzard of ’03, I felt as if I had been somewhere unimaginable. I had that near-death feeling. I had scaled Mount Everest. I was ready for my next death-defying
experience …

  I have a three-hour delay, before the long-awaited trip to Lincoln, Nebraska, where I would then rent an Avis (no Enterprise available) in order to reach the town of Beatrice. With time to kill (strange expression), I flip open my Verizon cellphone, push the button. I call Dina. It is eight p.m. in New York. She might be having her pre-bedtime wine spritzer. Maybe she is flossing, or Sonicaring her teeth. Whatever she is doing, I need to tell the tale … ring … ring …

  ‘Hello.’

  ‘It’s me.’

  ‘Oh hi. Where are you?’ She sounds fatigued.

  ‘Denver International Airport.’

  ‘Do you really teach, or are you perpetually traveling from one place to another without ever setting foot in a classroom?’

  ‘Not nice.’

  ‘The wine went to my head.’

  ‘Don’t you want to know about the blizzard?’

  ‘What blizzard?’

  ‘The biggest blizzard in one hundred years.’

  ‘Was there a lot of snow?’

  ‘For an intelligent woman, you are ridiculous.’

  ‘I’ve been busy.’ Dina sighs.

  ‘Who is it this time?’ Dead silence

  ‘Pop.’

  ‘Up and down the City Road,

  In and out the Eagle,

  That’s the way the money goes,

  Pop goes the weasel!’

  ‘Is he still alive?’

  ‘Loli, he’s your father.’

  ‘No! He’s your father. He is merely the sperm donor who fertilized the weird egg that hatched me into this cognitive world.’

  ‘Twenty years! How long can you blame him for her death? It wasn’t his fault that she was crazy. Haven’t you figured that one out in therapy yet? Even I know that, and I haven’t been in therapy since I was eleven. Why meditate? Why do yoga? Why do any of it, if you can’t forgive?’

  ‘When did you get to be Miss Love, Peace, and Harmony? I know. He never meant anybody any harm … tried everything … couldn’t understand … sent her to the best doctors.’

  ‘It’s a matter of maybe a few months.’

  ‘Good! Call me when he’s gone.’ Click. That mother son of a philandering lousy prick! What am I supposed to do about it? Love the bastard!? Never. For all I care, he can rot in his blue boxer shorts with his shriveled-up dick in his hand.

  ‘He loves you, baby.’

  ‘Would you shut up already!’ I look around. A few normal people, and there are only a handful, are shocked by my outburst. I redial 212 et cetera …

  ‘Yes.’ She is cold as stone.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘So am I. The timing couldn’t be worse. Ralph’s been kicked upstairs into the research department. Your nephew is, in fact, moving to Shanghai. Your lovely niece is depressed because her new love, Methuselah, has an obsessive compulsive disorder that manifests in either sleepwalking, bedwetting, or midnight jogging in Central Park. Not only is he old, he is certifiable. Why did I ever get married? Why did I have children?’

  ‘I love your kids. Wish they were mine … What’s wrong with him?’

  She sighs again. ‘Cancer. Everywhere. They say that he’s been sick for a very long time. There’s no point in chemo …’ She cries quietly. ‘I am so tired. And work is so stressful. My boss Richard, that asshole, just took himself on a junket to Zurich. The museum is bankrupt and he’s writing off a ski holiday in the Alps.’

  ‘He’s no fool. I’m coming home next week. Oh! I forgot to tell you about my next stop.’

  ‘I can’t imagine.’

  ‘Beatrice, Nebraska. Bee as in honey, a as in have, trice as in tryst without the final t. Is that amazing?’

  ‘Dad’s convinced that Mom’s come for him. She’s in the bedroom.’

  ‘I hope she’s not getting ready to reincarnate; another nervous breakdown waiting to happen. We will have to get high when I come home. I’ll be back for a week before they send me to Montana.’

  ‘You’re flying into New York then flying back to Montana?’

  ‘Don’t … The travel plans are mind-altering.’

  ‘How’s Simone?’

  ‘I guess she’s fine. Haven’t heard from her.’

  ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Marbleizing wealthy kitchen walls in Zurich. Sucking up to some famous art dealer in Geneva. Then she’ll visit her demented mother in Normandy: “The salt air … the rocks … the dead soldiers … so much history.”’

  ‘Do you miss her?’

  ‘Sometimes. Mornings. Mostly, I miss the sex.’

  ‘Ralph won’t leave me alone. I pretend that it’s great. He needs that right now.’

  ‘Your family is lucky to have you. I include myself. You are so good.’

  ‘When she was good.’

  ‘Would you shut up!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Mom’s back. The nursery rhymes.’ Let’s keep it light. ‘How’s that possible, if she’s in Dad’s bedroom?’

  ‘Are you … all right?’ Dina’s voice falters.

  ‘Sure. Great to have her back again.’

  ‘Did you call Mary Michelin yet?’

  ‘I will.’

  ‘You should.’

  ‘I know.’ Deep inhales on both ends of the phone.

  ‘Mrs B. is in the hospital. Diabetes.’

  ‘What other good news do you have?’

  ‘She’s going blind.’

  ‘That’s good news?’

  ‘Remember how beautiful she was?’

  ‘Most beautiful legs I ever saw, those luminous hazel eyes. I can’t believe she’s going blind. Old age is frightening. My plane is boarding. I’ll call you from Beatrice.’

  ‘Say hi to Mom for me.’

  ‘Very funny.’

  It was his time to die. Twenty years had passed. I still blamed him for my mother’s death. Everyone in Beechwood knew that he was a fool-around. Had a wondering eye. Couldn’t keep it in his pants. Loved the ladies.

  We were more than less estranged. After she died, I never went home for the holidays. Refused to meet his lady friends. The final straw was when he hit on my lover Simone. He could not, would not understand that I had ventured into Sappho territory.

  Before my mother died, I had shared my secret with her. She sent me to her shrink, who in turn, asked me to give it up for Mom’s sake. ‘Young lady, I am most certain that your sexual dalliances are merely a phase.’

  After my mother died I wrote a letter to my father. Told him that I was gay. Wanted to save him from the embarrassment of making a bigger fool of himself than he already was. He disowned me. That was my relationship with ‘Pop’. You always hate that which reminds you of yourself. My meandering was a mere mimicking of his philandering.

  During her sane years, she appeared to adore him: ‘We should all be proud of his accomplishments.’ I heard that line innumerable times. My sister swore that Pop loved Mom ’til her dying day. My theory was the following:

  Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater,

  Had a wife and couldn’t keep her.

  As a child, growing up in the Bronx, Pop was dirt poor. Shared a bedroom with his younger brother and sister. Mother threw white sheets over the furniture in the summer. Took them off in the fall. Father worked in a garage. They all shared the same bathroom. As far as I was concerned, the only thing Pop worshipped was money … And monkeys. He loved his good-luck monkey collection.

  He was alone now, padding around (my mother padding after him) in that white house with a million windows and two million green shutters. Patty, the housekeeper, cleaned the house, kept him company, laughed at his jokes, while she stole him blind. Since my mother’s death, my father’s life meant nothing to me. I had no idea that he would be part of the story. Life is full of surprises.

  My mother was back in their bedroom. And, she was talking to me … again. These were uncharted waters without a skipper on deck.

 
Molly Malone

  (New Directions)

  I remember, as a young child, I would sit on the pink piano bench, gazing at my mother’s fingertips as they traveled over the black and white keys of our Baldwin acrosonic piano. She played a lyrical Irish folk song over and over again. The first few lines go something like this …

  In Dublin’s fair city

  ‘Sing my pretty baby.’

  Where the girls are so pretty

  I first set my eyes on sweet Molly Malone.

  From the air, Nebraska looks like a dark brown on light brown farmers’ chessboard. In this country, in fact, it is the crop growers and grain givers who feed us and keep us alive. They are a dying breed. Their children cannot wait to get away from the cow dung and the prairie mentality.

  When you arrive in Nebraska, you sense the dying-off of the farmer and his glory times. Archer Daniels Midland, the giant agricultural corporation, is no replacement for the real thing.

  Before I arrived, all I knew about Nebraska was that Willa Cather, a gifted and prolific writer, grew up there. I know she eventually worked elsewhere; even though she apparently loved Nebraska, she couldn’t wait to get the hell away. Yet Warren Buffet, a very successful businessman, has remained in Nebraska for most of his life. What attracts one person repels another. What is acceptable to some is rejected by many. It is both challenging and difficult to be in the minority, especially when the majority rules or shall I say makes the rules.

  Midflight I untie my blue silk scarf. I lift it from around my neck, lay it on my lap, fold it into perfect quarters, unzip my knapsack, place it inside the sack, and zip it safely away.

  The plane is three hours late. It is pouring. I walk in the rain from the plane to the gate, since the hydraulic gate mover is broken. But the baggage handlers are waiting anxiously to retrieve the bags from the final plane of the day. All is well with the world in Lincoln. I am an hour away from Beatrice.

  I hope the Avis car rental lot is not in Omaha, which according to my map is many miles from Lincoln. I walk into the terminal. Maybe I can make it to Beatrice in forty-five minutes. Excitement runs through my veins.

  A very adorable brunette woman, about thirty-five or forty, with a turned-up nose and a pouty upper lip, is holding up a sign. Next to her is a teenage girl with the reddest wildest hair I have seen since I Love Lucy. I read the sign. ‘Loli Greene’. Oh my God, someone has come to greet me at the Lincoln airport in the middle of a deluge. The grown-up with the pouty lip approaches. ‘Are you Loli Greene?’