The Anglophile

by Laurie Gwen Shapiro

  “Let’s hear it then,” Kit says congenially.

  It’s a song that’s always destroyed me a bit, too. “God Only Knows.” As Carl sings that as long as there are stars above he will always love the nameless listener, a lump forms in the back of my throat; I know what’s to be sung next, the bit about how if the person in the song ever leaves, life would still go on, but it would really suck.

  “It’s really breathtaking, isn’t it?” Kit says to me at song’s end.

  “Yes,” I say. He’s surely noticed that the song has me in knots. I’ll explain my mood shift later. Gene probably links this song to some woman he dated, but I relate breakup songs to the loss of my father’s life. I wrote my entrance essay for Binghamton (and Yale), and summarized: My father exists somewhere between the vivid minutes and the vaguer minutes, his true self in the unknowable spot between a dead man’s invented greatness and reality.

  Gene manages to joke despite his wet eyes. “Brilliant?”

  “Brilliant,” Kit says after a little laugh. “But for the record, what do you like about it specifically?”

  Gene holds back a sniffle and says, “It’s very clever musically and it’s also good pop.”

  “It’s a smashing song on any level,” Kit says.

  “It’s more complex mathematically than you think. If you learn music you can’t help notice things like that.”

  “You noticed.” I try very hard not to let anyone see my one telltale tear that has stubbornly managed to drip. “And you never learned music.”

  “I play piano now,” Gene says quietly. As he did during the song, he once again stares straight ahead at the road.

  I look at him, more than surprised. Dad, who was also great with math and engineering, played the baby grand piano that just fit in the nook at the far end of our apartment. Add that to his way with a joke—that he was a surprisingly okay pianist. An image pops back into my head: Gene’s face when the neighbors Mom sold it to came by with two movers. As the “man with van” drove off, Gene stood silently under the door, his face chalky-white in this latest of many sad developments that year. Dad had no formal training, but he could work with a fake book, and he taught Gene the most basic songs like “This Land is Your Land” and “Yankee Doodle.” I’d thought Gene never touched ivories again, even electrified ones.

  “Doesn’t surprise me,” Kit says. “You’ve heard that math and music are connected halves of the brain?”

  “Yeah?” Gene says. “I have heard that. You’re backing up the theory?”

  “Yes,” Kit replies. “One of my mates in Cambridge was doing a lot of work in that area.”

  Once again I’m convinced that Gene will make a crack about privileged existence. Instead he really surprises me with what comes out next: “The lyrics always remind me of my father. He died when we were still kids.”

  “There’s the exit,” I say quietly.

  So him, too? That’s the reason for tears in my stoic brother’s eyes?

  “Did Shari tell you we lost our father when we were kids?”

  “Yes,” Kit says. “She did. I did, too, you know.”

  “Did what? Lose a father?”

  “Yes.”

  “It really fucking sucks when it happens, doesn’t it?” Gene says shakily.

  “Yes.”

  “Your father was a good man?”

  Kit says nothing, and smiles sadly and emphatically.

  “There. Turn on this road,” I say.

  As Gene twists the wheel, I am still amazed. Tears. I have never seen my older brother cry, not once during the time he had acute tonsillitis nor even at Dad’s funeral. Alan and I thought we heard him once, that same year. He was in the bathroom with the door locked, and there was an awful-sounding whimper emanating from under the cracks, but we mutually decided to leave him alone and do our homework. When we saw him again he acted cool as ever.

  “Turn here,” I say again.

  “And again,” I say a few seconds later.

  My final direction: “There’s the sign.”

  We can see tiny gravestones marking several acres of land shaded by low and gnarly trees.

  There’s nowhere to park but on a bit of side road. As we emerge, Kit lends us privacy by walking a few hundred yards away toward the cemetery to roll a cigarette.

  I hold Gene. “Dad really loved you.”

  “He loved all of us,” Gene says, and then manages: “I didn’t mean to do that in front of your new boyfriend. Sorry about that.”

  “You had a Dad moment. Happens to me all the time, but I lose it more. I started welling up a few months ago when Cathy ordered Beef Lo Mein—”

  “Dad’s favorite dish,” he cuts me off.

  “Yes.”

  “Except it was chicken with cashews. Lo Mein was his second favorite dish.”

  “Hey, you’re the big brother. Any memory you have goes.”

  “That’s right. Pop quiz: The one day Dad went shopping, he bought seventeen boxes of what?”

  “Jell-O. I helped Mom unpack them.”

  “Ten points,” he laughs with red eyes.

  I hesitate a second and Gene catches my expression. “What?”

  “What side did he comb his hair on—I honestly can’t remember anymore.”

  Gene considers the question as he moves hair out of my eyes with the back of his hand. “The left,” he says. “Like you.”

  “Thanks,” I mumble gratefully.

  Gene coughs uncomfortably. He hates mushy sentiment, especially from himself. “By the way, do you want me to race ahead of the two of you to talk to the family?”

  “Why?”

  “I’ll save you the embarrassment. Mom is certain your boyfriend is named Kevin—”

  “No, she knows about Kit. I told her on the phone last night when I called to say I was coming to the funeral. I was seeing a Kevin, until about a week ago.” I quickly ease out of the big story. “I’ll tell you about it another time, when there’s not a hole in your heart. What brought this on, Gene? Was it really that song?”

  “Well, yeah, but—don’t you know what today is?”

  I nod slowly. God. It’s the anniversary of Dad’s death. How could I have blotted that out?

  Gene straightens. “Come on, let’s get Kit. We have a skunk to mourn.”

  I give him a kiss on his cheek. His breath is curiously free of tobacco. What’s that familiar scent in its place? Oh, gum. “Big Red or Trident Cinnamon?”

  “Big Red.”

  “Does that mean what I think that means?”

  “It’s true. I stopped smoking.”

  “Gene! That’s great!”

  “Yeah. Listen, I like your friend a lot even if has no clue who Gene Wilder is.” He pauses for a second and then adds, “If you really like this guy, you should tell him not to smoke. I just hope I wasn’t too late. Mom’s working on Dot. How crazy is it that the two women Dad loved the most smoked after his death?”

  After my lack of answer he says, “I wasn’t thinking. I meant two out of the three women.”

  But I hadn’t even thought about that slightly careless sentence. The rest of this conversation is what’s getting at me. Sorrow is always at the surface, but those deepest horrid memories that threatened to come back during Kevin’s mother’s illness are pounding the inside of my head again even after I’d thought I’d finally sealed them up again during these last few glorious days with Kit.

  Gene slings an arm over my shoulder. “Dot’s already down a pack.” An omniscient guide returns, the one who led me down the rope-and-plank corridor to my first grade class when Mom and Dad had to work or get docked.

  As we walk to Kit, his back to us, a perfect cube of smoke, the kind old-fashioned magicians puff, rises above his head.

  CHAPTER 11

  Requiem for a Skunk

  In my solemn mood from Gene’s emotional outburst, I walk past animal headstones to the funeral office a hundred yards or so into the grounds. I stop to read a few of the mem
orials, and soon can’t help my amusement at the names people come up with for their pets. Sure I feel a bit guilty, as they were not laid out for anyone’s day of fun, but one reads: Here sleeps our beloved little schnauzer, and even the head of PETA would have trouble not smirking at a headstone that reads Pussy 1921–1937.

  As I walk about ten more feet past the Pussy grave, I’m struck with an awful case of giggles. Despite its inconvenience, the laughing fit is a great release from the intensity of a few minutes ago. Kit hears me, and is at my side again with a helpful, intuitive understanding of the immediate task required of him as boyfriend.

  “Nuclear holocaust,” he says to get me solemn again. “AIDS in Africa. Rwanda.”

  As Kit holds open the door for the cemetery office, I spot Mom, coat off, so featherlight in her black-knit dress. Gene kisses Mom and then my aunt. Dot’s big belly curves out like she’s in her second trimester. Her eyebrows are particularly gruesome today, and I’m sure Kit blinked. Maybe I didn’t prepare him sufficiently.

  “Thank you for coming, kids,” my aunt says in a gruff voice. We hug and kiss.

  After my own kiss for Mom, I say, “Sorry we’re late. We got a bit lost.”

  “But Shari navigated us here,” Gene says for his passengers’ amusement.

  “Shari with a map?” my mother says.

  I ignore the slight. “How are you holding up?” I say to Dot.

  “They’re about to let us view his body.”

  Kit is remarkably composed at that, but I’m fighting the sardonic smile threatening to take over.

  “This is Kit,” I say quickly, just to let some, any, words come out of my mouth. “Kit, this my aunt, Dorothy Diamond.”

  “Such formality,” she says. “Dot. Just Dot.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Kit says, always the man of manners.

  “Oh, you’re British?” Dot says, and I pray she won’t continue. She doesn’t.

  From somewhere, Eric puts out a hand that Kit shakes. “Eric Fine. Nice to meet ya.” My aunt’s nerdy boyfriend of ten years has no idea how many Kool Kats obsessed with killer fifties-wear would ironically dig the red Slim Jim tie that peeks through his olive green parka. He has had on a variant of this dated tie every time I’ve met him. There’s probably an unironic vintage era tie rack back in the Catskills condo.

  “Kit Brown,” Kit says.

  “Hi there, Eric,” I say. Another hug.

  “Shari. Nice to meet you, Kip.” Eric pumps Kit’s hand up and down like he’s gone a-milking. “I tell ya, folks, Galoot was like a son. I know that sounds a bit strange, but it’s damn well true.”

  “Kit,” Dot practically screams into Eric’s ear. “His name is Kit.”

  “I don’t have good hearing,” Eric screams to Kit.

  “We’re going in the viewing room,” Dot yells toward Eric again. “Straighten your tie, honey.”

  “I buried a dog once,” Kit says after a self-conscious group pause. “It killed me.”

  I guess Eric heard that well enough because he says, “Dogs are nice, but I tell ya, skunk ownership is an even longer commitment. Think at least twenty years if you buy a skunk.”

  Dot adds, “You learn to love them even though they chew up your bedspread.” This memory brings on a big flow of tears. “Tell them, Eric, there’s nothing nicer than feeding your skunk a vanilla wafer as you watch Access Hollywood together.”

  “And he was much better than a cat,” Eric follows.

  Dot nods her head vigorously. “All skunks are better than cats. They appreciate you more.”

  Gene is admirably straight-faced as he asks, “How did Galoot pass, Aunt Dot?”

  “Listen to me, kids, never give any animal chocolate. I left out an open bag of bittersweet chocolate chips and—it killed him.”

  Kit winces. “Theobromine. A woman I lived with had a dog that ate it once. He had to have his stomach pumped.”

  “He lived?” Dot says earnestly.

  “Just barely,” Kit says.

  Who’s this woman Kit lived with? File that detail away. Now’s not the time to grill him.

  “What did Galoot normally eat?” Gene quickly asks Eric.

  “He liked boiled chicken,” Eric says. “And tuna fish.”

  “Vegetables, fruits, low-fat cottage cheese, yogurt,” Dot manages to add. “We gave him goodies like the wafers occasionally. But usually we were hyper-careful. Our first one was a fat skunk because we didn’t know how to feed him. At least Galoot was fit during his life.” She clutches her boyfriend’s hand. “He did, though, leave us an unfortunate gift after his death. Maybe it’s his payback for the chocolate.”

  Eric shakes his head after his girlfriend speaks. “Oh, Dottie, please, Galoot would never want anything bad to happen to you.”

  “What do you mean?” Gene says.

  “We’re still suffering from bellyaches. Turns out they were brought on by skunk worms he picked up off the veterinarian’s table. But we’re on medicine now, so don’t worry about shaking our hands. All this tsoris coming on the heels of Eric’s pinkie accident a few months ago.”

  After digesting the bit about skunk worms, my carload of three look to Eric’s hand. There is a pinkie gone. Indeed, I say in my head, in Kit’s voice.

  “What happened to your pinkie?” Gene says.

  “He chopped it off while slicing a cucumber,” Dot answers for him.

  “Made it through the Korean war with just a bloody nose,” Eric bellows. “I got a lot of use from that pinkie, it did me proud, but I don’t really miss it. I’d rather have Galoot back than a pinkie.”

  When Alan arrives, Mom pounces on him, feathering her delicate son with kisses. There’s an almost-gorgeous woman with long hair behind him, no doubt the commune girlfriend. This gal’s looking mighty uncomfortable. With Alan’s usual lack of social grace, he has forgotten to introduce her. But everyone in his family knows to let that be. He will introduce her on his own terms.

  For a skunk funeral Alan has decided on blue jeans and a black sweater under a jean jacket. Alan looks—somewhat ironically considering our car-ride soundtrack—much like the noticeably cutest Beach Boy, Dennis Wilson—that is, before Dennis got old and overdosed as a way out of his headlong slide into self-destruction.

  Gene sticks out a hand to his little brother and punches him in the tummy. “What are you up to, guy?”

  “Nothing much,” Alan says quietly.

  These two brothers—talk about night and day. I assume that Gene’s knack for self-perseverance has greatly helped him in the banking industry. He certainly didn’t have any contacts going in. He spoke of colleagues kick-started with a nepotistic post, but Gene was not too proud to entry-level himself as a mail clerk. He has never once looked back or made a lateral move: A-Z is his life strategy. As a teen he applied that same stick-to-it-ness to Pac Man—he was the champ for our entire neighborhood, and shortly thereafter king of our neighborhood’s Asteroid enthusiasts.

  I carefully check Alan’s face. He’s definitely afraid to ask what his brother is up to, especially since Gene has landed a fat job that Mom has hinted scored him serious bucks.

  As much as Gene strived through our childhood, Alan retreated. After Alan dropped out from the Queens College philosophy program, he swore blindly to my mother that he would try to earn an honest living. But he was just too shy, too nervous. After a few executive assistant interviews that didn’t go well, even a humiliating termination from a summer gig of Popcorn Man at Coney Island, he retreated from day jobs with a fatalistic weariness. In his view, every conceivable profession in New York was a competitive sport, and he cited as evidence that even social workers raise an eyebrow when another one among them has that master’s degree from Ivy League Columbia.

  (I thought about it once, briefly entering his mindset. If you want to live in New York City and don’t want to compete for jobs, your basic choices are squeegeeing and sandal communes—and I haven’t even seen a squeegee man for at least ten years
.)

  The sight of Alan carting along a girlfriend is unnerving; Alan has never brought a woman home to meet his family, not one. So who is this mysterious woman with long hair? Her brown eyes are startlingly intense. She would be gorgeous in a hippie-dippy Love Story-era Ali McGrawish way if not for her unfortunate nose that verges on a snout.

  “By the way, this is Summer,” Alan finally says to the collective family.

  A group hi.

  Summer opts for a sympathetic hug to both Eric and Dot instead of a handshake. “I know the pain when a pet dies. My cat died last year and a part of me shriveled.”

  Dot gives her an appreciative peck on the cheek.

  Alan breaks us down into individuals. “This is my mother,” he starts.

  “Summer,” Mom says in her quiet yet congenial manner, “do you live on the commune with Alan?”

  “Down the street, actually, but I’ve considered joining.”

  “This is Shari, my little sister by a year.”

  “I heard you had a nice time at the commune,” Summer says politely.

  “Yes, I did.” Well, a time, anyway.

  Dot audibly whispers to Mom, “Is Summer Jewish?”

  How will I make it through this without Kit abandoning me?

  “Nice to meet you. This is my friend Kit.”

  “We’re ready,” says a smiling representative of the cemetery, a man in a dark funeral home vested suit with a tucked-in pocket watch. The director of the cemetery is by our side, ready to lead the eight in our mourning party to the viewing room.

  Dot waves Kit and me ahead. “We’ll go last.”

  We see what I was afraid we’d see: a skunk, belly-up in a two-foot-long open rosewood casket.

  “My little man,” Dot says, and she holds Eric. Gene beckons my family, Summer and Kit out of the room, leaving Dot and Eric in their tearful embrace.

  “So, that was an experience,” I say to Kit repentantly after we’re back in the waiting parlor.

  “A little oddity doesn’t bother me.”

  Gene emerges before Mom, no longer able to keep his lips pursed as he fights off his own brewing laugh. “Now I’ve seen it all. So what do ya think of that little ceremony?”