by Gigi Fenster
‘I … she didn’t mind. She understood that I needed to sleep, that I had to go to work.’
‘Don’t even get me started on the fact that you were still working.’ Wendy points a burning finger at him. ‘Right until the bitter end you went to work. What is the matter with you?’
‘There were always people with her.’
If Wendy wasn’t there, the nurse was. And that neighbour —Mrs Mac, in and out all the time. In and out with her key.
‘Why do you think they were always there? Because you weren’t. We couldn’t leave her alone, could we?’
‘Always people there.’
‘Not good enough, Morris. You didn’t change your routine one iota. “My wife is dying. Well, that’s no reason to miss that very important deadline so I can sit with her and watch crappy videos. Some neighbour will pop her head in every now and again. My wife is dying—no reason to move to the spare room with her or break the habit of a lifetime and maybe hold her hand.” Come on, Morris, how hard would it have been for you to break your routine enough to buy her a bunch of flowers? Jesus Christ, Morris, what the fuck was the matter with you?’
‘I—’
‘You know what, forget it. Forget it. I’m going to have a cigarette.’
She is burned out. Maybe she won’t come back.
Morris leans on the kitchen table, holds his head with his hands. The air is heavy with all the things he could so easily have done and what, what the fuck is the matter with you, Morris?
Wendy’s right. There is something the matter with him. He knows it, has always known it, was reminded of it with every visitor who came to sit by his stool after Sadie died. Morris Goldberg, as husband, son, nephew, father, has always had something the matter with him. Sadie knew it too. She complained about it but she understood. He thought she understood. Not all the time, but sometimes—usually even. She seemed to understand that he didn’t mean it. That he couldn’t help it. There was something the matter with him.
D’you remember that programme we used to watch, Frasier, the one about the shrink?
Shrink? Don’t talk to me about shrinks. You told her—you told her everything.
Of course I told her. She’s my sister, for crying out. So, in that programme—
I don’t want to think about TV programmes. I thought you understood, sometimes. Most of the time you understood—
Frasier, the radio shrink.
Frasier.
And his brother. What was his name again?
Niles.
Yes, Niles. So, do you remember that one where Frasier and Niles were pretending to be Jewish? Something to do with a woman, and they had to pretend to be Jewish.
They put sugar in the wine. To sweeten it.
Sugar in the wine. Yes, and then they got in a big fight. They were shouting and screaming at each other and they couldn’t stop.
I don’t want to think about Niles and Frasier fighting. I don’t even remember a fight.
You do. You do. They couldn’t stop fighting, and then one of them said, ‘We can’t do this. We’re not really Jewish. We can’t start screaming at each other ’cause we don’t know how to stop.’ And then their father hobbled next door, or that Daphne, and fetched their Jewish neighbour to help them make up.
To help them make up.
That’s it. The neighbour came and told them to pull themselves together. If they wanted to fight like Jews they had to learn to make up like Jews, and next thing they were hugging and crying and the neighbour was hugging and crying and that Daphne was hugging and crying. Then the neighbour left and they got all withdrawn with each other again. But the fight was over.
You liked that programme.
Well, you and Wendy. You are Jewish. You don’t need the neighbour. Dammit, Jim, you don’t even need to cry and hug each other. You two can get over this. You have to. Ask her something about herself. Ask about Steve.
What if she doesn’t come back?
She’ll come back. Ask her about her Steve.
Wendy comes back. She’s pulled her hair back from her face, so that she looks both stern and child-like, like a school girl who’s playing at being teacher. She hands Morris the telephone, says, ‘You probably want to keep this close.’
Morris says, ‘About Sadie—I would have got in the way. She had you and her friends. She didn’t need me hanging about.’
‘Of course she needed you. You were her husband.’
Wendy’s smile is so slight that Morris almost misses it. ‘That and she carried a torch for you. Yup, Sadie always carried a torch for you.’
Ask her about Steve.
Morris wants to know more about the torch but he says, ‘Tell me about Steve. I haven’t met him, have I?’
Wendy rests her hand on his shoulder, and he knows that she’s ready to take the conversation in this new direction. She says, ‘Sure you have. You remember.’ And then she says, ‘Just joking. I only met him a few months ago, eight months ago to be exact.’
‘Eight months ago.’
‘I know it was soon after Sadie’s death but I guess I was lonely. He helped me through it.’
Morris says the right thing: ‘Sadie would have wanted you to get on with your life. She would have been happy for you.’
She smiles. ‘I wish she could have met him. They would have liked each other. Steve and David really get on.’
So David has met Steve.
‘Debbie also likes him. Emma calls him Steve Irwin.’
And Emma has met Steve.
‘Steve Irwin?’
‘The crocodile man.’
‘Oh, that one. But why should Emma …’
‘She started it the first time they met. He pretended to be a crocodile. Chased her round, snapping his hands like a giant mouth. You know what I mean. Emma Kabemma laughed like a drain.’
Morris wants to ask more about how he got Emma to laugh, and how did it sound, her laughing like a drain? He wants to put his hands in front of his body and try snapping them like a giant mouth. He wants to ask how the crocodile man managed to get so close to Emma and David and where was he, Morris, when all that snapping of hands was going on? Where was Rachel?
‘That crocodile man died, didn’t he? Eaten by an alligator or something.’
‘I think it was an eel, but that’s not the point. Aren’t you interested in where I met him?’
‘Can’t have been an eel. Eels don’t eat people, do they?’
‘What do I know? Maybe there’s some kind of giant killer eel. In Australia. Not in New Zealand. Who knows? Who cares? We’re talking about my Steve. The one who wasn’t eaten by an animal unknown.’
He actually laughs. ‘Tell me about your Steve, the one who wasn’t eaten by an animal unknown.’
‘My God, man,’ says Wendy, ‘I thought you’d never ask.’
Later Morris will look back on the next half hour and wonder whether it could really have been as pleasurable as he remembers. It seems contrary to imagine that it could have been. And yet there’s something so companionable, so familiar and familial, in putting your arms behind your head, leaning back in your chair, maybe even closing your eyes—to rest them, not to sleep—while Wendy tells him how she has finally, ‘at the ripe old age of fifty-something, and completely out of character, I’ll grant you that,’ found herself a ‘jolly decent chap’.
Maybe it isn’t the lulling chatter which is the source of that pleasant feeling, but rather the words which bring it drifting to an end: ‘A jolly decent chap. Someone I can count on. Like my sister Sadie found for herself.’
Wendy stretches, open and wide, as if she would embrace the room. Or Morris.
II
Wendy is dozing on the sofa. It’s like she’s naked, with her drooping head, open mouth, her socks sagging round her ankles.
They’re getting old, those left behind. Old and undignified. And left behind.
Soon they’ll be gaps and no one will remember who used to fill them.
Morris closes
his eyes and tries to picture Sadie. She’s carrying a torch. A flaming one, like the Olympic torch. A giant joint. She’s holding it out in front of her so that he must run if he’s to stay within her light. But she’s running too fast and he can’t keep up. Her running feet are making cracks in the ice. If Rachel steps on the ice she’ll fall down, down, into the icy water and the waiting crocodiles with their snapping jaws. He wants to call out. Stop. You’re melting the ice. Stop. You’re making gaps.
Morris jerks his head upright. Did he fall asleep in front of Wendy? Was he dreaming about Sadie?
The vehement woman spoke about dreams.
‘You know how people tell you that you’ll think you see your loved one in a crowd?’ she’d asked.
‘Uh huh.’
‘Well, it’s nonsense. That sort of thing only happens in movies. In life you don’t see them at all—well, not in your waking hours. But in your dreams—now that’s a different story. In your dreams you see them all the time.’
Her voice seemed to be losing its vehemence, and Morris found himself leaning forwards, almost tipping off his stool to hear what she was saying.
‘When I first moved to New Zealand I used to have dreams about my old home. I’d be standing in my kitchen and there’d be lots of sunlight. They felt so real, those dreams. It felt like I was really there. Not dreaming I was there but actually, really there.’
Other visitors would bend down towards Morris. Some sat on the floor next to his stool. But not the vehement woman. She sat straight and distant so that he had either to focus on her pointy shoes or strain his neck to see her face.
‘I told Sadie about my dreams once. She lent me a book about the dreams of holocaust survivors. Sadie always lent me books. There was a piece in that book where a young man told how he used to dream of walking up the stairs to his front door, how he’d stand at the door, lift up his hand to open it.’ The woman looked around the room, as if expecting to see the book or the front door described in it. ‘It had, I think, a red cover …’
‘Red. I don’t know.’
‘Well, in that book the man described how his dream was so real that it wasn’t like a dream at all. He thought he was actually at his front door. That was what made the disappointment so sad, when he realised he couldn’t open it. So tragic when he couldn’t open it … So tragic.’
Morris wanted to tell her to stop digressing, to switch off her low musing voice, go back to her vehemence and tell him more about how things will get worse. Before other visitors arrived and interrupted them.
‘I don’t dream much.’
‘Yes, yes, the dreams. When you lose someone you love, the dreams are so real you forget you’re dreaming. You think you’re really with them. And when you wake up you hate yourself for forgetting. And you hate yourself for waking up. You hate those dreams but you long for them also.’
Things will get worse and you’ll dream of the person who died. Two promises the vehement woman made to Morris. Two promises that might finally be coming true.
But the dream, like the urge to tell Sadie about Rachel’s flier, does not stand up to Morris’s scrutiny. The vehement woman’s dreams were so real she forgot she was dreaming. His dream was bizarre. It wasn’t even a real dream—more like the ramblings of a half-awake man who’s supposed to be listening out for the telephone.
Wendy snores, opens her eyes and says she’s going to sleep in a bed like a human being. She stands up. ‘Don’t you want to go to bed? You can still keep the phone close. You’ll wake up if it rings.’
‘I’ll go soon. I’ll just sit here a bit longer.’
She bends down to pull at her sock, and he finds himself hoping that she won’t leave just yet. ‘Um, Wendy—’
‘Hmm?’
‘There was a vehement woman who came to the house after Sadie died.’
‘Vehement woman? What vehement woman? Morris, I’m exhausted. You’ll have to give me more information.’
He describes the rasping voice and pointy shoes.
‘Of course, it must have been The Tsarina. That’s what Sadie used to call her. The Tsarina. She came from Russia. She had a whole lot of funny little sayings that Sadie thought were Russian proverbs full of great wisdom but were probably nonsense.’
Tsarina. It fitted perfectly. What Morris took for vehemence was a Russian accent. Tsarina captured her pointy shoes, her straight back, the Eastern European knowledge that she knew a thing or two about tragedy.
Wendy says, ‘She worked with Sadie. Could she have taught maths maybe? Economics? I met her once at some do at the school. Sadie said the kids mocked her accent, and there was something else … some other reason to feel sad for her … she’d lost a son, I think.’
Wendy stands up. ‘Enough of The Tsarina, and enough of this sofa. Go to bed. Get some rest. You can put the phone on your pillow if you’re worried about hearing it.’
She releases her hair from its band, says, ‘It’s hard not being able to do anything to help. Just waiting.’
‘The policeman said the waiting is the worst.’
‘Who’d’ve thought that schmuck cop could be right about anything?’
At the door she turns around. ‘It’s okay for you to doze, you know. You don’t have to sit here wide eyed and bushy tailed all night. As long as you hear the phone.’
When she has gone, he picks the phone up, listens to the dial tone.
Enough of The Tsarina. You’re obsessing about her. What about the other stuff Wendy said to you? What about the touching? And how you were working when I needed you to be around? What about that, Morris. What about that?
You shouldn’t have complained to Wendy about the touching. It was private. Our private stuff.
Nothing is so private that a woman can’t complain about it. Especially when it comes to husbands and children. Every woman complains about her husband and her children. I did it. My friends do it. Your mother did it.
My mother never complained. Or spoke about private things.
Of course she did. You can bet your bottom dollar she did.
She never did.
Nonsense. She must have complained to someone. What about Joan of Arc?
Joan of Arc?
You know, Joan. Your Aunt Joan. Wife of The Norman Conquest. Owner of the biggest china cabinet in the southern hemisphere.
Morris’s mother, Pearl, had one much younger brother, Norman. He lived with his wife Joan and their dogs in Levin.
You know I often wondered why they lived in Levin. It must have been—what, a three-hour drive from Wellington in those days?
Two hours at most. So what?
Well, I mean, three hours. That’s quite far. I would have thought they’d want to be closer to their beloved nephew. And your mother.
They liked Levin. Norman’s work was there. Joan liked walking her dogs on the beach. My mother liked Wellington. It’s no big deal. It was only two hours away.
Two, three hours. I’m surprised Joan didn’t insist on staying close enough to do the pop-in. Can’t you picture her, yoo-hooing and carrying a cake?
Yoo-hooing?
Levin—I mean, you’d need a reason to schlep out to Levin. Jewish holiday, birthday, that sort of thing. You wouldn’t go to Levin just for the hell of it. And the pop-in was definitely out. You wouldn’t go there much in the evening, would you? Unless you slept over.
They never slept over.
What about in school holidays? You must have gone and stayed with them for a few nights during the holidays to give your mother a bit of a break. Like we used to leave David with them before they moved.
I never slept over.
What about on Passover? Didn’t you do Passover at Norman’s house? You couldn’t have driven home on Passover. It would have been too late when you left. Unless you didn’t do the full Seder. You did the full Seder, didn’t you?
Yes, yes, we did the Seder. The full Seder. At Norman’s. And we didn’t bicker about which bits to leave out like your family did.
If you’re referring to the Seders Wendy and that husband of hers used to have—well, I can tell you the bickering there was nothing. Nothing. Anyway, of course we bickered. That’s what the Seder is for. How do you think the Jews spent their time when they were wandering about in the desert? I’ll tell you how—eating manna and bickering. Probably about which bits they’d tell their children and grandchildren. Picture it: the plagues are over, the waters have parted, they’re crossing the Dead Sea. Bobba turns to her grandson. ‘Remember this, Hymie, something to tell your children and grandchildren, something to put in your diary so you can remember exactly how it happened. People will study that diary one day, when you’re a great scholar.’ If Rivka Levy would let me into her toga that would be something to put in the diary, thinks Hymie. To Bobba he says, ‘Enough with the grandchildren already, and I already told you, I’m going to be a singer, not a scholar.’ ‘This is how you speak to your grandmother?’ says Bobba.
Okay, Sadie, all right. I get the picture.
Well, I’m just saying. Your family must have bickered about the Seder. Only you don’t remember it.
Morris does remember. There is no bickering in his memory. There is food and ritual, and Uncle Norman at the head of the table, for this is his house, his Seder. Norman is wearing a kaftan. No, no, it wasn’t a kaftan. It couldn’t have been. It was a woven open-necked top. Cream coloured, with some sort of embroidery around the collar.
Uncle Norman—your sweet Uncle Norman wore an embroidered collar? He of the pen stains on the top pocket of his shirt? Norman, the bald accountant with pen stains? Talk about the caricature Jew. Almost too good to be true, those pen stains.
Morris is six years old. He’s standing in the middle of a carpet in the middle of a room. His new Aunty Joan is standing at the door. She’s holding a blanket. Norman is on the carpet with Morris. He’s crouching down on his haunches so that his face looks directly at Morris’s. Morris wants to step back, but Norman has his hands on Morris’s shoulders, holding him fast. He speaks softly. Coaxing.