Cheated By Death (19 page)

“How can you even ask?” I took a shaky
breath. How could I convince him? There was no easy way to say it.
“I don’t want people I don’t really know or care about to say
something that could hurt her.”

His eyes bored through me. “Do you have
reason to believe someone might say something?”

“Maybe.”

He looked away, stared into his own mug for a
moment, then exhaled. “Okay. I’d better get changed.” He pushed
back his chair, and grabbed his jacket. “I’ll be back in twenty
minutes.”

“Thanks, Rich. Thanks for everything.”

He managed a smile. “Don’t mention it.”

I took my time getting dressed. I even gave
my shoes a fresh coat of polish. I wanted to look good—a useless
gesture. My father was dead. My appearance wouldn’t make a damned
bit of difference to him.

By the time Richard returned, I stood in
front of the mirror in my bedroom and finished tying my tie.

“Have you ever been to a Jewish funeral?” he
asked from the doorway.

I shook my head and winced at the stab of
pain it brought.

“At the grave site, Orthodox Jews rip their
clothes to show sorrow. Especially for a parent.”

I looked at my suit jacket and considered how
much such a repair would cost. “Do I have to?”

“It depends. Take your cue from Patty.”

I donned the jacket, fastening the center
button. “How do you know so much?”

“I’ve lost several Jewish friends over the
years. Believe me, I’d rather I didn’t know the customs.”

“The family’s not Orthodox. Patty told the
undertaker they were Jewish Lite.” It didn’t sound funny. I stared
at the reflection of my brown eyes flecked with gold. My father’s
eyes. “It never hit me before. I’m half Jewish.”

“Technically, the mother’s religion defines
the children’s, and Betty was Catholic.”

“A good Catholic, too. She went to Mass at
least twice a week—sometimes more.”

“Did she?” he asked, truly interested.

I nodded. “Your grandmother was Catholic. How
come Mom being the same religion didn’t mean anything to the old
witch?”

“Grandmother wouldn’t have approved of any
woman my father brought home. She thought
she
should be his
life.”

“Too bad.” If things had worked out
different, I might be looking at a reflection of the same blue eyes
Richard had inherited from John Alpert.

I stared at myself in the mirror, standing so
straight in my somber suit. I hadn’t worn it since Shelley’s
funeral. Funny, I’d worn it to our wedding, too. Bad luck seemed to
dog that suit.

“Shelley and I got married at City Hall,” I
said, still staring at my reflection.

Richard’s gaze moved to the mirror, his
expression darkening at this comment from left field.

“Dan McNeil, a guy from work, was my best
man. Some woman Shelley worked with was our maid of honor. I don’t
even remember her name. We went out for Chinese afterwards. We had
a weekend honeymoon at a B and B in Cape May. It was off-season, so
the rates were cheap.”

It seemed like so long ago.

Tears threatened and, ashamed, I looked away.
“God, I feel awful.”

Richard’s voice was gentle. “You’ll be
okay.”

“I suppose Chet could’ve loved me.” I looked
at my brother for confirmation, feeling pathetic.

“Yeah.” Richard grasped my shoulder, and gave
it a squeeze. “Come on. We don’t want to be late.”

We dropped
Brenda at the hospital’s
clinic and headed for the temple. I tried to decide if my
discomfort resulted from not knowing what to expect or not knowing
the people who’d be there. Or was it only the remnant of a
hangover?

I followed Richard up the steps and paused to
straighten my tie. The old brick building looked seedy, run-down on
the outside. Inside, the interior was spotless, with polished wood
and freshly waxed floors. I had to force myself not to greet the
few familiar faces I knew by name—Patty, Ruby, and Vera. Richard
said it was a Jewish custom. No one greeted me. Still, Patty
reached for Richard’s hand, and told him how pleased she was that
he’d come. He looked flattered, which annoyed me. Or maybe it was
the admiring look he gave her. Dressed in a black knit mini-dress
with dark stockings, Patty could’ve been going to a cocktail party
instead of a funeral.

A wizened little man in a shiny black suit
gave us yarmulkes. Why hadn’t I asked her to come instead? As the
oldest child, and only son, I sat up front, next to Patty, with
Richard on the other side of me. I would’ve preferred to blend into
the background. My aunts, Ruby and Vera, and their families, were
close behind me. So close, I could hear Vera’s heavy breathing. Had
she been a smoker, too?

The closed casket sat at the front of the
room, sprays of flowers flanking it. Richard gave me my cues when
to stand and when to sit. Thanks to him, I didn’t look like a
complete yutz, yet I didn’t feel part of the service, either. I was
a good Catholic boy in the middle of a Jewish funeral, feeling like
I should recite the rosary.

The scent of gladiolus filled the air. Faces
around me were twisted with emotion. Watching others grieve is
difficult. Experiencing their grief is unbearable. Sorrow, despair
and even boredom bombarded me from all directions. I could tell
that some of the mourners came out of family duty. The children
were happy for a day off school. Only Richard and Patty were blanks
to me, but their presence was no shield against the onslaught of
emotions the others broadcasted.

I had to force myself to listen as the young
rabbi spoke of my father and his lasting effect on all of us. One
by one family members rose to tell how my father had impacted their
lives.

Patty stood. Clutching a tissue, she wiped
her nose. “When I was ten, I wanted to skate like
Oksana Baiul
. Daddy once closed the shop to take me to
the Ice Capades. Then he paid for lessons and pretty sequined
outfits, even though he really couldn’t afford it. That’s the kind
of Dad he was.”

She brushed against my arm as she sat down,
but I couldn’t look at her. Clamping down on my envy, I stared at
the coffin. She’d at least had a life with him--he’d abandoned
me.

Vera was next. “I remember,” she said, her
voice cracking. She pressed a hand to her lips while she composed
herself. “I remember how Chet helped so many friends and relatives
down on their luck. Giving them jobs at his dry cleaning
store.”

“He was always generous,” Ruby added. “He’d
give you the shirt off his back.”

No one mentioned his drinking or gambling—the
only things I’d heard about while growing up. No one mentioned my
mother or the life he led before he straightened up—before he met
Joan and started his second family.

Ruby beamed when she spoke of Chet’s reunion
with me. She turned her tear-filled gaze toward me. “You brought
such joy to his last days.”

I looked away, feeling uncomfortable.

A long silence followed.

I didn’t get up. I had no stories to
tell.

While the relatives sniffled or sobbed
through more prayers, I sat hunched over, rubbing my throbbing
temples, feeling limp from the pain of their grief. I couldn’t make
it my own. It attacked my brains like a jackhammer through
concrete. Even blinking hurt. The pills I’d downed at breakfast
hadn’t helped a bit.

Maybe what I needed was time to put some
perspective on just what it was I thought and felt about a man who
hadn’t been a father to me in thirty-two years. But it didn’t help
at that moment.

Another funeral shadowed my thoughts.

St. Michael’s Church had seemed cavernous
with so few mourners attending my mother’s funeral mass twenty-two
years before. A spray of pink roses covered the silver coffin.
Richard probably paid for everything. I was fourteen then, and
didn’t worry about such things.

I remembered Richard clearly—a stranger I’d
only known for two days—and how odd it felt to sit next to him. I
didn’t cry. No way would I show weakness in front of him. Now I
realized I’d been numb—there’d been too many changes for a kid to
absorb in such a short time.

I tried to remember more of that day, of the
vaguely familiar faces of neighbors or my mother’s co-workers from
the restaurant where she’d waitressed the breakfast and lunch
shifts for almost seven years. Most of the faces were a blur, but I
remember turning in my seat to see a lone man enter the church. He
knelt and genuflected before sliding into one of the pews. He’d
known the Mass, recited every prayer.

Until that moment, I hadn’t realized that the
man was a thinner, dark-haired version of Chet Resnick.

My father.

Preoccupied with the past, I hadn’t noticed
the ceremony had ended. Richard stood. I stayed seated as everyone
else headed for the exit, like passengers on a plane, eager to end
the journey.

A brief
cemetery service followed.
Patty played the role of the bereaved like an Oscar contender. She
lost no opportunity to drape her hand over Richard’s arm like an
ornament. Maybe her long, wistful gazes were filled with genuine
grief. Was it cynical of me to think otherwise? Meanwhile, Richard
seemed comfortable in his role as her unofficial escort, leaving me
to silently fume.

I walked behind them from the grave. My
quiet, darkened bedroom beckoned, a haven from that pounding
headache, but as we reached the line of parked cars, Ruby turned
and sought me out.

“You’ll come to the house, won’t you?”

Richard looked at me quizzically.

I wanted to tell her ‘no’ and get the hell
out of there, but my aunt’s watery, familiar-looking eyes did a
number on me. I gave her a weak smile. “Sure.”

She squeezed my hand.

Always the consummate gentleman, Richard
helped the ladies into the waiting limo. Patty hit the electronic
window control to lower the glass, raising her hand in a coy wave
as the Lincoln started off down the narrow strip of asphalt.

Richard pulled up his collar against the
wind. “Are you sure you’re up to this? You don’t look well.”

His sudden concern irked me. “Is that a
professional opinion?”

“Yes, actually, it is.”

I exhaled a shaky breath. “I have to go. It
would look bad if I didn’t.”

“Since when do you care what people
think?”

He was right; doing something for
appearance’s sake had never mattered to me before. I didn’t
answer.

The rest of the mourners were already in
their cars, driving away. I glanced back toward my father’s grave,
reminded of other unfinished business.

“I’ve been back in Buffalo for almost nine
months and I haven’t visited Mom’s grave. How about you?”

Richard shook his head. “Let’s go.”

We made it to Mt. Calvary Cemetery in
minutes. It had been years since either of us had been there. We
traveled around the same section three times before Richard
remembered where to find the grave. We parked the car and walked
the slight incline.

Tall, dried grass obliterated the base of the
simple, white granite monument. Only our mother’s name and the
years of her birth and death marked the stone. It gave no hint of
who she’d been or the life she’d lived. Or those she’d left
behind.

Wind rustled the naked branches of a nearby
maple. I stared at the carved words, feeling empty. Losing her had
changed my life, probably for the better. What a pathetic
epitaph.

“She would’ve been sixty-eight now,” Richard
said.

I huddled into my raincoat, annoyed I’d
forgotten my gloves. “She had a shitty life. It may as well have
ended the day your father died.”

“I wish I’d known her better.”

I looked up at him. “You might not have liked
what you’d have seen.”

“What do you mean?”

“Her drinking, mostly.” I looked away and
hoped he wouldn’t press me for more. I didn’t have the words to
tell him. “What did your grandfather tell you about her?”

He shrugged, and stared blankly at the
headstone. “That she was a sick woman who deserved our pity.”

Old Mr. Alpert had been right.

“You don’t realize how damn lucky you are,”
Richard said. “You’ve found a family that wants to welcome
you—something I always wanted. I used to daydream of having
brothers and sisters. The reality was a small boy with elderly
grandparents, no one to play with, and a very, very quiet
house.”

I stared at the grave. “I had no one,
either.” And I’d lived with a mother who’d loved him, not me.

Until that moment, the depth of my childhood
jealousy toward Richard had never fully registered. Here was that
phantom brother who’d commanded all my mother’s love, even though
he wasn’t there, leaving nothing for me. For an instant I wanted to
haul off and hit him—to make him pay for the years of neglect I’d
had to endure.

He stared at the marker—at the name carved
into stone; a woman he’d never known. Maybe it wasn’t so much anger
I felt as frustration. Richard had wanted our mother’s love and
she’d longed to love him. We’d all been scarred by the
experience.

I felt stupid and ashamed and suddenly quite
unwell. I cleared my throat, took in a deep breath of cold, fresh
air. “You’re not alone any more, Rich. You have Brenda and me.”

“And soon I’ll have a son or a daughter.” A
weak smile brightened his features.

I didn’t even want to think about it.

13

The ride to Ruby’s house took forever.
Richard drove my car—I was too far gone by then, which should’ve
warned me. The closer we got, the worse I felt.

Cars lined the road in front of the little
Cape Cod, which seemed forlorn in the wan December sunlight.

“Are you sure you’re up to this?” Richard
asked again as he parked the car.

“No. We’ll have a cup of coffee then leave.
Okay?”

He nodded. We got out, and headed for the
house.