The Widower's Tale (41 page)

The week in New York was, in a word, restorative--never mind that they ran themselves ragged dashing from one attraction to the next, as if desperate to take in every play on or off Broadway; every fashion sale, from Barneys to East Ninth Street; every newfangled work of art, from Dia to Williamsburg. They ate ridiculously well: Italian in Chelsea, Japanese in TriBeCa, French on Gansevoort, Thai in Queens (an accidental find the day they visited Ira's parents).

Perhaps they got along so well, and loved each other's company so much, because they were constantly in motion. And then they were in bed, in the dark, where any introspective conversation they shared--inevitably and deliciously weary--would be about Richard Serra or Stephen Sondheim or the beet-red suit by agnes b. that Anthony was almost but not quite brave enough to buy. ("Maybe if your nickname in court were the Rooster," said Ira when they left the store on Prince Street. "Cock of the Walk," Anthony suggested. "The perp walk," Ira said, and they laughed wantonly for the next two blocks, drawing the envious irritation of everyone they passed.)

Ira realized that while he often missed New York, he had lost the prickly need to behave, when he returned, as if he were anything other than a tourist. Likewise, he felt surprisingly tolerant of his parents' ingrained habits and tastes, once as tough as gristle for Ira to digest. It helped that Anthony accepted them as they were (his own parents were equally if differently bizarre), but for the first time, Ira accepted Anthony's acceptance, understanding what it really meant.

On the night of their visit, Ira's mother made a casserole of broccoli, chicken, and cheese--mixed with a can of Campbell's mushroom soup. This had been Ira's favorite meal as a child, and why should he tell her that the allure of such food had dimmed almost as soon as he left home? So of course she made it every single time he returned--and as everyone finished their salad (served first, American style, with salmon-colored tomato wedges and dressing from a bottle), she would ceremoniously remove the immortal Corningware dish from the oven and set it down on the familiar heart-shaped trivet.

She would smile proudly as she focused both love and caution on carrying the hot dish to the table. In the past, Ira had often looked away from her smile, embarrassed. But this time, he was touched by her faithfulness to this ritual, and an odd thought occurred to him. He'd had a happy childhood, as childhoods go. He, the child, might not have been happy all or even most of the time, but his surroundings had been remarkably serene and cheerful. That was the "hood" part of childhood, the context, the environment, ecosphere--call it what you like. Ira had taken a course in grad school dedicated to the nature-versus-nurture debate: what makes a child grow up with a particular accent or a bad temper; prone to depression or excess weight; alcoholic; sporty; religious?

Ira's parents beamed at Anthony, as if he already
were
their son-in-law. Wasn't this the very best you could ask of your parents, at this point in life? This and your favorite food from ages seven to seventeen?

It dawned on him, so abruptly that he nearly choked on his rice pilaf: Inner Ira, resident cynic, had not come along on this vacation.

"Memory lane, Mom," said Ira after swallowing the first salty bite of the casserole.

The first day back at school, Ira and Evelyn arrived before everyone else, so they were the ones to discover the damage wrought by a frozen pipe. Evelyn cajoled Matlock's only plumber into putting them at the head of the day's list. Even so, the children's bathroom would have to be closed for the morning.

Ira realized that the task of soaking up the small lake in the hall would require more than a mop. E & F's part-time custodian, who brought his own equipment, wouldn't show up until the end of the week.

Up at the house, once he'd climbed to the back porch, Ira could see that Percy Darling was awake, eating breakfast at the kitchen table.

"I am so sorry to disturb you, but we're in SOS mode, desperately seeking a Shop-Vac. Or a gigantic pile of rags."

"Well." Percy smiled sardonically. "Happy new year."

"Oh yes, to you too!"

Percy held the door open for Ira to enter. "Let me look in the basement. My grandson keeps track of these things, to the extent that anyone does."

"Let me go down," said Ira. "I've troubled you enough."

"Sit." Percy pointed to a chair at the table. "I wouldn't want you to trip on the bodies. We do not cater to the squeamish."

Ira laughed nervously. He sat where he was told. Beside a plate holding half an English muffin, the Matlock town paper was open to the police log. He scanned the week's misadventures: the greatest tragedy was that a dog had fallen through the ice on a local pond; the owner had been restrained from an attempted rescue. This snippet of news did not include the fate of the dog.

Ira heard clattering from the basement. He went to the open door. "Everything okay down there?" He made his way down the steep stairs and, at the bottom, had to stoop severely to avoid cracking his head on one of the jagged rafters. The place was primeval in the extreme.

Percy, bent over as well, pointed to a barrel-shaped appliance under a worktable. "Is this the contraption you seek? Either that or it's some gizmo pertaining to Norval's beer-making scheme. Which I knew to be ludicrous from the start. But guess who had the space for such an enterprise?"

Ira did not ask who Norval was. Stepping over a coiled hose, a milk crate filled with extension cords, and a cardboard box labeled WINTER MISC., he discovered that the machine in question was indeed a Shop-Vac. "Thank you
so much,"
he said as he hauled it toward the stairs.

Ira carried the body of the vacuum; Percy brought along the tubular accessories. In the kitchen, both men sneezed from the dust. Together, they laughed. Percy offered Ira a cup of tea or coffee.

"I wish I could say yes," said Ira. "But the kids arrive in fifteen minutes and we have Niagara Falls on our hands."

Percy stood by the table, glancing down at the paper. "All quiet on the eco-terrorist front. Do we think these crusaders head south for the winter? These--what do they call themselves--DOGS?"

Ira hadn't thought about the pranks in a month; Percy was right. "Like geese," said Ira. "So maybe they're fouling up pools in Palm Beach for a change. Ha. No pun intended!"

Percy walked him to the door. "Pity. I rather enjoyed their shenanigans. Last town meeting was almost as good as a Woody Allen movie."

"Oh, I doubt we've seen the last of them," said Ira. "They're too crazy--or maybe too stylish--to simply fade away."

By the end of the day, Maurice Fougere's glistening floors, cherry and tile alike, were scored and scuffed with muddy footprints. The children had tracked water into every niche in every room. The place looked dismal.

Ira would have to stay extra late, not just to do his share of cleaning but because Rico's mother had asked to meet with him after the other children left. Rico would stay in the classroom with Heidi; Ira and Sarah would confer in the tiny teachers' room that overlooked the pond.

Sarah was waiting for him, standing at the window. She'd lost weight over the break, that was obvious. Since she was a far cry from your typical bird-boned Matlock mom, this ought to have made her more attractive, but when she faced Ira, her entire body seemed to broadcast her anxiety.

"Sarah, how are you?" He crossed the room to stand beside her.

"Enduring." She shrugged. "I dramatize. Maybe better than that."

Ira nodded and asked her to sit.

"How's Rico? That's the important question," she said.

"Sarah, this is his first day back after nearly a month away. He was maybe a little more quiet than usual, but then, we had the Chatty Cathy Club trading factoids on their brand-new dolls. Guys couldn't get a word in edgewise."

"He seems to get quieter all the time."

"All the time, or in the past few weeks? Can I suggest it might be because he's
listening?
He knows something dire is afoot. Do I guess you haven't told him what's about to happen to his mom?" Ira made an effort to sound gentle.

Ira had worried about Rico already, just a little, before this unkind stroke of fate. His chronic reticence seemed more withholding than shy. The other boys had formed a closer alliance since September, accentuating Rico's tendency toward solitude--though maternal Marguerite was forever trying to induct him into her circle of influence. She was the queen bee among the girls, directing all games involving theatrical roles. Rico was useful to her whenever she needed an Aladdin to her Jasmine, a Wilbur to her Charlotte. She didn't mind if she had all the lines, including his.

"My treatment starts next week."

"Evelyn told me." He waited to hear her say something else. "Do you want my help to tell him what's up? He doesn't need all the gory details, Mom."

"It's not the details about me, about how tired or sick I'll feel--that's not what I worry about explaining. That's sort of the easy part," said Sarah. "Right. Easy." She laughed. "So, Ira, you know about my relationship with Percy."

"Sure," he said. "I think it's great."

She frowned. "I don't mean to be rude, but I don't care who thinks it's great and who thinks it's ... not. I'm not happy that he lives right here, at the school, but I guess I wouldn't have met him otherwise. Well, that's not quite true." She seemed to consider this briefly amusing. "But here's the thing. The guy who helps me look after Rico--just sometimes, like when I have to travel for work, which isn't often--is this ex-boyfriend of mine. He loves Rico. I met him right after the adoption. But things between us didn't work out. I had a hunch he wanted kids of his own, and I didn't think ..." She sighed. "Not relevant here. Never mind. But Gus is going to be crucial now. He might even--well, you'll probably meet him."

"I'm glad you have someone to back you up," said Ira. He had questions--oh
boy
did he have questions--but he knew better than to ask them.

Sarah stared out the window. She laid her hands on the table, palms down. For a moment, Ira thought she would put her head down, too.

"Sarah?"

"Percy doesn't know about Gus." She shook her head. "Why am I telling
you
this?"

"Because I have to know what's going on with Rico."

"Gus and I might not even be in touch anymore if it weren't for Rico. They ... I guess you could say they bonded. I hate that word. They're friends. And feminist though I may be, I do believe little boys should have big guys to look up to, who care about them." She looked fondly at Ira. "Like you. Right?"

"Goes without saying." He laughed, but carefully.

She stared at him for a moment, as if contemplating just how good a role model he really
was
for her son. "I have friends who tell me I was stupid to break up with Gus. He was nice. He was dependable. Had a great sense of humor. All these things are still true! He just ... we didn't have enough in common."

Ira wondered if she thought she had more in common with Percy. Sarah seemed to him like a woman living a century or more ahead of Mr. Darling. But who knew? Then he thought about Anthony: nice ... dependable ... sense of humor ...

Sarah stood. "Wow. TMI. Right? All I really want you to know is how grateful I am that you're here for Rico. He does look up to you."

Did he? Ira could point to the girls who adored him, the boys who watched his every move with an eye to imitation. Rico was obedient, even sweet, but he wasn't on Ira's roster of groupies.

"You can count on me, Sarah. I will let you know anything, anything at all, that worries me. But again, you have got to talk to him. As soon as possible."

"I will. I promise."

In the hall, he stopped at the sight of Evelyn mopping. Evelyn Fougere the washerwoman. Sensing Ira's amusement, she looked up through her disheveled hair and held out the mop. "Your turn, buster."

14

When forced to consider my age, I realized how curious it was that I had yet to watch someone I knew go through the idiosyncratic hell of chemotherapy. From outdated movies and a novel or two, I had visions of relentless projectile vomiting, physical diminishment, the shedding of hair. (Yes, conceded Trudy, hair would be shed.) You might guess that my naivete on these matters meant I had few close friends; the more time I spent with Sarah, the more I began to see this might be so.

Both of us had been surprised to learn that she would start chemotherapy--along with some companionable "biotherapy"--before surgery or radiation. Based on no concrete experience, we had shared a notion of chemo as the glowing cherry--or bushel of cherries--on the sundae of cancer treatment.

Sarah had held firm on seeing Trudy for the first time without me. As even I had suspected, my one attempt to make an end run by calling Trudy at home took me nowhere but into a wall. ("Dad, does the term
patient confidentiality
ring a bell?")

But Sarah did give me the honor of escorting her to her first "infusion." She made it clear that she wanted to go through the nitty-gritty--the being hooked up and pumped full of poison--on her own, at least for the inaugural go-round. It might take several hours, she warned me, so I should find a way to occupy myself in the city until she was ready to go home.