The History of Love (15 page)

Grodzenski’s poor relation buzzed around me with chalk and pins. I asked if it would be possible for him to hem the suit while I waited. He looked at me like I had two heads.
I gottahundred suits back there to takecara, and you wannme ta do yours now?
He shook his head.
Minimum, two weeks.

It’s for a funeral,
I said.
My son.
I tried to steady myself. I reached for my handkerchief. Then I remembered it was in the pocket of my pants crumpled on the dressing room floor. I stepped off the block and hurried back to my cubicle. I knew I’d made a fool of myself in that clown suit. A man should buy a suit for life, not for death. Wasn’t that what Grodzenski’s ghost was telling me? I couldn’t embarrass Isaac and I couldn’t make him proud. Because he didn’t exist.

And yet.

That evening, I went home with the hemmed suit in a plastic garment bag. I sat at the kitchen table and made a single rip in the collar. I would have liked to shred the whole thing. But I restrained myself. Fishl the
tzaddik
who might have been an idiot once said:
A single rip is harder to bear than a hundred rips.

I bathed myself. Not a bird bath with a sponge, but the real thing, darkening the ring around the tub another shade. I dressed myself in the new suit, and brought the vodka down off the shelf. I took a drink, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, repeating the gesture that was made a hundred times by my father and his father and his father’s father, eyes half closed as the sharpness of the alcohol replaced the sharpness of grief. And then, when the bottle was gone, I danced. Slowly at first. But getting faster. I stomped my feet and kicked my legs, joints cracking. I pounded my feet and crouched and kicked in the dance my father danced, and his father, tears sliding down my face as I laughed and sang, danced and danced, until my feet were raw and there was blood under my toenail, I danced the only way I knew how to dance: for life, crashing into the chairs, and spinning until I fell, so that I could get up and dance again, until dawn broke and found me prostrate on the floor, so close to death I could spit into it and whisper:
L’chaim.

I woke up to the sound of a pigeon ruffling its feathers on the windowsill. One arm of the suit was torn, my head was pounding, there was dried blood on my cheek. But I’m not made of glass.

I thought: Bruno. Why hadn’t he come? I might not have answered had he knocked. Still. No doubt he’d heard me, unless he had on his Walkman. Even then. A lamp had crashed to the floor, and I’d overturned all the chairs. I was about to go up and knock on his door when I looked at the clock. It was already quarter past ten. I like to think the world wasn’t ready for me, but maybe the truth is that I wasn’t ready for the world. I’ve always arrived too late for my life. I ran to the bus stop. Or rather, hobbled, hiked up trouser legs, did a little skip-scamper-stop-and-pant, hiked up trouser legs, stepped, dragged, stepped, dragged, etcetera. I caught the bus uptown. We sat in traffic.
Doesn’t this thing go any faster?
I said loudly. The woman next to me got up and moved to another seat. Maybe I slapped her thigh in my effusiveness, I don’t know. A man in an orange jacket and snakeskin-print pants stood up and started to sing a song. Everyone turned to look out the window until they realized he wasn’t asking for money. He was just singing.

By the time I got to the shul the service was already over, but the place was still crowded with people. A man in a yellow bow tie and a white jacket, what was left of his hair lacquered across his scalp, said,
Of course we knew, but when it finally happened none of us were ready,
to which a woman standing next to him replied,
Who can be ready?
I stood alone by a large potted plant. My palms were damp, I felt myself getting dizzy. Perhaps it had been a mistake to come.

I wanted to ask where he’d been buried; the newspaper hadn’t said. Suddenly I was filled with regret that I’d bought my own plot so prematurely. If I’d known, I could have joined him. Tomorrow. Or the next day. I’d been afraid of being left to the dogs. I’d gone to Mrs. Freid’s stone setting at Pinelawn, and it had seemed like a nice place. A Mr. Simchik showed me around and gave me a pamphlet. I’d been imagining something under a tree, a weeping willow perhaps, maybe a little bench. But. When he told me the price my heart sank. He showed me my options, a few plots that were either too close to the road or where the grass was balding.
Nothing at all with a tree?
I asked. Simchik shook his head.
A bush?
He licked a finger and rustled through his papers. He hemmed and hawed, but finally he gave in.
We may have something,
he said,
it’s more than you were planning to spend but you can pay in installments.
It was at the far end, in the suburbs of the Jewish part. It wasn’t exactly under a tree but it was near one, near enough that during the fall some of its leaves might drift down on me. I thought it over. Simchik told me to take my time and went back to the office. I stood in the sunlight. Then I got down on the grass and rolled onto my back. The ground was hard and cold under my raincoat. I watched the clouds pass above. Maybe I fell asleep. The next thing I knew, Simchik was standing above me.
Nu? You’ll take it?

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Bernard, my son’s half-brother. A huge oaf, the spitting image of his father, may his memory be a blessing. Yes, even his. His name was Mordecai. She called him Morty. Morty! He’s been in ground three years. I consider it a small victory that he kicked the bucket first. And yet. When I remember, I light a
yartzeit
candle for him. If not me, who?

My son’s mother, the girl I fell in love with when I was ten, died five years ago. I expect to join her soon, at least in that. Tomorrow. Or the next day. Of that I am convinced. I thought it would be strange to live in the world without her in it. And yet. I’d gotten used to living with her memory a long time ago. Only at the very end did I see her again. I snuck into her room in the hospital and sat with her every day. There was a nurse, a young girl, and I told her—not the truth. But. A story not unlike the truth. This nurse let me come after hours, when there was no chance of my running into anyone. She was hooked to a life support, tubes up her nose, one foot in the other world. Whenever I looked away, I half expected that when I turned back she would be gone. She was tiny and wrinkled and deaf as a doorknob. There was so much I should have said. And yet. I told her jokes. I was a regular Jackie Mason. Sometimes I thought I saw the hint of a smile. I tried to keep things light. I said:
Would you believe, this thing here where your arm bends, this they call an elbow
. I said:
Two rabbis diverged in a yellow wood
. I said:
Moshe goes to the doctor. Doctor, he says,
etcetera, etcetera. Many things I did not say. Example.
I waited so long.
Other example.
And were you happy? With that nebbish that clod that numbskull schlemiel you call a husband?
The truth was I’d given up waiting long ago. The moment had passed, the door between the lives we could have led and the lives we led had shut in our faces. Or better to say, in
my
face. Grammar of my life: as a rule of thumb, wherever there appears a plural, correct for singular. Should I ever let slip a royal
We
, put me out of my misery with a swift blow to the head.

Are you all right? You’re looking a little pale.

It was the man I’d seen earlier, the one in the yellow bow tie. When your pants are down around your ankles that’s when everyone arrives, never a moment before when you might have been in a position to receive them. I tried to steady myself against the potted plant.

Fine, fine,
I said.

And how did you know him?
he asked, giving me the once-over.

We were—
I wedged my knee between the pot and the wall, hoping it would give me some balance.
Related.

Family! So sorry, forgive me. I thought I’d met all the mishpocheh!
The way he pronounced it was
mishpoky.

Of course, I should have guessed.
He looked me up and down again, running a palm over his hair to make sure it was securely positioned.
I thought you were one of the fans,
he said, gesturing toward the thinning crowd.
Which side, then?

I took hold of the thickest part of the plant. I tried to focus on the man’s bow tie while the room around me swayed.

Both,
I said.

Both?
he repeated, incredulous, as he looked down at the roots struggling to keep their grip in the earth.

I’m
— I began. But with a sudden jerk the plant came free. I lurched forward, only my leg was still wedged such that the unsupported leg was forced to spring forward alone, leaving the lip of the pot no place to go except jammed into my groin, and my hand no choice but to grind the clod of dirt dangling from the roots into the face of the man in the yellow bow tie.

Sorry
, I said, pain shooting up my groin and electrocuting my
kishkes
. I tried to stand up straight. My mother, may her memory be a blessing, used to say,
Don’t slump.
Dirt rained from the man’s nostrils. As a final touch, I pulled my cruddy hanky out and pressed it into his nose. He swatted my hand away and pulled out his own, freshly laundered and pressed into a neat square. He shook it loose. A flag of surrender. An awkward moment passed as he cleaned himself up and I nursed my nether region.

Next thing I knew, I was standing face to face with my son’s half-brother, my sleeve between the teeth of the pit bull in a bow tie.
Look what I rustled up
, he barked. Bernard raised his eyebrows.
Says he’s mishpoky.

Bernard smiled politely as he eyed first the rip in my collar, then the tear in my arm.
Forgive me,
he said.
I don’t remember you. Have we met?

The pit bull visibly salivated. A fine dusting of soil shifted in the crease of his shirt. I glanced at the sign marked EXIT. I might have made a run for it had I not been severely wounded in the privates. A wave of nausea came over me. And yet. Sometimes you need a stroke of genius and, lo and behold, genius comes and strokes you.

De rets Yiddish?
I whispered hoarsely.

Pardon?

I grabbed Bernard’s sleeve. The dog had mine and I had Bernard’s. I brought my face close to his. His eyes were bloodshot. He may have been an oaf but he was a good man. And yet I had no choice.

I raised my voice. DE RETS YIDDISH?
I could taste the stale alcohol on my breath. I grabbed his collar. The veins in his neck popped out as he recoiled backwards.
FARSHTAIST?

Sorry.
Bernard shook his head.
I don’t understand.

Good
, I continued in Yiddish,
because this here dumbbell,
I said, gesturing at the man in the bow tie,
this here putz
has inserted himself up my tuchas and it’s only because I can’t crap of my own free will that he has not been ejected. Would you kindly ask him to take his paws off me before I am forced to plug his schnoz with another plant, and this time I won’t bother to de-pot it.