The Mourning After (11 page)

“Are the dreams back?” he asks.

Lucy is quiet.  They hadn’t returned, and the mention of them flusters her. Only her dear brother could bring out the feelings she had buried deep.  She swallows and starts to preach, “Can’t dwell on the past.  The future is full of possibility.  No better present than the present.  Rule #517.”

“Oh boy, new boy has no idea what he’s in for.”

This makes Lucy smile.  It feels out of place as she passes through the open-air structure that memorializes six-million Jews.  For her, the giant hand reaching out of the ground signifies hope.  “When are you coming down?”

“Thanksgiving.”

“I can’t wait,” she says.  “I love you, Ricky.”

“I love you more,” he replies.

It serves as a reminder of how troubling the Atlanta exodus had been for him.  Loving her
more
was tied up fiercely in regret, having let her down with his absence on a day when she needed him most.  Lucy never blamed him, but he blamed himself.  When they hang up and Lucy sticks the phone in her back pocket, she is standing in front of the sculpture entitled
The Beginning
. 

Two frightened children nestle within the safety of their mother’s arms.  The expressions on their faces are of unspeakable fear and worry; Lucy can hear them begging, pleading with their eyes,
can this really happen to us
?  The stone wall behind the sculpture reads,
“...that in spite of everything, I still believe that people are really good at heart.” 
She does not have to read the name below them to know whose words they are.  Since May, she has pored over Anne Frank’s diary so many times she can recite the most poignant quotes by heart.  If anyone can illustrate resiliency with unflappable bravery, it is that of the thirteen-year-old girl who was forced into hiding by the evils of anti-Semitism.  For a period of time, the insightful teen survived one of the worst horrors of prejudice with her will to live and unbroken spirit.  It was a lesson that crossed generations and gave Lucy a renewed sense of self.  After all, Atlanta had been her personal horror.

She steps back from the statue—its warm glow brushing against her cheeks—and sees her bus turning the corner.  She thinks about Levon.  It will take some time, but she is sure she can help him.  George will be her accomplice; George will wheedle him along.  She will walk him when she gets home.  Something tells her Levon will come to her.

“How about taking a ride with me to my office, Levon?” Craig is standing in the doorway reminding him of how going to his office as a small child was once a huge deal.  Levon doodles on the page, acutely aware that Lucy Bell has infiltrated his thoughts.  He slams the notebook shut.

“Sure, I’ll come,” he says and places the binder in his knapsack so he can tote it along and write whatever comes to mind.

They make the drive to his office in downtown Miami in minimal traffic. It is a glorious fall day, the heat and humidity had been wiped away by the thunderstorms earlier in the morning.

Idle comments about the weather (“The temperature must have dropped ten degrees since yesterday.”) to sports (“Do you think the Dolphins have a chance against the Patriots this weekend?”) fill the car.  Levon tries frantically to remember the last time he accompanied his dad to work.  The filing cabinet in his brain remembers the disappointments. 

There was “Bring Your Child to Work Day,” when Levon dressed in his best khaki pants and white oxford button-down, only to be told that Chloe had a fever.  Since his mother had jury duty that day, his father had to stay home and monitor his sister’s vitals.  Levon resentfully went off to school. He was in the third grade, eight years old, and one of only three children in the class.  The other two were givens:  Harry Framer’s dad lived in New York City and Lily Davis’ dad was dead.

“I’m sorry about yesterday,” his father finally says. At first, Levon thinks he can hear his thoughts, that he’s taking responsibility for the earlier disappointment. Craig continues by saying, “Your mom’s having a tough time.  We all are.” 

As if Levon didn’t know that.  They all were. 

They are on the MacArthur Causeway passing the exclusive, pricey mansions of Star and Palm Islands on the right and the deserted Port of Miami on the left.  This is one of Levon’s favorite stretches of road where the turquoise waves kiss the shoreline and the palm trees line the median.  As a kid, he would stare up at the cruise ships—massive floating cities—that lined the port’s seawalls.  Today they are all at sea.  If he acknowledges his dad’s remark, he is admitting blame.  If he ignores the comment, he stands to offend, and that is not something he wants to do.

“How are we supposed to get through this?” Levon asks.

His father doesn’t have the answer and he tells him so.  “A lot has been broken, Levon.  Some of it will never be fixed.”

“Will you ever trust me again?” he asks, in need of the man’s forgiveness.

“Give us some time,” his father answers, and Levon notices at once how he uses the word,
us
, and not
me—
proof that the man who is supposed to be his hero can’t make a unilateral decision.  Levon wants to right the wrongs, and his father is unable to disassociate himself from his mother to have a one-on-one conversation.  Why must she always be in any space with them? His thoughts are a tornado of disdain and neediness churning at an uncontrollable speed.

Time.  It always came down to time.

“We’re here,” his father says, as if Levon wouldn’t recognize the parking structure that led to his father’s office high above Brickell Avenue.  Levon follows behind him toward the elevators and watches while he hits the button for the Penthouse. 

“I won’t be very long,” he says, while Levon studies his face for any genetic similarity.

The door opens and he is greeted by the modern offices of Keller Development.  Levon feels a rush of pride for his father and how hard he has worked over the years to maintain a successful, prestigious company.  As President and CEO, the demands on him are great.  Levon has become accustomed to his father’s absence. And he has never acclimated to the shift in Craig Keller’s personality when he passes through the steel and glass doorways of his flourishing corporation.  At home, Craig Keller is a yes-man, adhering to his wife’s regimented code.  At work, he transforms into an autonomous, creative force whose brilliance and vision has shaped much of the Miami real estate market.  As soon as they are ensconced in his corner office with breathtaking views of Fisher Island and the Biscayne Bay, the transformation has begun; the poised, commanding persona emerges.

“I am terribly sorry, Mr. Keller,” marks the murmurs of his staff and his flaxen-haired secretary, Jane.  They are clamoring around him with important documents that need to be signed and papers that have been waiting for his approval.  Craig Keller grows in stature as he assumes his position of authority and begins attending to important paperwork.  Envelopes conveying sympathy cards cover his desk.  Grief is like a bolt of lightning, and everyone around it recoils.  Levon takes a seat in one of the leather chairs and spins to capture the view his father had once described as a tropical paradise.

The picture of the three of them is prominently displayed on a shelf, and Levon reaches for it at once.  Chloe was eight, Levon thirteen, and David fifteen.  It was taken in November.  Levon knows this because the photo would become their holiday card for the coming year.  His mother had it blown up to an eight by ten for Craig’s office, and Levon remembers how his father beamed with pride when he saw their broad smiling faces. 

When Levon focuses on the upturn of Chloe’s nose and the handsome symmetry of David’s features, and even his own jovial pose, the unity captured by the photo surpasses each child’s glaring differences.  Individual and unique, together they form a family. 

Three sets of eyes beckon Levon.  Scrutinizing their youthful faces, he searches for the improbable fix to what’s gone wrong.  How can he mend the hole where David stands?  Levon’s eyes settle on his own, but tears make him blurry and invisible.

When his father draws near, he wipes his eyes and abruptly turns the evidence of crime facedown on the shelf.

During the next hour, Levon watches as his father sifts through emails and legal documents while firmly dominating the phone.  When he says goodbye to the designer in Milan, he stands up from his chair.  “I have to look over some renderings for a new building.” 

Levon asks if he can join him. When his father refuses, it sends a pinprick through his belly, puncturing him in one snappy gasp.  Levon takes out his notebook, rests comfortably in his father’s chair and continues to write.

Glossing over the last entry, his thoughts are laced in obsession and paranoia.  He finds that his fingers have no control over the fancy pen he finds in his father’s drawer, and sentences pour out of him in a phonetic frenzy. He’s thinking about Lucy Bell and her shiny lips.  His lips have never tasted the sweet strawberry that girls use to coat their mouths.  The pen records his desire, the stirring from within that lately he has not been able to tame.  Shiva and a sensual kiss do not go hand in hand.  He closes the book to go to the bathroom.  His father’s loyal employees move out of his way as he walks down the lead-colored hallways, like the parting of the Red Sea, making room for him to pass as they share their heartfelt sympathy. Sounds coming from the office at the end of the hall—the one directly across from the bathroom with the door slightly ajar—cause Levon to stop.

Peering into the crack of the door, Levon sees the back of the black shirt and jeans that belong to his father.  He is sure that’s what his father was wearing when he left his office twenty minutes before.  Arms are wrapped around his father’s waist.  Levon moves in closer, concealing himself from view.  His heart is racing, and his palms are sweating.  When the two untangle themselves from each other’s arms, Levon abruptly backs up to the wall, and although he can’t see them, he can hear every word.

His dad is crying.

Okay, Levon thinks, this is what people do in times of death.

She is asking his father what she can do, and by the sound of her voice, Levon envisions her cradling him in her arms and stroking his hair like one might a small child. 

“I wish I could be there for you,” she says.  “I didn’t know what to do…if I should call…I wasn’t sure…”

“It hurts…”

“I’m so sorry,” she says, in a tone that carries into the hallway and soothes Levon as well.

Levon is caught, suspended between disbelief and actuality.  He hightails it into the bathroom, his entire body shaking from the clandestine scene he’s just witnessed.  He’s not sure he can go to the bathroom; instead, he uses it as a refuge to wait out the trembling that has besieged him.  He stands in front of the vanity and steadies himself by resting his shaking hands along the white porcelain sink.  He is hunched over so he doesn’t see his reflection in the mirror.  David has been gone eleven days, and he has not once seen his parents console one another. 

After a few calming minutes, replete with denial, he splashes his face with cold water and escapes the bathroom.

Timing is everything.

There is no such thing as a coincidence.

Levon has heard these phrases from time to time. No one knows their implication better than he. Coincidence is something he studied very recently in physics class.

The story was remarkable and not everyone in the class was a believer.  Mr. G.— short for something long and unpronounceable—was introducing the concepts of coincidence and synchronicity when he cited an inexplicable, extraordinary incident that happened in Beatrice, Nebraska in 1950.  Levon always liked Mr. G.  He reminded him of Rick Moranis from the
Honey, I Shrunk the Kids, Dog, Cat, Neighborhood
movies, the affable, well-meaning scientist whose experiments always went awry.  To Mr. G., teaching was an experiment of sorts.  He was the quintessential professor who documented probability by the range of colors the students wore each day and studied the impatient sound waves of those who sat through the fifty-minute class without uttering a single word.  If you spoke, you would have seriously come close to electrocution.  This reminded Levon of the time he introduced static electricity to the class, and for roughly twenty seconds, the entire group’s hair stood up straight in the air.  They looked like a family of porcupines, and Levon has a photograph, courtesy of Mr. G., to prove it.  Mr. G taught valuable lessons in a most unconventional, interactive style.

Levon recalls how Mr. G. detailed the story of the church in Beatrice that had a scheduled choir practice for fifteen of its members at 7:30 p.m.  For reasons both unbelievable, yet plausible, not one of the members made it to the church on time.  “And the irony,” he began, “was that five minutes later, at exactly 7:35 p.m., the furnace of the church exploded, destroying the ill-fated building.  Was it fate?” he asked, “Coincidence?  A spiritual message from a higher power?  No one denies it is astonishing and that it raises the possibility that coincidence is proof of another dimension.  Personally,” he added, “I find it rather befuddling”—a word he liked to use from time to time—“that coincidences that are this systematic and this purposeful could be the result of random probability.”

By then, the class was split into two: the believers and the skeptics.

“Mathematician Warren Weaver and author of
Lady Luck: the Theory of Probability
, ‘calculates the staggering odds against chance for this uncanny event as about one in a million.’”

Levon was beginning to lean toward the believer’s side. 

Next, Mr. G. introduced synchronicity in relation to coincidence.  You would have thought he was retelling the story of man’s first steps on the moon the way his words escalated, inflating the incredulousness of the account.  Most every head in the lab was leaning in closer to hear about the string of coincidences that occur frequently and appear to have some significant meaning to the observer. “Perhaps,” he said, biding his time for a momentum-building pause, “they see these occurrences as a signal for change…”