“You’re lucky,” the doctor told me. A deep cut on my forehead needing a few sutures, contusions on my arms and legs, a slightly more serious injury in my right eye, a laceration on my cornea.
And Dana? “You need to rest now, you’re in shock.”
I didn’t like the doctor’s answer. “Dana? How is she?”
“Don’t worry about it. We’re taking care of her.”
With a soft but firm voice he ordered me to turn on my stomach, and stuck a needle in me. Two cops walked into the room. They wanted to talk to me. They asked me if I was a family member. No, I answered, but we practically were, in truth. I wanted to say more. Explain that I was like a son to her, that we loved each other, that we used to be lovers, it was even in the papers, but fatigue crowded out my thoughts. “We need to talk with a family member,” one of the officers said. “Do you know her parents? Brothers, sisters? Children?” The voice was insisting, almost threatening. My mind was getting hazier: whatever the doctor hit me with was having an effect. The doctor encouraged me to answer. With a thick, weak voice, I told them Dana’s parents were dead but that there was her sister Ethel, and I gave them Harperley Hall’s number, where Rosie was taking care of her. The other cop took notes in a little notebook. Feeling myself falling into unconsciousness, I managed to hold on for a moment and shouted, “Why?” The two cops avoided my eyes, and I knew what that meant.
Dana’s funeral took place according to Jewish tradition, two days after her death. Thirty-six hours, to be precise. Everything happened very quickly; her son Mark made sure of it. It was quick, hurried. A train you needed to take but that didn’t stop at your station.
Judy, herself a non-observant Jew — “‘A person’s intelligence can be measured by the quantity of uncertainties he can bear,’ Romain” (Kant, this time) — knew that among her people, you didn’t waste time with the dead. She told me Ethel had called Mark in London, who contacted a rabbi in New York, who himself gave guidelines to the Suffolk County cops as well as the personnel at West Islip hospital — the body was to quickly be sent back to Manhattan, there was to be no autopsy (out of respect for the body), no embalming or cremation, no open casket or flowers (there was no point in killing God’s creatures to honour the dead). Quickly, everyone close to her was informed. Mark and his wife Sarah arrived from London that same night, and the next morning we were all together at the synagogue on Lexington Avenue, shocked, faces drawn, eyes red. When the rabbi’s chanting filled the room, Ethel, already weakened by her cold, fainted. Two women ran to her with water, and I fell apart as well and cried — every tear I had in my body.
I would have accompanied Ethel to the cemetery, but Mark — whom I was meeting for the first time — convinced me otherwise with a single look, cold and pitiless. Clearly, I wasn’t welcome in the Feldman limousine. So I joined Judy in her father’s Ford Fairlane, and we followed, as the rain began to fall, the long procession to the Machpelah Cemetery in Queens, where Dana’s parents had been buried.
My forehead bandaged, my right eye covered, I felt my head was about to burst — lancing pain that the doctor’s pills could have softened had I not thrown them out in an effort to punish myself. I was suffering from panic attacks since the accident — cold sweat, my heart beating irregularly, a weight on my chest. And Dana’s voice, tormenting me, impossible to silence, Have you been drinking? You’re in no shape to drive! I kept revisiting the last image I had of her, which might haunt me to end of my life, perhaps the fruit of my imagination, who knows, but so real, so terrifying: a doll cast against the tree, its neck dislocated, lifeless. Enough to make you go mad.
“I think I’m going crazy, Judy.”
At the wheel of the Ford Fairlane, Judy turned to look at me, her face a mask of empathy.
“No, Romain. It’s called sadness. You’re hurting, you’re in pain, but you’re not crazy.”
With the same awkwardness shown by the few people who embraced me at the synagogue (friends of Dana, including Burke), she tried to comfort me. “It’s not your fault. It happens to thousands of people. It could happen to us, here, now. It was just an accident.” She turned to look at me. “Are you okay? I’ve never seen you so pale. Do you want to stop and grab something to eat or drink? You haven’t eaten anything in two days.”
The mere idea of food made me want to throw up.
In front of us, a black Cadillac filled with Dana’s cousins or uncles or aunts — I didn’t know anymore. Behind us, Blema Weinberg’s silver Bentley, driven by her chauffeur. At the synagogue, she barely acknowledged me, that dark look she gave me, a knowing look. She was sure it wasn’t just an accident, as the rabbi — and everyone else — kept repeating. She’d seen me stagger, she’d seen my hands tremble as I had tried and failed to find the ignition.
Drops of rain exploded on the windshield, immediately whisked away by the wipers. I closed my eyes. The Austin-Healey had been rammed off the road by a Dodge pick-up, or so a witness swore. The cops were still looking for it.
Just an accident? All these people who loved Dana — I was lying to them. I couldn’t imagine this nightmare ending.
Judy said, “You know what Nietzsche said about death?”
“Please, Judy. Forget Nietzsche and the others. I don’t give a fuck about their philosophies. I’m going crazy, for crying out loud!”
She stiffened, her eyes fixed on the road. She said in a small, hurt voice, “I’m grieving as much as you are. What do you want me to say? It’s a nightmare? It’s the end of your life? You won’t live through it?”
“Please, Judy, shut up.”
We made our way in silence to Machpelah Cemetery, on Cypress Hills Street, without another word. At the end of the afternoon, she dropped me off in front of my place, on Perry Street, in the West Village. I got out of the Ford Fairlane without kissing her or saying goodbye.
11
“Stay with me, Romain. Don’t go. Hold me.”
Ethel was living in my loft now. She couldn’t be alone at her place or at Harperley Hall, surrounded by Dana’s things, even if Rosie would have taken care of her like her own daughter. I made us spaghetti and grilled cheese with Campbell’s soup and dry biscuits, but we weren’t hungry. We drank a lot: Schlitz in the morning, vodka at noon, sometimes earlier.
I asked Judy to tell the museum I was quitting. She tried to dissuade me, “They’ll give you as much time as you need. Don’t be an idiot and throw it all away on a whim.” I couldn’t go back to my old life as if nothing had changed. I wouldn’t allow myself to be happy, either. I told Judy it was over between us.
“You can’t isolate yourself, Romain!”
“I can, Judy. That’s what I need. To be alone. I don’t deserve anyone.”
The only person I saw was Ethel. She was still sick and spent her days in my bed. She called to me from time to time in a sad, hoarse voice, and I went to her and lay beside her. We spooned, listened in silence to the muted sounds rising from the streets — garbage trucks, deliverymen, and sometimes, not far away, children playing and laughing. Life going on. We were outside time, in another galaxy, in our grief that no one could take away from us. We made love a few times, crying. We were trying to lose ourselves in each other, trying to find pieces of Dana. We made love, and then I told Ethel I couldn’t continue. Ethel looked at me, tears running down her cheeks, and lowered her eyes. She understood. She wasn’t angry at me. She knew it was the right thing to do. We both knew.
“We have to accept her death,” Ethel said, inconsolable. “I don’t know if I can, Romain …” She coughed. A harsh, deep cough, “You really think it was Dana’s time? That’s all it was? And we shouldn’t try to understand?”
Her time had come. When she got a hold on herself, Ethel held on to those empty words like a rotten plank in a stormy sea. They seemed to comfort her. Who was I to take that away from her? What right did I have to tell her the truth?
All that was left was to live with my secret.
It was my penance.
Terrified, I sat with the others in the law office of Sam Waller. Austere, proud, like a James Wood painting. He was to reveal to us how Dana had evaluated our position in her life. Isn’t that the accounting we do when we inherit from someone — don’t the largest pieces go to those they loved the most?
“No, Ethel, I can’t.”
“What do you mean, you can’t? They’re Dana’s last wishes! Have some respect, please!”
“I’m not strong enough. I shouldn’t be there. Please don’t force me to be there.…”
I killed her, for God’s sake!
“It’s hard for everyone, Romain Carrier!”
Waller had barely opened the door, and Mark and Sarah made their way to the leather seats near the window, without a handshake or a nod. They sat down before everyone, and as soon as the rest of us had found a chair, Mark began talking about me as if I wasn’t in the room, but simply some manifestation of a bad smell, “What’s he doing here?” Immediately, I wanted to run. Ethel must have felt it, because she grabbed my arm and held on tight. Waller coughed, blew his nose, and formally declaimed that he was executing the wishes of the deceased and that “Mr. Carrier is one of her legatees.” Mark made a face.
Mark’s resemblance to Dana troubled me. His eyes especially. Black, penetrating. He was a handsome man, clearly used to authority, you could feel it in the superior way he carried himself, making it clear that he would aggressively defend his ideas, his way of life, his God. Dark clothes, beard, kippa. His wife was soft, fat, without beauty (twenty-five years old and already four children). She wore a wig. The way their hands played with the leather armrests, you could tell they were nervous.
Seated in the half-lit room on East 33rd, we listened, tense, to Waller, the third of his name and a third-generation lawyer — it was proudly noted on the wall behind him — as he read the document in a neutral tone, sometimes getting hung up on words, though never numbers. I could hear the blood beating in my temples as Sarah and Mark Feldman stared at him offensively, as if he expected a confession.
Dana had a little more than two million dollars, a fortune for the time, and I felt my stomach churning.
To her son and grandchildren, Dana left more than a million dollars in cash and securities, and Ethel would say later, frothing at the mouth, “Okay, sure, it’s his father’s money, but still!” You should have seen their triumphant air, Mark and his wife, their satisfied smile. It would soon be erased however. In his drab voice, the lawyer declared that Dana had left to Ethel her Harperley Hall property and everything it contained, including a few very valuable paintings — a Braque, a Soutine, a small Dalí, and a few Franz Klines — as well as seven hundred thousand dollars. “And to Romain Carrier, I leave …” My name said out loud felt like a punch in the face. Words, numbers, a fog. How much? A thousand? Ten thousand? Thirty? No.… One hundred thousand dollars! A hundred thousand dollars like a hundred thousand cuts to the heart. And what’s more, the house in Métis Beach, the Victorian mansion that Grandfather McPhail had built and that Dana loved, “So you might always have a connection with your home.…” Touching words from Dana, read by a stranger in a monotone.
All of it … for me? Punish me, please! Don’t reward me!
“No, please … I can’t accept.…”
“They’re Dana’s wishes!” Ethel cut me off.
Deaf to our reactions, the lawyer continued his reading of the will through his thick glasses, turning the pages with a finger he first wet in his mouth, as if he could taste Dana’s life in the description of goods, money, property.
Ethel received the rights to The Next War and Women and Arts, which would ensure her a certain stability for the rest of her life. Mark, who already felt — counted, probably — the immense pecuniary potential of his mother’s books, protested, encouraged by Sarah, “This has to be a mistake.…” Ethel turned red, outraged, “A mistake? Is that what you just said? The books you claimed were feminist drivel?” Her whole body shook with disgust. She coughed, then said, “Aleha ha-shalom — may peace be upon her.”
The lawyer was now speaking of things that didn’t concern us, a life-long pension for Rosie, a few debts that needed to be settled. Then he stacked the papers on his desk, the signal that he was done with us. He got up, offered his hand, which Mark and Sarah refused. “Everything will be done and distributed according to the wishes of the deceased.”
“Not before my lawyers get involved,” Mark said.
Waller had a tight smile, “It is no longer my business, Mr. Feldman. If you so wish, go to the courts. They’ll decide.”
He opened the door. Ethel grabbed my hand and pulled me out.
“Hey, gigolo.”
Gigolo? Is that what he said? I pretended not to hear, and kept walking towards the exit.
“Leave us be,” Ethel said.
“Hey!” Mark insisted. “I’m not done with him.”
I was about to step into the elevator with Ethel when I felt his hand on my shoulder, firm, hostile. I clenched my fists. “You really think you’re going to get away with this? My grandfather’s house will never leave the McPhail family, you hear?”
Ethel spoke up, “Ah! And when’s the last time you were there? You always hated the place! A yokel’s house in a yokel country, you used to say!” She was hysterical now. “How dare you claim your grandfather’s name when you renounced it, Mark Feldman!”
She took me by my arm. “Come, Romain. Forget them. This is the last time we’ll ever see them.” The elevator doors closed. Annoyed, Ethel began furiously pounding the button, calling it back. “Come on! Hurry up!”
Mark kept going, though, his voice threatening. “I’m not done with you. I know you were at the wheel that night.”
I became white as a sheet.
“Come on, Romain. Let’s take the stairs instead.”
But Mark, while shorter than me, was larger, and blocked my way, a vengeful finger pointed under my chin. “Blema Weinberg saw you leave. She told me you looked strange, not normal. I asked the cops to open an enquiry. You killed her. You killed my mother!”
“No!” Ethel howled, “It was an accident!”
I clenched my jaw. The police knew I’d gotten behind the wheel in Amagansett. I told them that Dana had taken over after a few miles since I’d had too much to drink, the only lie in my deposition. The police even questioned the cook who’d been smoking in front of the seafood joint. All of it had been corroborated. For the police, I wasn’t a suspect. For them, it was “just an accident.”
But what difference did that make? I was guilty anyway.
“You killed her! And you’re going to pay! Justice will be served, and you’ll know God’s wrath!”
“Shut up!” Ethel was shouting, “Shut up!”
I saw black and red and then nothing. Violently, I pushed Mark against the wall, and Sarah began to shout. Waller appeared from behind his door, furious, and ordered us to leave immediately. Shaking, Ethel grabbed me by the hand and pulled me down the stairs. I heard Mark shout one last time, “You won’t get away with this! I swear to you, you won’t get away with this!”
12
Since she refused to fly, I went to Grand Central Station to fetch her, a bouquet of carnations in hand.
Downtown was a mess of traffic, tourists, and subway stations bursting with people. On Fifth Avenue, the Columbus Day Parade was petering out, the clamour of the marching bands had passed 67th Street already, and stone-faced municipal workers were already on the job, cleaning up the streets. Watching the crowd disperse, I thought of Moïse who, every year, would say, “Do these people even know what they’re celebrating? Christopher Columbus? The first illegal immigrant to America.”
The train from Montreal spilled out its passengers, and still, no one who looked like her. What if she’d c
hanged her mind? Did I have the time wrong? The day? Despair began to filter in when, suddenly, through the crowd, something familiar attracted my attention — her horrible yellow wide-brimmed hat that she only wore on special occasions.
For the most exotic trip of her life, my mother had dressed herself to the nines.
I rushed towards her. She saw me, and her uncertain smile wavered. I opened my arms, and she drew back like a trapped animal. We hadn’t seen each other in six years, and I’d forgotten that we didn’t hug in our family.
I grabbed her old fake leather suitcase that had never gone farther than Quebec City. She said, as if I was a child who had dirtied his Sunday best, “Your forehead. What’s wrong? And your eye?” “The accident, Mom.” She took a step back to look me over, then judged that I was pale, I’d lost too much weight and my hair — cut only two days earlier — was too long. “Tomorrow we’ll go to the barber, I’m paying. You’ll see, we feel better in our pain when we clean ourselves up a little.”
I was freshly washed, shaved, wearing clean clothes I’d just bought, stinking of expensive cologne I had bought just for her, and she was talking to me about the importance of feeling clean? Only a mother.… But after the difficult weeks I’d lived through, I was ready to be treated like a boy.
She was wide-eyed in the taxi that brought us to the hotel. She watched every pedestrian, stared impudently at blacks and young women with short skirts, exclaiming, “God in Heaven!” She raised her eyes, stretching her neck to catch a glimpse of the top of the Park Avenue buildings, “All these people living on top of each other?” She clicked her tongue, turned towards me, incredulous, “How do they do it?” I laughed. Yes, for the first time since Dana’s death, I laughed. She seemed offended by the suite I’d reserved for her at the St. Regis. The bellhop closed the door once he had his tip in his pocket, though not after some consternation as he tried to find a place in the richly decorated room, already bedecked in roses and lilies, for the pitiful carnations I’d bought at the train station.
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