This evening Dick is trying to get the medicine into Duckie’s mouth. Duckie is fussing; she’s miserable. By now the whole front of her head is covered with a hardened mask of feathers glued together from the medicine. I start thinking about quality of life.
Dick looks at me. “I hate doing this,” he says. “It’s been six days. Duckie’s getting worse, not better. If we can’t save her, she shouldn’t have to go through this.”
“I agree,” I say. “We’re making her miserable. Let’s see if she’s any better tomorrow.”
In the night I dream of my father, one of those dreams where he’s alive and well and we’re talking. I wake up in the dark feeling as if we’ve just had a visit. My father could be quite stern, but he loved his children, listened well, and was often funny.
My mind drifts to the last week my father was alive. Dick and I flew north, got to my parents’ house in the early evening. My father was shockingly pale and thin, unable to get out of bed. He had no appetite. My mother, of course, was distraught.
Soon after we arrived, my father announced he wanted to have “dinner with us at the table.” My mother and I were confused, but Dick intuitively realized my father didn’t want food, he wanted to experience an elegant dinner, the kind the four of us had had many times over the years.
Dick went to the kitchen, rummaged through the icebox, and quickly assembled four plates with bits of this and that, nicely arranged. My mother and I set the table. Dick then carried my father from the bedroom and sat him at the head of the table, propped up with some pillows. My mother and I took our seats. Dick disappeared into the kitchen and reappeared carrying a chilled wine bucket containing a bottle of Pinot Grigio.
My father’s eyes lit up. He said, “Wow! Look at that! What a thing.” For the next half hour, we all drank a little wine, mostly left the food untouched, talked and laughed, just like the old days.
It was my father’s last real dinner. He died five days later.
Tuesday, April 13
Duckie won’t eat at all and is lethargic. I have her on my lap, a few pieces of angel hair next to her. She whimpers occasionally. I rub her neck and tell her the story of how she came to live with us, how she had been lost in the woods as a baby, stared at us for a long time from up in a tree, then flew down to us, determined to be adopted. I tell her she’s a brave cockatiel. I think of the people Dick and I have talked to at their bedside, saying goodbye, and I start silently crying.
Then I remember an event with Aunt Jane, who died last year. There was a time a while back when she had pneumonia and was too weak to move. I sat by her bed every day at the nursing home, spoon-fed her, held water to her lips. She got weaker and weaker and then stopped eating, rarely opened her eyes. The nurses told me she was shutting down.
I was sitting by her bed, telling her how glad I was to have known her, reminiscing about this and that, basically trying to say goodbye, when suddenly she sat upright, scaring me half to death. “I’m not ready to go,” she said. “I’m hungry.” I gave her some applesauce. She lived happily for another five years, and died soon after her hundredth birthday.
I try to wish this idea into Duckie and nudge a little pasta toward her, but she doesn’t want it.
Thursday April 15
Duckie still has no energy but yesterday she stared at a piece of pasta for a while and ate a little bit. Throughout the day, she nibbled. Today, she continues to nibble.
As I drive off to my art class, I feel encouraged and allow myself to think maybe Duckie will make it.
When I get to my class, I discover my teacher has left for another job. Harlan is now the teacher. He specializes in abstract art. I’m trying to learn how to paint realistic-looking birds. This won’t work, I think. But he gives me good pointers on the bird I am painting.
I hurry home, anxious to check on Duck.
“How was your class?” Dick says.
“Well, the teacher’s gone. The new one, his name’s Harlan, specializes in abstract painting, something I can’t imagine doing. But he helped me with my bird.”
“Abstract painting,” Dick says. He laughs. “Your birds are beautiful. But maybe it’s time for you to start throwing paint around.”
Friday, April 16
It’s late afternoon. I come back to the cottage after some errands. When I come in the door, Dick calls, “Pam, come into the office.”
I rush to the office. “Look at Duckie,” he says. Duckie is on Dick’s lap, enthusiastically eating a strand of angel hair. “She started to nibble about five minutes ago, then started eating faster and faster. This is her second batch.”
“It’s almost gone,” I say. “I’ll go get more.”
I return with more pasta. Duckie eats and eats and eats. Then she looks up at Dick and starts chirping. She struts back and forth across Dick’s lap, chirping and chirping. She looks like she’s happy to be alive. It’s hard to believe.
“What do you think happened?” I say.
“I have no idea,” Dick says. “But it looks like Duckie may be coming back.”
Monday, April 19
Duckie, who is now eating huge amounts of food every day and gaining grams dramatically, is on the top of the cage, preening. Blanco’s perched on my shoulder while I work on the computer. It’s two o’clock. The phone rings. I hear bits of muffled conversation. I keep working. Dick comes to the door.
“A hundred bucks if you can guess who was on the phone,” he says. “No, make it a thousand.”
I draw a blank.
“Our landlords,” he says. “They’re coming for cocktails. Tonight. At six thirty.”
“Our landlords?” I say. “They live in Europe somewhere.”
“Yes, they do, but they’re here now.”
I quickly get up and start looking around the house to see if it’s presentable, start fluffing pillows and picking up magazines. Dick goes outside and sweeps leaves off the pool area.
At a quarter to six the doorbell rings. Neither of us is dressed for the evening. I give Dick a panicked look. He goes to the door while I run to the bedroom and start changing. He returns with a stunning orchid arrangement, a present from our landlords.
At six thirty the doorbell rings again. This time it’s our landlords, a married couple who are much younger than I expected, and quite charming.
Over cocktails they explain they never lived in the cottage but bought it as an investment property a few months before we rented it. They’ve actually only seen the cottage twice, briefly, and want a tour.
I tell them we had only seen the cottage twice, briefly, before we made the impulsive decision to rent it. It’s nice to know other people are as crazy as we are.
Soon they are off to dinner with friends. At the door, they tell us we’re welcome to renew our lease for as long as we want. They say they hope we’ll stay for many years. We agree to meet again in the summer during their next trip to Palm Beach, before our move back home. They leave.
“Dinner here?” I say to Dick. “We have that pork loin.”
“Butterfly and grill it?” Dick says. “Then pile on mushrooms or whatever we have in the icebox.”
“Sounds delicious,” I say. We go to the kitchen to prep, with Peter Cetera, of course.
“So,” says Dick, “that’s why nothing was connected when we moved in.”
“Right,” I say. “Our landlords never lived here. Somebody did a cosmetic fix to sell the house, but nobody ever actually lived in the house afterwards. We were the guinea pigs.”
Wednesday, April 21
“I just got our first e-mail from the Preservation Foundation,” Dick says. He reads it to me. “The Yale University Whiffenpoofs will be performing in Pan’s Garden this afternoon.” He looks up. “Remember them?”
I haven’t seen the Whiffenpoofs in years, but they were a big part of my childhood. My father worked for Yale, and I dated some Yalies when I was at Bennington. Their a cappella style is such a throwback, I’m surprised they’re still around
.
In the afternoon, we walk over to Pan’s Garden. Chairs and a simple awning are set up, and refreshments are being served.
The Whiffenpoofs are dressed in white tie and tails, with white gloves. I expect them to stick to their traditional repertoire, including their signature number, “The Whiffenpoof Song,” the one about tables down at Mory’s.
Although they sing the songs I expected, they also go on to do a wonderful job on The Drifters’ “On Broadway,” switch into Peter Paul and Mary’s “Leaving on a Jet Plane,” and on to Michael Bublé’s “Haven’t Met You Yet.”
We walk home. Dick says, “I was surprised they did such a variety of songs.”
“Me, too,” I say. “It was fun.”
Thursday, April 22
I go to my art class today and finish up another bird. Most of the students are working on abstract paintings, but one student is copying a Matisse. The idea of copying a painting appeals to me, and I tell Harlan I would like to copy a painting, but I don’t know what to copy. He hands me several coffee table books of art. “Find something you like,” he says.
I leaf through the books. Eventually I find several Georgia O’Keefe paintings I really like, and settle on Blue Morning Glories. I put a blank canvas on my easel, rearrange my paints, put fresh water in a little cup, and start to copy it.
It’s quite difficult, but by copying I begin to discover what is actually going on in the painting. I begin to see it in a way I have never seen a painting before. I see the subtle changes of color, the difference it makes when the artist chooses to use a hard line here, a softer line there. I see the painting as made up of many strokes, not as the finished product. The three hours go quickly. I am nowhere near finished with my painting.
Friday, April 23
It’s so easy to go dancing in this town. The Chesterfield has live entertainment every night, The Colony five nights a week, and during the season Café Boulud three nights a week, Café L’Europe two nights, and Taboo two nights. The dance floors fill up with people of all ages.
“It’s Motown night at the Polo Lounge,” Dick says. “Want to go?”
“Great,” I say. “Dinner at the Taboo bar around nine? So we get to The Colony before ten?”
I’m not a good dancer but I have fun dancing fast. Dick likes slow dancing (as do I) but he accommodates me and dances fast with me, and even gets silly with me on the dance floor. Now that my knee is better, I dance fast every chance I have.
As we walk into the Polo Lounge, the band Memory Lane begins their version of The Temptations’ “My Girl.” We find a spot at the bar. The dance floor is pretty full. We join the crowd and dance to the Four Tops’ “Reach Out I’ll Be There,” then Smokey Robinson’s “Tracks of My Tears.”
There are couples in their twenties, couples in their seventies, and every age in between. The night goes on, and the band keeps playing. We hear the music of the Supremes, Gladys Knight & the Pips, and Marvin Gaye. It is non-stop Motown. Finally, we need to rest, and find our place at the bar. But several couples far older than us keep right on dancing, so we head back to the floor.
“We could’ve skipped the gym today,” Dick says.
Sunday, April 25
Rain is pelting the windows. We’re in our bathrobes, curled into the corners of the living room couch, with tea and biscotti, reading soggy sections of The New York Times and the Shiny Sheet. Blanco and Duckie, who is back to her old self, settle on opposite ends of the couch and preen.
Dick starts laughing and looks up from the Shiny Sheet. “A man walked up to two women on the public beach and asked if he could pay them forty dollars and expose himself. The ladies declined, and the guy went away.”
“Was that forty each, or forty for the two of them?” I say.
The wind picks up. Sheets of rain pound the palm trees outside the windows. Dick gets up and looks out. “The street is a rushing stream,” he says. “Remind you of anything?”
“You mean like that day last August when we first saw this house?” I say. “Seems like a long time ago. It hasn’t rained like that again until now.”
Around one o’clock, the storm dies out, the day turns cool and sunny, and we go out for a walk. We stop and rest on a bench just north of the bridge. It’s quiet and the air is thick with the perfume of nearby jasmine. A small boat motors by.
“Want to walk over the bridge to West Palm Beach?” I say. “Somehow, it’s never occurred to me before.”
“What about your knee?”
“I have my brace on,” I say. “And we can always take a taxi back.”
We get up and walk to the bridge, follow the bridge’s sidewalk to the mainland. We cross Flagler Drive and enter a city canyon, high-rise office buildings on both sides. The traffic is heavy and the noise jarring, even on Sunday.
“We just walked into a different universe,” Dick says.
In a few blocks we come to CityPlace, a dense, multi-block group of apartment buildings, townhouses, stores, and restaurants. It’s teeming with people of all ages, shapes, and sizes, on the sidewalks, in the central fountain square, in the outdoor cafés.
We window shop and people watch, go into Barnes & Noble, find a couple of books we want plus several cocktail-table books on sale. We carry our heavy load to the checkout counter. Dick says, “We don’t have a car.”
“Oh, right,” I say. “How stupid are we?” We put the books back. “Let’s get an espresso.”
We walk outside and find a café. “How’s your knee?” Dick says. “You okay to walk back?”
“Seems okay so far,” I say. “Let’s try it.”
We make our way back to the bridge and start our walk over to the island. Behind us are tall buildings. Ahead are stately mansions lining the lake shore.
“That was disorienting,” I say. “Those tall buildings, all those people.”
“All that noise,” Dick says. “I didn’t like it.”
“This is baffling,” I say. “How do you think we’d feel if we were in front of our old apartment on Seventy-Second and Third?”
“We went back to New York a year ago and loved it,” Dick says, “but now, I don’t know.”
“Something’s happening to us,” I say. “I’m not sure what.”
Monday, April 26
One side of our pool area now resembles a tomato farm. The tomato seeds Maurizio gave us are now healthy plants. Because we started the seeds at several different times, hoping to avoid that homegrown tomato phenomenon when all possible tomatoes are ready the same day, the plants vary in size. There are medium-size green tomatoes, tiny green tomatoes, and yellow flowers.
The Shiny Sheet continues to amuse us. This morning there’s an article on Chateau du Puppy, a dog boutique, which is hosting a gala Champagne night and Italian buffet to thank its loyal customers. The customers may bring their owners if they wish. Also, a lady at Publix reported her wallet missing. But after a little searching it was discovered, money and credit cards intact, in a display of sweet onions.
We walk over to the lake. Two men are loading a Bentley into a van. Dick says, “Isn’t that the exact same Bentley we saw them unload in November?”
“Even the cars are going back north now,” I say.
“It doesn’t seem that long ago when they were bringing them down,” Dick says.
We keep walking. A woman startles us as she abruptly pulls her Range Rover over to the curb about half a block in front of us. She opens the door, jumps out, and goes over to a large hibiscus bush in the front yard of someone’s house. She picks half a dozen hibiscus blossoms, returns to her car, and takes off.
“That’s a first,” Dick says.
We find a bench in the shade and take a seat. There are a fair number of empty slips.
“Looks like the boats are going north, too,” I say.
Walking back home, we see Barney on his front patio, in his pajamas again, holding court. “I see the Checkers are finally coming home,” he shouts.
“No, Bar
ney,” Dick says, “it’s the Walkers, not the Checkers.”
He points at us. “Hah! You are surely the Walkers, but you are also the Checkers. The two of you are out checking on this town day and night, the two Checkers.”
There is no point in discussing it because Barney is right, as usual.
Tuesday, April 27
I start to unload the dishwasher. I hate putting dishes away in this house. Our one cabinet is jammed. I happen to love plates, and I think longingly of our uncluttered shelves in New Smyrna, with everything arranged. We left most of the plates there, but still we have too many here. I open the cabinet and study everything.
Cabinets can’t get bigger, but stuff can go away. I pick two of my favorite dinner plates, two colorful plates good for around the pool, two sandwich or salad plates, two soup bowls. Everything else I put in a carton. I go find Dick.
“I’ve solved part of the kitchen space problem,” I say. “Come look.”
He follows me into the kitchen. I show him the cabinet. “Okay to just live with these? When guests come, we mostly go out. If we stay in, the plates won’t match. Who cares?”
“This is good,” Dick says. “But are you okay not using the china you love?” Dick says.
“Well, I’ll kind of miss it. But I’ve already learned to live without all the plates we left in New Smyrna. Anyway, it’s not permanent. We’ll be back there soon.”
Thursday, April 29
It’s noon. I’m racing to finish up copy for a technical manual. It’s been a boring bear of a project. Dick comes into my office.
“How are you doing?” he says.
“I’m just about done, another twenty minutes,” I say. Then I say, “Actually, I’m really done. I hated writing that manual.”
“So, let’s get out of here for a couple of days.”
“I have my art class,” I say.
“So, we’ll go tomorrow morning.”
“Go where?”
“I don’t know. I’ll find a place.”
“Actually, that sounds delightful,” I say. “But I don’t know about leaving Duckie.”
Year in Palm Beach Page 18