Best Supporting Role (3 page)

“You sure?”

“Positive.”

“So what is it?”

“I need to speak to both of you. Where’s Dad?”

“Watching TV.” I followed along the hall. She stopped to wipe some dirt off the hall mirror.

Dad was sitting on the sofa, grimacing at horrific color footage of the Siege of Leningrad. He’d been retired a year. After spending fifty years driving a cab, he’d replaced being behind the wheel with being in front of the TV. He watched documentaries mainly. He loved anything to do with Hitler or health.

“Twenty million, the Russians lost,” he said by way of greeting. “Did you know that? Twenty million. Slaughtered.”

“Actually, I did.” I gave him a hello kiss. As I sat down next to him, he began rolling up his shirtsleeve. Then he reached onto the coffee table for his new blood pressure monitor. Unlike his old device, this one was capable of storing hundreds of readings and presenting them as an on-screen graph. I watched as he secured the cuff.

Mum rolled her eyes. “Third time since we got back from shopping,” she said, shoving the duster into the pocket of her
Dinner is ready when the smoke alarm goes off
apron.

“So, Dad, I thought it was your tinnitus you were having trouble with.”

“It was, but while we were out, I started to feel this pressure building up in my head.”

Mum came over and looked at the readout. “A hundred and thirty over eighty. That’s perfect for a man your age.”

He grunted—clearly disappointed—and ripped off the Velcro cuff. “Well, I’ve still got the ringing in my ears.”

“Idiot! It’s the oven timer. My lokschen pudding’s ready.” Despite the slogan on her apron, Mum was an excellent cook who had never been known to serve burnt offerings. She disappeared into the kitchen. Dad picked up the remote and switched off the TV.

“So . . . no children?”

“Previous engagement.”

“I can’t believe the social lives kids have these days,” he said, rolling down his sleeve. “What did my generation do at their age? We didn’t have playdates. We played in the street. . . .”

By now Mum had reappeared. “Faye—isn’t that right? When we were kids, we used to play in the street.”

“You may have. My mother thought playing in the street was common.”

Dad waved his hand in front of him. “This from the woman who used to take her dentures out in public.”

“Sam, that’s enough. Sarah has something important she needs to talk to us about.” She sat down in the armchair and pushed her red, white and blue Jubilee cushion into the small of her back.

“I know,” Dad said. “You’re expecting!”

“Stoppit. Of course she’s not expecting.”

“Why shouldn’t she be expecting?”

“Because if she was expecting, she’d tell me first.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m her mother. A daughter shares that sort of news with her mother first.”

Dad shrugged.

“I’m not pregnant.”

“Told you,” Mum said.

“It’s something else.”

Mum and Dad had always adored Mike. To them he was the perfect son-in-law: a loving husband, a great dad and, more to the point, an excellent provider. Bursting their bubble wasn’t going to be easy.

“It’s about Mike . . . and no, he’s not ill. . . .” I’d barely begun and already I was crying. I told the story as best I could. Mum interrupted with a couple of muttered oh-my-Gods and I-can’t-believe-its. At one point she took the duster out of her pocket and rubbed an invisible mark on the coffee table. Dad sat holding my hand, looking grim-faced. He rubbed the back of his head a couple of times. The pressure was clearly building up again.

When I’d finished, Mum came over and wrapped me in her arms. By now I was sobbing and there was snot running from my nose.

“Sam. Handkerchief.”

Dad obliged and Mum wiped away the snot. “Everything’s going to be all right now. Your dad and I are here. You and the children will always have a home with us.”

Dad didn’t say anything. He carried on sitting there—his mouth a thin line.

“Right. I think we could all do with a drink,” he said eventually. Even though it was only four in the afternoon, he poured us all a
Scotch. Mum, who rarely drank more than the occasional glass of Chardonnay, downed hers in a couple of gulps.

“You think you know somebody . . . ,” she said, shaking her head.

“No-goodnik bastard,” Dad muttered.

Of course, they were both cross with me for not saying anything before now.

“I can’t believe you’ve been going through all this for so long and not a word to us,” Mum said. “Why would you shut us out like that?”

“I didn’t want to upset you. I know how you worry.”

“Of course we would have worried, but if you’d come to us, we could have helped.”

“Your mother’s right. I could have spoken to my cousin Maury—he’s a financial advisor.”

“We’re seeing a financial advisor. Mike just sees him as a threat.” As I took a slug of Scotch, I watched Dad’s hand form a fist.

“He’s a pathetic, wretched excuse for a husband and father, that’s what he is.”

“The thing is,” I said, “I still love him.”

Dad’s hand went to his forehead. “Now I’ve heard everything. How can you still love him after the way he’s treated you?”

“Be quiet, Sam. You’re a man. Men know nothing about feelings.”

“Apparently not.”

“So what will you do?” Mum said to me.

“What can I do? I guess I have to face the fact that Mike and I are done.”

“Are you absolutely sure? I mean you could go back into counseling.”

“No. It’s over.”

Mum nodded. “As my mother used to say . . . it’s time to ask for the bill.”

I said that I would tell him tonight. “I might as well get it over with.”

“After everything you’ve told us,” Mum said, “I think that might be for the best.”

“But it’s Christmas. I can’t throw him out of the house at Christmas. Would it be OK for the kids and me to come and stay with you for a while?”

“I’ve told you there will always be a home for you here,” she said. “Just pack a bag and come.”

I put my arms around her and kissed her. “Thank you.”

“Oh, sweetie, you don’t have to thank me. I’m your mother. It’s what I’m for.”

I realized that Dad had disappeared. He returned and shoved four fifty-pound notes into my hand. “Something to tide you over for a bit.”

“What? No! I didn’t come here to beg for money.”

“Of course I know you didn’t come here for money.”

“Buy the kids some Christmas presents,” Mum said.

“I don’t know what to say. Thank you. Thank you both.”

I got up to go. Mum said she would give the oven a clean while it was still warm.

•   •   •

O
n the way home, I decided to stop off at the supermarket. I would dip into Mum and Dad’s money and buy a piece of beef. A roast. I hadn’t done one in ages.

An hour or so later, having bought supper ingredients and picked up Dan and Ella, I was in the kitchen, peeling potatoes.

I had tonight all planned. I would feed the kids, get them bathed and in bed. Then, when they were asleep, I would tell Mike that after what had happened today, I couldn’t go on living with him and that I wanted a divorce. I wasn’t scared or nervous. I was too angry.

If I was worried about anything, it was the children waking up and hearing all the fighting and yelling that was bound to erupt—particularly on Mike’s part. The last thing I wanted was two sobbing, traumatized kids on my hands. I realized how stupid I’d been. Instead of bringing them home after their playdates, I should have taken them straight to Mum and Dad’s. I would take them now.

Tomorrow, I would find a way to tell them that their father and I weren’t getting along, that we were splitting up and they would be living with me. Dan was seven. Ella was five. Babies. I could hear the sobbing, the questions: “So, Mummy, don’t you love Daddy anymore? . . . Why can’t you just make up and be friends again? . . . But it’s Christmas. We can’t leave Daddy at Christmas.”

There were going to be costs and consequences. If I knew one thing for sure, it was that kids rarely came through divorce unscathed. On the other hand, if I stayed, they would acquire different scars: ones you got from living with an addict father and a mother who screamed at him from morning to night because she couldn’t afford to put food on the table.

I was about to call Mum and Dad to ask if I could bring the children round later, when the doorbell rang. I decided to ignore it. I knew it would be carol singers collecting and, apart from the money Dad gave me, I didn’t have more than a few coppers in my purse. The
bell kept on ringing. I called out to the kids not to answer it, but I was too late.

“Mum,” Ella yelled. “It’s two policemans. They want to speak to you.”

I guessed what it was about. A few days ago, a gang had broken into the Forrester house down the road. Joan and Cyril Forrester were in their eighties and frail, but the thugs had shown no pity. They had tied them up and slapped them around while they ransacked the place. The house was empty, so I assumed the Forresters were still in hospital. Since yesterday, the police had been interviewing everybody in the neighborhood to find out if they’d seen anything.

Two uniformed officers—a man and a woman—stood on the doorstep.

“Mrs. Green?” the woman officer said.

“Yes?”

“I’m Sergeant Brooks.” She produced her badge. “And this is my colleague Constable Wilson.”

“If this is about what happened down the road, I’m afraid we didn’t hear or see anything. We were sound asleep. How are Joan and Cyril doing? Are they going to be OK?”

“As far as we know, they’re fine,” Sergeant Brooks said. “They’re spending Christmas with relatives.”

“Oh, that’s wonderful news. Thank heavens they weren’t too badly hurt. But I have to say, the whole neighborhood is in a panic about these louts coming back.”

“I know, it is a worry, but we’ve got a car doing regular patrols.”

“That’s good to know.”

“Actually we’re not here about the burglary. May we come in?” Sergeant Brooks looked uneasy—as if she would have paid good money not to be here.

They both took off their caps. Constable Wilson, who despite his impressive height looked about seventeen, wiped his feet several times on the mat.

“Have you got handcuffs?” Dan piped up, addressing himself to Constable Wilson.

“As it happens, I have,” he said, offering my son a smile.

“Really? Can I see?”

“Tell you what,” Sergeant Brooks said. “Why don’t you and your sister go into the living room with the constable, and he’ll show you his handcuffs. He might even let you try them on.”

“Cool. Have you got a truncheon as well?”

“Yep.”

“Have you ever hit baddies with it?”

“Er . . . once or twice.”

Ella announced that handcuffs and truncheons were boring. She was going up to her room to play with her princess doll’s house. The sergeant crouched down so that she was level with her. “You know what, sweetheart?” she said, giving the top of Ella’s arm a gentle rub, “I think it might be best if you go with the constable while I talk to your mum.”

There was a solemnness about this woman that scared me.

Ella nodded. She wasn’t about to argue with a police officer.

I led the sergeant into the kitchen. I was about to offer her a seat, but instead she asked me to sit down.

I felt my heart pounding. “What’s happened? It’s Mike, isn’t it?”

Sergeant Brooks said that according to witness reports it was all over in seconds. A man had leaped from a thirty-foot-high ledge in what the police believed was a suicide attempt. Mike, who had been walking back to the office after apparently visiting a local betting shop—they knew this because he had a betting slip and several hundred pounds in cash on him—was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. The jumper landed directly on top of him. Mike died instantly. The jumper survived.

The room started to spin and turn green. Sergeant Brooks got me to put my head between my knees. Then she asked if there was anybody she should
call.

“L
ooks like the rain’s stopping,” Mum said, buttering another half of a bagel and passing it to me to top with chopped herring and a cocktail olive. “We should get a decent turnout.” In Mum’s world, the size of a funeral correlated directly with the weather conditions. “You know, I’m starting to wonder if maybe I should have ordered more bagels.”

I said we had enough bagels to feed half of Africa.

Just then Dad appeared, fiddling with his cuff links. “I just had your uncle Barnet on the phone. He says he needs a lift to the cemetery and could our limo go via his care home and pick him up.”

Mum stopped buttering. “What? He actually expects the chief mourners to chauffeur him to the funeral? Bloody cheek. What did you tell him?”

“I told him to get a taxi.”

“What did he say?”

“That he’d ring round and get some quotes, but we shouldn’t rely on him being there.”

“Like I care . . . but he’ll be there—see if he isn’t. When have you ever known that man to turn his back on free food?”

•   •   •

I
t was more than three weeks before Mike’s body was released. First there was a postmortem. This was followed by an inquest, where the coroner recorded a verdict of death by misadventure. Some misadventure, but I couldn’t help thinking that the suicide guy surviving was the kind of ironic punch line that Mike would have appreciated.

The death-by-misadventure verdict meant that no charges were brought against the suicide jumper. Psychiatric reports concluded that he was suffering from severe schizophrenia and, the last thing I heard, he’d been placed in a secure psychiatric hospital.

If I hadn’t had Mum and Dad, I’m not sure how I would have coped. They came tearing over the moment they got Sergeant Brooks’ call. In the days that followed, as I veered between disbelief, numbness and raw, howling emotion, they barely left my side.

When they weren’t comforting me, they were tending to Dan and Ella—holding one, gently rocking or shushing the other. The only thing that seemed to soothe them was watching an old tape of
Annie
—I think it had been mine when I was a kid. When I asked them why, they said because it was about children who didn’t have mummies or daddies.
“But then it ends happily,” Ella said. “And Annie gets a daddy and a mummy. Will me and Dan ever get a daddy again?”

From time to time, Dad escaped to the bedroom to watch a
Hitler documentary on the History Channel and, I’m guessing, check his blood pressure. Mum turned out my kitchen cupboards, mopped the floors and took charge of the laundry—anything to keep busy. “OK, I’m doing a white wash. If anybody’s got light-colored underpants on—take them off now and hand them over.” She also baked. One day it was a gloriously puffy Victoria sponge; the next, pineapple upside-down cake. None of us had much of an appetite for proper food—in fact Ella was refusing all meals unless I fed her with a spoon—but we demolished the cakes.

The day after the inquest, reports of Mike’s death appeared in the newspapers. We kept getting calls from the
Sun
and the
Daily Star
, eager to get a quote from the grieving widow. Dad told them “no comment,” but the story appeared anyway. The headline in the
Sun
read:
SUICIDE JUMPER CRUSHES DAD
TO DEATH
. At the end of the article, there was one of those fact boxes you get in the tabloids. This contained a list of other tragicomic fatalities. It seemed that Mike had joined a hall of fame that included a bloke who departed this world while peeing onto an electrical fence, somebody who set a time bomb but blew himself up because he hadn’t accounted for daylight saving and a German spy who choked to death on a cyanide pill.

I was in too much pain to bother about nonsense in the tabloids.

“It will get easier,” Mum said one night when I couldn’t face going to bed. “You have to believe me.”

“How do you know? You’ve never lost a husband. And anyway, you don’t understand.”

“What don’t I understand?”

I paused. “You don’t understand . . .”

“What . . . ?”

I shook my head. I couldn’t bring myself to say it out loud.

“Come on, sweetie. . . . Tell me.”

I hesitated for a few more seconds. “OK . . . Part of me is glad Mike’s dead.”

“I get that.”

“I’m glad he’s dead because I won’t have to deal with his addiction anymore. Jesus Christ—what sort of a person is glad that her husband, the father of her children, is dead?”

“How’s about one who has lived with the kind of stress and anxiety that you have.”

“I know, but . . .”

“No buts. Listen to me. I am your mother and I know what a good person you are. Mike put you through hell.”

“I should have done more. I should have been on his case right from the start instead of being so preoccupied with the kids and doing up this bloody house.”

“Sarah, you were a good wife. Take it from me, you have nothing to feel guilty about. Nothing.”

By now Dad had appeared with a tray of tea. “Your mother’s right. You did your best. You have absolutely nothing to reproach yourself for.”

“See, for once even your dad agrees with me. Now come on, drink your tea while it’s hot.”

•   •   •

D
an reacted to his father’s death by withdrawing. If he wasn’t on the sofa with Ella watching
Annie
, he was in his room on his PlayStation. Ella was still asking if she would get a new daddy one
day and then in the same breath she wanted to know when her daddy would come back to life. Aged five, she had a Cartoon Network, Wile E. Coyote take on death. The vision of her little face crumpling in anguish as I explained that her beloved daddy wouldn’t be coming home broke my heart.

Mum and Dad were adamant that the children shouldn’t go to the funeral. The way they saw it, the kids had been through enough trauma. Watching their father being buried would only add to it and give them nightmares. It could scar them for years to come.

What they said made sense, but my instinct was to let them go. By now I’d been onto Amazon and bought several books on helping children cope with grief. The authors—all child shrinks—were unanimous. Even young children needed a chance to say good-bye to a parent. If I excluded them from the funeral, they might feel left out and abandoned. When they were older, they could become resentful and angry. I ignored my parents and went with the shrinks—and my own instinct.

The day before, I sat the kids down and we had the funeral talk. I explained that grown-ups often got very upset at funerals. “Some of them might be crying, but don’t be frightened. It’s perfectly normal.” They were nodding and taking it all in and I was congratulating myself for making a halfway decent go of this when Ella asked what a grave was. Even before I’d finished explaining, she became distraught. How could I bury her daddy in a deep, dark hole full of creepy-crawlies? I was the cruelest person in the whole world and she hated me. Oddly, it was Dan who managed to calm her down.

“When we buried Jeffrey, our class hamster, Mrs. Willoughby
explained that he couldn’t see or feel anything anymore and that he’d be fine and wouldn’t be frightened.”

“Dan’s absolutely right,” I said. “Daddy can’t feel anything. He won’t be scared.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

Telling the kids about sex was going to be a breeze after this.

When I tried to persuade Ella to wrap up warm and wear trousers and a sweater to the funeral, she virtually threw a tantrum. “No! I’m saying good-bye to my daddy today. Trousers are ugly. I want to look pretty.” She insisted on wearing her pink fairy dress under her winter coat.

Unlike Ella, I didn’t look pretty. Grief plays havoc with the complexion. My skin was gray. It was also chapped and dry from all the tears and nose blowing. Foundation and a bit of mascara would have brightened me up, but I hadn’t bothered on the grounds that it was only going to get washed away and leave me with streaks and panda eyes.

I hadn’t bothered much with my funeral outfit either. That was partly due to grief, but it was also because I had no money. The poorer Mike and I had become, the less interest I took in what I wore. Back when I was studying fashion at art school, all my outfits had been meticulously planned. In a week I could go from emo (black everything, multicolored stripes in my hair) to grunge (ripped tights, Doc Martens) to vintage (1940s shirtwaister dresses with shoulder pads.)These days I lived in leggings and jeans. I always managed to scrape together the money for a decent haircut, though—usually by eBay-ing some fancy objet I’d bought when we were doing up the house.

Mum wanted to take me out and buy me a dress for the funeral. She had in mind a black shift dress, lifted with a long string of pearls and topped off with a chic little hat—nothing too overstated. Jackie Kennedy was the widow to beat. I said thanks but no thanks and opted for black leggings, a woolen tunic top and boots. To her credit, my mother, who wasn’t known for her tact, had the sense not to say anything.

Mum’s prediction had been right. We did get a decent turnout. Over a hundred people showed up. Mike’s work colleagues came—although I’d sent a message saying that I didn’t want Louis Liebowitz there. Rightly or wrongly, I blamed him for Mike’s addiction, and by extension—ludicrous as it may have seemed—there was part of me that blamed him for Mike’s death. I’d never truly hated anybody in my life, but my feelings for Louis Liebowitz came close.

There were relatives at the funeral I hadn’t seen since our wedding. Uncle Barnet was there. He’d clearly managed to get a reasonable quote from a cab company. There were other oldies, too, who had come—according to my mother—because a funeral made a day out and, like Uncle Barnet, they could never turn down a free bagel brunch.

Glad as I was to be surrounded and supported by all these people, part of me wished they weren’t there. It was no comfort to hear how shocked and “utterly devastated”
they
were. My dad’s sister Gloria couldn’t stop talking about her devastation. “Me and your uncle Jerry were on holiday in Tenerife when we heard. There we were, just sitting by the pool reading
Fifty Shades of Grey
. I thought I was going to pass out from the shock. But thank God there was a doctor sitting next to us—lovely man—retired gastroenterologist . . . American . . .
from Englewood, New Jersey. . . . We have cousins there—the Bermans—but he didn’t know them. . . . Anyway he got me to put my head between my knees. . . .”

Even though they meant well, it was no consolation to hear from Mike’s workmates what a great, laugh-a-minute guy he’d been. Several told me that before he’d left the office that day to place his final bet, his parting words had been, “Napoleon . . . small bloke or just a long way away?” I wanted to yell at them. “Yes, he made everybody laugh, but you don’t know what he was really like. If you only knew . . .”

Standing at the graveside in the frigid air, a silent, bewildered child on each hand, I was grateful for one thing. I thanked God that Mike’s parents hadn’t lived to see their son’s coffin being lowered into the ground. He’d always complained about having elderly parents. In the end it turned out to be a blessing.

•   •   •

O
n the way home in the limo I sat between the children, an arm around each of them.

“So, is Daddy in Kevin yet?” Ella said. “And how do you get to Kevin?”

“It’s not
Kevin
,
dummy,” her brother came back. “It’s
heaven
. Angels come to collect you and you fly up into the clouds and you get to meet God.”

“Can we meet God?” Ella continued. “Do you think Daddy would let us come for a sleepover?”

Dan opened his mouth, clearly about to deliver another put-down, but I shushed him. “That’s a great idea.” I said to Ella, “And
I’m sure Daddy would love to have you come visit, but unfortunately only people who have died get to go to heaven.”

“That’s not fair.” She started crying.

“Oh, sweetie,” I said, pulling her to me. “I know it isn’t fair. It couldn’t be less fair if it tried.”

It seemed that telling my five-year-old daughter that her daddy was up in heaven being looked after by this kind grandfatherly God hadn’t softened the blow. It had simply left her with abandonment issues.

“You know,” Dan said, “I still can’t believe Dad’s actually dead.” He was drawing a stick man in the condensation on the car window. “I keep thinking he’s away somewhere and in a few days he’ll be home.”

“Me, too,” I said, giving him a squeeze. Part of me thought that Mike would be waiting for us when we got back to the house. “Hey—what’s with all the herrings and hard-boiled eggs? Has somebody died?”

Dan rubbed out his stick man. “Mum . . . you know how God lets people die and then he has to make new ones?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Well, why doesn’t he make do with the people he’s already got? If he did, then Dad wouldn’t have had to die.”

“Well, I guess people have to die when they get really old.”

“Yes, but Dad was only a bit old. God shouldn’t let people die who are only a bit old. It’s a waste.”

•   •   •

A
few days after the funeral, the children went back to school. I had been expecting protests and tears, but they went
without a fuss. It occurred to me that they were glad that things were returning vaguely to normal.

I stood watching as they were greeted with hugs and homemade cards from their friends. Having lost their dad, they were suddenly the center of attention. Maybe in a weird kind of a way they were about to become the cool kids to hang out with.

There were condolences and hugs for me, too. Mothers I knew, and some that I didn’t, came up to me and said if there was anything I needed, I should just pick up the phone. Oh, and Jim/Tom/Dave was great with a wrench. If I needed any jobs doing around the house, he would be more than happy to oblige.

Some of the mums said that they were heading down the road to the coffee shop. Why didn’t I come along? It would do me good. I thanked them for all their kindness and declined. I was too immersed in grief to socialize. I wanted to get home. Back to my cocoon, where I didn’t have to pretend that everything was OK.