Goodbye Without Leaving (25 page)

“And I don't?”

“Come on, Gerry. They're my family.”

“I hate family,” I said. “They're never the people you want to be connected to. When I was having Franklin I wanted to see
you
. And of course William gets to see you because his brother or something is the chaplain up there.”

Mary was silent.

“Admit it,” I said. “When the chips are down, I don't count.”

“Please, Geraldine,” Mary said. Sheets of rain fell all around us. “Watch out. That huge truck is creating a tidal wave.”

“Don't worry,” I said. “Your faithful servant will not get you killed, and I won't write unless I'm supposed to and I'll bring Little Franklin up to see you when I'm allowed, if I can figure out how to explain all this to him.”

“Just tell him I'm a nun.”

“He doesn't know anything about nuns,” I said. “He doesn't know anything about God. At his age, it's a frightening concept. I know you knew all about this stuff when you were three, but he doesn't. We don't have any context for it.”

“That's modern life,” Mary said. “Believe me, going into a monastery can be seen as one colossal dodge.”

“How interesting,” I said. “Is it?”

“Sure,” said Mary. “It's like a collapse or surrender. Context all the way. All the kinds of real struggles you have, I won't have. The kind of struggles you get in monasteries are like luxuries. I mean, interior stuff. I don't ever have to make up my life again, and you do.”

“Great for me,” I said.

“It's a noble struggle.”

“Fuck it,” I said. “What about my sweet little baby? I'm supposed to provide all this context for him. I can't even get a decent Seder together.”

“You'll get it together,” Mary said. “You always do. You'll figure it out. You're good at that.”

“I'm not,” I said.

“You are,” Mary said. “Believe me. You second-guess and complain, but you only do what you think is right. That's a fine context for Franklin.”

“I think it's much nicer when everything's laid out for you, generation after generation,” I said.

We drove in silence. The rain beat furiously on the top of the car. I felt a welling desire to tell Mary everything in the world: what had I forgotten? Each inch of the road brought me closer to the fact that we would never have this sort of time together again. We would visit in the monastery parlor for an hour or so, separated by a railing. We would keep each other up to date by letter. Never again would we be two old friends in a car.

“‘
I gave my heart to you, the one that I trusted
,'” Mary sang.

“‘
You gave it back to me all broken and busted
,'” I sang. “‘
I
sold my heart to the junkman and I'll never fall in love again
.'”

“You want to stay to the right,” Mary said. “It's the next exit.”

We turned off the highway and onto a winding blacktop.

“There's a sign that says St. Scholastica's Abbey,” Mary said. ‘Take this right and then the next left.”

We drove down a pleasantly curving road, past an Arabian horse farm on the left and a swamp on the right. Finally we saw the beginning of a fence. The rain had let up slightly.

“That's where the Abbey land begins,” Mary said. “It's big. They grow their own food and spin their own wool. Self-sufficient, just like in
The Rule of St. Benedict
.”

“How relaxing,” I said.

“I haven't knitted since I was a child,” Mary said. “Soon I'll be sitting around knitting scarves for the Summer Fair. You'll come, won't you?”

“Oh, sure,” I said. “Me and nine hundred other people.”

The fence gave way to an ornate brick wall, and the wall, finally, to an elaborate set of iron gates pulled back to let cars through. We drove down a lane of poplars, past a wide lawn on which sheep grazed, and there, around the curve, lay the monastery—a large farmhouse with wings added on, enclosed by a high wooden wall. At the top of the hill was a small chapel with a steeple.

“That's the enclosure door,” Mary said, pointing to a large wooden gate. “When I get out of the car I go into the chapel. Then Mother Veronica takes me to the enclosure door. I knock and the abbess says, ‘My child, what do you want?' And I say, ‘The grace of God and the holy habit.' And the door opens and in I go.”

I had read about this a number of times but it seemed eerie and unsettling that it was happening to someone I loved.

I stopped the car next to the chapel.

“Listen, Gerry,” Mary said. “You'll always be my true friend. I've always loved you best. I'll think of you all the time, and Franklin and Johnny and the Man from Western Civ.”

“The Man from Western Civ,” I repeated.

“Leo,” said Mary. “Now listen. After I meet all the nuns, I go to the novitiate and I'm shown my cell, and I put on that denim jumper you helped me sew and my black turtleneck. By the way, thank you for the cotton tights. I would never have found them myself.” She seemed slightly out of breath. “Go find a synagogue. When you do, pray for me. I'll pray for you. Believe me, you're the best person I've ever known. You're forthright and true. I'll write in three months. Don't forget to call William about the car. He'll come and pick it up. Call my parents and tell them I'm safe.”

She leaned over and got her suitcase from the back. It had begun to rain hard again. When she opened the door, the rain positively roared at us.

“Okay, goodbye,” Mary said. “Be true to your school. Pray for me. Kiss Little Franklin.” She swung her legs over the side. She was half out of the car. “And leave him,” she said.

“Which one?” I shouted after her, but she had already dashed through the rain and into the chapel.

56

I drove straight home where my son and husband were sitting around playing with blocks. I expected my little darling to fly into my arms. Instead, he gave me a smack and told me that his truck was broken.

“He missed you,” Johnny said.

I scooped Little Franklin up into my arms. “Are you angry at me because I was away all day?” I said.

“I hate you,” said Little Franklin. “You're not my friend.”

“I don't hate
you
,” I said. “Come and help me cook dinner.”

“Daddy and I cooked dinner,” he said. “Daddy let me cut up the carrots. How come you don't?”

I called William Hammerklever and arranged for him to pick up the car. I called Mary's parents and told them all was well.

By dinnertime Little Franklin was sitting on my lap. “Amos came,” he said. “Winnie came. We played Dog in the Bakery.”

“You did?” I said. “What's that?”

“A
game
,” said Little Franklin. “Can we eat now?”

We sat down to dinner. Because I could not come home empty-handed, I had stopped at our local bakery and picked up an apple pie—Little Franklin's favorite. He liked the apples and I ate the crust.

Johnny and Franklin had made beef stew from
The Joy of Cooking
.

“Mom,” Franklin said. “Do you know what's in this stew?”

“I don't,” I said.

He leaned over to me confidentially. “
Ingredients
,” he said. “Tell where you went with Mary, Mama.”

“Well,” I said, looking at Johnny beseechingly. “There is a place called a monastery. They have a big farm and sheep grazing on the lawn.”

“Can we go there?”

“We can go and visit,” I said. “Mary is going to be something called a nun. Next time you see her she'll have on a long black dress.”

“Why will she wear a dress if she lives on a farm? Will she be a farmer?”

“Well, sort of. It's a very special kind of life. The ladies live in a big building and they sing and pray.”

“What's pray?”

“It's when you ask God for something,” I said.

“What's God?”

“You know, Pankie,” said Johnny. “Remember we read that book about Indians and the Great Spirit? Manatu?”

Franklin did remember, and then he wanted to know if Mary would have a sheep of her very own. This will only get worse, I said to myself as I straightened up the kitchen.

Johnny gave Franklin his bath, but it was my turn to read to him. I lay down next to him and he curled up against me.

“Read,” he commanded. Franklin was very fond of the
Just So Stories
. He had a long attention span for a little boy. He wanted me to read “The Cat That Walked by Himself.”

“‘Hear and attend and listen,'” I began. “‘For this befell and behappened and became and was, O my Best Beloved, when the tame animals were wild.'”

“What's wild?” said Little Franklin.

“It means they live in the forest or the wilderness and are not pets or farm animals.”

My son snuggled up closer and put his head on my shoulder. He smelled of soap. I could barely contain my feelings. My little boy was very tired. His eyes kept closing, and then he opened them, turned his pillow over and changed position. When he turned on his side, I believed he was almost asleep. I stopped reading.

“Read,” his little voice commanded.

I read and read, and still my boy was not asleep. I kissed him and hugged him.

“No kissing,” he said sleepily. “Read.”

He turned over his pillow again and curled up on his side.

“Read,” he said.

I read very slowly, remembering what one of the nursery teachers had said: that if we did things at a child's true pace, the world would move with incredible slowness.

“‘Out in the Wet Wild Woods all the wild animals wondered what had happened to Wild Dog,'” I continued. “‘And at last Wild Horse stamped with his wild foot and said: I will go and see and say why Wild Dog has not returned. Cat, come with me.

“‘“Nenni!” said the Cat. “I am the Cat who walks by himself, and all places are alike to me.”'”

My voice wavered and the words swam on the page, but it did not matter: my little boy had finally gone to sleep.

P
ART
F
IVE

Underwater

57

The man who swam next to me—I believed he was called Mr. Jacobowitz—lumbered in the water, a heavy, hulking walruslike presence. He was large, old, barrel-chested, and swam a steady breaststroke. I found him the perfect person to pace myself with. Three mornings a week I swam in a pool near work, courtesy of Mrs. Hornung, for whom I had done a couple of favors. I had cheerfully photocopied a whole sheaf of her tax papers, and after a conversation about hot chocolate, I had found the very brand of cocoa she remembered from her youth—unavailable in her neighborhood—and had given her two tins of it.

When I presented them to her she was as delighted as if I had retrieved her great-grandmother's long lost jewels. She was the widow of Caspar Hornung, the biographer of Moses Mendelssohn, and an old friend of Bernard and Gertje's: she had known Bernard's mother, the sainted Sophie Regenstein. Mrs. Hornung was small, with glowing cheeks, and white hair pulled back in a bun. One day I asked her why her hair was wet and she told me about her pool.

“A lovely place!” said Mrs. Hornung. “So soothing. Do you swim?”

I said I did.

“All American girls do, yes?” said Mrs. Hornung. “When I was a girl in Munich we had such a swimming club! And, of course, after we swam we went out to stuff ourselves with cakes. We were such gooses! You know, I am allowed one guest at my pool but I have no one to be my guest. I am the only old lady I know who swims. My granddaughters live in California. Geraldine. You know, they go
surfing
. It is so strange for me. These great big American girls in those black rubber clothes—how do you call these?”

“Wet suits,” I said, looking down at her.

Mrs. Hornung clapped her hands together. “Exactly so!” she said. “Wet suits! It is quite terrifying to watch. I stand on the shore and say, This is the
Pacific
Ocean, and these big girls with blond hair are my
granddaughters
. And you know, Geraldine?” She dropped her voice. “Although they are Jewish, frankly they look exactly like those blond girls from the Nazi propaganda posters.”

Her pool was in a small building owned by the Heinrich Heine Haus. A group of writers and artists had scrounged together the money to buy the building many years ago as a cultural center, and then, courtesy of a rich benefactor, had built the pool. It was Olympic-sized, tiled in black and white and overseen by a ferocious woman named Martine who checked your name against a list on a clipboard every time you came. To be a guest member cost three hundred dollars, which I paid out of my Ruby and Vernon money. I had not gone swimming in years, except to splash around in the lake at my mother-in-law's with Little Franklin.

My first time at the pool, I went with Mrs. Hornung, who wore a shapeless swimming garment. She said to me, “I look terrible, no? I am seventy-nine, but I assure you, Geraldine, that if I do not swim I look much, much worse. My poor suit, you see, has this white worm disease. The chlorine eats the material and the little white rubber threads poke their heads through, so.”

After I had been introduced to Martine, handed over my check and entered my name in the guest book, Mrs. Hornung and I entered the water.

She swam an idiosyncratic backstroke, pulling both arms back at the same time and fluttering her little feet. She looked exactly like one of Franklin's bath toys, a wind-up woman who swam around in a circle.

On rainy days I was often the only person in the pool. I was always the youngest. These men and women, all elderly, seemed content in a way I could not understand. They had been uprooted from their homelands. Many of them—there were a number of people with numbers on their wrists—had been through things more terrible than I could imagine. They had had everything taken away from them: their language, their landscape, their sense of stability, and here they were, greeting each other happily in German, English and Yiddish, complaining about their hairdressers or dentists or stockbrokers, comparing the prices of shoes at Saks Fifth Avenue, and swimming up and down, up and down, in a slow, determined way.