GRACIE WAS THRILLED with my New Year’s Gift Announcement. We talked for nearly a half hour till Gracie couldn’t keep her eyes open anymore. I told her it all began the day I went to visit her in the hospital and I went into St. Vincent’s to light a candle for her. I told her about meeting Ezra and what a blessing he’d been in learning about the Catholic Faith. I talked about the Blessed Sacrament, the Blessed Virgin, St. Thérèse, the sermon on Christmas Eve and lots of things, and made her promise not to tell anyone, not even her parents. I confessed that I hadn’t told my folks and didn’t know how to go about it…my father knew I was interested in Christianity, and he had as much as told me he would support whatever decisions I made in life. But Mama and the others were another story.
Gracie never got to be my godmother, however. By the end of January she was back in the hospital and would have fewer good days. I’ll never forget the last time we were actually alone. I went over to Mt. Sinai nearly every day then, and it was the last Friday in January. Mrs. Price was there when I arrived, and took advantage of my visit to go get a bit of lunch and some coffee. Gracie was very weak and speaking was difficult. “Well, I don’t think I’m going to be your godmother after all, at least not on this side of heaven.” She smiled. Her eyes were quite large and sparkling, which I found unusual for someone dying of leukemia. I realized looking at her that there was a life in Grace Darling Price which leukemia and weakness and death itself could not take from her. Gracie was indeed “full of grace.”
And I told her so: “Gracie, you’re absolutely beautiful at this moment; I think you’re very full of grace. I know you will be present when I am baptized and will be forever my honorary godmother. I’m going to miss you so much; you’ve always been my very best friend, you know.” My own eyes were full of tears as they spilled down my cheeks.
Gracie raised her left arm and patted my cheeks. “I love you too, Becky Feinstein. I don’t have the strength to tell you all I want to tell you, but I’m so proud of you…” Her voice faded quickly. I kissed her gently on the cheek and sat down in the bedside chair. Her brown rosary was on the night stand. I picked it up and noticed it had the scent of roses, and I quietly prayed the Hail Marys and Our Fathers which were now part of my newfound prayers. Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. It never stops touching my soul.
Mrs. Price returned with William and some coffee for me, which I drank with them and then took my leave, saying, “I should be home before Shabbat begins,” but I assured them that I would be praying for Gracie. I had felt rather close to Mrs. Price the last weeks, since New Year’s, when we all prayed the Rosary.
Early the next morning, on the Jewish Sabbath, Grace Darling Price passed away. William was kind enough to call me around 6:30 a.m. to tell me. It was Papa who answered the phone and got the news, and he came to my room and gently woke me. Just looking at his face, so kind and sympathetic, I knew it was Gracie.
Later in the day, I simply announced that I would be going to Gracie’s funeral Mass with Ezra and some friends. Mama and Papa didn’t say anything but nodded their approval. Late that same afternoon I met Ezra at Tea on Thames, and let Gwendolyn know, who surprisingly said she would like to go to the funeral Mass with us, if she could. I remember she sat down at our table and had a cup of tea with us. She had never done that before. Death can create intimacy among the living.
I don’t think I had ever been to a Gentile funeral before. I knew it would be very different than the couple Jewish funerals I had attended. I dreaded going into the place where the wake was. Ortiz Funeral Parlor was on West 72nd Street. It was almost incongruent with the surroundings, although I remember it was a street Gracie liked to explore…lots of clothes and handmade jewelry; bargain places and restaurants, even a few which had kosher menus. So maybe there was something normal about being waked on West 72nd Street. Sounds like an off-Broadway Show.
Ezra was very attentive and said he would go with me. Ruthie asked to go, and of course I said yes. The three of us went together into the strange world of funeral parlors, and only then was I overcome with a fear of seeing Gracie in her coffin, and at the same time, a sadness and anguish that she was really dead. We were early, and there were not too many people mulling around. My hand was shaking a little as I signed the guest book and took a holy card; it was the same picture of Our Mother of Perpetual Help which the Prices had in their living room. There was just a hint of being in church; there was a kneeler by the side of the coffin, and red-globed candles in floor candlesticks at the head and the foot of the coffin. The holy card had her name and dates of birth and death, and a prayer which I had heard before: Eternal rest grant unto her, O Lord, and let perpetual light shine upon her.
I moved slowly into the light surrounding the coffin. There she was. She was so thin in death, but her hair seemed full and beautiful; it may have been a wig, I thought, but didn’t think Gentiles would do that sort of thing. Her lips were obviously glued shut, and her smile was not her smile. But there was a peacefulness in her face. She was laid out in a beautiful and conservative cocktail dress/gown. I think she may have worn a version of it to our Senior Prom. In her folded hands was the brown rosary which smelled like roses. In the lid of the coffin there was a white wooden and bronze crucifix.
I knelt on the kneeler and tried to say a prayer. I felt like I was frozen to the kneeler and maybe wouldn’t be able to get up. “Why, God, why? Why would you let Gracie suffer so much? Why was her life ended before it really got started? She wanted to teach special-ed children, did you know that, Lord? See what you’ve done!” I knew I had to get up before I completely lost it and told God what I really thought, like He didn’t already know.
I got up, and went over to the Prices standing there, already looking very weary from it all. We didn’t have to exchange words; and I couldn’t speak at that point anyway; there was a hard lump stuck in my throat, but my face said it all. Mr. Price hugged me and thanked me for coming. Mrs. Price actually kissed me on the cheek and told me to wait; she turned and left the room and disappeared through a door leading into an interior room. The saddest of all was William. He couldn’t talk either, but let himself weep unabashedly; he grabbed me and hugged me tight; I heard him sob into my shoulder.
Mrs. Price returned holding a little blue felt box. “Grace wanted you to have this, dear, and I promised her I would give it to you.” I thanked her and made my escape to one of the padded chairs arranged like for an audience. I didn’t open the blue felt box yet. I knew I had to get to my inner space and calm myself down. I couldn’t pray. I was suddenly angry at God for doing this, for taking away my best friend; how could He be a loving God if He let this happen? Didn’t He know how talented and needed Gracie was?
I half-watched Ezra and Ruthie following my lead and speaking with Gracie’s family. It was the first crisis moment I remember having since I fell into St. Vincent’s on my way to see Gracie. For a cold, numb couple of minutes, I didn’t believe in anything or anyone, especially a God. It was all self-hypnosis and delusion. What am I doing thinking I want to be a Catholic? How arrogant and misguided I must be to let some statue and church architecture influence my freedom. Most of my classmates were breaking away from the established old ways of their parents and their parents’ parents. We were the generation that was going to change everything: no more war, no more deaths, and no more antiquated pious guilt. I thought of my brother and his life wiped out instantly in a jungle halfway around the world. For what? Religion was just a pious antidote to assuage the meaninglessness and emptiness of life. We live and we die, that’s all there is.
I slipped the box into my jacket pocket. I felt an urge to tear up my holy card in little pieces and throw it up into the air like confetti. Ruthie slipped in next to me, pulling her chair smack next to mine. “Take a deep breath, Becky, you look like you’re going to pass out. Do you want some water or something?” Her soft voice brought me around surprisingly
“I’m okay, Ruthie, I’m just a little overwhelmed by it all… maybe I do need some fresh air. Tell Ezra I’m going outside, would you?” And I bolted for the door.
The fresh air did feel cool, and the noise and smells of 72nd Street were like a pair of old slippers. It brought me back to reality, whatever that was. A lady with matted bleached hair and too much rouge and the reddest of red lipstick was sitting on the curb picking cigarette butts out of the gutter. She lit one, holding it in her right hand which had a huge turquoise ring on the middle finger. She let out an exhaling sigh of relief from stress. Real life. I was still angry with God and decided then and there that I would never talk to Him again, that this “becoming a Catholic thing” was sheer delusion and emotionalism, and a betrayal of my family heritage. I didn’t even want to talk to Ezra right now or maybe ever again, and before he and Ruthie could come looking for me, I took off, heading west towards Riverside Drive.
I was feeling a little dizzy and almost got hit by a cab turning onto 72nd Street. He yelled obscenities at me and I yelled back and walked on. I decided to walk up to the 79th Street Boat Basin and sit on a park bench and pull myself together. I had to get a grip for Gracie; she would die if she knew I was carrying on like a newborn Nietzschean agnostic. But I felt so empty.
Of course, when one falls into such a mental and emotional state it affects everything else. This search for religious truth in Christianity and the Catholic Church hit me more than anything. But really, one momentarily experiences the fruitlessness of all life; the total aloneness. Is Ruthie any more authentic for worshipping the Beatles and Elvis Presley? Was Mama less real for mourning the death of Helena Rubenstein, someone she never met, but talked to people like she had? They were friends, for Heaven’s sake! What does any of it matter in the end? David’s knocking himself out to be a doctor to make people healthy or to make lots of money for himself? And Sally! She hasn’t even called to send her condolences. She’s too busy chasing after an inane story. For what?
I suddenly felt very hungry and remembered a cookie jar full of cookies from Zabar’s. So I made my way east on 79th to home. “Evening, Miss,” peeped the new doorman who seemed too young to me to be a doorman, but what did I know? My world was becoming very black, indeed. I didn’t know anything.
Ruthie was home and exasperated with me. “Ezra and I waited for you and couldn’t find you anywhere, so I left. I think he’s probably still there looking for you…where did you go?”
I cut her off: “I don’t want to talk about it right now.” I grabbed a handful of cookies, darted off to my room, locked the door; and sat in my rocker and inhaled the cookies. Blessed be oatmeal raisin cookies.
What should I do? I felt so empty and alone, like I didn’t or couldn’t believe in anything…my own poor Jewish faith, all the prayers and reading about Christ and the Catholic Church, all the hours of talking with Ezra, praying with Gracie…and I broke down and sobbed right there. It was Gracie. Why was God doing this? Where is she now? What if it’s not all true? What if there isn’t a Heaven and a life after this? Is death just the annihilation of life and we just don’t exist anymore? Even oatmeal raisin cookies couldn’t restore any hope in me.
There was a light rapping on my bedroom door. I wiped my eyes and blew my nose and managed to get out a “Who is it?”
“It’s your mother; who else would it be?” “Go away, Ma, I can’t talk right now.”
“Open this door, Rebecca, I’m not going away till you do!” So I did, and ten seconds later, fell into the arms of my Mama, who let me cry it all out. I hadn’t cried like that since I could remember, not even when Josh died.
“It was awful, Mama, seeing her in the coffin.” “May I sit in this nice rocker you have in your room?” Mama asked as she was literally sitting in it, not really expecting an answer because it wasn’t really a question. “The cushions don’t really match the bedspread like they could, you know.” I sat on the side of my bed; I can’t really sit on the floor and be comfortable. I looked at Mama, rocking back and forth, taking in my room like it was the first time she’d ever been in there.
“I don’t think I can go to the funeral Mass tomorrow. It’s too painful…besides, it’s not right.”
Mama looked at me and smiled. “What’s not right about it? She was your friend and you should be there to pray for her and to say goodbye. Just think of it as Catholic Kaddish.” Coming from Mama that struck my funny bone.
“Catholic Kaddish?” I repeated, and started to giggle.
“It’s such a blessing to have a friend; you should pray Catholic Kaddish for her.” My giggle turned into a laugh.
“Oh, Mama,” I said and burst out laughing, and Mama joined me.
“A little bit of this, a little bit of that.” I don’t know what she was referring to, or if she was just quoting Fiddler on the Roof. “So you cry a little, what’s wrong with a few tears? God counts the tears of women, so I’ve been told.” Mama was off and running. “When I went to Helena Rubenstein’s funeral, may she rest in peace and cosmetic heaven, I cried a little bit of this, a little bit of that. She certainly made a beautiful corpse, that Helena.”
I laughed some more and went over and knelt next to her and put my head on her lap, and she stroked my hair like she’d done when I was a little girl. We stayed like that for at least ten minutes, lost in our thoughts.
“Your father will be home in a half hour. Such a blessing that man, but he always expects his supper on time.” She started to get up. “Get yourself washed up and come help me in the kitchen; we’re having company.”
“Okay, Mama,” I said, “I’ll try. I’ll be there in a few minutes.” I did feel better having gotten all those tears out; that was a lot for God to count, I figured. Who could be coming for supper, of all nights? Well, I could eat and be excused to come to my room. I wondered if Mama had photocopied my bookshelf in her head. It was growing with Catholic books like the lives of the saints, the Confessions of St. Augustine, which Gracie had given me after I told her my news, and of course, there was the Christian Bible in full view. I changed into what Mama would call a “house dress,” making me rather frumpy looking for my age, but it was loose and comfortable; I washed my face, held the cold washcloth to my eyes for a minute, took a deep breath, and headed to the kitchen.
Mama was up to her elbows in flour and bread dough, pointing out the carrots and potatoes that needed to be peeled. I could smell chicken roasting in the oven. “Who’s coming to dinner that you’re making such a fuss?”
“It’s a surprise,” said Mama with a glint in her eye. An hour later, everything was ready. Papa was home and washed up, buried for the moment in the evening paper.
Mama made me change out of the house dress to a skirt and blouse, and the doorman buzzed up that our guest was on his way. His way? Mama told me to answer the door, which I did, and there was Ezra. I must’ve given out a little gasp. “Ezra!” And he whispered, “Your mother invited me this afternoon.”
I was grateful after all, and surprised at Mama’s delicate compassion. It was a pleasant supper. “What’s not to like about roasted chicken?” as Mama would say. We were able to actually talk about Gracie and how sad and unfortunate these times are. I was quite composed, I realized, and actually sounded like a grown up talking in a detached mood about it all. After supper Ezra insisted the two of us go out for a walk. That’s when he explained that he came by when he couldn’t find me and was concerned. Mama told him I was crying in my bedroom and should have some time to get it all out. She invited him to dinner. “You can talk to her better than we do, so come by for supper at quarter to five.”
He seemed to be walking with a destination. “Where are we going?” I hoped it wasn’t back to Ortiz’s Funeral Home. I knew they were having the wake until 9:30 or 10:00 and that there would be the Rosary sometime this evening. I didn’t think I could handle the Rosary right now.
“Your mother invited me to supper; now I’m taking you to see my mother.” Ezra loved to talk that way—always leaving one to have to guess whatever he could mean.
“Your mother’s here from Buffalo? I didn’t know that.”
“No, not that mother, my other mother.” There he was again, talking in mysterious prose. “We’d better get a cab.” And with that he was in the street with his arm waving, and before I could make any response, a yellow taxi was pulling up next to us. I figured this mysterious “other mother” must be in a fancy hotel in Midtown…I was hoping either the Plaza or the Waldorf. I could go for another dessert right about now. “East 61st Street between Second and First,” Ezra told the cabbie. Well, that shot either of my choices.
As it turned out, it was not a hotel, but a church, Our Mother of Perpetual Help, run by the Redemptorist Fathers. I had never been there before. I wasn’t so sure I wanted to “go to Church” right now. “I think I’d rather have a hot fudge sundae and a cup of tea,” I informed my kidnapper. Ezra laughed.
“Maybe later, huh? I want you to see and hear this novena. It goes on every Tuesday night.”
When I walked in, the smell of candles and lingering incense brought a sudden peace to my distraught soul. I was still full of darkness and doubts, probably more than when I first wandered into St. Vincent’s, but there was a strange comfort in the candles and statues. Ezra is not a “back of the bus Catholic,” so he walked me up to the third pew from the front, on the side of the beautiful shrine altar with the icon of Mary, Mother of Perpetual Help…the very image the Prices had in their living-room. It was the image on Gracie’s holy card. I was impressed by the number of people there on a Tuesday night, of all ages and costumes. There were booklets available for us, and after about fifteen minutes the priest came out from the sacristy with a surplice and stole over what Ezra later told me was the Redemptorist habit. Everyone knelt and prayed together the first prayer of the novena:
O Mother of Perpetual Help, thou art the dispenser of all the gifts which God grants to us, miserable sinners. He has made thee so powerful, so rich and so bountiful, that thou mayest succor us in our misery. Thou art the advocate of the most wretched and abandoned sinners who have recourse to thee. Come to my help; I commend myself to thee. In thy hands I place my eternal salvation. To thee I entrust my soul. Count me among thy most devoted servants. Take me under thy protection, and it is enough for me. If thou protect me, I fear nothing; not from my sins, because thou wilt obtain for me the pardon of them; not from the devils, because thou art more powerful than all hell together; not even from Jesus, my Judge, because by one prayer of thine He will be appeased. But one thing I fear, that, in the hour of temptation, I may, through negligence, fail to have recourse to thee, and thus perish miserably. Obtain for me the pardon of my sins, love for Jesus, final perseverance, and the grace ever to have recourse to thee, O Mother of Perpetual Help.
The words were powerful, almost too much to take in the first time. But a wonderful peace came over me, and I knew that I had a Mother in Heaven too, who would always be my perpetual help, in all things, at all times. I turned over my dear friend Gracie to her, for she was her Mother too, and every day of her life, Gracie had looked upon her picture. How dear and comforting Mama was to me this afternoon, stroking my hair, and making everything better; she even ignored her own little prejudices and maybe fears, and invited Ezra to dinner because she wanted to help. She’s such a blessing. And now I know whom she takes after in her own little way—the Mother of Jesus.
I missed what was said for a few minutes, and the hymn they sang is all blurred, but I came to as we prayed for all our needs and sufferings. I put my hand in my jacket pocket and felt the blue felt box Gracie’s mother had given me. I opened it quietly, and there was Gracie’s beautiful white rosary beads, her best pair. I held onto them.
And then everyone started to move out of their pews and go to the altar rail like at Holy Communion time, but instead, the priest presented a small icon of Mary, Mother of Perpetual Help for each person to kiss. Ezra said it was okay for me to do that too…so I knelt at the rail for the first time ever, and kissed the icon when she came to me, and holding her rosary, I prayed for Gracie and her soul… Catholic Kaddish.