One Last Thing Before I Go (21 page)

CHAPTER 51

T
hings are starting to speed up. He is losing time. He feels lightheaded more often now, and sometimes finds himself in the middle of a room, or conversation, with no recollection of how he came to be there. He knows that this has to do with blood flow to his brain, with the little clots breaking off in his aorta and shooting up to his brain like microscopic bullets, scarring it like the side of a building after a gunfight.

One minute he is saying good-bye to Lily, and the next he is in the lobby watching the formerly sad Todd take his leave. Then he’s in the shower, and now he’s out to dinner with Casey. They are at Carlucci’s, a family-style Italian place a few blocks over. He doesn’t remember making the reservation, doesn’t remember the walk over, but here they are, finishing their soups. His is minestrone, hers potato leek. Casey’s hair is freshly blown and down, and she looks heartbreakingly beautiful to him.

“So, Dad.”

“Yes.”

“That woman. The singer.”

“Lily.”

“Lily.”

“How’d that go?”

“Hard to say.”

“You going to see her again?”

“I hope so.”

“Well, keep me posted as events warrant.”

“Will do.”

Casey sits back and considers him for a moment. “You seem sad.”

“I’m not.”

“So what are you, then?”

He thinks about it for a moment. “Waiting,” he says.

“What for?”

“Whatever comes next.”

Casey spoons her soup thoughtfully, clearly debating whether or not to say something. “You know,” she says, “there are some people out there who don’t wait for what comes next. They decide what should come next and they go and make it happen.”

Silver smiles sadly. It occurs to him that what he has failed to impart through wisdom, he may well have imparted through stupidity.

“You’re right,” he says. “I think things would have turned out differently if I were one of those people.”

“I’m just like you.”

“You’re nothing like me.”

“No, I am. I keep waiting for the universe to decide things for me, and the thing is, the universe has better things to do.”

“When did you get so smart?”

She shrugs. “Broken home. You pick shit up.”

It occurs to him that there is something wrong with his soup. He takes another few spoonfuls, concentrating. It takes him a minute, but he figures it out. He can’t taste it. He leans forward and takes a spoonful of Casey’s soup. He eats a piece of the garlic knots the waiter had put out with the soup. Nothing. He can taste nothing.

“What is it?” Casey says, alarmed.

He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

He is dying. Bit by bit. He can feel it happening inside of him, small things inside of him starting to call it a day.

“Dad?”

She calls him Dad now, thoughtlessly. And it never fails to bring a lump to his throat.

“What, baby?”

“Are you going to get that?”

“What?”

“Your phone. It’s ringing.”

He almost never carries his phone, which almost never rings. He reaches into his pocket and pulls it out. Sure enough, it’s ringing, on a pitch close to the ringing in his ears, which is why he didn’t hear it. He looks at the screen and sees a number he doesn’t recognize.

“Aren’t you going to answer it?” Casey says.

“I don’t know who it is.”

“You push the button and you find out.”

Silver nods and picks up the call. “Hello?”

“I like you too,” Lily says.

* * *

And then he is in the hospital, sitting in a small room with Jack and Oliver. Oliver is on a leather recliner, the IV needle in his arm delivering his last chemo treatment.

“I still can’t believe you’ve been coming here all this time without us,” Jack says.

“Sad Jack hates to be left out of anything,” Oliver says, winking at Silver.

“Fuck you, Cancer Boy,” Jack says.

They’ve been calling him Sad Jack ever since Sad Todd left the building, and it drives him crazy.

“When’s the surgery?” Silver asks him.

“Next week,” Oliver says. “You know, you could have yours then too, and we could get ourselves a private recovery suite upstairs.”

They both look at him expectantly. He isn’t ready to talk about this yet. “Denise is getting married tonight,” he says.

“Oh, shit,” Jack says.

“The wedding day of an ex-wife is always traumatic,” Oliver says.

“Even your third ex-wife?”

“Fuck off, Sad Jack.”

“Keep calling me that and I’ll put an air bubble in your drip.”

“Are you going to the wedding?” Oliver says.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“What do you mean, why not?” Jack says. “Did you go watch your many ex-wives get married?”

“No, but they all hated me.”

“I can’t imagine why.”

“I’m not invited,” Silver says.

They both look at him, and the way they do it makes him feel he has revealed more than he meant to.

“There are plenty of reasons to stay away from your ex-wife’s wedding,” Jack says. “But that is not one of them.”

Oliver nods sagely. “Sad Jack is right.”

“Sad Jack is going to jam that chemo bag up your ass and make your shit glow.”

Silver laughs. He feels a surge of warmth for these men who have kept him company these last lonely years.

There is a noise behind them, the clearing of a throat. They turn to see Oliver’s son, Tobey, standing in the doorway.

“Hey,” Tobey says. “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

The expression on Oliver’s face is something they’ve never seen before. He opens his mouth to say something, but nothing comes out.

* * *

And then Silver is opening the door to his apartment to find his father standing there in his best suit.

“Come on,” Ruben says. “Get dressed.”

“What are you talking about?”

“The wedding. I can’t be late.”

“I’m not going to the wedding,” Silver says.

“Of course you are. One of every life-cycle event. You agreed to it.”

“I’m not invited, Dad.”

“That’s never stopped us before.”

“This is different.”

“No, it’s not,” Ruben says, leaning against the doorframe. “If anything, she’ll be happy to see you.”

“I think your understanding of women is fundamentally flawed.”

“Says the divorced man to the man coming up on his fiftieth anniversary.”

Silver grins. “That only means you understand one woman.”

“And that’s one more than you. So put on that ridiculous tux of yours and let’s get moving. I’m on the clock here.”

* * *

And then he is standing outside Renni’s, a large restaurant with an enclosed courtyard. The restaurant has been rented out for the affair, and he can see the guests through the windows, milling about inside. Casey steps outside, wearing a rust-colored gown and heels, looking so much like a woman that when, after a moment, he registers that it’s her, there’s no choice but to feel old.

“You came!” she says with delight. She takes his arm to lead him inside, but he remains fixed where he is.

“I’m not sure about this.”

She turns to look at him, then gives him a quick kiss on his cheek. “Be sure,” she says.

CHAPTER 52

T
hey’re doing a cocktail hour before the ceremony. Rich, in tails and a white bow tie, stands in a cluster of men near the bar. Silver watches him joking around with his friends. He assumes they’re all doctors, but maybe not. Maybe some are bankers, or run hedge funds or technology companies. Either way, they all look scrubbed and polished, every hair in place, every tuxedo perfectly fitted. He instinctively moves in the opposite direction.

“Where are you going?” Casey says.

“I don’t think he wants to see me.”

But Rich does see him, just then, and while the good cheer that’s animating his face definitely falters, he doesn’t seem terribly angry. He excuses himself from his golf buddies—Silver has no idea if they even play golf, but that’s how he thinks of them—and makes his way across the room to Silver and Casey.

“OK,” Silver says. “Be cool.”

“I am cool.”

“I meant me.”

“It’s OK, Dad. He’s not going to get into it at his own wedding.”

“I play about sixty or seventy weddings a year. Trust me, I have seen some shit go down.”

Casey takes his arm. “Well, you have me to protect you. Just try not to say anything stupid.”

“Have you met me?”

Casey laughs just as Rich comes over to them, still carrying his glass of scotch. “Hey, honey,” he says, kissing Casey. “You look magnificent.”

“Why, thank you.”

Silver extends his hand. “Congratulations, Rich.”

Rich hesitates just long enough to make him anxious, then he takes the hand and shakes it. “How’s the nose?”

“It’s OK. How’s your hand?”

“It’s fine.”

Rich looks at Casey. “I’m sure your mom would love your help getting ready,” he says.

Casey looks unsure. “We’ll check on her in a few minutes.”

Rich smiles. “It’s OK, honey. Silver and I will be just fine, won’t we, Silver?”

“You’d know better than me,” Silver says.

Casey looks torn, but then nods. “OK. But you two behave, OK? No drama.”

“No drama,” Rich says.

Casey casts a last anxious look in Silver’s direction, then turns and leaves. Silver turns to Rich. “So, I’ll let you get back to your guests.”

“You are my guest,” Rich says. “You may have crashed, but that doesn’t mean I wasn’t expecting you.”

“If you don’t want me to be here, I can go.”

“I don’t want you to be here. What man in his right mind would want you to be here? But Casey wants you to be here. And she may be your family, but she’s mine too, and I won’t be the one who disappoints her.”

“You’re a better man than me,” Silver says. “They’re both lucky to have you.”

“You’re damn right I am,” Rich says, more angrily than he’d intended to. He takes a breath and checks himself. “The thing is, Silver, I can get past that bullshit with you and Denise—some last, crazy impulse—she’s getting married, you may be dying . . . I recognize that there’s a lifetime of unresolved issues that were there before I came along. I don’t like it—believe me, I don’t like it—but I can’t change it, and I’m smart enough to know that.”

Silver nods. Rich leans in and looks him square in the eye. “Now you have to be smart too, and I know that runs contrary to your general MO, but you have to know what it is that you can’t change.”

“I do.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. And I know it’s kind of late for this, but I’m very sorry for all the trouble I’ve caused.”

Rich looks at him for a moment, then takes a long swallow of scotch. “I used to like you, Silver. I don’t know why, and I don’t anymore. But on the subject of things you can and can’t change, you need to have that operation. I’m not going to beg you. But whatever it is you’ve lost, you still have a family.”

“Thanks, Rich,” Silver says. “And I do hope you and Denise will be very happy together. You both deserve it.”

Rich searches his face for any trace of sarcasm. Finding none, he nods and allows a small smile. “Thank you.”

“And thanks for being so cool about me crashing your wedding.”

“Thank the Xanax-scotch cocktail,” Rich says, holding up his glass as he backs away. “Do me one favor?”

“Sure.”

“Don’t fuck up my wedding.”

Silver smiles. “You got it.”

“Seriously, man. Don’t.”

* * *

The ceremony takes place in the courtyard. The guests sit in rows of chairs facing the chuppah, which has been rigged to four white columns festooned with roses. Silver sits in the back next to his mother, feeling highly conspicuous as he sweats into his shirt.

“Breathe,” she tells him.

The Scott Key Orchestra is playing. Silver saw them at cocktails, and he nods a quick hello to Baptiste, who is playing a standing bass for the small combo that will be handling the processional. The music starts and, as always, Baptiste throws him a quick little riff. Silver nods his thanks.

They are playing Clapton’s “Wonderful Tonight,” a foolproof, if somewhat sappy, selection. Casey walks down the aisle with a poise that puts him on the verge of tears. She turns to look at him and flashes a wry smile. She will be OK, Silver thinks to himself.

“Breathe,” Elaine whispers again.

“I am,” he tells her, too loudly, and she shushes him.

He can see Rich up front, greeting Casey with a hug and a kiss. He is jealous and grateful and flushed with shame, all at once. He failed, as a husband and father, and this better man has stepped in and cleaned up his mess. And it’s while he is awash in these feelings of shame and regret that all the guests rise, and Denise steps into the room.

Silver looks at her, luminous in her white gown, her hair teased into unfamiliar, luxuriant curls that frame her face, her eyes as wide as her smile. He can see, beneath her makeup, the faintest trace of the bruise from where the door hit her what seems like a lifetime ago. She takes her first step into the room, and he can feel his face grow hot. The last time he saw her in that dress, a few days ago, she had fallen into his arms, and he’d entertained absurd notions of getting her back, of turning the last seven years into a bad dream. Now, looking at her face, filled with joy and purpose, he understands that that was never an option. Forgiveness has its comforts, but it can never give you back what you’ve lost.

As Denise passes his row, Silver fades back, trying to confer on himself a form of invisibility, but something makes Denise stop and turn. Their eyes meet, and he feels his legs begin to tremble. She looks at him for what seems like an eternity, then she turns and steps out of the aisle and into his row. It’s happening, he thinks for one insane moment.

The people standing between them in his row back up to make room for Denise, their chairs scraping noisily against the stone floor of the courtyard, and he is aware of small, hushed whispers breaking out in the crowd.

Her ex-husband.

I don’t know, he wasn’t invited.

The Bent Daisies. The drummer.

Silver.

And then she is in front of him, and even now, here, knowing what he knows, he wonders if she’ll ask him to run off with her.

She smiles, and puts her hands on his shoulders. “Silver,” she says.

“You look beautiful,” he tells her.

Her smile grows wider, even as tears form in her eyes. She pulls him into a hug, and he feels the skin of her back against his fingers one last time.

“We need you alive,” she whispers to him, even as he feels things inside of him dying.

And then she’s back in the aisle, although he can’t remember letting go of her. And then his father is chanting a blessing, and then rings are being exchanged, and then Rich stomps on the glass and kisses his bride as the courtyard erupts into applause and cheers. Denise is married. And even though nothing has changed, not really, in that moment he feels like he has lost her all over again.

* * *

The reception is in high gear, and the family has converged on the dance floor in a wild and sweaty horah. Silver watches from his seat as they go around in a tight circle, holding hands and laughing. Denise, Rich, Casey, Rich’s two sisters—tall, gangly women who could, at best, be referred to as handsome—Rich’s parents, who are surprisingly small given their towering offspring, Denise’s father, whose face remains without creases from a lifetime of not smiling, and Ruben and Elaine, who don’t seem at all put off by the fact that they have just married off their ex-daughter-in-law. Ruben, in particular, has his face raised to the ceiling, his eyes closed, and an almost rapturous smile on his face as he moves around the circle, holding Elaine’s hand on one side and Casey’s on the other.

Casey momentarily steps out of the circle and comes running over to Silver, grabbing both of his hands. “Come on, Dad.”

She called me Dad.

“I think I’ll sit this one out,” he says, but even as he says it she is pulling him, off his chair, onto his feet, through the throngs of onlookers clapping to the beat, and into the center of the dance floor to join the circle. It’s Denise who breaks ranks to let him in, so he ends up holding her hand on one side and Casey’s on the other as they dance the horah, pulling one another around in an accelerating circle. Ring-around-the-rosy at high speed, Silver thinks. Denise smiles happily at him and squeezes his hand. He is happy for her, even as her joy leaves him dented.

Around they go, and even as they pick up speed, keeping time with the band, he feels everything slowing down. He is aware of Casey, her fingers in his hand as she laughs, trying to manage the excessive folds of her gown while keeping up with the tempo. He remembers her as a little girl, squealing with glee as he held her hands and swung her in circles around the room. And here they are now, older and sadder, but still spinning.

He sees the band, playing this strange hybrid of a traditional Jewish horah fused with jazz, sees Baptiste, like him, years away from their brief moment in the sun. He wonders if Baptiste’s life after the band has mirrored his own. They’ve never really talked about it. He sees Dana, standing with a second backup singer he doesn’t know, remembers her toes curling up on his comforter that last sad, sexless night they spent together.

He sees his father and mother looking over at him, the love in their eyes tempered with concern and confusion over what he’s become. He’d like to tell them how grateful he is to them, how none of this is their fault. He should tell them that, as soon as this dance is over. That they did everything right and he turned out wrong anyway. Just like he did everything wrong, but Casey will turn out right.

He sees the beads of sweat forming on the highest peaks of Rich’s forehead, where his hair is beginning to recede more aggressively. He’ll be bald within a few years, but it will only make him look better, more dignified. Silver always reserved a quiet contempt for men like Rich, straight-laced, earnest, uncomplicated. Content. And now he’d give anything to be like that, to have always been like that. Instead, he was blinded by the flare of fleeting, accidental stardom, and when it was over, he never stopped seeing spots.

Silver sees all of this in an instant as he dances around in the circle, his feet stomping the ground, the sweat dripping down his face. And then he lets go of Casey and Denise and finds himself in the middle of the circle, spinning counterclockwise, like an inner wheel within their wheel, spinning and sweating and laughing and crying. He feels the love around him, feels the people in his life swimming past him in a blur, feels the grief and regret crashing down on him in waves. He spins. Faster and faster, his feet keeping time in half beats, quarter beats, eighths. His hands come up to his sides, then higher, reaching up above him. He is faintly aware of clapping and cheering, catcalls and whistles as he spins, eyes closed, the lights flashing like lasers behind his lids. He remembers going to the planetarium in high school to see a laser light show set to rock music. Pink Floyd, Led Zeppelin. Sneaking in a joint and getting high as the lights exploded across the ceiling. There was a girl. He held her hand. He can’t remember who she was, but he has a sense of her smile, her clean white teeth, the smell of her shampoo as they rested their heads together, the erection he hid artfully under his shirt until the marijuana calmed it down.

Silver spins and sees his life in its entirety, laid out before him between the crunching beats of the music; all of the joy and pain and anger and lust and love and song and sex and regret. All of the points at which he should have turned right but instead went left, the places he should have stopped but instead kept going, and the cost of it all. A deep sob escapes him and he opens his eyes. He sees the ceiling, high and ornate, a painted fresco, spinning above him, making him dizzy. And then he sees it: a cluster of bad spackle work to the side of the chandelier fixture, a sand-swirl finish that reminds him of the ceiling in his childhood bedroom. And just before everything goes down, Silver remembers God, and surprises himself by offering up a lightning-quick but no less heartfelt prayer. Then he closes his eyes and surrenders to the incessant buzzing in his ears, which continues to rise to an ungodly decibel until everything goes dark.