Second Acts

by Teri Emory

  “Poor Ellie,” was Violet’s first reaction. “And you, too. ”

  We sat at Violet’s dining room table, where we had spent many evenings commiserating about single motherhood and our unreliable ex-husbands. A dozen years older than I, Violet had been a Savannah debutante who married and started a family before she was twenty and was divorced when her children were still very young.

  “Where’s Grant?” I asked.

  Grant Bailey is Violet’s second husband. Violet likes to let people know how thoughtful Grant is. How sensible. How unlike her first husband.

  “He’s at a partners’ meeting at the office,” she said. I heard a teakettle whistling. “Something about a new associate. He called to say he wouldn’t be home for dinner. You know, after being married to the likes of Brice Auden, it’s nice to live with a man who keeps me informed of his whereabouts. And is honest with me. Brice Auden, as I know I’ve told you many times, would rather tell a lie even when the truth would do as well.”

  I smiled. It never fails to amuse me when Violet talks about her ex. I love how she always refers to him by his full name.

  She retrieved the kettle from the kitchen and poured the boiling water over a strainer of loose tea into a Wedgwood teapot.

  “Now, tell me how things are at Sidney and Helen’s,” she said. She handed me a delicate porcelain cup and saucer.

  I told her about Helen’s request and my conversation with the rabbi.

  “Great idea,” she said calmly.

  “What?” I thought she was kidding.

  Violet poured some tea into my cup. “Well, not many of us get to do this. Think of it as a chance to rid yourself of some residual demons. And to show your daughter that even under terrible conditions, her mother remains on the high road.”

  “Vi, you know how difficult my life was when I was married to him. He was so self-indulgent. Chronically depressed and depressing. Remember how I used to complain that he had no friends? Here we are, at his funeral for God’s sake, and the only person who can say a few words about him is . . . me? Weren’t you the one who said Martin’s midlife crisis had gone on long enough to earn a place in the Smithsonian? I’ve spent years covering for him when he wasn’t there for Ellie, and I can’t believe—”

  “Look,” she interrupted, “Martin is—was Ellie’s father. You married for love, even if he turned out to be a miserable disappointment as a husband and father. My mother told me that sometimes the best way to win a battle is to kill the competition with kindness. It’s too late for you to kill Martin, but you can win this last battle in your war with him. You can bury him with kindness. Ellie will never forget that you did this for her. And who knows? Maybe the rabbi is right about the healing power of forgiveness.”

  “I don’t know what to do,” I said slowly. “Violet, do you mind if I try to reach Kevin? I probably should call Beth and Miriam, too.”

  “There’s a phone in the guestroom. Take your tea with you, if you like.”

  Kevin wasn’t in his hotel room, but I left a voicemail telling him about Martin. Answering machines picked up at both Beth’s and Miriam’s houses, and I hung up without leaving messages. I lay down on the bed and thought about what the rabbi and Violet had said about forgiving Martin. The idea had simply never crossed my mind before. Resenting him or ignoring him just came so easily. Now there didn’t seem much point to holding on to my anger. Not if I could help Ellie and Helen by letting go.

  I stayed up all night to write the eulogy. I was surprised at the sweetness of memories that surfaced alongside the old resentments. One of the great mysteries of life is how love holds on. Even when it wounds or scars or fades, so often it doesn’t entirely let go.

  In the morning, I drove back to Helen and Sidney’s house, surprised not to feel the slightest bit tired. Everyone was awake when I walked in the house. The living room furniture had been rearranged to ready the house for Sidney and Helen’s friends who were likely to pay their respects during the shiva period ahead. Martin didn’t have any friends in Acedia Bay, and relatives whose calls he never returned would be unlikely to fly in for the occasion.

  A circle of rented folding chairs and boxes of china and table linens filled much of the living room. From the kitchen, I could hear the crew from Kolodney’s Katering, Acedia Bay’s only kosher food service, clanging pots and pans. Ellie and her cousin Maggie were together on the sofa, which had been moved against the back wall. I kissed them both, and Maggie whispered to me, “Ellie slept pretty well, I think. But she’s not saying much.”

  A petite brunette I figured must be Pauline was sitting nervously on the edge of one of the folding chairs in the corner of the dining room. If I had to guess, I’d say she appeared to be plotting her escape. Under the circumstances, I’m not sure how I would have behaved in her place. I have to admit, I was wondering how Martin had described me to her.

  I held out my hand to her. She looked surprised and a little wary, but she offered a limp handshake and a thin smile. She stayed perched on the chair.

  “Did you sleep here last night?” I asked, desperate for conversation. Idiotic question, I thought immediately.

  “Yes, we—um—the plane got in very late,” she said. “This is such a big house and Helen and Sidney didn’t seem to mind . . .” Her voice trailed off. My God, I thought, she’s practically apologizing for being here. I patted her shoulder and excused myself. She looked relieved to be left alone again.

  I heard Sidney’s voice coming from his study. He was on the phone, giving someone directions to the cemetery. He motioned for me to come in as he hung up.

  “I wrote something to say about Martin,” I said.

  “I’m glad. We need to go, the car’s waiting. It will be a small group, right at the cemetery. Ready?” He ushered me out to the car.

  About twenty friends of Helen and Sidney gathered at the graveside. Pauline seemed to be trembling as she slid into the seat next to Helen. Ellie sat next to me, clutching my hand. I saw Violet and Grant in the back row. Rabbi Weisgall said a prayer and then motioned to me to step up in front of the group, next to the coffin. I let go of Ellie’s hand and walked to the rabbi’s side.

  “Some of you will no doubt find it unusual that I am speaking here today,” I began. “But Martin was an unusual man.”

  I looked at Ellie, who was beginning to sob, and I went on.

  “Few people know better than I how complicated a person Martin was. But it’s also important to remember he was a man of great imagination and intelligence, with an adventurous spirit. I know this is so, because our daughter inherited so much of what was good in her father.”

  I talked about Ellie’s early childhood, when Martin was a loving father, before he became too self-absorbed and depressed to notice us. (Violet often referred to this as Martin’s Pre-Blue Period, but I didn’t say so.) I told the story of the Halloween when Martin went to Ellie’s nursery school and painted pumpkins to look like Sesame Street characters. And how he had been the only father in the history of Brownie Troop 180 to accompany the girls on a weekend camping trip.

  “Family life—relationships of all kinds—were sometimes challenging for him, but he was proud of his daughter, and he loved her,” I said. “Like all of us, he did the best he could. It’s important to remember that.”

  The rabbi finished the service, and Helen, Sidney, Ellie, and I each threw a handful of dirt on the coffin. As we walked back to the car, Ellie leaned her head against my arm.

  Back at Helen and Sidney’s house, I mingled absent-mindedly with the group that had returned from the cemetery with us. Violet and Grant made their way to me through the small crowd.

  “We’ve got to get to work,” Violet said. “How long are you staying in town?”

  “I think Ellie will want to stay for the week, but I’m not sure what I’m doing. In any case, I think I’ll stay here with Ellie. Can I get m
y suitcase from your house later?”

  “I’ll leave the back door open for you. Listen, call me when you get back to New York,” she said, hugging me. “I assume the Gillians’ annual bash is on again? We’ll come up if we can.”

  “Oh, of course. The invites are in the works. I know Beth expects to see you there.”

  I looked around the room for Ellie. She was politely answering questions about Columbia and her plans for law school, tolerating anecdotes from near-strangers about their memories of her as an adorable, young child. Everyone was trying to be kind, but I could tell Ellie was grateful when I led her away.

  “How are you doing?”

  “Maybe it will hit me later, Mom, but now it’s just kind of strange. I mean, I’m sad, but . . .” She shrugged her shoulders.

  “It’s normal to be numb at this point. But it will start to feel real, maybe when you least expect it. You know your dad really loved you, don’t you?”

  “Oh, yes. I do,” she said, with a kind of finality that let me know she didn’t want to talk anymore.

  “I’ll stay for the week if you want me to.”

  “No, you should go back. Maggie will be here. And Uncle Sidney is so nice, he bought a plane ticket so Doug can come tomorrow. I understand if you want to leave. This has got to be really weird for you.”

  “I’ll be fine if I know you are,” I said.

  “You can go, Mom. Really.”

  __________

  I returned home the next day, leaving my daughter to sit shiva with her father’s family. On the plane, fatigue washed over me. I closed my eyes and almost slept, half-dreaming of Ellie as a small child and me as a young mother. Martin, athletic and youthful as he was when we first met, came in and out of the picture, smiling and holding his arms out toward Ellie and me. I called his name and tried to reach for him, but his hand kept slipping away.

  My flight got me back to New York in the late afternoon. I parked my suitcase with the doorman of my building without going upstairs, and I walked to Broadway. Being in Florida had reminded me again how much I had missed the city during my ten-year exile in Acedia Bay. I turned onto 72nd Street, stopped into a new gelateria, and treated myself to a scoop of mango sorbet. By the time I reached Riverside Park, the sun was starting to set, casting streaks of orange on the windows of the high-rise apartments across the river. I sat on a park bench until the sky grew dark, thinking about meeting and marrying Martin in Manhattan, wondering if our life together might have been different if we had never moved to Acedia Bay.

  The light was flashing on the answering machine when I got back to my apartment. Two messages. The first was from Kevin, characteristically brief. “Honey, I just spoke to Violet. Jeez! I’ll try you again around ten, your time.”

  The second message was from Miriam. Hearing her voice reminded me that she and Beth still didn’t know about Martin. “Hi, hope you’re home safely and that you had the sense to use your sunscreen in Florida. I want a full report on Martin’s behavior at Sidney’s party. Oh, and here’s a sign of the times. Beth has sent email invitations to her party this year. Emily Post be damned! Call me.”

  I switched on my computer, skipping over emails from the office. I skimmed the first page of the monthly issue of L’Arrondissement, an online newsletter for Americans like me who believe that if life were just, they’d have a pied à terre on the Rive Gauche. Featured this month: a report on the controversy surrounding the removal of Jim Morrison’s remains from Père Lachaise cemetery.

  The header on Beth’s email invitation contained about fifty addresses. I recognized most of the names from previous gatherings at her house, the usual assortment of family, old friends, some of their Connecticut neighbors, and Jim’s business associates and clients.

  James Gillian and Dr. Beth Jacobs Gillian

  invite you to the Fifteenth Annual Fall Bash

  at their home, “Château Crummy Acres,”

  in Laurel Falls, Connecticut

  RSVP regrets only, please

  I tried Miriam’s number, then Beth’s. Still no one home. I turned my attention to the small pile of mail that had accumulated in my brief absence. Just a few bills. I shuffled through the envelopes, pulling out the ones that looked most alarming.

  One of the few good things about my marriage was that I didn’t have to worry about paying bills, at least during the years when Martin worked. I could teach part-time and be home with Ellie as much as I wanted. I had even started taking classes at the university in Gainesville to get my doctorate. I still have my notes on the subject I was considering for my doctoral dissertation, “Fatalism and Feminism in the Poetry of Dorothy Parker.” When I got divorced, though, I simply couldn’t afford to be a part-time teacher anymore. And graduate school just dropped off the agenda.

  When I left teaching, I freelanced at first to keep my schedule flexible for Ellie’s sake. My early gigs were a hodge-podge of assignments from anyone I could get to hire me. A few associates from the college had me edit their academic work: I revised a textbook on the life of a nineteenth-century mystical rabbi and edited a series of articles on how to maximize soybean production. I wrote speeches for newly promoted executives and local political candidates. I served as sometime restaurant critic and film reviewer for the Acedia Bay Tribune. I created easy-to-read brochures on low-cost funerals and pesticide-free lawn care. While writing a pamphlet for a physician (“What Every Woman Should Know About Healthy Bones”), I learned about an opening at her hospital for a marketing director, someone who could write. My physician client put in a good word for me, and the job was mine.

  A few years later, when the hospital was sold and my position was eliminated, I returned to New York with Ellie. Since then, I have worked at four different healthcare companies. Three of them have evaporated—victims of mergers, acquisitions, and financial manipulations I’ll never understand. The euphemisms for the layoffs (downsizings, re-orgs) hardly camouflage what everyone involved in the caprice understands all too well: a handful of people are going to get rich as a result of all this, and the rest of us may lose our jobs.

  For more than two-and-a-half years now, I’ve been vice president of the editorial department at Tri-Tech Healthcare Marketing. The company puts together conferences for drug companies to help them launch new drugs or pump up the sales of existing ones. When I interviewed for the job, Joey Selber, founder and president of the company, talked about himself nonstop for almost three hours before asking me if I had any questions.

  “How did you choose the company name?” I asked. “Tri-Tech” didn’t seem to me to have much to do with the company’s mission.

  “Very interesting story,” he said. Later, I would come to learn that Joey considers every word that leaves his mouth to be fascinating. “I was looking for a name that sounded, you know, like we were in the Big Leagues, even though I literally started the company in my garage. So my wife Lorraine, she says to me, Why not try ‘tech’ in the name? Like in ‘technical’? Try tech, get it? Tri-Tech!”

  When I think back to this conversation, I am astounded I ever took the job.

  Tri-Tech now has about sixty employees, but the office still has the feel of a Mom-and-Pop operation. Joey, of course, is Pop, but there is no Mom, unless you count Lorraine Selber. Her main contribution, apart from having inspired the brilliant company name, is to send holiday cards to the staff in December. The cards look the same every year: A photo of Joey and Lorraine wearing oversized Santa caps and holding a sign that says:

  We are so happy to have you in the Tri-Tech family

  Enjoy the holiday of your choice!

  Joey proudly points out that this greeting “covers all the bases: Christmas, Chanukah, that new black people’s holiday, Kew-antsa, or whatever.”

  Most of Tri-Tech’s employees are very young, at least compared to me they are. No accident, since Joey, who turned forty-three this year, pre
fers to be surrounded by people who he believes know less than he does. He tells the young staff how to dress for client meetings (nothing “too designer” is his usual advice to women; a “navy blue, part-polyester jacket that doesn’t wrinkle” is his recommendation for men) and monitors their phone calls to make certain they are projecting the proper Tri-Tech image.

  Tri-Tech’s Operations VP, Lawrence Zimmerman, and I seem to be the only employees who are exempt from Joey’s fashion and business etiquette coaching sessions. Lawrence is a fifty-five-year-old black man, a devoutly religious Episcopalian, with a brilliant mind and polished manners that help to offset Joey’s crudeness. Lawrence’s involvement in his church is a constant source of irritation to Joey. Not that what Lawrence does in his own time interferes in any way with company business—Joey simply feels that devotion to Tri-Tech should pre-empt all other human activity. Lawrence’s talent and intelligence notwithstanding, Joey believes that his having taken on a black person as a partner in the company demonstrates how progressive Tri-Tech is. After his third martini during a plane ride we took together last year, Joey confided to me that he misses the good old days, before political correctness and discrimination lawsuits took the fun out of running a company.

  I recently went to battle with Joey over a candidate for an assistant editor’s position. Joey always gets the final vote on new hires. The best applicant by far was Rebecca Carson, a woman with a journalism degree who had been a healthcare reporter for a small newspaper. Though she was in her thirties, she looked and dressed like a teenager. She was under five feet tall, weighing maybe ninety pounds, with a wild mane of reddish curls streaked platinum blonde at the ends, an oddly asymmetrical face, and pouting crimson lips that looked like a collagen experiment gone wrong. She also had an elaborate tattoo of a peculiar winged creature on her right wrist, which Joey couldn’t keep from staring at throughout her interview.