by Paul Zindel
andIknewthegamewasover.
“AuntAlice!”thewomansaidtoMissApplebauminachilling,disciplinarian
voice.
“Oh, Bernice,” Miss Applebaum sputtered. We all stopped doing high kicks andstared.
“Justwhatisgoingonhere?”thewomandemanded,steppingofftheelevator.
“Wewerejustplayingagame,”MissApplebaumsaidinnocently.
“Whoisthis?”thewomanasked,indicatingZeldaandmeasthoughwewere
asingleunitofworthlessness.
“My friends,” Miss Applebaum said. “Henry and Zelda. They were in my
class,andtheyworkedformeand—”
“I see,” the woman interrupted. “If you don’t mind, we’ll go inside.” She stormedstraightfortheopendoortoMissApplebaum’sapartment.
“Thisismyniece,Bernice,”MissApplebaumsaid,tryingtointroduceher.
In a moment we were all back inside Miss Applebaum’s apartment, and
Bernice was casing the joint. She seemed to look particularly at the scattered playingcardsonthecoffeetable,thepileofcups,saucers,thepizzabox,andthe emptySaraLeealuminumtray.
“Wewerehavingalittlefun,”MissApplebaumexplained.
“Yes,you were,”Bernicesaid.
Zelda and I were surprised to see Miss Applebaum had a fairly old niece.
Most of the time when we get introduced to someone’s niece, it’s somebody slightlyyoung.Ijustneverusuallythinkaboutthefactthatniecesgetolder,too.
And nieces are supposed to be demure and nice, but this Bernice was not. She had a face like a buzz saw, with fancy, dyed, stiff blond hair, and she spoke precise English as though she had been born to a manor near Loch Ness. She wasexcessivelystatuesquewithadiamondring.Shethoughtshewashotstuff.
“AuntAlice,goliedown,”Berniceordered.
“I’m not tired,” Miss Applebaum said, sounding a bit intimidated herself. It wasasthoughMissApplebaumwasthenieceandBernicewastheaunt.
“Isaid,‘Goliedown.’”
“ButZeldaandHenryandIwere—”
“They’regoinghome,”Bernicesaidflatly.
“But—”
“We do have to leave,” Zelda spoke up. We didn’t want to make any more troubleforMissApplebaum.
“I’lljustseethemtotheelevator,”MissApplebaumsaid.
No,youwon’tseethemanywhere,”Berniceinformedher.“I will.”
“‘Bye,”ZeldaandIsaidquicklytoMissApplebaum.
Zeldagrabbedherjacketquickly,andImysweater.Ididn’tevenwaittoputit
on.
“Pleasecomeagain,”MissApplebaumpracticallypleaded.
Bernicegaveusthebum’srushoutthedoor,andfollowedusoutclosingthe
apartmentdoorbehindher.Bernicestalkedustotheelevator,tookcontrolofthe callbutton,andspuntofaceuslikeadragoness.
“Yourauntwasourteacher,”wetriedtoexplain.
“Theoperativewordis was,”Bernicestressed,usingthemostcausticwhisper tonesI’deverheard.Intheharshlightofthehallway,Icouldseeshespenthours plucking her eyebrows into tiny crescent slivers, and painted her witch-long fingernails blood red. She looked like she spent a fortune on makeup, and she wasfortyyearsoldifshewasaday.
“Youknowmyauntisill,”Bernicezeroedin.
“Yes—”Zeldasputtered.
“How doyouknow?”
“Weheard.”
“How didyouhear?”
“Weheardatschoolthatshewasill.”
“Howilldoyouthinksheis?”
“Veryill,”Zeldasaid,andIcouldseeshewasreadytocry.
“That’s correct. She is very ill; she is dying,” Bernice whispered ruthlessly.
“And do you think you should be coming over here bothering an old dying woman?Doyouthinkthat’sverynice?”
“Weloveher,”Zeldasaid.
“Let’sjustgetsomethingstraight.Ineverwantyoutocomeoverhereagain.
Youkeepawayfromher!”
“Weallenjoybeingtogether.Shedoestoo!”
“Shehasonly months tolive,”Berniceshotatme.
“Sayswho?ThatcockeyeddoctorfromWeehawken?”Igrowledbackather.
IcouldtellIthrewheroffbalance.
“YoumetDr.Obitcheck?”Bernicewantedtoknow. “How?”
“Wewerehereoncewhenhecame.WebroughtMissApplebaumabegonia,”
Isaid.
“Then you know she needs more than flowers!” Bernice pressed the call
buttonviciously.
“Whycan’tshebetreated?Whycan’tanyonedoanything?”Zeldaasked.
“I’lltellyouwhy,”Berniceshouted,andthendroppedhervoicebackintoa
snakelike hiss. “Because her illness has spread too far in her body. It’s in the lining of her lungs and in her lymph system. She’s riddled with it. There’s nothingyouorIoranydoctoronearthcandotosaveher.”
Theelevatorarrived,andZeldaandIwalkedontoit.Bernicereachedoutand
heldbackthedoor,stoppingitfromclosing.
“Can’tweatleastcomeseeher?”Zeldaasked.
“No.I’mhereatleastonceaweek.Soonthere’llbeavisitingnurse. Idon’t
wanthertoknowshe’sdying.”
Wegasped.
“AreyousayingMissApplebaumdoesn’t know?”Zeldacried.
“Shedoesn’twanttoknow!” Bernicepracticallyscreamedatus.“She and I don’twantyouruiningwhateverfewmonthsshehasleft.”
“Sheseemedtobehappyseeingus,”Isaid.
The elevator door started to slam against Bernice’s hand, making a terrible racket.Itgrewlouderandbeganthumpinglikeaheartbeat.
“Look, I want you out of here,” Bernice shot at us. “And if I ever hear that yousomuchascomenearmyauntagain,you’llbesorry!Justletmyauntdiein
peace!”
She yanked her hand away and the elevator door closed like the lid on a nightmare.
8
AsHenryandItoldyouinthebeginning,therewillbenoliesinthisbook.
Therefore, it is my duty to tell you that we both intensely hated Bernice.
There are very few persons in the world we don’t like, but Miss Applebaum’s niece was on the top of the list. Almost all the others we can’t stand are ayatollahs, politicians, or malevolent despots, and some of them aren’t even alive anymore, but we hate them in retrospect. Henry and I tried to consider everypossiblepsychologicalmotiveBernicecouldhavefornottellingherown
aunt that she was dying, but we didn’t arrive at even a clue. In fact, meeting Bernice so traumatized me that I had nightmares all week. In one nightmare I wasasupernumeraryin LaBohème again, one of the children dancing around thetoymasterwhenamajordivaisrolledonstageinacarriage.Inmydreamthis
major diva turned out to have the chilling face of Bernice, and she suddenly commanded an entire regiment to guillotine Henry and me while she sang
“Musetta’s Waltz.” It was a very disturbing nightmare, and I woke up
screaming. Later the same night, I dreamed Bernice buried me alive, which I found very symbolic from a Freudian point of view. I think it represented Bernice’sdesiretosuppressanyonewhomightwanttohelpMissApplebaum.I
canonlytellyouthefactsasIrememberthem,butIdorecallmyownpowersof
forever.
HenrycalledmenightanddayandItriedtoavoidtheobviousissue,buthe
finallydraggedmetotheCosmicSodaShoppeonTuesdayA.B.(we’dcometo
definetimeas“AfterBernice”).HeatleastwaiteduntilafterLargeMargehad
brought us our frozen hot chocolates before he began to railroad me into a discussionIdidn’tfeelreadytohave.
“WehavetotellMissApplebaum,”Henrysaid.
“No,wedon’t.”
IknewHenrywasn’tcompletelysureofwhathewassaying,becausehekept
excessively turning to see if a taxi or bus was going to veer onto the sidewalk andcrashintoourbooth.
“We do havetotellher!”
“No, we don’t!” And then, “Besides, maybe Miss Applebaum already has it allfiguredoutherself,”Imuttered.
Of course, I wasn’t sure of anything I was saying either. Henry and I had already had practically the same argument fifty times on street corners and betweenclasses.Itwasn’tthatwedidn’thaveenoughtokeepusbusywithfull
programs in English, biology, early American history, French, algebra, and IntroductiontoFamilyLiving.Whatwedid not dowassignuptoworkaslab assistants for service credits. It would only have reminded us of Miss
Applebaumandhowworriedwewereforher.
By Thursday, I still hadn’t committed myself to anything, and I went home alone instead of going out with Henry again. My mother came home from her guidancecounselorjobatfour-fifteen.Shetookonelookatmyfaceandknew
she’dhavealittlehomecounselingtodo.
“What’sthematter?”sheasked.
“Nothing.”
“Zeldaaaaaaaaaaaa!” she said, with the inflection that always signals she knows I knew more than I’m saying. “It’s something about Miss Applebaum, isn’tit?”Shehitthenailonthehead.
“Yes.”
“Well,shoot.”
My mom shoved a roll of Scott paper towels and a can of Lemon Pledge in my hands. She pointed me toward the dining room table. Everytime my mom wants to draw me out on a problem, she gets me to do something domestic. I think she instinctively knows it’s easier for me to talk if I’m doing something physicalandmundane,whichjusthappensalsotobeatechniqueofStanislavski,
thefamous,deceasedactingteacher.ItoldheraboutmeetingMissApplebaum’s
niece.
“Ihearshe’sabeaut,”mymothersaid,runningherhandthroughherperm.
“Youknowabouther?”Iaskedwithsurprise.
“I’ve heard abouther.”
“Fromwhom?”
“Her name comes up a lot. I had another coffee schmooze with Helen
Kaminski,thenurseatmyschool,andshealwayshearseverythingdirectlyfrom
Mr.KennedyatAndrewJackson.KaminskiandKennedywereataRolloMay lecture at Ethical Culture, and he told her Miss Applebaum’s niece had taken completechargeoffilingtheretirementformslastJune,andthatit’snotthefirst timetheniecehasmovedinonMissApplebaum’saffairs.Ihearshe’sawitch
onwheels.”
“IsitpossibleMissApplebaumdoesn’tknowshe’sdying?Isthatsomething
hernieceandherdoctorandeveryonecouldjustkeepfromher?”
“Nothing would surprise me,” my mother said, taking a damp sponge and
starting to wipe the dining room chair cushions. “By the way, I got student discount tickets for a musical version of How Green Was My Valley,” she added. “You and Henry may want to go, but I hope they don’t have a tap-dancingwheatfieldoranythinglikethat.”
“Nothanks,Mom.”
“There’ssomethingelse,isn’tthere?”sheasked,givingherspongearinse.
IpressedthenozzleontheLemonPledgecanandhidbehindasprayofmist
foramoment.
“I just don’t know why her niece doesn’t want her to know everything,” I finallysaid.“IfIweregoingtodie,I’dwanttoknow.There’dbethingsI’dwant totakecareof.”
“They say the niece lives in a house she bought with a loan from Miss Applebaum’spensionfundlastyear.Somefamiliesdoverystrangethingswhen
someone’ssick.Theyfightovermoney.Connive.Theysticktheirgrandmothers
innursinghomes.Putthemoncharity.HelenKaminskisaidApplebaum’sniece
marriedanalcoholicrealestateagentandtheyliveinaWestportcolonialthey
can’tafford.IheartheniecehastakenadvantageofMissApplebaumforyears.”
That’s when it came to me that maybe Bernice wasn’t trying to protect her auntfromknowingaboutherdyingoutofkindnesstoher.Shedidn’twantherto
knowsoshe’ddiesooner,andhermoneywouldgotoBernice!
IrealizeI’mveryluckytohaveamotherandfatherIcantalkto,butIsuppose
I have to admit here and now that there are some things I really don’t feel comfortabletellingthem.Idon’ttalktothemaboutmyverydeepestfeelings.I
don’tknowhowtoexpressthosetothem,andinsomestrangewayIdon’tthink
I really should. I really want to discuss the most secret parts of my mind and heartonlywithHenry.Iguesspracticallyallthesecretpartswesharehavetodo withGod,love,sex,anddeath,andalotofthosefeelingsandthoughtswehave
trouble putting into words even for ourselves. Henry already mentioned his phobias, but he doesn’t let them interfere with his life. If he has an anxiety attack, he’s so brave no one can tell there’s anything bothering him. I can tell becausewhenhe’sfrightened,hiscowlickstandsstraightuponhishead.Ithink
ithassomethingtodowithhisforeheadmuscles.WhenI’mscared,Istarttocry.
Henrymakesitsoundasifmytearductsopenuplikefloodgates,butmyeyes
reallyonlybecomeredandmoist.Rarelydoactualtearsrolldownmycheeks.
Myfearsaboutdying are different than Henry’s. I usually don’t think about death unless something in my environment triggers it, such as passing a graveyardorRiversideFuneralParlor.Tome,deathisunfair.Itissounfairthat IalmostgocrazywheneverIreallythinkaboutit.Andmyfearsaboutdeathare
verysensibleones,Ibelieve.TheyarequestionstowhichIhavenoanswers.I
thinkdeathisthemosthorriblethinginflictedonthehumanrace.Ican’tstandit.
Idon’twantittoexist.It’sthemosthorriblethingaboutbeingborn.AndIdon’t knowwhattothinkaboutGod.Iusedtobelieveinone.Istilltrytostarteach
daynotthinkingaboutanythingconnectedtomyfuturepersonalextinction,but
it’s very difficult. And the terrifying things that were to happen to me, Henry, andMissApplebaumaredifferentandmoredisturbingthananythingI’veever
seenonTV.Ontelevisionwheneversomedelicateoldladyorbelovedpersonis
going to die, they always find a lot of hope at the end by cutting to newborn babies,puppies,oramarriageceremony.It’sallsofake.Itfrightensmebecause wearebombardedbyelectroniclies,andtheonlythingthatscaresmemorethan
alltheliesaboutlifeiswhatstatisticsindicatearethetruthaboutlife.Henryand I never meet religious people. Most kids Henry and I know don’t feel like prayingtoaforcethatkillsthem.Ithinkmillionsandmillionsofhumanbeings
areinaterriblecrisis.Ioncereadinapsychologyarticlethatmostpeoplehave goneinsanebecauseto not be insane would just be another form of insanity. I think that’s what happened to Henry’s parents, if you ask me. He calls his mothertheFreudianOctopus,butalotofpeopleadmirethewaysheisawoman
with a highly respected career. I don’t think she means to be an incompetent mother, but being a psychoanalyst must make her think all day about the thousands of problems of being alive. Psychoanalysts think about those
problemsalldaylong,soit’snoaccidentMrs.Lednizbelongstoanoccupation
withthehighestrateofsuicide,secondonlytodentists.Iheardonthenewsonce thatamarriedpairofpsychoanalystscommittedadoublesuicidelastwinteron
anicefloe.AndHenry’sfatherismuchmorethanaCockaloonyBird.Myfather
toldmemanypeopleonceknewhimasaveryrespectedmathematician,andthat
it’s only lately he’s escaped into reading multitudinous mystery novels. My mother also says he’s undergoing male menopause. He just waited too long in lifetogetmarriedandconceiveHenry.Whatever,IdothinkbothMr.andMrs.
Ledniz both deserve respect and understanding, and I believe Henry does love themnomatterwhathesays.Whatever,thisfearofdeathbothHenryandIhave
must be one of the things that makes us such good friends. And maybe it was thisfearthattookusafullsixdaystodecidethatweabsolutelyhadtotellMiss Applebaumshewasgoingtodie.
It was after school on that Friday afternoon I told Henry my theory about Bernice and we finally called Miss Applebaum. Henry and I were alone at the Ledniz main apartment, and after he dialed I picked up the living room extension.
“Hello,”MissApplebaumanswered.
“Hi,”Henrysaid.“It’sHenryandZelda,MissApplebaum.”
“Oh,I’vebeenwaitingforyourcall,”MissApplebaumsaidrightaway.She
soundeddesperatelyhappytohearfromus.
“Wewerewonderingifwecouldseeyou,”Isaid.
“Ofcourse!I’vealreadyplannedourwholetriptothemuseum!”
“Themuseum?”
“Yes! The museum! I insist on taking you both to the museum. Can we go tomorrow?Canwe?Please?”