The rear end of any extraordinary adventure is much more sensational than the front end. On a rollercoaster, when you are seated in the last car, you experience a giddy near-death feeling. As you dive down and your gastric juices rise up into your esophagus, believe me, the people up front are not having half the good time that you are having in the rear. On the rear end of the blizzard of ’03, I felt as if I had been somewhere unimaginable. I had that near-death feeling. I had scaled Mount Everest. I was ready for my next death-defying experience …
I have a three-hour delay, before the long-awaited trip to Lincoln, Nebraska, where I would then rent an Avis (no Enterprise available) in order to reach the town of Beatrice. With time to kill (strange expression), I flip open my Verizon cellphone, push the button. I call Dina. It is eight p.m. in New York. She might be having her pre-bedtime wine spritzer. Maybe she is flossing, or Sonicaring her teeth. Whatever she is doing, I need to tell the tale … ring … ring …
‘Hello.’
‘It’s me.’
‘Oh hi. Where are you?’ She sounds fatigued.
‘Denver International Airport.’
‘Do you really teach, or are you perpetually traveling from one place to another without ever setting foot in a classroom?’
‘Not nice.’
‘Don’t you want to know about the blizzard?’
‘What blizzard?’
‘The biggest blizzard in one hundred years.’
‘Was there a lot of snow?’
‘For an intelligent woman, you are ridiculous.’
‘I’ve been busy.’ Dina sighs.
‘Who is it this time?’ Dead silence
‘Pop.’
‘Up and down the City Road,
In and out the Eagle,
That’s the way the money goes,
Pop goes the weasel!’
‘Is he still alive?’
‘Loli, he’s your father.’
‘No! He’s your father. He is merely the sperm donor who fertilized the weird egg that hatched me into this cognitive world.’
‘Twenty years! How long can you blame him for her death? It wasn’t his fault that she was crazy. Haven’t you figured that one out in therapy yet? Even I know that, and I haven’t been in therapy since I was eleven. Why meditate? Why do yoga? Why do any of it, if you can’t forgive?’
‘When did you get to be Miss Love, Peace, and Harmony? I know. He never meant anybody any harm … tried everything … couldn’t understand … sent her to the best doctors.’
‘It’s a matter of maybe a few months.’
‘Good! Call me when he’s gone.’ Click. That mother son of a philandering lousy prick! What am I supposed to do about it? Love the bastard!? Never. For all I care, he can rot in his blue boxer shorts with his shriveled-up dick in his hand.
‘He loves you, baby.’
‘Would you shut up already!’ I look around. A few normal people, and there are only a handful, are shocked by my outburst. I redial 212 et cetera …
‘Yes.’ She is cold as stone.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘So am I. The timing couldn’t be worse. Ralph’s been kicked upstairs into the research department. Your nephew is, in fact, moving to Shanghai. Your lovely niece is depressed because her new love, Methuselah, has an obsessive compulsive disorder that manifests in either sleepwalking, bedwetting, or midnight jogging in Central Park. Not only is he old, he is certifiable. Why did I ever get married? Why did I have children?’
‘I love your kids. Wish they were mine … What’s wrong with him?’
She sighs again. ‘Cancer. Everywhere. They say that he’s been sick for a very long time. There’s no point in chemo …’ She cries quietly. ‘I am so tired. And work is so stressful. My boss Richard, that asshole, just took himself on a junket to Zurich. The museum is bankrupt and he’s writing off a ski holiday in the Alps.’
‘He’s no fool. I’m coming home next week. Oh! I forgot to tell you about my next stop.’
‘I can’t imagine.’
‘Beatrice, Nebraska. Bee as in honey, a as in have, trice as in tryst without the final t. Is that amazing?’
‘Dad’s convinced that Mom’s come for him. She’s in the bedroom.’
‘I hope she’s not getting ready to reincarnate; another nervous breakdown waiting to happen. We will have to get high when I come home. I’ll be back for a week before they send me to Montana.’
‘You’re flying into New York then flying back to Montana?’
‘Don’t … The travel plans are mind-altering.’
‘How’s Simone?’
‘I guess she’s fine. Haven’t heard from her.’
‘Where is she?’
‘Marbleizing wealthy kitchen walls in Zurich. Sucking up to some famous art dealer in Geneva. Then she’ll visit her demented mother in Normandy: “The salt air … the rocks … the dead soldiers … so much history.”’
‘Do you miss her?’
‘Sometimes. Mornings. Mostly, I miss the sex.’
‘Ralph won’t leave me alone. I pretend that it’s great. He needs that right now.’
‘Your family is lucky to have you. I include myself. You are so good.’
‘When she was good.’
‘Would you shut up!’
‘What?’
‘Mom’s back. The nursery rhymes.’ Let’s keep it light. ‘How’s that possible, if she’s in Dad’s bedroom?’
‘Are you … all right?’ Dina’s voice falters.
‘Sure. Great to have her back again.’
‘Did you call Mary Michelin yet?’
‘I will.’
‘You should.’
‘I know.’ Deep inhales on both ends of the phone.
‘Mrs B. is in the hospital. Diabetes.’
‘What other good news do you have?’
‘She’s going blind.’
‘That’s good news?’
‘Remember how beautiful she was?’
‘Most beautiful legs I ever saw, those luminous hazel eyes. I can’t believe she’s going blind. Old age is frightening. My plane is boarding. I’ll call you from Beatrice.’
‘Say hi to Mom for me.’
‘Very funny.’
It was his time to die. Twenty years had passed. I still blamed him for my mother’s death. Everyone in Beechwood knew that he was a fool-around. Had a wondering eye. Couldn’t keep it in his pants. Loved the ladies.
We were more than less estranged. After she died, I never went home for the holidays. Refused to meet his lady friends. The final straw was when he hit on my lover Simone. He could not, would not understand that I had ventured into Sappho territory.
Before my mother died, I had shared my secret with her. She sent me to her shrink, who in turn, asked me to give it up for Mom’s sake. ‘Young lady, I am most certain that your sexual dalliances are merely a phase.’
After my mother died I wrote a letter to my father. Told him that I was gay. Wanted to save him from the embarrassment of making a bigger fool of himself than he already was. He disowned me. That was my relationship with ‘Pop’. You always hate that which reminds you of yourself. My meandering was a mere mimicking of his philandering.
During her sane years, she appeared to adore him: ‘We should all be proud of his accomplishments.’ I heard that line innumerable times. My sister swore that Pop loved Mom ’til her dying day. My theory was the following:
Peter, Peter, pumpkin eater,
Had a wife and couldn’t keep her.
As a child, growing up in the Bronx, Pop was dirt poor. Shared a bedroom with his younger brother and sister. Mother threw white sheets over the furniture in the summer. Took them off in the fall. Father worked in a garage. They all shared the same bathroom. As far as I was concerned, the only thing Pop worshipped was money … And monkeys. He loved his good-luck monkey collection.
He was alone now, padding around (my mother padding after him) in that white house with a million windows and two million green shutters. Patty, the housekeeper, cleaned the house, kept him company, laughed at his jokes, while she stole him blind. Since my mother’s death, my father’s life meant nothing to me. I had no idea that he would be part of the story. Life is full of surprises.
My mother was back in their bedroom. And, she was talking to me … again. These were uncharted waters without a skipper on deck.