Ask Bob: A Novel

by Peter Gethers

  I don’t know how long I stayed like that. I do know that I woke up sometime around six A.M., so I must have fallen asleep for some period of time. When I awoke, my sheets felt as if they’d been washed, then placed on the bed without having gone through the dryer. They were cold and I was colder. But I was no longer in a panic because I knew exactly what I was going to do.

  Phil was already up and sitting in my living room, drinking a tomato-juice-and-tequila concoction. (It was healthy, he said, because of the celery stalk he’d rammed into it.) He took one look at me and made me a drink of my own, which I gulped rather than sipped. When I told him my idea, he just nodded, as if I’d made the easiest, most natural decision in the world. I asked him if he thought it would be allowed. He said he had no idea, but within seconds we were on my computer—weirdly like little kids again, as if hunting for treasure or, when we were slightly older, looking through magazine racks for porn—and soon we found what I needed to find.

  Suddenly my idea seemed wildly crazy and impossible to fulfill. I wanted Phil to make the call, but for the first time since Anna died, he shook his head and said that I should do it. He stared at me in such a way that I knew I wasn’t going to win this argument, so I checked the number on my computer screen, picked up the phone, and called a temple up in Morningside Heights. A woman answered, and I suddenly realized I didn’t even know whom to ask for. I stumbled a bit over my explanation and finally she said, “You need to talk to the rabbi.” I said okay and as I waited, I wondered if I’d ever spoken to a rabbi before. I decided the answer was no just seconds before I heard a fairly high-pitched man’s voice say, “Hello, may I help you?”

  I was calling the rabbi because Anna had come to love Greenwich Village as much and possibly even more than I did. She loved strolling around, finding little nooks and crannies and unexpected pleasures. She loved the few remaining wooden stand-alone houses, and she spotted things almost no one else saw or paid attention to: historical plaques on brownstones and tenement buildings, unique moldings and the stray gargoyle, rooftop gardens that could barely been seen from the street, antique glass left in townhouse windows. She was fascinated by the history behind the century-old cast iron figures attached to the fronts of several buildings in the West Village. (They were indications that you had fire insurance; if you were wealthy enough to have a cast iron emblem on your house and your house caught on fire, the fire department would rush to save it. If you didn’t have one, you were fresh out of luck and your house would, in all likelihood, burn to the ground without anyone offering to help. I’d bought her two of them for her twenty-eighth birthday and she was as delighted as I’d ever seen her; she told me she knew they’d protect her as well as our home.)

  Most of all, Anna loved the little cemetery on West Eleventh Street. It was a tiny plot of land, and the gravestones dated back to the early 1800s. She used to walk by and rest her hands on the metal gate, which was always locked; we never saw it open. She considered it the most peaceful spot in Manhattan. It was a Sephardic Jewish cemetery, but that had no meaning for her; she was thrilled only by the link to the past and the fact that it could survive in the midst of hundreds of years of building and reconstruction and rezoning. She had done some research on the cemetery a few years before and discovered that it was owned by the oldest Jewish congregation in North America. She also learned that in fact there were three Sephardic cemeteries in Manhattan.

  One Sunday we had a cemetery date: We started downtown at the oldest one, near Chatham Square in Chinatown. It operated as a cemetery from 1683 until 1828; buried there, among others, are twenty-two veterans of the Revolutionary War and the first American-born rabbi. We then strolled up to the third cemetery (third going chronologically), which is on Twenty-first Street just west of Sixth Avenue. This cemetery opened in 1829; it’s jarring to see it today, since it’s stuck in between unattractive buildings, looking anonymous and lost. We stopped off and had lunch at Eisenberg’s on Fifth Avenue, a classic diner that has not just the best egg creams in the city but also perfect grilled cheese sandwiches, which of course pleased Anna to no end. Anna didn’t just like to make grilled cheese sandwiches, she liked to sample the gourmet outside-the-home versions.

  After lunch we walked down to her favorite place in the city, the graveyard on Eleventh Street. We stood there for twenty minutes or so and didn’t speak much. We thought about the past and the present and let our arms touch as we occasionally swayed back and forth. We held hands. When we did talk, we wondered about the people buried there and if they had any descendants still in New York. This one, the second of the Sephardic cemeteries, opened—if cemeteries open; I guess it’s not like movies or plays, although it’s the same basic concept—in 1805, and although it was eventually cut back in size, twenty original headstones are still there. The best thing Anna learned about this strange little enclave was that it was originally next to a red brick building that became a Civil War tavern known as the Grapevine. While Union officers drank, Southern spies listened surreptitiously, and thus was born the phrase “I heard it through the grapevine.” Anna loved that story. I know that if there were such a thing as a time machine, the first place she would have traveled to would have been the Grapevine, to have a drink and then to linger in front of the West Eleventh Street cemetery.

  So when the rabbi at the temple answered the phone and asked what he could do for me, all I could say was “My wife died two days ago and I’d like to have the memorial service in your cemetery.”

  He was silent for so long that I began babbling. “The thing is, Rabbi, my wife was this really amazing person. And she loved the cemetery on Eleventh Street. The old Sephardic one. I mean, really loved it. She’d walk by it three or four times a week. Not just walk by it, go there specifically to see it. It brought her a certain kind of peace. And … and … I’m cremating her because that’s what I think she would have wanted. I mean, we’re too young to have even talked about something like this. And when she got sick she wanted to talk to me about it, but I couldn’t bear it. A few days before she died she said, ‘You do whatever you want. After I die, whatever happens is for you, not me.’ Except I don’t want it to be for me. I want this to be for her. And I can’t think of anything else to do that would really be for her.”

  Actually, I think I went on a lot longer than that. But when I eventually did stop, the rabbi said, “So what are you asking, exactly?”

  “I … I’m asking if you could open the gate. She never saw it open and I don’t know if you ever even open it, although I guess you must because somebody has to mow the grass and take care of the flowers and stuff. But—”

  “Please,” the rabbi said. “Slow down. Take a breath and tell me what you want.”

  I followed instructions. Took a deep breath. Phil was watching me. He nodded encouragingly. “I want to have the memorial service there. I want to have her friends and family go inside and talk about her in her favorite place. What I’d really like to do is scatter her ashes there, but I understand if you don’t want that or if it’s forbidden or … if it’s sacrilegious or something. But I want her to be inside there. Just once if not forever.”

  “Was your wife Jewish?” he asked.

  “Jewish? Um … no,” I said.

  “Are you Jewish?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you observant?”

  “No,” I told him. “No, neither of us is religious. Was. I’m sorry, I don’t even know what tense to use when I’m talking about her. But we just kind of ignored religion.”

  I saw Phil roll his eyes. He gave me the thumbs-up sign. Clearly sarcastic.

  “You have to understand,” I said before the rabbi could respond, “my wife was a really, really good person. I think she was the best person I ever met. And anyone who knew her would tell you the same thing. She was kind and unbelievably smart and I don’t think she ever did a mean thing to anybody in her whole life. And she hardly ever asked for anything or inflicted herself on anybody. She was just k
ind of perfect and … and … I want to do something really special for her. I just want her to get inside that fucking cemetery, just once, because it’s the only thing I can think of that she ever really wanted. Oh shit, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say ‘fucking.’ Oh god, I didn’t mean to say ‘shit,’ either, and I’m sorry I said it again and I’m sorry I said ‘god.’ I’m kind of not myself because Anna, that’s my wife, she’s only been dead two days, I think I told you that already. I’m sorry. I guess I’m not making a very good case for this. But please. Please. It would be so important to her.”

  Now Phil had his head in his hands, and he was shaking it back and forth as he held it.

  “Are you still there, Rabbi?” I said very quietly into the phone.

  “What’s your name, son?” he said.

  “My name? Heller. Bob Heller.”

  “Your wife’s name was Anna?”

  “Yes. Anna Johnson. She didn’t change her name to Heller. She didn’t believe in changing her name. Maybe that’s too much information. Probably it is. I should stop talking so much.”

  “When would you like for Anna to be inside the cemetery?”

  “Really?” I said. “Um … I don’t know exactly. I think her ashes…” At the word “ashes,” I started to cry. “I’m sorry,” I said. “It’s very hard for me to think of her as just ashes.”

  “Compose yourself,” he said. His voice was soothing and rhythmic. “Take your time.”

  It took longer than I wanted before I could finish my sentence. I tried twice but each time got too choked up to speak. On the third try I finally succeeded: “I think her ashes will be back tomorrow. So maybe the day after that. Just to be, you know, sure.”

  “What time would you like the gate to be open?” he said.

  “Lunchtime,” I said. “Around twelve-thirty. That’s when she usually went there. I don’t know how to thank you. If there’s anything I can do—”

  “I can’t allow you to bury her there, Mr. Heller. Leaving aside the temple’s restrictions, it’s illegal to bury someone in that ground. The city won’t allow it.”

  “I understand. I wasn’t going to bury her. I was thinking of scattering her ashes. I think that’s what she would like. To just be present there forever.”

  “I can’t give you permission. Even putting her above the ground, her ashes, is not permissible. But what I will tell you is that during your visit, no one from our congregation will be present. I’ll have the gardener open the gate at twelve-thirty. And I’ll tell him to leave your group alone for an hour. Is that enough time?”

  “Yes. Yes. That’s plenty. That’s incredibly nice.”

  “Do you understand what I’m saying to you? Your group will be totally alone, with no supervision.”

  “Yes. I think so. I don’t know what to say.”

  “That land is extremely important to members of my congregation. We’re the oldest Jewish congregation in North American, descendants of Spanish Jews, exiled during the Inquisition.”

  “I know. I mean, Anna knew. She knew all about you.”

  “I’m honored that she valued the history and the meaning of this cemetery.”

  “She did,” I said. “She really did. It made her happy that it was there.”

  “Then we should all be happy that she will be there. Even if it’s just once and not forever.”

  “Well … it’s very hard for me to think about being happy, Rabbi. Because she was only thirty fucking years old, and from my perspective anything or anybody who decided it was time for her to die is pretty fucking evil. But yes … I agree. Theoretically, anyway.”

  “I suppose this is not the time to have a theological discussion with you.”

  “No, sir. Not really.”

  “Well, if you ever have the urge to join a temple, Mr. Heller, you should pay us a visit.”

  I took another deep breath, this time without being told to do so. I think it was only the second real breath I’d taken since the conversation began. “Okay,” I said. “I probably won’t have that urge but if I do, sure, I’ll pay you a visit.”

  “I’ll look forward to it,” he said. “And thank you for calling.”

  I hung up the phone. Phil looked at me and said, “You are the most unbelievable fucking guy in the whole fucking world.”

  * * *

  Two days later, we had the funeral. I carried Anna’s ashes, walking from the clinic to the Sephardic cemetery. I went by myself, having convinced Phil and my mother and Marjorie that I wanted to make the stroll alone. It was no easy task—the convincing as well as making my way along the streets carrying the remains of my wife. But it felt right.

  I got to Eleventh Street about twelve-fifteen and waited, trying not to focus on anything. It didn’t work: Seeing the cemetery, knowing what was about to ensue, my breaths started coming in short, asthmatic gasps. My brain kept telling me to stay calm, but my body wasn’t paying any attention. The gardener showed up two or three minutes later. He was Hispanic and didn’t say anything to me. He just unlocked the metal gate and walked away. I stepped inside, breathing heavily. I had expected some sort of relief once I put my feet on the hallowed ground, but there wasn’t any relief. There was just more pressure on my chest and more sweat dripping down my face and neck. I wanted to do something corny, say something aloud to Anna, but I couldn’t. It felt too much like a Steven Spielberg movie as it was. I didn’t believe Anna could hear me. I didn’t believe her soul was hovering nearby. I didn’t believe there was anything left of her except bone fragments and ashes. So I just held those remnants and waited silently.

  Five minutes later, Phil and my mother and Marjorie arrived. Moments after that, Ruby Johnson pulled up in a taxi. She was wearing a tight black skirt and a red blouse that revealed too much bosom. Her high heels were too high; she wobbled rather than walked. Her makeup was a bit garish, too red and powdery. Teetering, she stepped through the gate. To nobody in particular, she muttered into the thick air, “Oh my god, this is a place for Jews.” Then she came up to me, smiled forlornly, and kissed me gently on the cheek. I could feel that her lipstick had left a smudge and I moved to wipe it off with my hand the moment her sticky lips left my skin.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  I nodded.

  “I’m sorry for so many things,” she said. She didn’t say anything else because she glanced to her left and saw Marjorie, who was gripping the handle of a scalpel that she was pulling out of her purse. After that Ruby moved away from me and attached herself to my mother, who assumed the role of saint for the rest of the hour.

  By twelve-forty, everyone who’d been invited had shown up: our New York City friends, the patients from the clinic, my brother and nephew. About twenty-five people stood quietly in the little cemetery.

  I hadn’t actually thought this through. I guess I figured that people would spontaneously step up and begin talking about Anna. But they were all looking at me, waiting for me to lead. I suddenly realized that although I’d kind of rehearsed the service in my head, I hadn’t actually linked my thoughts together and had no coherent plan for proceeding. Every time I tried to speak about Anna I burst into tears, another minor obstacle to my preparation and not something I was eager to do at that particular moment.

  Phil nodded at me. So did Marjorie. I saw Ruby step forward as if she was going to launch into a tirade, and that provided strong motivation. I immediately cut her off and, still holding the urn, said, “Um … I know this will sound strange, but I didn’t really prepare anything to say. The thing about my relationship with Anna was that neither of us ever had to prepare anything to say. There was never an awkward moment or an uncomfortable silence. There was never anything fake or pretend between us. And I don’t think either of us ever got bored listening to the other person. At least I know I didn’t. I…”

  I had to catch my breath, had to blink back tears. I was determined to do this and say what I now realized I needed to say. “I picked this spot because Anna loved it. Sh
e didn’t actually care what the history was—who’s buried here, what the religious significance is, who’s allowed in or who’s kept out. What she cared about was that it existed. That it survived. Anna was all about protecting things she thought were lovely. Protecting people she cared about. Protecting the world as she saw it and wanted it to be. She was bewildered by meanness and hatred. She didn’t understand them. And that’s why she loved it here. I didn’t think of this until just a few minutes ago, but I think she understood that here there was an end to meanness. An end to hatred. It’s a place untouched by time. It’s a sad place because it’s a place of death. But it’s also a hopeful place because it has survived while everything around it has been knocked down, renovated, destroyed. Anna understood that life is all about a combination of hope and sadness. Love and kindness. And endings and forever.”

  I opened the lid of the urn. “Anna liked to do things she knew she shouldn’t do, as long as they were the right things. She never minded pissing people off if she was right. So I’m pretty sure I’m doing the right thing now, for Anna and for me and for everybody here because now she’ll be here forever, in this place she loved. How could that be wrong?”

  With that, I began to pour her ashes around the cemetery. I scattered them over several gravestones and in the bushes. My wife trickled out of a can like some kind of plant food, which is what, in fact, she was going to be.

  Nobody said anything. Ruby was sobbing, loudly and dramatically. Oddly, no one else was crying.