Second Acts

by Teri Emory

  My brother and his family stayed at Mom’s apartment. I slept in my own place at night and arrived at Mom’s early each morning. Aunt Sylvia, up from Boca Raton, stayed with me. Neil and Kathy were never without cell phones in hand. Grumbling about the inconvenience of having to work away from his office, Neil called the managers of each of his stores every day. These phone calls were long and loud enough so that everyone in the room could hear proof of Neil’s eminence in the nationwide tchochkes domain.

  “His gift shops are all over the country!” Mom’s friends whispered approvingly.

  Kathy called home three times a day to check on Jeffrey, who had been left in the care of their live-in housekeeper. “Fifty dollars max,” I overheard her warn him. “If you spend more than that at the mall today, I’m taking the credit card away for a whole month. I mean it, Jeffrey.”

  The apartment was full of visitors paying respects, day and night, the week following the funeral. The crowd was mostly widows of my mother’s generation. Mom’s mah jong group—women who had been meeting for weekly games since before I was born—faithfully showed up each morning with the day’s supply of what can only be described as mystery meals, purportedly healthful versions of familiar recipes they had miraculously divested of fat, cholesterol, salt, sugar, and flavor.

  “What is this supposed to be?” Gabe whispered to me as he forced down a bite of a spongy, gelatinous mixture.

  “If there are noodles in it, probably lasagna. If you smell cinnamon, it’s apple cobbler,” I whispered back.

  “Tastes like drywall,” he muttered, though I later heard him rave about the dish to the woman who had created it.

  Neighbors who had known my mother for most of her life came by to offer condolences and friendly gossip about other residents in the building. (“Do you remember Mrs. Stockman from apartment 3B? She won a tango contest on a cruise she went on with her new husband. He’s a lot younger than she is, but I hear they’re very happy.”) The women pinched my cheeks as if I were still a child, made a fuss over Neil and Kathy, bragged about their own grandchildren’s latest achievements, and distracted me from sadness. Aunt Sylvia, now having lost the last of her siblings, was subdued and melancholy. At the end of the week, when Gabe and I dropped her off at the airport for her flight back to Florida, she wept.

  “Visit me soon,” she pleaded. “Don’t wait until you have to come see me in a hospital bed. Let’s make happy occasions to be together.”

  “What do you want to do about Mom’s things?” I asked Neil. “I’ll have to clear out the apartment very quickly. It’s still rent-controlled. The landlord can’t wait to turn the place over so he can get market value for it.” Neil, Kathy, Matt, Gabe and I were in a Japanese restaurant in TriBeca. It was the night before my brother was returning to Phoenix.

  “What things?” Kathy wanted to know. With plastic chopsticks, she was picking at her seaweed salad. “Didn’t she leave a will?”

  “It’s the same one she drew up after Dad died. I took her to a lawyer to update it a few years ago. I can tell you what it says. She didn’t have much money, of course, but whatever is left is yours and mine to share, Neil. There are small annuities for your two boys. She made a point of leaving a few pieces of jewelry to Aunt Sylvia and the rest is mine. Most of it would be worth little to anyone except me. Her wedding ring, a charm bracelet she used to wear when we were kids, the rhinestone pin that was her mother’s. The sentimental stuff. You get Dad’s coin collection, but I have no idea what it’s worth.”

  “What’s annuities mean?” Matt wanted to know.

  “It means money especially for you and your brother, a gift from Grandma,” I said.

  “How much?” Matt said, skeptical.

  “I don’t remember exactly. But whatever it is, you should be grateful that your grandmother thought to mention you in her will,” I said pointedly. Matt shrugged, unimpressed. “I’ll donate Mom’s clothing to the AIDS Thrift Shop. But what about her furniture? Books? All those picture albums? Her good china and silver? Do you want any of it?”

  Neil and Kathy exchanged a quick look—I could tell they had already discussed the value—or at least the price—of Mom’s belongings.

  “Maybe just some of the old family pictures,” Neil said. “I’d like some photos of her and Dad, and you and me when we were kids. None of the furniture is worth shipping. You can have it all, but I don’t know what you’ll do with it. You don’t have room for anything more in that apartment of yours. Why don’t you just give it all to Goodwill or something? Most of it is junk, anyway.”

  “It’s not junk to me,” I said slowly.

  “I think Neil meant that none of the stuff is valuable, you know, like antiques,” Kathy said. “It’s only used furniture.”

  Talking to them was pointless. Neil and Kathy could have no appreciation for my memories of just how this furniture became “used.” The mahogany desk where I practiced writing the alphabet. Dad’s rocking chair, with its worn cane seat and the burn mark on the arm from his cigar ash. Mom’s good china—a kitschy Victorian pattern—on which only important meals were served: Thanksgiving. Passover. Dinners with prospective sons-in-law.

  “I’ll figure out what to do,” I said. “You’re right, though, about the space issue. I don’t have a spare inch in my apartment. I suppose I can put everything in storage.”

  “How about my place?” said Gabe. He’d been discreetly quiet the whole time, steering ribbons of pickled ginger and strips of sashimi to his mouth. In the week that had just passed, Gabe had learned the art of tactful retreat from Kaplan family symposia.

  “I thought you were planning on putting in a screening room and office in that space,” I reminded him.

  “There’s plenty of room. We’ll figure it out. No reason to spend money on storing your mother’s things. Besides, if they’re stored, you can’t enjoy them.”

  “See, Miriam, problem solved,” Neil said, pointing his thumb towards Gabe. “He’s a handy guy to have around.”

  __________

  Winter break from school began. I used the time off to clear out Mom’s apartment, giving away her clothes and most of the stuff in the kitchen cabinets, and storing at Gabe’s place the things of hers that mattered to me. We put cartons in his basement and set up one of the rooms on the second floor of his house as a kind of parlor for Mom’s furniture. The room had a bay window, built-in bookshelves, and a carved mantle above what had once been a fireplace but was now a brick wall. I put some framed pictures and a pair of Georg Jensen candlesticks (a silver anniversary present from Dad to Mom) on the mantle and filled the shelves with books and photo albums. I moved the mahogany desk against the bay window, and arranged Mom’s love seat, Dad’s rocking chair, and a few occasional tables around the phantom fireplace. Gabe gave me a set of keys to his house. “For whenever you want to visit Celeste’s room,” he said. “Or me, even.”

  It was mid-January before I got back to my normal schedule. School started up again the same week that Gabe was leaving for Sundance.

  “Can’t you play hooky and come with me?” he asked.

  “If I hadn’t been absent so much this year, I’d be tempted,” I said. “You’re on your own. Just keep your hands off the starlets.”

  “Yeah, right. They’re all flying to Utah in hopes of meeting a balding, middle-aged guy with no money, someone who can’t do a damn thing for their careers. Can I bring you anything from the wild West?”

  “How about one of those balding, middle-aged guys that the starlets reject?”

  __________

  “In a way, I’m glad to have some time to myself,” I told Sarah. We were at her place, examining a book auction catalog from Christie’s. Sarah was hoping to nab a signed first edition of Our Town. So far, antique books had been her only new acquisitions since she found out that Martin’s death had left her rich.

  “You’ve had
quite a time the last few months,” Sarah said.

  “As we all have. The last time I was here, Kevin lived with you, but the place doesn’t seem much different.”

  “That’s because almost everything in this apartment has always been mine. I still haven’t heard a word from him. It’s as if he’s erased the five years we were together. On the basis of one night! Tell me, was I an embarrassment at the party?”

  “You were a very witty drunk. But you didn’t seem to pay much attention to Kevin.”

  “I had just found out about Brendan. I was still in shock, I think. If I hadn’t been drunk, I suppose I would have waited for a private moment with Kevin to ask about his son. But I was furious, and after all that had happened that week at work, I needed to anesthetize myself.”

  “I don’t think people truly act out of character when they drink,” I said. “Especially people who seldom drink, like you and me. People like us act exactly like ourselves—just, perhaps, a different part of ourselves shows up.”

  “Well, a part of me showed up that Kevin didn’t want to have anything to do with. You can’t imagine the things we said to each other the next day! It was hard to believe we were the same people we’d always been. As if we’d each undergone sudden and complete metamorphoses and neglected to tell each other. How do people stay together, anyway? Even Beth and Jim, as much as they love each other, have been through a few ordeals.”

  “Speaking of which, when are we going to do brunch?” I said. “Beth refuses to divulge any more details about her day with Andrew until she can do it face to face. Have you heard any more?”

  “Only that she did tell Jim that she met with Andrew, and Jim didn’t take it too well. They’re still reeling, but I think they’ll be all right. Beth thinks so, too.”

  “They’re planning a trip to Europe sometime in the fall,” I said. “Nicole is spending fall semester in Paris. They’ll stop off there to spend some time with her. I still can’t quite believe you’ll be living there, too.”

  “This is something I’ve wanted for as long as I can remember. You know that. I’ll be back a few times a year.”

  “I hated it when you moved to Acedia Bay, and that was only a three-hour flight away. Besides, I worry about your being in Europe alone.”

  “You mean without a man? I’m finished with all of that. Listen, if I call you from there and say that I’ve met a man and I’m madly in love, I want you to fly right over and lock me in a closet until I start making sense again.”

  “Even when you say, ‘But this one’s different’?”

  “Especially if I say that,” Sarah said.

  “I mean you’ll be truly alone. You don’t know anyone in Paris,” I said.

  “I know Nicole Gillian. You just said she’s going to be there.”

  “As if she’ll want to hang out with her Aunt Sarah. I meant that you won’t have a job there, so you won’t be meeting people that way. Aren’t you afraid of being lonely?”

  “I’ve had a bad marriage and an unsatisfying significant-other arrangement. There’s nothing lonelier than coming home every day to the wrong person.”

  “Still, I’d love to think the right man is waiting somewhere for you. But what I’m wondering is, what will you do with your time? How will you spend your days?”

  “I still have the idea that I’d like to write. I’ve been threatening to be a real writer for thirty years. Maybe my time has finally come. Does that make you feel better?”

  “A little. When do you think you’ll move?”

  “By Labor Day, I imagine. I want to make sure Ellie is all set, wherever she winds up after graduation.”

  “We’ll just have to visit very often to check up on you.”

  “Who’s ‘we’? Do you mean you and Beth? Or you and Gabe?”

  “Whoever,” I said, more abruptly than I intended.

  “Hmm,” said Sarah. “Am I missing something about Gabe? All I see is a wonderful guy who’s nuts about you.”

  “Oh, Sarah,” I said. “I do love him, really.”

  “Then what’s holding you back?” I shrugged. “I was wondering why you didn’t let me call him the night your mother died,” she said.

  “I had you and Beth with me. I need some breathing room with him sometimes.”

  “Let me ask some questions, okay?” she said. I nodded. “First, just to satisfy my own prurience, how are things in bed?”

  “Couldn’t be better. He’s a very sexy man—adventurous and imaginative. He makes me feel like the most desirable woman in the world. It’s wonderful, starting a sexual relationship at this stage in life, when we’re beyond self-consciousness. We can say anything, ask for anything, do anything. So, yes, everything in bed is fine.”

  “Second question, then. Are there family complications?”

  “None. His son and daughter-in-law live a thousand miles away, and from what I can see, everyone gets along. Did I tell you I’m going to meet them in a few weeks? Moira is pregnant and they want to come up for a visit before she’s too far along.”

  “Does this mean you will be the first of us to have a grandchild?”

  “Not so fast. A few things have to happen before anyone starts calling me Granny.”

  “You mean like officially marrying Gabe and all that?” She waved her hand. “Minor details. You won’t let him get away.” She leaned forward, with a questioning look. “Please, tell me I’m right. You are too smart to pass this up, aren’t you?”

  “I know, I know. He’s intelligent and sexy, and he comes complete with a grandchild-to-be and a fabulous house in the neighborhood I’ve lived in and loved for twenty years. He’s the only person I’ve ever met who has seen more movies than I have. Everyone who loves me thinks he’s terrific. He was an angel when my mother was sick and when she died, and, well, anyone can see how he feels about me.”

  “So?”

  “So . . . I can’t help but feel that things are lopsided.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He takes care of me. In every way. My mother gets sick in Florida, he hops on a plane. I need a place for Mom’s furniture, he gives me a whole floor in his brownstone.”

  “So far I’m having trouble seeing the down side.”

  “It’s a little suffocating. And unbalanced. I’d like to take care of him a little. But I don’t know what I can give him that’s comparable to what he gives me.”

  “Have you asked him what you can do for him?”

  “You mean when we’re not having sex?”

  “Exactly. Communicating in bed is easy compared to everything else you have to do in a relationship. Have you told Gabe what you’re telling me?”

  “No. I didn’t want to seem . . . ungrateful.”

  “He knows you appreciate what he’s done for you. Here’s a novel idea: why not be honest with him?”

  “An interesting concept, honesty. Not everyone’s first inclination. Especially when men and women talk to each other.”

  Sarah let out a wry laugh. “You’re telling me?”

  __________

  Gabe returned after a week at the film festival, showing up at my door with an official Sundance baseball cap for me and a satchel of souvenirs for my film class. He was brimming with amusing anecdotes about parties and screenings and celebrity sightings. “You should have been with me,” he said. “Next year, for sure.”

  One of his Film Institute students had won a prize for best original movie script. Her film was about a female college student’s homicidal revenge against a professor who ruins her chances for a scholarship after she refuses to sleep with him.

  “Autobiographical?” I said. “I don’t mean that your student actually murdered anyone, but maybe she had the experience with a professor and then imagined how she’d get even.”

  “Not likely. She’s a lesbian and too gentle a so
ul to fantasize about murder, I think.”

  “You’d be surprised what fantasies people harbor. And the grudges they hold on to.”

  “Is that a hint?” Gabe said. “Are you plotting to bump someone off?”

  “I’ll admit to a murderous thought or two, but not lately. How about you?”

  “I was in a terrible marriage for many years. Unhappy spouses typically fantasize about getting rid of their mates, one way or another.”

  “Why did you stay married for as long as you did?”

  I saw the muscles tighten in his jaw. “I guess I have a weakness for lost causes,” he said.

  “Gee, thanks,” I said.

  “I don’t mean you. You, dear Miriam, are the . . . the antithesis of a lost cause.”

  “That’s a compliment, right?”

  “I meant it as one. When I finally got divorced, I was finished for good with rescue missions. For a long time, I stayed with Trudy because I thought I could change her. And I felt partly responsible for her alcoholism.”

  “I thought the current thinking is that alcoholism is a disease, something you can’t cause another person to get. Like diabetes.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I learned after about twenty thousand dollars of therapy. The operative word is enabler. As long as I took responsibility for Trudy’s problems, I made it easy for her to keep drinking.”

  I already knew that Gabe had married Trudy when she became pregnant in their sophomore year at Tulane. Trudy dropped out of college when their son was born and became a receptionist at a dental office so she could support them while Gabe went to school.