30 Pieces of a Novel (33 page)

sleepy
, so why'd he think “sorry”?; nothing, a slip or something more, but what of it?—he could fall asleep right here, and says, “Mom, when you're finished we'll go, okay?” “If you like,” and she finishes her ginger ale, and he says, “What about the Danish?” and she says, “You have it, I've had all I want,” and he says, “No, thanks,” and she says, “You never eat anything when we're out. Coffee, that's the extent of it, and always black. And in restaurants a house salad, maybe the crust of a slice of bread, so nothing. You starve yourself. You look thinner than you ever were,” and he says, “I like crust, it's the best part,” and she says, “You got to be kidding me—that's an answer?” and he says, “Believe me, I'm not thin. I don't like to eat as much as I used to—and usually nothing for lunch—but I do okay.” “And you look tired. You sleep well at night?” and he says, “Sure,” and she says, “How's your wife?” and he says, “Fine.” “Good. That's what I like to hear. Good news for a change. Though you look tired. Maybe you're only sleepy, though you're not yawning.” “Why should I be sleepy? I'm on vacation. It's three in the afternoon or so. I sleep seven to eight hours a night now. I still got to get the kids up for camp, but they don't have to be there till nine, and it's right up the block from us.” “I don't know, but that's what you look like: beat. I hope you're not coming down with anything,” and he says, “What could I be coming down with? If I look a little bushed, it's probably from the humidity and heat the last few days. We only have a fan, and the apartment really gets hot, so maybe I don't sleep as much or as well as I said.” “Has it been hot? I don't get outside.” “Of course you do. Every day for a couple of hours. After I take you to the restaurant for lunch, and it's not raining, we go to the park. Or just to the park sometimes, like this place, where I get you a snack.” “I don't remember, isn't that terrible? What's happened to me? I can't believe it. I mean, I know I'm outside today—I'm not dreaming this, and where else could I be?—but those other times you said. With that bowl and bell before—that strange man—I should have wished for a long period where my mind's really functioning. Something in addition to what I wished for, I'm saying, which was—” “Don't tell your mommy or your sonny,” he says, wagging his finger at her. “Oh, I didn't take him seriously. Who can take a clown seriously? You see how old he was? And his costume—thick flannel shirt on this hot day and that yellow tie and those socks, and acting so stupid. There's no dope like an old dope—I've told you that. Someone used to repeat that slogan to me,” and he says, “Your mother.” “She said it, that's right, and it isn't a slogan. But what I wished for was for you … the best things both for you and your family. That's all I want in life.” “Come on, there must be other things. Be honest, what?” “Truthfully?” and she looks at the sky as if thinking about her answer. “Oh, that I hadn't lost my first boy so young. That really hit me and Dad. And that I could have had another one after you, if not a brother for you, then a sister. You should have had someone at home to play with, because Dad and I didn't do that well. That your father had been healthier and not suffered so much at the end and lived longer. It hasn't been easy for me being alone so long, even if he and I fought a lot. You're with me, but you know what I mean, and then you go home. And lots of grandchildren, though the two I have are nice; they're dolls. What else? Your wife: that she was well, running around, but in the good sense—doing healthy things. But that goes in the ‘best things for you and your family' category. Myself? That I'd be comfortably retired from a profession I wanted to enter, chemistry or law. I loved school and studying, but your father wouldn't have let me go back to it for so long after I had you. And that feebleness didn't always have to go along with getting so old. I hate my face now—you can't even tell anymore how good-looking I might have been ages ago—and I wish I had the stamina I had even when I was seventy. And I hate forgetting. I might not look it, but I usually know how incapable I'm being or bad I'm behaving. That's when I want to go to sleep the most, no matter what time of day. Even pretending to be tired sometimes so I can be helped to bed, close my eyes, and shut out the world, though once there I sleep like a baby. So I wish I felt better in lots of ways and could enjoy life more. I could if I had better eyes. All those books I read and wanted to reread and now with my ears I can't even listen to them well. Why can't they do something with my eyes? I know, my general physician says my heart couldn't take it. So maybe we should get another doctor who says it can or call that strange man back so I can have another shot at it, what do you say?” “Nah, I had my fill of him. His spiel got to be annoying,” and she says, “You're probably right. One couldn't just look at things when he was here. Because I love being here with you and seeing real life around: kids, their parents. You're the one I rely on and who means the most. The girls are nice who take care of me. Sometimes a bit rough. They don't mean it, I'm sure, or if they do it's quick and I tell them off and they stop.” “I didn't know,” and she says, “Oh, yeah, but don't say anything to them. I can handle it in my own way. So I'd like for it not to have turned out this way, but what can I do? To have died earlier and peacefully in my sleep would be more like I wanted than just vegetating like I am.” “I'm sorry,” he says, “and please don't talk like that.” “Why not? We're talking over things, discussing, so don't be silly.” The man's back at their table, sticks the bowl out, and says, “Make a wish, ring the bell and put a contribution in the potty, and whatever you put in you'll get back a hundred times, half price for seniors with IDs.” “You already hit us,” Gould says, and the man says, “Did I? I ask so many people, I forget their faces. I can't be expected to remember each one. Did you get your wish?” and he says, “My mother was the one who made it, and it was just before.” “She didn't tell you what it was, did she?” and he says no. The man says to her, “That's a good girl. Did any part of your wish come true, or maybe we haven't had time yet. I only want to know to see how good and even fast my system's working,” and she says, “What's that?” “Your wish, lady. Did any part of it come true? … the one you made with my bell before. Or maybe you'd like to try another, put some more money in and ring the bell again?” and she says, “What are you talking about?” and the man says, “Oh, boy, the two of us with our memories. We should get together,” and he goes.

HIS
MOTHER
DIES
and he makes plans for the funeral. Days before, in the hospital, when she was still lucid, she said she didn't want any funeral-home service. “Too expensive. They charge a fortune to rent a chapel and a little side room and for all their employees to act as ushers and doormen, and it's also so unnecessary. Why should people, if they want to see the whole thing through, have to come to the chapel and cemetery both? And in addition some even to the funeral home the night before, just to view my cheap coffin and pay their respects to you, and I want it to be the cheapest so you don't go broke for a stupid box, and I also don't want you opening it once I'm inside. Have it at the cemetery only. Open air and light, even if it's raining, is better than the solemn nonsense and awful recorded organ music of a chapel. A few people I knew saying brief things about me if they want or just praying to themselves or together from some little prayer book the cemetery could loan you, or even staring at their feet or into space if they like, and then drop me in the ground between your father and brother, and you go home. If the whole thing takes more than half an hour, starting from the time you get there till you leave, then it's taken too long. People's time shouldn't be wasted for things like that. It's already enough they had to get there.” “That's why a funeral home might not be a bad idea, in spite of the expense, if we have to talk about it now,” and she said, “We do. If you're not going to be the practical one, then I have to, so what were you saying?” “I was saying I could find a home in the city. People wouldn't even have to drive their cars to it, if they lived there and weren't planning on going to the cemetery. They can come by cab or subway or bus, and for some who live on the Upper West Side, where I think the best place is, they can even walk. Then the ones that also want to go to the cemetery can go in my car or someone else's if someone else who comes has one, or even a limo I'll hire if there are that many people coming. I mean, how much can one cost? The cemetery's not
that
far away, if I remember. The rest will feel they've paid their respects and did their duty and so on by coming to the service or to the funeral home the night before, if they also did that, and they can go back to work or home. But please let's drop the subject,” and she said, “Who are all these people you're expecting? If you get six, tops, it'll be a lot, or seven, right? but don't look for a crowd. That's also why the funeral-home service makes no sense. You'll have to get someone to conduct it—a rabbi or some expert in Jewish religious services the home gets for you—and you want him speaking to a practically empty audience? The cemetery: have it all there. And don't let them do anything to my body for it. Put me in the pine box straight from the hospital, store me for the night someplace—if it's got to be at the funeral home, let it be—then ship me to the gravesite the next day in the cheapest conveyance allowable, and that'll be it. All this is almost a favor I'm asking of you. Since I won't be in any position to argue, do what you want except to cremate me. Even though I'll be gone at the time—
dead
, why not just say it, what else do I expect will happen to me by the end of the week?—the thought of all that fire scares me. If you don't promise you won't cremate me, I swear it will kill me sooner. Worms and bugs and whatever else is underground don't make me feel that much easier, but I just think if there is a soul in your body and it doesn't get completely out of it once you die, it won't survive those terrific temperatures. Besides, I'm leaving you almost no money. I don't have much, that's why, since whatever I had or Dad left me was mostly used up to keep me alive the last few years and for someone to look after me. So why waste what's left plus some of your own on even a simple chapel service when you also have to go through one at the cemetery? I know the burial will also have to cost something. But so would anything you do—cremation; hiring a boat to drop me in the ocean, which by law you can't do—so we know there's a minimum you have to spend on this. You can't, unfortunately, I'm saying, just make me disappear. I wouldn't even have a rabbi or any kind of burial professional at the grave, since they can set you back a bundle too. Just ask the cemetery to get one of those little old religious guys who hang around the cemetery, and who know the right prayers for the dead, and slip him a twenty to read some passages over me and maybe to point something out for you to read. Or conduct it any way you want on your own, with you, or whoever has come there, reading or speaking whatever you want. In the end, what's the difference? And I don't say that to you that way to make a joke. Let's face it, dead is dead, and I know that whatever you say and read and however you say it, even if it comes out fumblingly, is meant well.”

He decides to have the body sent to that West Side funeral home, put in the cheapest pine coffin they have there, and with nothing done to the body, not even washed or reclothed, since once she's in the coffin and it's closed nobody's going to see her again, and next morning sent by simple van to the cemetery for a short burial ceremony, though he doesn't know what he's going to do there yet. His wife's cousin and her husband will meet him there, same with his mother's best friend from her street, whose son will drive her and the woman who took care of his mother the last two years. Later that day, someone from the funeral home calls him and asks if he wants her marriage bands removed from her finger—she added his father's band to her own when his father died—before she's put in the casket, and he says, “Oh, God, she never told me what to do about that, and I don't know. She should probably be buried with them, right?” and looks at his wife and points to his own band and she points to her chest and shakes her head, she doesn't want them, and the man says, “Look, yes or no, because we won't be able to get them off later without, if you'll excuse me, chopping off her finger. And that, unless it was absolutely necessary for some other reason, I'm not allowing any of my workers to do,” and he says, “Then okay, leave them on. They're hers, whatever that means, and eventually I'd just lose them.”

The next day, on the way to the cemetery with his wife and two girls, he blurts out, “Damn, just thought of something. I mean I've been thinking and thinking what I'll say at the ceremony after someone reads a couple of prayers, and simply decided to say what comes naturally but to keep it brief. But there's a poem she loved, and though she didn't mention it when she talked the other day about everything she wanted and didn't want after she died, except for the wedding bands—do you think I made the right decision on that?” and his wife says, “Too late, don't even think of it.” “But the kids might have wanted them for when they're older,” and his younger daughter says, “What?” and his wife says, “Nothing, we're not going to talk about it. It'd be totally futile and it wouldn't seem right. What'd you start out to say?” and he says, “I remember a couple of years ago when she was very sick and I was called to New York and we thought she was dying … we're talking about Grandma, of course”—to his girls—“and she said if there's one thing she wanted read at her funeral—but not by a rabbi, she added—it was an Emily Dickinson poem about dying. She gave me the title but I can't remember it, though I probably wrote it down then,” and his wife says, “I don't think hers had official titles. They were all the first lines of her poems, weren't they? Either she decided on titling them that way or someone did it for her after she died and the poems were found. Wasn't that her?” and his older daughter says, “Who, Grandma again?” and he says, “Emily Dickinson, a poet of the last century. And it was her, I'm sure.” “Oh, I know her. We read her in the advanced humanities class I took, but I can't remember any of them now or anything about them except they were all short.” “There's one very beautiful one I recall,” his wife says, “that starts, ‘Because I could not stop for death,' and then goes on, ‘so death stopped for me,' or something,” and he says, “That's it, her favorite, or one of them. She used to read me them when I was a boy. And for years she kept a copy of all the poems on her night table—there weren't many, or, as Fanny said, they were all short. The collected works in one volume, plus the letters, I think, or some of them. I haven't seen the book around in a long time, and before that one day in the hospital she hadn't brought up Dickinson in years. It's probably still in her apartment somewhere, or someone borrowed it and never gave it back—it could even have been me—or she just read it till it fell apart. No, I could never have taken it from her; it had been by her bedside for maybe ten years and you don't borrow a book like that, nor loan it out. Did she say then that it was at home and I should get it from there? I don't remember. But I have to read that poem at the burial. It might be all I'll read or say, in fact, except that this was one of her favorite poems, maybe her favorite, and that Dickinson was her favorite poet, or certainly among her favorites, and the only one whose book she had by her bedside so long, if I'm remembering right. And that she used to read them to me and I thought this one appropriate to read today, because of all I've said about it and its contents—the poem's—and so on. Do you remember the rest of the poem?” he says to his wife. “It's short, right? You can write it down for me, or one of the girls can; you can just recite it,” and his younger daughter says, “I'll write it down—I've a pad and pen with me,” and Fanny says, “No, I will; I know her works, or read her, and those first two lines Mommy said I especially remember and won't need her to repeat,” and he says, “Either of you, so long as it's written clearly,” and his wife says, “I only know those two, I'm afraid; the second's ‘He kindly stopped for me.'” “That's right, that's right,” he says. “Think, come on, remember; Josephine, get your pen and pad out,” and his wife says, “I can't; that's it, a blank: ‘Because I could not stop for death,' and ‘He kindly stopped for me.'” “Then I'll stop in a town on the way—we've time—and buy it at a bookstore if there's one, or an anthology of some sort with that poem in it. It's one of her most popular, so it'd be in one. And every bookstore must have an anthology like that or a collection of her poems, or at a bookstore at a nearby mall where most of them seem to be now,” and his wife says, “But there could be people waiting for us already. I think even the receptionist in your mother's doctor's office said she was coming. And the funeral-home people with the coffin in their van. They all expect you to be the first one there, and for the funeral people, probably for some paperwork to fill out or sign.” “Then this is what. I'll drop you all off. Anything to sign, you do it; you're my wife. If anyone's there or they come, tell them to wait, I'll be back soon. As far as the funeral-van people: well, they can just put the box over the grave; the rest is up to the cemetery. Good thing no rabbi, though. If we had one and he was there he wouldn't let me go because he'd probably have a wedding to run in an hour or another funeral somewhere and he couldn't give us even five minutes more than what we hired him for. I'll go to the nearest store and buy the book. I won't be more than half an hour. If it takes more, I'll drop it. A half hour from the time I leave you might just be when I told everyone the service would start anyway. And tell them I'll keep the ceremony shorter even than I had planned to.
Ceremony, service
, whatever you want to call it: fifteen minutes, if that.” “Please don't look for any book,” she says. “Why not just talk about the poem? Read the first two lines … read them twice, three times; they're that good and right for a funeral service. After that, say you don't know the other lines, but tell what Dickinson's poetry meant to your mother: the night table, reading them to you, all that. And how you wanted to read all of this poem, how you almost even started out from the cemetery to get the book at the last minute—” and he says, “No, that's all circling around to avoid it, and dishonest—on my part—and lazy, because this is what she wanted. She told me that first time two years ago and then again about a year later, I just remembered; I think we were in the waiting room of a doctor's office. Didn't say anything about it this last time in the hospital, but she was on drugs and not clear-headed—” and she says, “What do you mean? You said she was about as lucid and articulate and well-informed as you've seen her recently, using the big words she loved and with you having a long and absorbing personal conversation with her as you haven't had in years,” and he says, “She was still on medication, and I think a painkiller, and being fed intravenously, and anyway, not clear all the time … dozing off, sleeping a lot. Besides—” and she says, “I don't know how much to believe you,” and he says, “Yes, believe me. Besides, maybe she thought I already knew about her poem wish and didn't want to repeat herself. That she didn't want me feeling she thought I had a lousy memory and that she had to say things over and over again for them to sink in. After all, she told me at least twice before. Listen, you have to see how important this is to me. I don't want to put you and the kids in a bind, but this'll be my last good thing to her, or last chance to do it, rather, besides how much it'll help me get through the day. If I can't find the Dickinson collection or that particular poem in an anthology, or one close to it on death or immortality or the ending of life and transmigration of the soul or something, I swear I'll give up after the first store and rush right back.”