“Me neither. Hey, it’s after one. Let’s start back down and I’ll tell you the story of my throwing an ice ball at a mail truck, when I probably was ten or eleven.”
“Really, you did that?” Josh said admiringly.
“Yup and the driver chased us down the street yelling that it was a federal offense and he was going to report us to the FBI. For a week I was afraid every time the phone rang it was the FBI calling to tell my parents.”
The snowfall had increased in intensity. The small flakes were coming down faster and already had partially filled in the boot prints they had made on the way up. They stayed on the road. Oliver still had enough energy to disappear into the woods and appear ahead of them, looking back up the hill as if to say ‘What’s taking you so long?’ When they reached the car, Mitch brushed the snow away from the lock and turned on the engine to get the heater and defroster going. His knee was throbbing as he bent it to unlace his boots. That’s going to ache tonight, he thought, limping around to the driver’s side, holding the thermos. He felt good about the hike with Josh. It had been a good father son bonding experience.
“Dad,” Josh said as Mitch sat in the driver’s seat, pouring himself another cup of coffee from the thermos. “The dashboard thermometer says it’s 22 degrees out. Its gotten colder since we came here.” He carefully wrote the temperature and time in his journal. “I’m going to write down everything now while I still remember it. What it looked like from the top, going through the woods, the deer tracks, everything.”
“Good idea,” Mitch said, “but think of these as your rough notes, not the final journal you’re going to give to Mr. Randolph.”
“This will be my field journal.” Josh steadied the pad in his lap and wrote quickly, every once in a while, glancing out the window to take in the snow on the fields and hills as if to reaffirm what he was describing. The rough part of the drive was from Sugar Loaf to The Comus Inn. From there, the road was salted and 70S was merely slush. He called Ell when he was near Mrs. Fessler’s apartment. They were waiting in the lobby when he and Josh pulled up. Josh jumped out, held the door for his mother and got in the back seat with Amy.
“How’d it go?” he asked. He could tell from his Ell’s expression that she was tense. That was usually the case recently, when Eleanor was with her mother. Mrs. Fessler had a way of showing her disapproval without expressly stating it. Whether she was being shown the proper respect and deference, whether she was ‘included’ as part of the family, which meant she thought they were not spending enough time with her, or how they were raising her grandchildren. Instead of making the time together a positive experience, she turned it around and made Eleanor feel she was failing as a daughter and mother. For some reason, failing as a wife never entered into it.
“Grandma told me all about growing up in Vienna. She went to fancy balls and concerts with her grandmother and mother. They took vacations in all these elegant places in Germany, Switzerland and Paris,” Amy said. “Dad, did you know her father worked for a Baron? And they met lots of famous people and traveled all over?”
“Yes, sweetheart. Grandma told me some of those stories when I was engaged to your mother,” Mitch said loudly, looking at Amy in the rearview mirror. “And many times afterwards,” Mitch muttered under his breath. Eleanor shot him a nasty look.
“What about her family fleeing Vienna? You were going to talk to her about that for your Holocaust study unit for school.” Mitch asked his daughter.
“We didn’t get to that.” Eleanor answered. “Maybe next weekend. She didn’t want to dwell on such unpleasant things.” Her tone made it clear to Mitch that Ell thought their luncheon and tea had been a disaster.
“That’s ok, mom. We’re not going to the Holocaust Museum for a few weeks yet. I’ll get to talk to grandma before then. Before I have to give my report.”
Josh spotted Mr. Lowenstein sitting in his usual chair, inside the Nursing Home lobby, holding The New York Times Magazine close to his face, trying to read the small print of the crossword puzzle through his thick glasses.
“Hi, Mr. Lowenstein. Doing the crossword puzzle?”
“Ahh, Joshua of Jericho,” he greeted him. “You’re right this time. I’m still doing it. Haven’t finished it yet, but I will, don’t you worry. Where have you been today?”
Mitch wandered over. “This is my dad,” Josh said introducing him to Mr. Lowenstein.” Mitch shook his hand and looked at the blank crossword puzzle page.
“I live in the assisted living wing,” Mr. Lowenstein said, gesturing with his thumb over his shoulder.
“I like sitting here. There’s more foot traffic. Not too many people come to visit our wing,” he said by way of explanation.
“Josh, we’ll be upstairs with Aunt Helen, third floor. You can stay here if you want and catch up with us.”
“Dad, I was just going to tell Mr. Lowenstein about our hike in the snow on Sugar Loaf Mountain.” He turned back to Mr. Lowenstein. “I have to write a journal like the Lewis and Clark expedition. For school.”
“Ahh,” Mr. Lowenstein sighed. “A tragic figure Meriwether Lewis. Unlucky in love, he committed suicide, although some say he was murdered. He died October 11,1809.” He shook his head. “But he did our country a great service. Right, Joshua?”
“Yes, I think so,” he said hesitantly. “I don’t know enough about him.”
“Well, then read about him, Joshua. Read and learn. Now go on, go see your aunt. If I’m not here on your way out, I’ll see you the next time you visit.”
“He must have a photographic memory,” Mitch said to his son as they got on the elevator.
“And he does the crossword puzzles in his head,” Josh added.
“Who?” Eleanor asked.
“Mr. Lowenstein. The man at the door,” Josh said.
They found Aunt Helen in her wheel chair in the tv room with Mrs. Davidson, who was sleeping. Aunt Helen was fidgeting with her Kleenex, taking them out of her belt and then replacing them. She looked up, surprised to see them.
“Hello, darling,” she said to Mitch, giving him a big hug as he bent down. “The whole family’s here. Good. Good for us,” she said, as they piled their parkas and coats on the sofa and side table.
“Aunt Helen, I brought you an orange,” Amy said, presenting it to her.
“Ohh, my goodness. How nice of you. For me. You shouldn’t have done it. You shouldn’t have done it.” She placed the orange in her lap and clapped her hands. “Let’s share it.”
“No, Aunt Helen. You keep it for dinner or later tonight. We have other fruit at home,” Mitch said, pressing the orange back in her hands.
“Is everything ok? You have enough food?”
Eleanor smiled. “Yes, we have enough food. I make sure our family has enough to eat.”
“Good for you. A terrible thing happened here today.” Mitch and Eleanor leaned closer, Mitch hoping this would not be another rape fantasy in front of the children. “Remember Mr.Paul? We had lunch together today. He was sitting at the same table. They took him away this afternoon. Some men in white came and wheeled him out on one of those carts. I don’t know where they’ve taken him. We were talking about New London and Admiral Rickover and now he’s gone.”
“I’ll ask at the nursing station,” Eleanor said, getting up.
“What? Where’s she going?” Aunt Helen asked, becoming alarmed.
“It’s ok, Aunt Helen,” Mitch said reassuringly. “Eleanor is going to find out what happened to Mr. Paul.” She came back in a few minutes and knelt down next to the wheelchair.
“The nurse said Mr. Paul is in the hospital. He had a stroke.”
Aunt Helen sat silently. Suddenly, she looked up at them and said angrily,” The only way you get out of this place is to die. That’s it.” She clamped her upper lip over her lower one and looked at them defiantly. After a few seconds, the clarity of understanding in her eyes faded. She noticed the orange in her lap and held it up to her cheeks, rolling it again
st her skin.
“Did you bring this for me darling?” she said to Amy. “How did you know oranges are my favorite fruit?”
Chapter Eleven
The evening before Aunt Helen’s cataract operation, Mitch and Eleanor had a minor spat about Mrs. Fessler. It had been provoked by Ell asking if he could take his mother-in-law to an event at the Austrian Embassy and pick her up after bringing Aunt Helen back to the nursing home. He was standing in the kitchen, reading about lyme disease in Science Times, while Ell dried the large flowered salad bowl.
“You’re off anyway,” Eleanor said. “And you know my mother doesn’t like to drive in rush hour.”
“I’m not taking off for the entire day,” he said annoyed at being interrupted. Running Oliver in Rock Creek Park in the summer, exposed him to lyme disease. It was something he worried about. “I’m cramming eight hours of work into less than half a day. Then, I have to be at the Home in time to get her ready. I don’t know how long the operation will take, what she’ll be like when it’s over and how things will go when I get her back. Your mom could take a radio cab you know,” he said peevishly.
“The world will still be safe for democracy, if you left a little earlier. It’s not like you’re working on nuclear disarmament,” she responded sarcastically.
“What’s that supposed to mean.” He put down the newspaper and glared at her. “That what I do isn’t important enough. I know what I have to get done tomorrow and what meetings I have to go to. I don’t need your second guessing me. Your mother can drive herself, call a cab or not go at all. I don’t care as long as I’m not involved. I’ve got enough to do managing Aunt Helen.”
He grabbed the newspaper and stalked off into the living room. He heard Ell in the kitchen, on the telephone, talking to her mother. After the usual exchange about the children and the cold weather, her voice became weary. “About tomorrow. I asked him. No, mom. Mitch won’t be able to drive you. He has some meetings and will be running late as is.” No brownie points for him, he thought. Neither with his mother-in-law, nor more importantly, with Ell. Why had he reacted that way? He could have rescheduled the eleven o’ clock meeting. He had called it. Stupid stubbornness on his part and something about Ell’s mother constantly pushing for more of his time. It just turned him off. Ell came in, sat down on the sofa on the other side of the room and immersed herself in her book. He stared intently at the article on lyme disease, not really reading it any more. He had better learn to be more accommodating when it came to his mother-in-law. Perversely, he was not quite ready to say something conciliatory to her daughter, the woman he loved.
Mrs. Fessler looked at herself in the full- length mirror one more time. Her black winter coat with the mink collar was just the thing to wear today to the Austrian Embassy. This was the last Wednesday in the month, the afternoon when the Austrian Cultural Attaché hosted a tea and lecture. Her innate sense of style told her the luxurious full length mink coat, the one her husband had given her on their 50th wedding anniversary was too fancy. She sighed, closing the door to their empty apartment. She had been so lonely since her husband had died. It would be eight years this February. She would have to remind Eleanor to light a yarzeit candle. Her daughter always needed to be reminded of such things. It wasn’t such a difficult thing to remember to honor your deceased father. Why was Eleanor so irresponsible about such things? She shook her head in frustration. It was so aggravating because she had tried so hard in bringing Eleanor up to teach her about respect and family obligations.
Last night, after Eleanor’s telephone call, she had decided not to go to the Embassy, but had changed her mind. She could always leave a little before the lecture was over to avoid the worst of rush hour traffic up Connecticut Avenue. What she was really afraid of was losing her balance and falling on the ice. She didn’t like being dependent on anyone else. Still, it would have been nice to have the security of walking, supported by her son-in-law, from the car to the Embassy. The sidewalks were mostly clear of snow but still slippery in spots. She knew she would break something if she fell. She had inherited her mother’s bone structure, strikingly exquisite in her youth, and extremely brittle in old age.
Her mother had fallen at age 82 and broken her hip. Helga had been with her when it had happened. She knew it hadn’t been her fault. Her mother had stubbornly refused Helga’s help in getting up from her chair and had caught her heel on the rug. It was the antique Persian Mahal Helga had convinced her husband to buy for her mother the year they had all moved into the two bedroom apartment in Silver Spring. The broken hip had been the beginning of the end for her mother. It had never healed properly. The screws and pins had been unable to hold in the crumbling bone to which they had been attached. After the fall, she had barely been able to stand. The walker had not been much help. She had held her one leg stiff, dragging it behind her. She was in constant pain. The last year of her life she had been bedridden. Helga dreaded that more than anything else. It would be a living death for her if she lost her independence and mobility.
Today’s lecture was on the Art and Times of Egon Schiele. She didn’t particularly like Schiele’s paintings. She never had. They were too avant garde, too stark and brutal for her. Brutal like the Italian word ‘bruta’ for ugly. She had decided to go because it was a social event, a chance to dress up more elegantly for an occasion, to mingle with people, to recall when Vienna had been the vibrant, cultural center of Europe. She took the elevator to the garage and stepped carefully around the broken concrete floor leading from the elevator into the garage. How many times had she reported this dangerous situation to the building manager. Someone could fall and break their neck. Tomorrow morning, she would personally speak to him and vociferously complain, both about the danger of the broken concrete and the lack of response. These people had to be constantly reminded of their duty to the tenants.
She cautiously backed the Buick out of her numbered parking space. Driving on the streets didn’t faze her. The other drivers could watch out for her. She had more trouble in the garage with the poor lighting, pillars everywhere and the sharp turns onto the ramps. Every scrape, dent and ding on her Regal had occurred in this garage. She wouldn’t confess it but she had been responsible for damaging other tenants’ cars as well. She usually pretended that the crunch or jolt had not happened and driven away. Today, she and the tenants’ cars emerged unscathed.
Once out on 16th Street she felt better. It was a familiar route for her. Straight down 16th Street, right on to Military Road, left on Connecticut, right on Van Ness and a final right into the diplomatic zoned enclave. The area housed the Embassies of those countries that could not be accommodated on Massachusetts Avenue, at the more prestigious addresses. The Austrian Embassy was a grey square, drab, architecturally unimaginative fortress like structure, at the end of the cul du sac. Compared to the larger and more strikingly modern glass structures of its neighbors, the Embassies of Brunei, The United Arab Emirates and Nigeria, it looked like the poor country cousin dressed in unfashionable, dowdy clothing invited to a posh lawn party. It always shocked her that even culturally deficient Slovakia, once an agricultural backwater for the Austrian-Hungarian Empire had a more avant garde looking building.
The bright glare off the snow hurt her eyes, even with her boxy sunglasses and the triangular side panels. She had been wearing them in the garage. Momentarily, she was frightened, thinking she had forgotten to take her regular glasses with her. She wouldn’t be able to see or recognize anyone at the lecture. No, she recalled. On the way out of her apartment, she had put them in her handbag. She always drove with her two hands grasping the top of the steering wheel, barely separated by the width of her fist. She didn’t dare let go and reach over to her purse to reassure herself that her regular glasses were there.
Recently, she had begun to misplace things. These forgetful moments, as she called them, frightened her. She would search her apartment for the missing eyeglasses, car keys or address book, murmuring to hers
elf to calm down, that it was not good for her blood pressure, while getting more frantic by the moment. To cope, she tried to put everything back in the same place. In the little wicker basket on the shelf by her front door.
After her husband had died, she filled her days playing bridge three times a week at different senior centers and going to the monthly lectures at the Austrian Embassy. Every two weeks she went to her hair dresser for a rinse and dye, so that her hair remained jet black, although her eyebrows had turned grey. She had even signed on for docent training at the Arthur M. Sackler Museum with its wonderful collections of Asian art. Just for something else to do. The training had consumed more time than the actual docent service and she didn’t like driving all the way downtown to the Mall, since it usually meant returning during rush hour.
What she really wished for was to spend time with Eleanor and her grandchildren. But Eleanor worked and had no time for her during the week. On weekends, Helga always felt she was an afterthought, picked up and brought along on excursions the family had to do anyway, shopping at Costco, picking up Amy and Josh from Hebrew School or from their sports activities in the spring and fall. There never was time devoted exclusively for her. Except for her birthday, when the family spent the day together and went out for dinner at a restaurant of her choosing. But it was back to the same inattentive routine the following week. True, they were together on the High Holidays, but Mrs. Fessler had never been religious. Nor had her parents. For her, celebrating Jewish holidays together was the same as Thanksgiving, an event in which she was included, but not special time to be spent with her.
Why couldn’t Eleanor understand that this was something she was supposed to do with her mother? Just the two of them, together as mother and daughter, followed by time together with the grandchildren. She understood that Eleanor had her own family and her work, although she was never clear exactly what her daughter did. She knew Eleanor wrote papers on important issues and gave speeches at conferences to experts who came to listen to her presentations. She was very proud of her daughter’s accomplishments, but Eleanor should be able to manage her schedule to make time for her mother first. Just as Mrs. Fessler had done for her mother.
The Orange Tree Page 17