Michael's Secrets (12 page)

“I’m sorry, Sam,” Michael said as he looked into his dark brown eyes. “I guess I’m not looking forward to going to Richmond for another premiere, and I wish I could stay here and sleep in my own house and not a hotel. I really don’t travel well,” he said, avoiding the real reason for his mood.

“I understand,” Sam said. “When you come back in the summer, you’ll feel more at home and be back to your normal self.”

Sam was so understanding, and Michael knew that if he were in his shoes, he would run from this depressed mess of a man who could not enjoy the highlight of his career. After Sam left, Michael prepared himself for his early flight to Virginia’s capital, which was chosen as the venue for the “second” premiere because
Birthright
took place there. Michael called Sam early in the morning before he left and invited him to visit him in Washington, so he could show him around. They talked for a while as Michael made his way to check out of the hotel, and he realized talking to Sam put a smile on his face and made him feel better. But, he could not get Steve out of his thoughts.

Michael flew into Richmond and rented a car. The premiere was that night, and he planned to stay only one night before flying back to Washington. This premiere was very low key, and without Stanley King there to tell them who he was, only two photographers took his picture. Again, the audience loved the movie, and the critics were raving about the performances and the script. At this high point in his life, Michael should have been thrilled and excited, but his depression had taken him over. Michael managed to smile politely when introduced, but those who had never heard of him assumed he was a man of few “spoken” words. If only they could have had the opportunity to know his real personality, the one he had before arriving in Washington.

The next morning as Michael prepared to go back to the airport, return the car, and fly to DC, he decided to take a side trip. He called the airline and changed his ticket for the following day and extended his car rental as well. He planned to drive to Hampton and Newport News for the day. The trip would only take an hour, and he thought the drive would do him some good.

As he merged onto I-64 early that morning, memories of driving along that route flooded his mind. Michael was reminded of how customers in the Williamsburg restaurant where he worked in the early 1980s would comment on all the trees on the Lower Peninsula that was home to Williamsburg, Jamestown, Hampton, and Newport News. He thought about the last time he was in his hometown in April 2004 for Aunt Florence’s funeral and how her death brought about a major shift in his life. Upon returning to LA after her death, he began therapy and completed
The Girls
, his “opus” that was rejected by every major studio, and learned more about himself than he wanted to know at the time. But, even with the breakthroughs in therapy, there was so much more he had not confronted, and he vowed upon his return to LA next summer to resume therapy and find out why he went through these dark periods whenever he became involved with a man.

Weren’t relationships supposed to be happy? Wasn’t finding “the one” supposed to bring one eternal bliss? Would he ever meet his soul mate? Michael doubted it, and he had resolved himself to the fact that he would be single for the rest of his life.

He drove past all the Newport News exits and once in the Hampton city limits, took the exit for Kecoughtan Road toward Rosenberg Cemetery, a century-old Jewish burial ground established by Russian immigrants who pursued the American dream via Hampton Rhodes Harbor in the mid- to late-1800s. The gates to the cemetery were open, although it was deserted. Michael pulled in and parked next to the first row after the oldest section of the cemetery. He took a deep breath before exiting the car and walked down the row until he spotted the dark tan granite stone. He had been unable to make the unveiling in April 2005, so this was the first time he had visited since being a pallbearer at the funeral almost two years earlier. Michael picked up a stone and stood before the large head stone, which read “Friedman.” There were three footstones, and buried on the left and written on the footstone was, “Florence ‘Flossie’ Friedman Greenberg Mirmelstein Einstein Kennof, Devoted and Beloved Mother, Grandmother, and Godmother, June 20, 1927–April 24, 2004.” Michael chuckled at the fact that they included all her married names. But upon reading “Godmother” on her marker, he was so touched that tears streamed down his face as he placed a stone on her grave. Michael was Aunt Flossie’s only godchild, and this simple act of putting that title on her grave warmed his heart and made him miss her even more. On the lower right side of the marker were two dancing figures and the inscription, “She danced her way to Heaven,” a reminder for all eternity that she collapsed and died while ballroom dancing, her favorite pastime.

“Oh, Aunt Flossie, I miss you so much. I wish you were here right now to cheer me up. I think about you every day,” Michael said out loud for only the resting souls to hear.

He stood there for a few minutes, thinking about his favorite person in the world. He then walked a few rows back and placed a stone on Arlene Feld’s grave, which was to the left of her mother-in-law, Minna Feld, who was buried between Arlene and William Feld, Arlene’s ex-husband. Michael’s eyes filled with tears again while thinking about Arlene, his mother’s oldest friend, and someone he cared for very deeply. As he wiped his eyes, he decided not to seek out any other graves at this cemetery that day.

Michael returned to the car, exited the cemetery and decided to visit one more burial ground before heading back to Richmond. He drove onto Jefferson Avenue and turned left on Denbigh Boulevard, heading for Route 60, and within a few minutes, he spotted Peninsula Memorial Park on his right and turned in to the main drive. The Reformed Jewish section was on the left, and as he drove around, he parked the car. The cemetery was empty, which he found unusual for such a large burial ground that had sections for just about every religion and their respective denominations.

“Must be a slow death week,” Michael said to himself, as he stepped out of the car and walked across the drive to gather some gravel he spotted on the other side. He picked up a few stones and walked back over to the Reform Jewish section, which was distinguished from the rest of the cemetery not only by its location near the road, but also by the use of in-ground grave markers as opposed to headstones. Michael had only been to this cemetery once before, in 1981, when his cousin Lenny died from a mysterious illness that they would later learn was AIDS as it would not even make national headlines until June of that same year. Amazingly, he located his marker without any trouble – “Lenny Bern, 1960-1981.” Michael placed a stone on the marker and noticed a few other stones had also been placed there. He wondered if he knew who had visited him.

As Michael walked to the right of Lenny’s marker, he noticed a grave he had never visited. He paused to look at the marker and pondered if he should put a stone on it.

It was his mother’s grave – “Hannah S. Stein, Loving Mother and Wife, July 28, 1927-June 2, 2001.” Michael shook his head. “Loving Mother and Wife?” he said out loud. Michael had read about people who screamed at their parents’ graves letting go of anger they had bottled up for decades, but although he could be quite a drama queen when the situation called for it, he did not have the urge at that moment to lay on the histrionics
–
besides, there were no other people around to enjoy what could have been an entertaining display. He always believed that if one were to put on a scene, one should at least have an audience.

For the last sixteen years of Hannah’s life, he did not speak to her, and Michael thought he had let go of the hurt and the pain, but looking to the right of her grave, the pain returned. There was Karl Stein’s burial place. Next to his mother was the man who had broken his nose and knocked out his front teeth, causing him to leave Newport News and not return for almost two decades. His heart beat so loudly, he could hear it. He then struggled to keep from yelling and instead stepped on Karl’s marker while he placed a stone on his mother’s. As he stood back up, tears welled up in his eyes.

He then looked around, turned his back to the road, unzipped his pants, pulled out his penis, and took a piss on Karl’s grave. While the urine streamed over Karl’s resting place, he said out loud, “Why, Mother, why? Why did you hate me so much? What did I do to cause you so much pain?”

He stood there shaking the last drops and crying for quite a while before he put his penis back into his pants, and zipped up.

He wanted to know what made her the way she was. Was her childhood as horrible as his? Why did she marry violent, narcissistic men, who mirrored her own selfish personality? If she didn’t want children, which obviously she did not, why did she? She certainly waited long enough to have Michael, giving birth at thirty-five, when all her friends already had teenagers to contend with. He wiped his eyes and thought his coming down here was a bad idea – although his bladder was now relieved.

* * * * *

In April 1962, Hannah Bern discovered that at thirty-five years old, she was two-months pregnant for the first time. After six years of marriage, she had resolved herself to the fact that she would probably never have children and never really gave it much thought. She knew she needed to break the news to Adam, but wasn’t sure of the best way to do so.

As she relayed the story to Michael after dinner one night when he was sixteen years old, Adam, Michael’s father, came home drunk late one night. Hannah was sitting at the kitchen table, smoking a cigarette and playing solitaire, when Adam entered the room, staggering. He was around five-foot-nine, with reddish brown hair and a slight build, and his eyes were cold and empty.

“Where have you been?” Hannah asked without looking up.

“Playing poker, why?” Adam asked as he opened the refrigerator and pulled out a bottle of beer.

Hannah looked at her husband, whom she had grown to hate, and blurted out, “I’m pregnant.”

Adam looked at her with rage in his cold, dead eyes, and yelled, “You’re just telling me that because I’m drunk.” He then hurled the bottle at Hannah’s head. Fortunately, she ducked just in time as the bottle crashed against the kitchen wall.

“And, that is when I realized I was stuck with your father,” Hannah told Michael as she finished the story and lit another cigarette.

She never added another word to that story.

* * * * *

Michael walked over to a few more graves of people he barely remembered, but laid stones on their markers as well, as a sign of respect. Then, he found Morton Sapperstein’s grave. Michael smiled when he thought back to Rona’s husband. He always had a
ferbissina punim
or sour look on his face, but he was really a nice man, who was so devoted to Rona. If only he had made love to her as often as she wanted. Michael laughed as he thought back to Rona in the Emergency Room, when Morton had a heart attack, and her removing her robe and standing in front of everyone, including a bunch of college kids, in a red lace bra and panties, wearing gold high-heeled slippers, showing everyone the reason Morton went into cardiac arrest. Even though she was fifty-eight at the time, she looked great. With this memory, Michael actually laughed for the first time in a long time.

He walked back to his car, and before starting the engine, he turned on his cell phone to check for any messages. There was one from Sam, telling him to have a safe trip and that he looked forward to seeing him again. Michael smiled when he thought about Sam. He then scrolled through the numbers and located one he thought he should call while in town. He hit the send button and waited while it rang, choosing not to start the car yet.

“Hello,” a woman’s voice said on the other end.

“Mrs. Wonderful?” Michael said.

“Mr. Perfect, where are you? How are you?” Doreen Weiner Eidleman asked.

“Aunt Doreen, I am in Newport News for the day, do you want some company?” he asked.

“Of course, I’d love to see you. Let me give you directions,” she said excitedly.

He wrote down the directions to her home in King’s Mill. After years of living in Hilton, Doreen finally bit the bullet and moved to the neighborhood, where all the snobs lived, and if he were not mistaken, Rona Sapperstein had done the same after Morton died.

Michael started the car and drove up Route 60, forgoing the Interstate as this would only be about a twenty-five-minute drive. He realized along the way why he never liked Newport News – once voted the ugliest city in the United States – as he passed one strip mall after another and the occasional mobile home park. Oddly, there were upscale neighborhoods dotting the landscape between the strip malls and trailers. Before long, he was at the entrance to King’s Mill, and he rolled down the car window and introduced himself to the guard at the gate as he was handed a temporary visitor’s pass.

He followed Doreen’s directions and pulled up in front of her house, which was situated off the main road and abutted the golf course. There was a small courtyard in front and two houses situated on either side of hers at ninety-degree angles, all with red brick and white trim. Michael walked past a champagne-colored Cadillac, knowing it was Doreen’s as she always drove the largest Cadillac available and bought a new one every two years. He rang the bell and heard another familiar and loud voice, which made Michael smile in anticipation.

“I’m coming, I’m coming,” the woman yelled from the other side of the door, before she swung it open.

“Aunt Rona!” Michael exclaimed. “What are you doing here?” Rona smiled with her large mouth and rows of large teeth, still framed with the brightest pink lipstick in town. She was still tall with a slim figure, dressed in a brown sweater and winter white slacks with her signature amber jewelry in her ears and around her neck. She still wore multi-colored plastic framed glasses with pink-tinted lenses, but she had allowed her once curly red hair to go gray, almost white. She wore it short now, and it actually made her more attractive. She swung open the screen door and gave Michael a huge hug, kissing him on the cheek, and he knew that lipstick would take forever to wash off.