A Gesture Life (4 page)

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THE FIRELOG CRACKS SHARPLY
in the family room, and I want to check it but the phone rings, and it’s Liv Crawford. I can hardly hear her. She sounds as if she’s half a world away.

“Doc,” she says, obviously shouting. “Hang up! Will you hang up? I’ll have to call you back!”

In a few seconds she calls again, and it’s better this time. “Sorry, Doc, but this car phone is just rotten. Or maybe it’s the car. I have to open the whole door to hear anything. You can imagine what hell that is on the Saw Mill Parkway.”

“Where are you now?”

“Actually, Doc, I’m right outside your place. In the street. I’m not alone. Can I put you on speaker?”

“I don’t think it’s the right time—”

“Don’t worry about it, Doc, we’ll stay right here in the car, I promise. We won’t budge.” She sounds as if she’s talking down into a hole, or that I’m listening to her from one. “Meet Karen and Dexter Ellings. They’re from the city.”

“Hi, Doctor Hata!” they say, in ill harmony.

“Hello.”

There’s a pause.

“You have a beautiful house!” the woman says. Her husband then adds, “It’s really stunning. A winner.”

“Thank you,” I say, hoping very much Liv Crawford will come back. She does, and suddenly she’s cut the couple out, the sound coming sharper again, just the two of us.

“They’re so happy I brought them by,” Liv Crawford says, clearly speaking for all involved, “even though I told them you weren’t ready to sell yet. But they’ll be patient and wait for your decision, however long it takes.”

“It may be some time,” I warn her.

“He says you guys will be the first to know,” she says away from the phone. Now back. “Listen, Doc, we’re going to the village for
brunch, at Sffuzi’s. If you’re free, you ought to join us. I know you probably have lots of plans for a bright Sunday morning.”

“I was just swimming,” I tell her, though now my suit is nearly dry. “And I’m eating right now.”

“Gosh! You should have told me you were eating! I’ll stop pestering you. We’re leaving right now. I’ll call you tomorrow. Or maybe we can have lunch. Let’s do that….”

But as she is talking I sense in the air a lean, tight scent, almost chemical, and then it turns softer, into the fat odor of smoke. I don’t see any, but when I crane around to the doorway I see the section of carpet in front of the fire starting to smolder. The heavy logs in the fireplace are crackling, roaring. Liv Crawford is mentioning times we might meet, and I am still listening to her, actually thinking about what she is saying about a lunch, even though a burst of flames is imminent.

“Doc?”

And then it happens, the fire, miraculously appearing from the deep pile of the rug where it meets the marble flooring. The flames are not high, or fierce; they are not spreading, and the whole sight, somehow, is a disappointment. It all seems perfectly controlled, the way fires burn in the movies and at theme parks, with a shut-off quality, and very colorful. But what there is volumes of is smoke, which now bellows and rises up in great flumes against the ceiling. Upstairs, I hear the piercing ring of the smoke alarm.

“Oh Doc…” Liv Crawford says in a singsong voice. “That sounds like your smoke alarm.”

“Yes,” I say, trying to find the doors out to the patio. “The family room is on fire.”

“What?”

“I better get off now,” I tell her, suddenly dropping to my knees.
I hear Liv Crawford’s voice, now tiny and bleating, the cordless phone somewhere behind me. The smell is awful, and I feel as though I am underwater again, my eyes closed, holding my breath, gliding in the abyss, and I try my best to move, in my own measured crawl, my only flying.

HOW GOOD IT IS
to see old friends and colleagues again. Even here, in the gray-green corridors of the adult ward of the county hospital, one finds that fellowship has not been forgotten in the shifting rush to efficiency and profits. There is Connie Kalajian, the head nurse of the adult unit, who seems to do all she can to make sure her young staff is attentive to me, and Ryka Murnow, the hospital administrator, whose father had terrible disc problems and came to my store quite often before he died. There is Johnny Barnes, the head pharmacist of the hospital and also a rising-in-the-ranks semiprofessional bowler, who has played in tournaments upstate and in Ontario and in the Midwest. And of course, there is Renny Banerjee, the hospital purchasing manager, who comes by my room every few hours to see if I need anything. He chain-smokes, so he stops by after his many breaks. He appears now at breakfast time, bearing a foil-wrapped plate containing a bacon-and-cheese omelette and toasted bagel from the neighboring diner.
He looks severely at my hospital tray, which I have only begun to pick at.

“Don’t ever touch that stuff again,” he says without levity. “You have no idea what goes on in Food Services.” He peels off the foil and hands me a plastic fork. He pulls up a chair next to the bed while I eat. I’m not hungry, but I feel I’m able to eat because he’s brought it along, because he is with me. “I used to date someone who worked there, a Puerto Rican girl named Julia. She was very sweet, but she told me how they really operate. They call it ‘Jai Alai,’ because you can use any surface for preparing the food—the floor, the walls, whatever. For entertainment they form hamburger patties by flinging ground beef up against the ceiling, then catching it on the way down.”

Renny Banerjee, though East Indian of blood, is what I often think of as a very American sort of man—barrel-chested, tall, with an easy, directive way of gesturing. There is the feeling when he speaks to you in his lilting accent that he’s addressing others in the room, who must be listening intently. Except that Renny is also polite. “My secret word to you, Doc, is that you get out of this place as soon as you are able. Or even before. I’ll have a word with the attending, if you like. Better to be in your own home, in every respect. I’ve heard the damage wasn’t very severe.”

“Not at all,” I answer, my lungs itchy, heavy-feeling. “Some carpet was ruined, and curtains. The family room and the kitchen need repainting. There is general cleaning to be done. A realtor is taking care of things right now.”

“You’re selling the house?” Renny Banerjee asks, a note of concern in his voice.

“No,” I say. “She’s just looking after the repairs for me. She lets in the workers. She’s been a great help, really.”

“Liv Crawford,” he says, as if there could be no one else.

“You know her?”

“We dated,” he answers matter-of-factly. “Long time ago. And we’ll probably date one day again. I have a terrible weakness for that woman. It’s quite specific. Something in me wants to hand over all my money to her. I hate the feeling, but it’s true.”

“She has a strong presence,” I say, in way of support.

“You ought to be careful yourself, Doc. I mean with your house, of course. Make sure you know what you want. I know Liv’s the one who pulled you out. Her picture was all over the paper. But what if you didn’t live in such a pretty house? You have to wonder….”

We have a hearty laugh at this, and though I start coughing and hacking, it is a pleasant feeling, to be talking with someone like Renny Banerjee. The circumstances are not ideal, yet it seems to me that life’s moments don’t have to be so right or not right anymore, so fraught and weighted with “value,” but just of themselves, what they are, which in this case is myself and Renny once again sharing light times and jokes and notions. Since I retired from the medical business, neither of us has called the other (having nothing specific to call about), but none of that seems awkward or straining now, and lying here in this largish room (courtesy of Ryka Murnow), I feel as fortunate as a man my age should rightly be able to feel, who’s had smoke inhalation and a racing heart and a good part of his house badly damaged by smoke. Liv Crawford did, with danger to herself, pull me out, while her frightened clients called emergency services on her car phone, and yesterday she sent a large bouquet of white roses, which sit on the windowsill in the
brassy autumn light. They are beautiful, and I’m very grateful for them, even though in the Japanese tradition white is the signal color of death. But I don’t mind even this, and perhaps it’s right that Liv Crawford should be the bearer of these tidings, the mercenary angel who has saved my life.

“Sometimes I actually find myself missing that damned woman’s company,” Renny Banerjee says, looking over at the flowers. “Can you believe that? And I was the one who broke things off, Doc. I practically had to throw her out of my apartment. I changed the locks, though it didn’t do any good.”

“Is that so?”

“Absolutely, Doc. The local locksmiths love her because she makes sure to send them business. She can get into any house in the county. Truly. But it doesn’t matter now. She doesn’t bother me anymore. I never find her in my bed when I get home.”

I nod at this, for lack of a better answer. Then we sit quietly for a moment, as I finish the breakfast he has brought me. One of the qualities I have always admired is Renny’s unflinching forthrightness, more intimate than emotional, which the long hiatus in our friendship doesn’t seem to have dulled. Of course I never knew that he and Liv Crawford were in a relationship, but even just the idea appeals to me; I know they say opposites attract, but in this case I imagine that their similarities in character made for an exciting and volatile mix, ready fuel for the fire.

“Who was that woman you used to spend time with, Doc?” he says, walking around the bed, to the window. “I remember you strolling around the village with a fine looker on your arm. Am I right?”

“I’m not sure if you are.”

“Come now, Doc, don’t play cute with me. She was quite tall,
if I remember correctly. Statuesque, in fact. What was her name? You introduced us once, years ago, at a village festival. I’m not mistaken about this.”

“A woman?”

“Yes, yes,” he says, mirthfully annoyed. “A woman.”

“Perhaps then you are talking about Mary Burns.”

“That’s right! Exactly. The striking widow, Mary Burns. What ever came of her? I thought you two were very much the item.”

“We were always friendly.”

Renny laughs, almost a guffaw, as he plucks a rose from the vase. “Friendly, you say. Hmm. I recall seeing some cooing and nuzzling beneath the linden trees, when they turned on the string lights for the evening in the park.”

“Cooing and nuzzling?”

“Yes,” he says, “I’m sure that’s what it was.”

“Mr. Banerjee,” I say. “I’m not sure how to respond to these terms.”

“No responses needed. I have an excellent memory. I see it now, very clearly.” He casts his gaze past my shoulder, off and faraway. His brown face has the lustrous sheen of melted chocolate. “I see Doc Hata and Mrs. Burns, in silhouette, by the swan pond. How they stroll majestically. So very venerable. And look, here they are again, in a window booth at Jolene’s Diner, spooning cherry ice cream from a shared dish. Do I see them once more? Ah, at the July Fourth parade, standing outside Sunny Medical Supply, waving at the procession. Are they holding hands? I can’t see.”

“I’m sure they aren’t,” I say in mock defense, acknowledging the scenes he is calling up. Renny Banerjee is remembering correctly, of course; I was with Mary Burns in those places (if not exact
times), and I was more than content to be with her, to spend the idle hours together, in the park or a restaurant or the local movie theater. And yet as much as I happily recall those moments, there is an unformed quality to them as well, as if they are someone else’s memories and reflections, though somehow available only to me, to keep and to hold. Their warmth is fleeting, like a winter sun passing through clouds, and what I have left is the nervous heat of my retorts. But Renny Banerjee pushes on.

“Mary Burns is a lovely woman, a lovely woman. If I could marry a woman who would look like that when she got older! If there were a guarantee! Amazing. Oh, Doc, I recall a striking figure as well. Firm, athletic. I’m sorry to say this, but that’s one well-built woman. You still see her from time to time?”

“I’m sorry to say I don’t.”

“What’s this?” he says, his face all clamor and disappointment.

I tell him, “She passed away last year.”

“How terrible,” he says, obviously stunned. “I’m so sorry. So sorry. I never heard anything.”

“Yes. It was liver cancer.”

“I imagine it must have been quite sudden,” he says, still with a funny look on his face. He sits down again in the bedside chair.

“Yes,” I answer. I wish to explain, but I realize there is nothing else to say. Owing to our health-related careers, we have come to know that with liver cancer, it can sometimes be a matter of months, which it was in Mary Burns’s case, from diagnosis to end.

“I’m sorry now I talked about her like that,” Renny Banerjee says. “I didn’t know her, but I mean for your sake. I’m a very stupid man sometimes. I hope you’ll forgive me, Doc. Maybe I ought to leave now, and let you rest.”

“Please, please,” I tell him, “there’s no need to go right now. I was very happy to hear your compliments. And I’m sure Mrs. Burns would have been as well. This is an unnecessary feeling. I must insist. You’ve done nothing but cheer me with your visit.”

“I’m a fool,” he grumbles, knocking on his own head. “A big fool.”

“Nonsense, I’m not upset, or offended. I’m very pleased, in fact, and look, you’ve even brought me a hot breakfast as well. Which is delicious.”

He nods weakly. “I see I neglected to bring you coffee.”

“You probably remembered that I don’t drink coffee.”

Renny Banerjee smiles. “I didn’t, but it’s nice of you to say. I actually do have to get back upstairs if I’m going to do some work today, but I’ll be content to stay longer, whatever you wish.”

“You know I’m not one to get in the way of someone and his work,” I say happily. “But perhaps I will see you tomorrow? Doctor Weil wants me to stay until Wednesday morning. My breathing feels good, but I guess he’s concerned about infection.”

“Weil’s overcautious. And he’s pretty much a horse’s ass.”

“He is new, isn’t he?” I ask.

“A couple years,” Renny answers. “Young hotshot from the city. Everybody around here loves him. I don’t. He’s officious and arrogant. It seems they have to train them like that now.” He turns for the door. “I’ll bring breakfast again tomorrow. No, no, I will. No arguments. What do you want, omelette, pancakes, quiche lorraine?”

“I’ll leave it to you,” I tell him.

“Fine then. Rest well, Doc.”

“See you tomorrow.”

“Will be done. And I’m so sorry, again.”

“No matter.”

“Goodbye, then.”

“Goodbye.”

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THE FACT WAS
, I didn’t see Mary Burns at the end. It was from mutual acquaintances that I learned she was ill, and by chance, this only a few weeks before she died. But I didn’t call on her at her house or here at the hospital, where she spent the final days of her life. At the time, it didn’t seem that I should, and the last thing I wished to do was to upset her or cause her distress in any way. But of course, I sometimes think that I should have visited her, sat by her bed and held her hand and said whatever words could have lent her comfort.

When I saw the newspaper notice, I didn’t quite believe that she had passed away. I read the small print many times over, reading her full name again and again, the address of her house on Mountview (the same street as mine), the name of her long-dead husband, and her survivors and where they were living. She had two children and five grandchildren, none of whom I’d ever met. I did learn several facts about her that I was surprised I hadn’t found out before. For example, she was a summa cum laude graduate of Mount Holyoke College, and served as a WAVE during the Second World War. There was a picture with the notice, but one taken from her early middle-age, which I supposed was how her children best wished to remember her, in the high glow and prime of her life.

We first met on our street, right in front of my house. I had lived there a number of years, but as it mostly is in towns like Bedley Run, and particularly on streets like ours, being neighbors means
sharing the most limited kinds of intimacies, such as sewer lines and property boundaries and annual property tax valuations. Anything that falls into a more personal realm is only tentatively welcomed. I know certain families have enjoyed relationships because of their children, had carpools and holiday barbecues, and perhaps a shared weekend at a country house upstate or on the Long Island shore, but on the whole an unwritten covenant of conduct governs us, a signet of cordiality and decorum, in whose ethic, if it can be called such a thing, the worst wrong is to be drawn forth and disturbed.

From the time I moved here, I was very fortunate to understand the nature of these relations. Even when I received welcome cards and sweets baskets from my immediate neighbors, I judged the exact scale of what an appropriate response should be, that to reply with anything but the quiet simplicity of a gracious note would be to ruin the delicate and fragile balance. And so this is exactly what I did, in the form of expensive, heavy-stock cards, each of which I took great care to write in my best hand. Each brief thank-you was different, though saying the same thing, and I know that this helped me gain quick acceptance from my Mountview neighbors, especially given my being a foreigner and a Japanese. And as I’ve already intimated, they all seemed particularly surprised and pleased that I hadn’t run over to their houses with wrapped presents and invitations and hopeful, clinging embraces; in fact, I must have given them the reassuring thought of how safe they actually were, how shielded, that an interloper might immediately recognize and so heed the rules of their houses.