I closed my eyes again. “No, no family to speak of.”
“No family. I see.” The man, Julius, seemed disappointed. “Well, how good a friend are you?” he asked, hopefully.
“A good friend,” I said. “But we’ve been out of touch for a bit.” And, as has happened too many times in my life, the words tumbled out before I could stop them. “Shall I come?” I asked. “I could help, I guess. I just retired, actually, so I have the time.”
Julius exhaled a long breath. “God, yes. That would be excellent. We’d be so relieved. My wife and I. Other people, too. Judith, that’s what you said your name is, right? We’re neighbors, Judith, we care about Elliot. He has friends. They had friends. People are worried. But this seems bigger than we should be dealing with. You know, something for family to take care of.” Then he repeated, as if I might have remembered someone since he last asked, “You’re completely certain there’s no family in the area?”
“No family,” I concurred, then added, “But I’m like family. We’ve known each other almost our whole lives. I’ll come. Of course I’ll come.” I looked around my comfortable kitchen in the Oakland Hills, wondering where this would all lead. What would I find when I got to Beacon? I couldn’t imagine the possibilities. Yet I knew, absolutely, that I had to make the trip to New York. You needed me.
13
Beauty Undiminished
I flew from San Francisco to JFK, then got a train from Grand Central for the ninety-minute trip up the Hudson. Although snow covered everything, the small towns along the way looked pretty, and I wondered why I’d never visited before. By the time I arrived in Beacon, it was dark. I wished I could familiarize myself with your world. I wanted to see the streets of your town: that coffee shop, the bronze statue of Lillian, her gallery, now in the hands of others. I wanted to visit the studio where you wrote and phoned me for those hours-long conversations. But it was cold and dark, so I checked into the Beacon Inn and told myself I’d explore first thing in the morning.
Before I pulled the comfortable, soft duvet around me, I called your neighbor, Julius, to let him know I’d arrived. I’d make my way out to your house the next day. Julius told me the housekeeper, Trina, would be there to let me in.
“How is Elliot?” I asked. “Any change?”
“No, sorry. He seems just as forgetful and confused. I guess it’s up and down. I did what you suggested, though and made an appointment with Elliot’s doctor in town. For tomorrow. You can go with him—I told Dr. Fagin you’d bring him in.”
“Did you tell Elliot I was coming to New York?” I asked, suddenly shy, all the bravado involved with sweeping in and taking charge drained out of me. After all, you might completely reject me, say you didn’t even want me around to visit. In my life, I’d made so many assumptions, acted on them quickly, and was left to examine them later—only then seeing the flaws in my plan. I’d impulsively planned to rescue Elliot Pine, a man I hadn’t seen in several years and one with whom I’d had a far from simple relationship. Would this be seen as intrusive or a gesture of concern? I was probably wondering this too late.
“The day before yesterday we spoke about you,” Julius said. “Elliot seemed pleased about your visit. Spoke of you glowingly. But then,” the neighbor continued, “yesterday and today, when we reminded him, he looked surprised. Both days he repeated, ‘Judith coming here? In winter? Judith hates the cold. Why would Judith be coming to Beacon? You must mean someone else.’”
I laughed. “Well, he’s got that right—I do hate the cold. At least he remembers that.”
In the frigid January morning, I stepped outside for my tour of Beacon. But within a block, I scurried back to the hotel, not even making it as far as the coffee shop you’d spoken of for so many years. I had excruciating brain freeze, the front of my head and face aching, my nose dripping. The cold pierced my borrowed puffy coat and stung my eyes. For relief of this alone, Elliot should come with me back to California, I thought. Why would anyone willingly submit to weather like this?
I took a taxi out to your house. The driver went carefully, slowly navigating the roads. The ride surprised me; you lived so much farther from town than I’d expected. There were large open fields, interspersed with forested areas, ice weighing down the tree limbs. The pristine snow emphasized how rural the area was. I saw few signs of other people, no other cars on the road. How could you possibly stay out here alone? The only sound I heard was the taxi’s tires covered with chains, slowly crunching over the snow. Trina must have been watching for me. As soon as the cab stopped, she ran out from the house onto the driveway. She was a youngish woman wearing a heavy sweater and fleece jacket over her jeans, clunky men’s galoshes on her feet. We both sunk nearly to our knees in the snow as we made our way to the short, shoveled section in front of the house, both of us lugging my suitcase.
“So sorry,” she said. “I tried to shovel a bit more, but that was as far as I got. It’s been a brutal winter. The snow keeps falling, almost every day, then more again at night. It’s impossible to keep up with. Fortunately, the plow came through this morning and cleared the road. Otherwise, I’m not sure your cab would have made it.”
When we got inside the house, I tried to stop shivering. The cold was only part of it. I felt the usual tremors of excitement at seeing you, even more nervous than usual because of my mission. The arrogance of my mission.
You came down the stairs and stopped when you saw me. I’d tried to prepare myself for anything, the way you looked, whatever you’d say. Yet I caught my breath, for your beauty was undiminished. I’d anticipated many things about your appearance, aged, disheveled, agitated, but I hadn’t expected you to still be so beautiful. You stared at me from the bottom of the stairs for a long moment. Finally, you walked toward me with your arms opened. “What the fuck?” you said. But it was with a smile and the corners of your eyes crinkled the way they always had.
“I heard you might need some help,” I said, and shrugged my shoulders. “So I came.” I’d decided on the flight to New York that there was no reason to pretend. Honesty was what you deserved.
You bent to hug me, to envelop me in your arms. However, instead of relaxing into the hug, I stiffened. As you’d come near, there was a strong odor I didn’t like. Elliot, I am sorry to say, you smelled of piss. Piss and maybe more. I tried not to breathe as you hugged me.
When you straightened, you said, “Help? Help me with what? You look like you’re the one needing help. Look at the size of that suitcase. Trina, leave it. You’ll both hurt yourselves. And Trina, could you call Lilly at the shop? Tell her we have company. This is wonderful, Judith, just wonderful. A great surprise.”
Trina’s eyes and mine met. I looked to her for guidance. What now? Was she going to correct Elliot or let it pass?
She spoke softly, but bless her, she spoke. “Elliot, you remember that Lilly sold her shop? And that she’s left? She’s gone back up to Canada. So, your friend Judith has come here to give you a hand.” And Trina went toward the kitchen, patting your shoulder as she passed, but leaving us alone in the entryway.
I closed my eyes, astounded at how completely the same you looked, yet how different you seemed. Your jeans, your cable-knit wool sweater, maroon and well fitting, all negated by the fact that under those stylish clothes, there was an odor, yes, now rather strong, of someone who’d neglected to clean himself. I was so embarrassed for you.
“See,” I said, annoyed at the false cheeriness of my voice, “it took your needing something to get me out here. All these years I said I’d come and now that it’s probably sixty degrees warmer in California, and you’ve had these record snowfalls in New York, I finally made the trip. You’d better be happy to see me.” I unbuttoned and then started to slip my arms out of the big puffy coat I was wearing.
You stared at me, then used the same gesture to brush back your hair that you’d used since boyhood. Your hair was also the same, thick and dark, that Kennedy hair, as we used to call it. There was a
bit of gray in it now, though not much.
“I need help,” you repeated, in a completely flat voice, not a question, nor a statement either.
“You need help,” I repeated, more firmly. “You’ve been forgetting things and I know you, you’ll want to get to the bottom of this. See what’s going on. We have an appointment later this afternoon with your doctor in Beacon. George Fagin? At two. Remember George?”
“Of course I remember. He’s been my doctor for years.” You squinted at me. “How do you know George?” you asked suspiciously.
“I don’t know him yet,” I answered. “But your neighbor Julius made an appointment for us. For you.” I hesitated before saying the next thing. For was I to be your friend? Your nurse? Your former lover? I didn’t know yet, but there was no avoiding what had to be done. Your body could not be ignored. Your body was part of all this. Not just your mind. So I said what I had to say. “Let’s go upstairs, so you can shower and change. I’ll help you.” I gave you my best smile. “Maybe we’ll have time for you to take me out to lunch afterward, before your appointment. Show me the best Beacon has to offer.” I started up the stairs, lugging my suitcase with two hands, willing you to follow me and willing myself to be brave.
It must have been the suitcase that jarred you into action. “Say,” you said, and rushed forward, “let me get that. It’s enormous. You can’t take that. You don’t even know where to put it.”
We walked around the second floor, touring the space, you seeming unsure which of the rooms to leave my suitcase in. There were three bedrooms, all oriented toward the back of the property, with beautiful views of the trees and the sun shining on glistening snowy mounds. The master bedroom, your room, was large and comfortable. I could see places on the wall which were less faded, where paintings must have hung before Lillian took them. The bed was neatly made with an Amish quilt and the door to the master bath was open, a large room with green and blue glass tiles surrounding a deep tub and separate shower stall. It resembled a bathroom in an expensive spa.
The entire upstairs had a pleasantly worn pine floor, the planks wide and honey colored. The remaining two bedrooms were also tidily made up, but I could see that the smaller one had been used as an office. I took the third, the room farthest from your bedroom, decorated in bright yellow and blue, like the Swedish flag. There were new-looking yellow towels folded on the bed.
“It’s a beautiful house, Elliot,” I said. “I love this room. Can you leave my suitcase in here?” I dropped my puffy coat on the bed, next to the towels.
“Here?” you said and stared at me with surprise. “You’re staying?”
“I am.” I answered. “I’m staying until we have whatever is wrong with you sorted out. Then, we’ll see.”
I walked you back toward your bedroom. Shower or tub? I wondered. If it was shower, I might have to remove my clothes and get in with him. That would be too much after I’d just arrived. We’d start with a quick shower, you alone—after I first adjusted the spray so that the lower half of your body was thoroughly rinsed. I’d wait outside the stall, hand you a towel when you finished. Then a bath. I’d sit on the floor while you soaked, talk nonchalantly, try to make the situation less awkward, but help if needed. I doubted that Trina had come into the bathroom with you.
It took a long time, but the plan worked fairly well. It surprised me how passive you had become, how little you resisted. You seemed to have no inhibitions about either the shower or bath. I sat next to the tub in my jeans, after rolling up the sleeves of my black turtleneck so I could wash your back and neck with a thick white washrag. It reminded me of bathing my own children. Letting the warm water drip down your back, I thought of how, in other circumstances, this might have been a sensual moment. You and I had bathed together in many hotels. Then, I might have lit a candle and leaned back in the tub with you. Now, I washed you in a utilitarian, but gentle way. I didn’t rush, but there was no lingering, just a thorough cleaning, round careful movements, so that the acrid, unpleasant smell I’d noticed when I arrived was replaced by the clean, fresh smell of the goat’s milk soap I found in a dish near the tub. I remembered a game I’d played with my children when they were in the bath. I’d draw some letter on their back so that letter by letter, a word would be spelled out. Then they would try to guess the word. Would I play this game with you someday? Elliot Pine, the wordsmith. I became filled with sadness at the thought.
When you stood, I glanced at your shriveled balls and penis, the parts of your body that had sometimes given me pleasure, and sometimes, when I thought of you being with the other women in your life, caused me such painful jealousy. I handed you the thick towel, then turned away and went back to your room to get clothes.
“Thanks, Judith,” you called, quite cheerful now and not the least embarrassed. “Wow, that felt great.”
Everything in your room was neat and tidy. I found boxers and a T-shirt in your chest of drawers, corduroy pants and another ribbed sweater in the closet. Everything matched, there were no bad choices. All of your clothes were made of the natural fabrics you favored, silks and linens and wools, all in colors that worked together. I returned to the bathroom and handed you the pile of clothing. You’d obviously been managing to get dressed just fine.
“I’ll go change now,” I said. “Get some dry stuff. Maybe unpack a little. Then we can have lunch before your doctor’s appointment. Remember? Dr. Fagin?”
“I remember, Judith,” you said. And you tilted your head toward me reprovingly. “I remember.”
Okay, I said to myself as I opened my suitcase to get fresh clothes. Sometimes he remembers. Sometimes he doesn’t. How the hell was I going to figure this out? When to intervene? When to step back? Well, I’d managed to raise three kids, hadn’t I? It was the same with raising kids. Sometimes they shot you withering looks which implied you should shut the fuck up, get out of their way. Other times, their need was desperate. They clung to you when you least expected it—perhaps only an hour after insulting you and telling you to back off. I intuited that it was going to be similar with you. I’d have to navigate carefully, know when to get out of the way, when to move closer. And, I’d have to do it while maintaining your dignity, all the while hearing from you the same kind of teenaged annoyance that I’d experienced with Miriam and Evan and Joseph. With my kids, especially the twins, I’d given and given, even when the recipient was rude and unappreciative. One moment, an outstretched hand would be slapped away and the next, grabbed frantically—the child terrified to be left alone. It wasn’t just when they were kids or teenagers, either. Children did this at every stage, when they were toddlers and at every point along the way. Even in her forties, one day Miriam would call to frantically ask advice about one of her children, then, the very next day, rudely put me in my place when I offered what I’d thought was well-meaning advice. “Please, mother,” she’d say, her voice dripping with condescension, “that’s not the way it’s done now.” How had I overstepped? I wondered. No longer a kid, she was so prickly—still.
I knew how to do this, I told myself. It was a dance with steps I was familiar with, knowing my partner would sometimes be leaning in and at other times fleeing, abandoning me on the dance floor with barely a backward look. And I realized, also, that just as a parent could never do the abandoning, once I started this with you, I was going to have to stay for the duration. I was going to have to commit in a way you had never committed to me. I could do this, I told myself. All it took was love.
I left that first appointment with your internist, Dr. Fagin, carrying a sheaf of papers. He’d given us referrals for CT scans, blood tests, and MRIs. In addition, there were names of doctors in New York: neurologists, gerontologists, endocrinologists. It took nearly two months to make our way through these referrals. All the while I stayed in the blue and yellow room down the hall from you and kept track of our progress toward a diagnosis. Some days you were patient and easygoing about our many errands. We’d start out for the city early in
the morning, discussing where we’d have lunch, thinking about a museum we’d like to visit, if there was time after our appointments. In a museum, you might unexpectedly put your arm around me, or tenderly take my hand as we stood in front of a painting. At long last, after six decades, we were a couple. Of sorts. Of course I realized the situation was not one you had fully chosen. You needed me. Yet, I cherished our time together and it seemed to me you felt the same way.
Some days did not go so well. Your normally good disposition would disappear and you’d be full of irritation. I couldn’t get you out of bed, let alone out of the house. There was no use rushing you or trying to change your mood, so I’d cancel whatever appointments were scheduled for that day. I discovered that the best way to approach your obstinacy was intellectually. I sat on the bed next to you, and with markers and a sheaf of papers, I drew a differential diagnosis tree. It reminded me of the trees I’d drawn on placards during your campaign in American Zionist Youth, when we were sixteen. But this tree explained just what conditions we needed to rule out—metabolic, neurologic, autoimmune—and which tests or specialists we needed to see in order to do that, not why teenaged boys and girls should vote for you. You listened and eventually you would become interested and the next day would go better. Fortunately, you seemed untroubled by the long-term problems you might be facing. You left that to me, never seeming curious about the inevitable diagnosis, nor asking questions about your prognosis and what it would mean in terms of function in the future. Instead, I helped you focus on what tasks we still had to accomplish, and what aspect of your condition we were presently exploring. Your intellect would approach its formerly sharp state and you’d think of questions to ask the doctor during our next appointment. I would write down these questions in a notebook I kept for that purpose. This lack of concern for the eventual outcome made it easier for us both, of course. We didn’t have to face a bleak future or talk about plans for such a future. We focused instead on what train to catch or the restaurant we’d chosen or what to buy for dinner that night.
Love Is a Rebellious Bird Page 29