Winning is Everything (45 page)

Jack lived in Amherst, Massachusetts, where he was attending college, but he’d taken the semester off and was staying at his mother’s place, just seven blocks from the bar. So they walked down Madison Avenue to Mrs. Wellsley’s apartment on East Ninety-fifth Street.

They had a few more shots of Irish whiskey and were soon talking about what they were each going through: the guilts, the fears, the depression. All of it. When Jack suggested that perhaps they might be more comfortable if they removed their clothes, Gary was stricken with the feeling that perhaps he had made a mistake coming over. Rather than dodge the issue, though, he spoke to Jack about it candidly.

Strangely enough, Jack agreed that he, too, was not necessarily looking for sex. Like Gary, he just didn’t want to have to be alone for the rest of the night. And so the evening became exactly what both young men had so desperately needed—a night of affection.

They slept together in a pull-out sofa in the guest bedroom. They slept well and they slept without having sex, just welcoming the much-missed warmth of another body.

The following morning, after Gary showered and dressed, he thanked Jack for being there, said good-bye, and walked over to the hospital.

Nora was not in her room, not in the intensive-care unit. Dr. Millstein walked through the swinging doors at the end of the corridor, saw Gary, and walked over to him. “She died …” he said softly.

Gary looked at the doctor. No “I have some sad news.” No “Have a seat, I have something to tell you.” Just a sudden slap across the face: “She died.”

“When?” Gary asked, suddenly finding it hard to swallow.

“Early this morning. Everything just stopped. I’m sorry.”

So it was over. Finally over. At last Gary could go on with the business of his life. First, however, he had to react. But not here. He had to get out of the hospital.

The doctor said that Sam Greene had been notified and was, even now, preparing funeral arrangements. The doctor then wished Gary luck, and Gary turned to walk out of the hospital.

“Mr. Sergeant!” a nurse called as he reached the elevator.

Gary turned and walked over to the nursing station. One of Nora’s regular nurses was on duty. She squeezed Gary’s hand. “I’m so very sorry,” she said softly.

“Thank you,” said Gary, wondering how he was going to get rid of the ridiculous lump in the middle of his throat, which was making it impossible for him to speak without getting choked up.

“I have something for you,” said the nurse as she opened a drawer in her desk. She reached in and took out Nora’s copy of
A Season at the Fair.
“I meant to give this to you days ago,” said the nurse. “Mrs. Greene gave it to me that night, just several hours before she lapsed into the coma. She said she’d finished reading it and to make sure you got it.”

Gary reached out and the nurse placed the book in his hands. He turned, and this time did not wait for the elevator. He galloped down the stairs.

When he got to the lobby, he opened his copy of A
Season at the Fair
and saw that Nora had written an inscription on the inside cover:

Darling Gary,

Like fine wine, it only gets better. And so do you. Enjoy the rest for me. Scale all the peaks. I love you.

Nora

Gary slapped shut the book, pushed his way through the swinging doors of the hospital, and bolted out onto Fifth Avenue. He walked all the way home, a never-ending stream of tears cascading down his cheeks.

88 

Ellenor sat in the back of the room watching Kip and another actor performing. The play was
Death of a Salesman,
and Kip was playing Biff, the eldest son, and his partner was reading the father, Willy Loman.

Both actors were halfway through the scene, and although Ellenor thought it was running smoothly, Wynn Handman, the dramatic coach, felt otherwise, and stopped them in the middle.

“No-no-no!” He raised a pencil into the air. “Believability! That’s the ticket. I do not believe this father-son relationship. I do not feel the frustrations, the disappointments inherent in these roles. As Samuel Goldwyn once said, ‘The most important aspect in acting is honesty. Once you’ve learned to fake that, you’re in!’ Now, start the scene from the top.”

Kip and his partner exchanged a look of genuine frustration and then began the scene again.

“I thought it went real well,” Ellenor told Kip right after class. “You get better each time I see you.”

“Wish I could believe that,” Kip said softly. “Wish I could prove it in class.”

“But he liked it the second time you did it,” said Ellenor. “He said he did.”

“He said it was better,” Kip observed.

Ellenor smiled. “Point is, you are improving … and we have to get going. Traffic is going to be impossible.”

Kip and Ellenor had rented a car and were driving down to Chestnut Hill for Thanksgiving weekend. Ellenor had insisted he not leave her alone for the long weekend.

Kip had balked about it and Ellenor was sure it was because he was ashamed of her. In truth, though, his mother had only recently gotten home from her latest stint at the rest home, and he just didn’t know how Ellenor would react if she had to spend the weekend watching Lady Macbeth Bramer.

But he had given in, and a little before eleven that evening they arrived in Chestnut Hill. After a short exchange of hellos, Elliott Senior suggested they get out of the cold—he had a fire going in the living room.

Elliott Senior stood up from time to time to pace back and forth before the fireplace, as though he were addressing a jury.

Kip just sat there with Ellenor while his old man went on about how the hippies were ruining the country, his taxes were too high, and how in the world did Lyndon Johnson ever expect to get reelected with the country so bitterly divided?

Kip listened for a long while and then asked casually, “Hey, how’s Mom?”

A look of sadness clouded his father’s face. It was obvious he would rather talk disarmament in Helsinki than neurosis upstairs.

“She’s …”Elliott Senior shrugged his huge shoulders while thinking of what he might say. “She’s … much better. Yes … in many ways, she’s making remarkable progress.”

“Really?” Kip asked, half-doubting his father’s appraisal.

“Well …” Elliott Senior forced a smile. “She has been sleeping a great deal, of course. Sleeps most of the time lately. But her spirits are generally excellent most of the time … and her appetite’s real good. Good solid meals. Hearty red meat. I think she’s going to be okay. I really do.”

“I should go up,” said Kip. “Say hello.”

Elliott Senior exhaled and slumped down into a chair. “Yes …” He faced the reality. “Perhaps you’d better.”

Kip stood up from the couch, looked down at Ellenor. “I’ll be right back.”

Ellenor smiled at Kip’s father. “Oh, don’t worry about us … we’ll be fine. I’m just waiting for you to leave the room so I can ask your father to pull out some of your baby pictures.”

“Good idea,” said Kip, deciding not to add there were no longer any baby pictures lying in drawers around the house, because when his mom had gone berserk several breakdowns ago, she had gone through the house tossing all photos, souvenirs, and mementos of the past into a roaring fireplace.

“Hey, Kip!” Elliott Senior called out as Kip headed out of the room toward the stairs. “She may be asleep. If she is, let it wait until morning. Needs all the rest she can get. …”

“Mom?” Kip peeked his head into his mother’s room. “You awake?”

“Is that my little Kipper?” asked the tiniest of voices. “My baby?”

Oh, brother!
thought Kip. “Yes, Mom. It’s me.” He opened the door wider.

His mother was sitting up in bed, her feet tucked comfortably under the covers, a twenty-one-inch color set on a stand near the foot of the bed, two English bulldogs sound asleep on either side of her. “Come in, come in …” said Mrs. Bramer. “You’re just in time. David Janssen’s going to catch the thief!”

Kip walked over to his mother’s bed. “Hi, Mom …” He put his arms out, ready to bend over to give his mother a hug.

“Ssssssh!” Mrs. Bramer raised a stiff arm. “Not yet!” she said sternly, never taking her eyes from the television.

Sure enough, David Janssen was in hot pursuit of some fellow, chasing him through a lumber yard. When the fellow picked up a giant two-by-four and swung it ^t the Fugitive, Mrs. Bramer brought both hands to her face and screamed as though what was happening on the air was actually happening in her bedroom, in real life.

“It’s okay …” Kip started to say, but Mrs. Bramer again raised a stiff hand into the air, calling for silence.

Kip looked down at his mother. How very thin she had become. If she was eating up a storm these days, Kip thought, she must have been skeletal when they’d first brought her home.

Watching his mother, Kip realized hers was a very special madness, indeed. Had she lived in another age, she might have been burned for a witch. He was troubled by the thought that he took after her. His genes came from her: Her sense of creativity, her thoughtfulness.

Her madness.

“Do you think that man will be happier when he’s behind bars?” she asked as David Janssen captured his crook.

“I don’t know about him,” said Kip. “But I bet David Janssen will be.”

“You’ve come home to see your mother!” said Mrs. Bramer, her hands extended outward, waiting for an embrace.

“That’s right,” said Kip, bending over and hugging the frail woman. “You’ve lost weight.”

“And I used to think losing weight was so difficult. After you were born, I put on twenty pounds. God, I thought I’d never get it off me. But you know what? After you’ve lost your mind, everything else is easy once you put your mind, which is no longer yours, to it.”

“Right.” Kip tried sounding encouraging.

“I didn’t mind that terrible place, Kip. Honest I didn’t. Those shock treatments calmed me down and made me believe I might be able to control myself. I might actually be able to sleep in the same house as your father without getting sick to my stomach.”

Kip smiled and kissed his mother on the cheek.

“If it should happen again, Kip, and I have to go away for a while, would you see to it that I’m sent someplace else? That last place your father socked me in had the worst food I’ve eaten since Ireland. If we’re paying a zillion dollars a day to get better, can’t they at least cook me up a decent meal?”

“You’re absolutely right!” Kip told his mother. “But let’s not worry about that anymore. This time, you’re home for good, I know it.”

“Christ, I hope not,” said Kip’s mother. “If I’m home for good, that means I’m stuck with your father. I’d rather have a frontal lobotomy than have to live with him!”

“Stop!” said Kip. “Dad loves you very much.”

“That’s because he has good taste,” said Mrs. Bramer with a smile.

“There’s someone downstairs I want you to meet,” said Kip.

“Who is it?”

“It’s a young lady I’ve been living with several months now. We’re the best of friends and I think I may actually be falling in love with her.”

“Who is she?”

“Just a girl from Seattle. She owns part of a quilt shop in the Village. Very creative. I hope you’ll like each other.”

“Like each other?” asked Mrs. Bramer. “This brazen vixen means to take my son away from me, and you expect me to be nice to her? Send her upstairs so I can scratch her eyes out!”

“You’ll do no such thing.” Kip needled his mother in the ribs with a couple of fingers. “You’ll be charming and decent and you’ll put on some lipstick and you’ll comb your hair, and most of all, Mother, you will be
sane;
or you will have to answer to
me,
is that clear?”

“You drive a hard bargain.” Mrs. Bramer smiled.

“Come on,” said Kip. “Put on your robe. We’ll go downstairs.”

Mrs. Bramer lay back down, placed her head against her many pillows. “Not now,” she said with a forced yawn. “I’m suddenly
so
very tired. Can’t seem to keep my eyes open. Express my apologies. Tell everyone I’ll see them tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow’s Thanksgiving, Mom.”

“And I have so much for which to be grateful,” said Mrs. Bramer with enough sarcasm that Kip knew she must, indeed, be feeling better.

“We’re going to cook a terrific meal for you,” said Kip. “We’re going to have a real Thanksgiving dinner in the dining room, you and me and Dad and Ellenor and all the bulldogs.”

“Well …” Mrs. Bramer smiled. “If the bulldogs are invited, you can count me in. And I better get some sleep now. I want to look radiant for you tomorrow. Thanksgiving dinner with the bulldogs. Why, it’s almost like not being crazy again, isn’t it?”

Kip leaned over and kissed his mother good night. “Almost,” he said softly.

Mrs. Bramer clicked off the television.

“Don’t you want to find out how it ends?” asked Kip.

“I know how it ends,” said Mrs. Bramer. “Everything works out fine. That’s why that’s a television show and this is life. Besides, I need my rest. I’m having Thanksgiving dinner tomorrow with my son and all the bulldogs and some fortune-hunting trollop from New York!”