Love Is a Rebellious Bird

by Elayne Klasson

  “Softer. Not as driven as he used to be. I know it’s the illness, but I never had the chance to get to know him before. He’s been grateful. Too grateful. I’ve been embarrassed by his gratitude. He never used to say thank you before, now he says it often, all the time.”

  “Has Lillian called?” I asked. “Does she know about the move?”

  “That’s a funny thing,” Trina said and wrinkled her brow. “She did call, just this week. She said she’d spoken to Julius and his wife. The other people I work for. They’d told Lillian that the house was for sale and that Elliot was leaving for California. When I talked to her, I said there were a few things she’d left behind. Some clothes in trunks. Books in the attic. Did she want anything? She said, no, I could give everything away. Then I asked her how the restaurant was going. You know, to be polite.”

  “What did she say?” I asked. Knowing Lillian, it was already probably the most popular eatery in Montreal.

  Trina looked at me, a small smile on her face, one I could see she was trying to hold back. “She said that it was very hard, because she was doing it alone.”

  “Alone?” I asked, puzzled.

  “Yup,” Trina replied. “Her son, the big-time chef, her other kids, they found it wasn’t to their liking. They’ve all left, gone on to other things. Lillian’s stuck there, running the whole restaurant by herself, with just a small staff. She sounded pretty tired.”

  I looked at her, then I snorted and, forgive me, I just could not help myself, I began to laugh. When I composed myself, I asked Trina if you had spoken to Lillian.

  She nodded. “I passed him the phone, but he wasn’t on very long. He’s pretty much stopped talking on the phone. Loses his train of thought.”

  I shook my head, then hugged Trina and said goodbye. I handed her an envelope. “Here’s something extra. I hope you’ll be able to take some time off. I know how hard you’ve worked. When the house in Beacon sells, we’ll want to give you more. You did so much to get it ready.”

  Trina walked over to you, watching the game. She kneeled on the floor to say she was leaving. You looked confused. Then you did something odd, odd and upsetting. You whacked yourself in the head. It wasn’t a light tap—you hit yourself hard on the temple with an open hand. “I’m so stupid,” you said. “Where did I leave the car? Damn. I can’t remember.”

  “It’s okay, Elliot,” Trina answered in a calm voice. “Everything is fine. I’ll be taking the rental car back to the airport. You stay here with Judith. Don’t worry about a thing.”

  The hitting yourself on the head became a gesture I began to dread. When you couldn’t remember where you’d left something, or a name, or even words, you took it out on yourself. You never blamed me, never spoke a sharp word to me or anyone else. But you became easily frustrated with yourself, and this frustration was always accompanied by that hitting motion with the flat of your hand to the side of your head. I hated it, and tried to put my own hand between your palm and temple, but rarely succeeded. “You are not stupid, Elliot,” I’d say. “That’s the last thing you are.”

  We took our first meals in the apartment, me cooking in the small galley kitchen or bringing in fast food. By your fourth day in California, I decided we were ready to face the dining room. We took care with dressing. I encouraged you to pick out something special from your closet. When we went to the elevator, I saw our reflection and thought we made a handsome couple, edging toward elderly, but still current and fashionable. I took your arm and tried to prepare you for the routine and the people, knowing that this was probably useless and that instead we’d rely on your native charm and the remnants of your excellent conversational skills.

  There was actually a hush when we entered the dining room. Conversation stopped and people watched us as we came in. I tried first to see it through your eyes. Was the gilded fountain at the center of the room impossibly tacky, or did it have just a touch of old-world elegance? Did the servers look like real waitresses and waiters, or did they look like what they were: staff at a senior citizens’ dining room, who worked not for tips, but for just a smidgeon above minimum wage? Then, I tried to imagine what we looked like to the room of assembled diners. Although there were a few other couples living at Loma Alta, I’m sure we were the youngest and, I thought proudly, certainly, the most presentable. I put my arm through yours, reached up and whispered in your ear that we’d walk straight through the room to a table near the rear. With your height, and still rakish dark hair, you had such presence. The blue sports jacket you wore seemed jaunty, yet not new or as if you were trying too hard. You wore no tie, for we’d discovered that you’d forgotten how to tie one and when I tried, I made a mess of it, but your pale blue shirt, open at the neck, was crisp and the monogram at your cuff showed to advantage. I also wore blue, a navy wraparound dress and high heels—higher than I’d worn since moving to Loma Alta. I loved leaning on your shoulder and, I must admit, making such an entrance.

  The table, set for five, held a vase of fresh flowers. Who had thought of flowers? Dolores? The management? I couldn’t guess. My three dinner companions assumed poise I hadn’t imagined they possessed. It is amazing what a good-looking man will do to a table of women, even a table of elderly women. Mrs. Rosen sat straighter in her chair. She wore a particularly nice suit, black with red braided trim, from her closet of St. John knits. And, I believe her hair had been freshly done, not a platinum wisp out of place. Vera Saperstein had raided her jewelry boxes, and in the dim light of our table toward the rear, she glittered with several sparkling rings and the same amber pendant that had stunned me the night I’d first met her. Her eyes widened when she saw you, and she pulled at the neckline of her dress, exposing a bit more of her sun-freckled skin, as well as her generous cleavage. Even Louise Block had made an effort, replacing her usual drab cardigan and skirt with a nice gray silk dress. She smiled up at you and said, “Welcome, welcome, we’re so glad you’re here.” As the tiny woman half rose to reach your extended hand, her dress made a very satisfactory swishing sound.

  “Please, please sit down,” you said.

  I introduced you to each woman and you bent and looked into their eyes, with the deep penetrating look that had won women over all your life. It was how you had made people feel so noticed, so individually regarded. So seen. Of course, I knew your memory had declined to the extent that you might not remember anything from this meal to the next, but still, you made an awfully good facsimile of your old ways. You pulled my chair out for me, then sat and brought the folded linen napkin to your lap. You looked up at the table and laughed merrily, admitting, “Forgive me, ladies, I’m terrible with names. Judith will have to remind me all the time, I’m sure, but I won’t forget how lovely each of you ladies are.”

  I looked around the table happily, glad that you were having an alert evening, pleased that the stimulation of the new environment hadn’t overwhelmed you, but instead had brought out your not inconsiderable charm. You seemed to enjoy the meal and told stories about our Chicago childhood, the old memories still accessible, not yet wiped clean by the ravages of disease.

  You spoke of me to the table. “You must know what a brilliant girl Judith was. She tore through books so quickly, I called her Rocket. She read everything she could get her hands on. After she finished the Young Adult section, the librarian gave her special permission to read whatever she wanted from the adult shelves. Judith,” you asked, “how old were you when you first read Shakespeare?”

  I shrugged. “Oh, who remembers?” I said, picking up my water goblet to cover my smile of pleasure.

  “Well, I do, Judith,” you said. “You were still in seventh grade. Julius Caesar. Then, it was Romeo and Juliet, as I recollect. Or maybe Taming of the Shrew. Judith was impressive. She would tell us the plots in that way she has—acting the parts, pretending to do sword fights. You could see it. I love hearing Judith tell stories, don’t you?” you asked the three ladies, who were hanging on your every word. You looked at me, then co
vered my right hand with your left, adding graciously, “And I want to hear your stories, too. Each of you ladies will have to tell me all about your lives. You have some good stories, I’ll bet.” Then, to all of our embarrassment, you reached over to Mrs. Rosen’s plate with your fork and stabbed a piece of her flank steak, bringing it enthusiastically to your mouth.

  “Maybe a bit overcooked,” you said as you chewed. Mrs. Rosen stared, but didn’t say a word. You went on to finish your own steak as well as what was left on Adelle Rosen’s plate.

  I knew the day would come when you might not even associate me with these memories, that events would blur together and that our nights of such coherent dinner table conversation were numbered. But I was grateful for this first evening and pleased that Mrs. Rosen’s table also seemed happy with your addition.

  The women’s liberation movement has not changed the way women defer to men, especially handsome men. And it was even more true for these women, who had been born at least a decade or so before me. Within days, I think we could no longer call our table Mrs. Rosen’s table. Our table of five became Elliot’s table, the women turning to you for your opinion, seeming not to notice when you stared at them vacantly, not being able to recall the topic under discussion. Of course Adelle Rosen was and always would be a force to reckon with, but soon everyone in our little group waited for you, not Adelle, to pronounce on the food, the news, the weather that afternoon. The women asked you how you liked the soup, about your health, about every aspect of your move to California. They were not above chastising me if they felt I’d been remiss in taking care of you.

  “Judith,” Mrs. Block said. “Don’t you think Elliot needs a sweater? They keep the dining room so cold. Perhaps you ought to go up and get one for him.”

  “Judith,” Vera Saperstein said. “You haven’t taken Elliot to see our redwoods. Isn’t that right, Elliot? You must see the redwoods.”

  You looked innocently at me, then shrugged. “We haven’t, have we, Judith?”

  I smiled, knowing the fight I’d have to get you interested in a hike, or even a long ride. Venturing outdoors had become limited to fast-food outings or parks close to our apartment. You had little patience or stamina for day-long outings. These days you wanted your creature comforts, not adventure. But I played along and said, “Of course, Elliot, I ought to take you on a hike to the giant redwoods. We haven’t been since you were out here ages ago. It must be over thirty years since we did that walk. Vera’s right, the trees are magnificent.”

  Then I addressed the table. “Once, years ago, when Elliot visited me out here, we took a walk with the kids in the redwoods near Santa Cruz—Scotts Valley—where that narrow-gage railroad goes. You did love it, Elliot. Remember that cathedral grove the trees make?” You made no response, seeming to be considering what I’d said. My mind went back to delicate Meredith, already very sick, and her son, Matthew, still a small child. I wondered how much of this you remembered. So the story became about us, our history. The women accepted us as a couple, and even though the circumstances now were not exactly as I’d once dreamed, I still found happiness in it. Does that seem strange? I suppose it does, but I had waited so long for you.

  One day, Vera Saperstein arrived at the table with a brown leather jacket, a man’s jacket. “Elliot,” she announced, “this belonged to my late husband. I was thinking it would look nice on you. It’s practically new. I couldn’t bear to give it to Goodwill. Here, why don’t you try it on?”

  You obligingly put your arms through the sleeves and stood to model it. It fit, but was years out of date, with its shoulder pads and wide lapels, the whole jacket cut miles too large. Today’s styles in menswear are fitted and narrow.

  “Wow, it’s in great condition,” you said and pulled the jacket around yourself. “Look at the leather. Practically unworn. I love it.” You kept the heavy jacket on all during the meal.

  Suddenly, you looked like an old man, one who didn’t pay attention to style, not anything like the Elliot I knew, always fashionable, looking like a sophisticated European in your well-tailored suits and handcrafted Italian shoes. I wanted to rip dead Mr. Saperstein’s jacket from your shoulders and never see it again. Of course, I didn’t, because you loved the damn thing. It became your favorite garment and you kept it draped over the back of a chair in the apartment, reaching for it day after day, which brought great satisfaction to Vera and everyone else at the table, and drove me crazy. Oh, well. A small price to pay for your happiness.

  Sometimes, in the apartment at night, we spoke of our parents, your memories of the old days much fresher than those of recent times. “Your mother was always there for you, Judith. Present. She was a real mother,” you said. “Served fresh baked cookies whenever I came over.”

  “Too present,” I said, and looked up from my book. “Too involved. That’s why I put so many miles between us.”

  “And your father,” you said. “He was a thinking man. Smart. He was so proud of you. You used to love talking to him, didn’t you?”

  I nodded, my eyes tearing up. No one else alive, except Elliot, knew these things about me and my parents.

  We had long glorious car rides, then relaxed in the kitchen over tea, doing the mundane chores of our life. You tried to help me tidy up or gather the laundry, but the apartment was small and you usually got in the way. We laughed about it. Most days were surprisingly full.

  One afternoon, it was already dark, you seemed restless and turned off the television.

  I was at the computer. “What’s that you’re working on?” you asked, idly looking at the stack of pages beside the computer.

  I picked up a few pages. It was this, the story of my love for you. I’d started it soon after I’d moved into Loma Alta. “Just something I’m working on. A story I’ve begun to write.” We began to sleep in the same bedroom, in the big queen-sized bed. You craved the closeness of me, and now, each night, I read to you aloud from what I’d been working on that day. Although you seemed interested in the story and sometimes asked me to repeat a sentence, you made no comments about it. Usually you’d fall asleep after only a few pages. Many nights I kept reading even while you slept, but soon I’d get drowsy and also fall asleep, listening happily to your breathing. In the mornings, we were often touching. I hadn’t slept so well in years. How I wished for this calm and satisfying life to go on and on. But after you’d been at Loma Alta about a year, there were undeniable changes, seen first by me and then, eventually, the other women at the table.

  Once, after dinner, you asked the women, “How about some strawberry ice cream? Doesn’t that sound good?” We all enthusiastically agreed and you flagged Gabriel and got him to bring us each a hearty bowl of it.

  However, as soon as Gabriel had removed the five bowls and we were contentedly sipping our coffees, you looked up with a broad smile. “Say, wouldn’t some strawberry ice cream be good?” you asked and seemed genuinely delighted by this idea.

  Could you be joking? The question lingered in the air, but none of us wanted to protest. We’d all gotten terrified of the slap to the temple when you realized you’d made a mistake, so we said nothing. You again waved to get Gabriel’s attention and said, “Say, do you think you could rustle up five bowls of your delicious strawberry ice cream? For the whole table?”

  Gabriel stared down at you with disbelief, but only for a second. This was, after all, a residence for old people, and surely it must have happened before. So Gabriel replied with great jocularity, “Sure, Mr. Pine. Bowls of strawberry ice cream all around.”

  “You’re a fine fellow,” you said. “Been working here long? You deserve a promotion.”

  Louise Block protested feebly, “Could you make mine a small scoop, Gabriel?”

  And you replied, “Oh, stop worrying about that girlish figure. You could use some ice cream. You eat like a bird.”

  Somehow, we all polished off that second bowl, but I got to my feet as soon as I was done, fearing that you might order a third and
we’d all be sick.

  As they will, things continued to change for the others, as well. One night Mrs. Saperstein did not come down to dinner. Louise Block reported that Vera had had trouble breathing all day. She was worried and finally called her daughter Marcy and Vera’s son to check on her. After much discussion, and over Vera’s protests, she was taken to the doctor. It was pneumonia and Vera was admitted to the hospital.

  A few days later, Dolores came to the table looking stricken. She pulled up a chair and told us dear Mrs. Saperstein had died in the hospital, antibiotics unable to relieve her aged and congested lungs. Although we’d expected the news, we were heartbroken. Every person, staff and residents alike, felt the loss. She had been part of the fabric of the place. On the day of the funeral, Loma Alta provided its largest bus to transport the crowd of old people standing patiently in line, waiting to be taken to the chapel. Almost every seat on the bus was filled. All four of us attended—Louise, Adelle, you, and I sitting together closely in a single row of the packed funeral home. At the door, you had reached into your pocket and put a black satin yarmulke on your head. Dolores was there too, of course, sitting on my other side and holding my hand. With surprise, I realized I had grown to love Vera as if I had known her for decades. I don’t think I realized when I moved to Loma Alta that I would form such deep friendships. I had not expected these new people would mean so much to me. But Vera had added such color to our lives with her jokes and her extravagant jewelry. The woman had never heard the phrase, “less is more.” As the eulogies went on, Mrs. Rosen kept extracting tissues from her purse and passing them down the aisle to us. A life well lived, everyone agreed.

  About a week later, Marcy came to clean out her mother-in-law’s apartment. She joined us for dinner that night, and held out a box for each of us.

  “Special presents from my mother-in-law,” she said. “Something to remember her by. She left instructions in a letter.” Louise had given each of the women at the table a lovely piece of jewelry. She’d indicated which pieces were to be given to each of us and, of course, I received the enormous amber pendant. I treasure it, although it is far bigger than any other item of jewelry I’d ever owned. The necklace makes whatever I am wearing more elegant.