Tales From A Broad (39 page)

As for Frank's father's service, it was fine, and while I could smell the bubbling cheese and sauce from the pizzeria across the road, I was able to meditate on the man who was my father-in-law. He took the place of my own father for a few years. He listened to my tales of woe and offered considered advice. He wanted to know his boys as they grew to men and was saddled with regret that he travelled so much while they were young. He could take a joke, make a joke, get a joke. He was intolerant of democrats but he didn't know his family was infiltrated with 'em. He thought we should move to Australia because ‘America is turning into a third-world country'. He didn't like to show affection but became tearful easily. Whereas my parents planted us in a nice safe pot on the windowsill and pruned us and watered us and cooed to us, he and Pat tossed their seeds out in the yard and let them grow, viewing them from the window and delighting in their wildness, their freedom and their thorns. He liked scotch, he liked my cooking, he liked the nice, long birthday cards I wrote, and he liked our kids but was scared to hold them. He liked
Super Market Sweep
and
Rush Limbaugh.
He collected exotic foods that would sit on the kitchen shelves until we were around and then he'd pull some jar out and say, ‘Fran! Frank! Come in here. Get a spoon, Fran. Here. Have you ever had stuffed gerbil brain? You don't know what you're missing.' He had rules: you don't touch your sons past the age of three; you don't meet people from three destinations at a restaurant; you don't ask for a raise. He vented about his mother-in-law, who stole his wife and his chair every chance she got, coming along for the ride some 50 years ago when Anne clearly said, ‘We do.' But he never complained to her
.

The minister closed the service with the prayer for the living, ‘In life, in death, oh Lord, abide with me
.'

‘
Amen,' we said
.

‘
I win,' Anne said
.

We hung close, surrounded by a brown, warm, tucked-in calm, straightforward emotions, the lack of ambiguity in bereavement, the slight sweetness of missing someone who was loved. Frank and Walt and Pat sat in the kitchen until two in the morning reminiscing
.

Bill would have been embarrassed if he heard Walt remembering that last hug, 37 years ago, as if it were yesterday
.

A day or so later, Frank checked in at his New York office. I checked in at my New York office and the kids went to daycare. Frank stayed late for a conference on new top-secret business (I'll tell you more when he tells me), I picked up the kids. Next day, I stayed late to meet with people and Frank picked up the kids. The only thing that isn't back to the way it was – besides Frank not having a father – is that we're just visiting. It's a vacation from my vacation. ‘Enjoy an exacerbating two-week holiday! Renew your tension! Reactivate your ulcer!' I'm getting lots of stares, too. I don't know if it's because I look like a negative with all this fake blonde hair and charred skin or maybe it's the jogging shorts and platform shoes, but I catch people looking. I think they're trying to figure me out, work out where I fit. New Yorker? Tourist? Tannist? I seem busy and heading somewhere without being dulled by routine or strung out on anxiety or wowed by the fact that I am in New York City, hot damn!

The other day, we went to visit our house. I guess we should have called but we just took a chance. I mean, if we had said, ‘Hey, we're in town, not more than 500 yards away, thought we'd stop by', they would have had a chance to screw in some bulbs, take out the trash, weed the garden, sweep the deck, fix the wallpaper, rinse out the toilet, make a bed or two … But we just pulled on up the drive
.

‘
Hi, sorry to intrude. The kids wanted to see the old place. If it's not a good time?' I gave her a chance. She could have said, ‘No, but in 48 hours I'll be happy to let you come in.' Instead, she smiled warmly and hugged us and offered us drinks and told us how much they love the house and asked us how we were doing. I couldn't answer because I was busy being bewildered at the state of the place. As I took Sadie upstairs to her old room, I passed a hole in the wall. ‘What happened here?' I called down the stairs
.

She came bounding up
.

‘
Ya, the paint chipped
.'

‘
Paint is not eight inches thick. We are missing pieces of the house here. I can see its innards, for God's sake
.'

‘
Oooh, maybe you're right,' she said, moving her hair from her face and tilting forward to get a better glimpse of the panoply of exposed pipes and wires that you could not fail to notice even if you just had both your eyes poked out. ‘Does look like a little of the wall came off
.'

Tell Maj and Mag that I am receiving the workouts and doing them under much cooler conditions than you are. The weather's good, actually. I will miss Diet Snapple – I wish they could come back with me. And I wish Frank's mom would, too, for a visit but if I dare suggest it, who knows what Anne might do to me. There she was taking a shower when … Seriously, Pat is sad, so deep-down sad
.

I've been thinking, life just isn't long enough to be sure you got all of it sucked down. When you lose someone, it seems you wonder why you didn't just sit in a room and stare at each other because one day you won't be able to ever, ever again. Frank was lucky to have had a great last conversation with his father but he wasn't lucky enough to have had it sooner. It was six months ago
.

I'll save the rest of the sermon for our next long run
.

See you soon
.

Love, Fran
.

‘Jet lag means one day off! Drink Biospliven and meet us tomorrow at 0500 at the track. Time trials! Condolences! Yeah!' reads the message on my email.

I have three weeks to acclimatise before the marathon. I train hard and only see Frank as he lumbers up to bed and I heft myself down to coffee.

‘Hiya Frank.'

‘Hiya Fran.'

‘Everything okay?' Big yawn.

‘Not really.'

‘That's good.'

‘Have a nice run, Fran.'

‘You too, Frank.'

But at last, the marathon.

Frank and I go to an early dinner the night before at a nice, boring place offering ‘red' and ‘white' wine. I have something simple and forgettable, just like Maj and Mag told me to. I wake up the next morning at three, drink two cups of coffee, smoke two cigarettes, feel nervous and sick and want to be dead, but somehow I rally when Maj and Mag get on the boom horn and call up to my balcony: ‘We are waiting in the cab. I repeat, we are waiting in the cab.' Columns of lights go up around Fortune Gardens but it's ever so brief a disturbance.

I have sewn my number on wrong so I have to wear my shirt backwards. I wait at a portaloo, in the middle of the line, for ten minutes but someone obviously moved in there, and, looking at my watch, I have to abandon the ablution.

The runners are called to the line-up and I humbly take my mark way in the back of the line to make it clear to all that I am casual. As I look around at the eager faces, the ready loins, as I feel the ruckus of pent-up energy, I take a moment to berate myself lavishly. Why in the world didn't I just do the right thing for once in my life? Why didn't I work out smarter, stop smoking, stop drinking? The gun goes off. Got me?

It is still dark but the humidity, though a mere fraction of what we can expect by the time the sun comes out, is thick. I am dabbing and dabbing with my wristbands. I need a bathroom. I spot a Mobil station and veer in. My luck, the bathroom is being cleaned. Double happiness: the attendant is a deaf, toothless guy from China who hadn't noticed the 1500 people running by and doesn't understand why I am doing some monkey dance. I yank him out of the bathroom, forcefully pee on his scrubbing bubbles and thank him as I join the ranks again.

I feel much better, much springier, and sprint a few clicks, trying to make up for lost time. I almost lose my footing leaping over a pig's head in the middle of the road. Yes, that is correct: a pig's head. Middle of the road. Just the head. I might like to read the entrails for wisdom but they're not about. No doubt I'll trip on the large intestine later.

The course takes us past thousands of eating houses, coffee shops, hawker centres and food carts. The smells can make you hungry or sick, depending on a number of variables, like: do you want to eat fish-head soup at 7 am? Do you like the odour of last night's chilli crab? I am assaulted every block with noxious fumes until I hit Serangoon Road, Singapore's Little India. There is the scent of curry, cinnamon, tandoori – now
that's
aromatherapy. But it's a short road and I am now on Balestier and shop house after shop house is festooned with shellacked dead ducks, row upon row of them, waving to and fro like gamey wind chimes.

I slip on a mound of rice and am totally blinded by the gold outside a Buddhist arts and crafts shop. People are passing me left and right.

Okay, I get it now. This is karma. See, when Frank and I were in our early 20s, on New York City marathon day, we'd sit outside our apartment. We were positioned on the course at what is known as ‘the wall' for most runners – the three-quarter mark just before entering the park. It's not unusual for people to stand on the sidelines and cheer, but that's not what we did. We sat on folding chairs with our feet up, drinking from a pitcher of Bloody Marys set on a card table like a lemonade stand. We taunted the runners as they passed, telling them to give it up, get a life, have a cocktail. It was sick fun.

I had forgotten until now that I thought running a marathon was a ridiculous way to spend a Sunday afternoon.

I have a bottle of Gatorade with me in a pouch, along with enough money to convince someone to bring me back to life. At the three-quarter mark, I chuck the bumbag. I can't stand the way it's bouncing. It is the most annoying bumbag in the world. I hate this bumbag. I see it bobbing in the river. Drown, bumbag! Oh, shit, I forgot to take out the money. That's one rich, dead bumbag.

Well, well, well, now I meet ‘the wall' and it is laughing at me with Bloody Mary breath. I think I might fall over. I need a cool sponge. Instead, a bus almost swipes me and I have to wait at a red light. Where are the officials? I should not have to wait at lights or worry about traffic. The good news is: I'm angry. So, adrenaline, a lucky break after all.

With two kilometres to go and early onset rage, I find my stride. I'm gonna be looking good for any photo ops. I have no idea where the finish line is and stop to ask someone. I learn that it's on the track in the stadium. I sprint though I'm sure it looks more like a geriatric jog.

As I cross the finish line, Samantha is already there and dry. She hugs me and I cry. I don't know why, really, just because I am so drained I guess and because I am glad to see her. I thought I had killed her for getting me into this thing. Thank goodness it was just a daydream … but it seemed so real. I loudly proclaim that doing this makes about as much sense as pushing an orange across town with my nose. Some finishers find that offensive. Sadie and Huxley jump up and down, pumping the air, and Frank, now hoarse from screaming out ‘
Run, Fran, run'
, brings me a cold drink.

Maj and Mag trot over. Immediately I'm feeling guilty. I didn't run it in 3:20! That's not what they came over for, though. They give Samantha and me each a big hug and deliver the news. It isn't official, they say, but it seems Samantha came in third and I came in fourth. They hand us something they've been saving for a special occasion … a Biosplighten, yes, same low polyoxen-free, but now in a bar. Yeah!

I go to the awards banquet that night with Samantha and Priscilla, our friend, who came in fifth. By the time we get there, I feel strong and proud. I walk up on stage to receive my prize money and consider maybe the heels weren't such a terrific idea just this one night; my feet are throbbing.

Later, they give us our food. Sweet and sour cuttlefish,
char swee, yam ring –
nauseating stuff, not for consuming. Frank calls me on my cell phone to tell me the evening paper has the results: seems a Flan Littman came in fourth, not me. I miss Frank terribly. He tells me to come home, he's rented a movie. Indeed, what am I doing here? I look around at this goofy gaggle of health nuts and tell the only two normal people in the room, Samantha and Priscilla, that I'm going to split. The others at my table are aghast: ‘
And miss the lucky draw?
'

I'm smiling in the cab. I feel a bit special. I'm wrecked and my feet are killing me but can't seem to finish the job. I did a marathon and now,
never again
, I say to myself in the taxi as I chug wine all the way home. I pass out before the movie starts.