Michael's Secrets (14 page)

“I actually asked your mother if I could have you for my own, before you were born,” Rona said.

“So did I,” Doreen said, trying to outdo Rona. “And, Florence even spoke to a lawyer about having you removed from your mother’s house and getting custody of you when you were ten or eleven.”

Michael was stunned. All this time, he thought they didn’t know. Michael never questioned why he was always being invited to stay at their homes, go on their vacations, and attend their family gatherings. All this time, he sometimes resented them for not rescuing him, when in fact, they
were
rescuing him.

“What did the lawyer say?” Michael asked, wanting to know more.

“He told Florence that it would be impossible, and your mother would probably move away with you if she did something like that,” Rona said.

“Why did you stay friends with her?” Michael asked, continuing to look at both of them.

“As the years passed, all of us started to dislike her, but we had an agreement that we would put up with her as long as you were living at home,” Doreen said, looking at Rona.

“Once you moved out, we drifted apart from your mother, and for the last several years of her life, none of us really talked to her,” Rona said. “You stayed in touch with Florence, so we knew you were OK.”

Michael started to cry, and he picked up a napkin to wipe his eyes. He had been through so much emotionally this day.

“Michael, don’t cry,” Rona said, “We didn’t mean to upset you.”

Between sobs, he told them, “You haven’t upset me. I just wish I knew. I’m actually thankful you did what you did. I just wish I could have thanked Arlene before she died. She must have thought I was a brat for not thanking her. Seriously, thank you, both of you.”

Rona and Doreen started crying again as well and dabbed their eyes with more tissues from their sleeves.

“Michael, Arlene knew you appreciated her,” Rona said as she cried. “She knew more than anyone. She had two grown children already out of the house, yet you still would ride your bike to her house to visit. Arlene loved you like one of her own. Why do you think she always wanted to perform with you in the ‘Cabaret’? She loved you and knew you loved her.”

“More than one of her own,” Doreen said sarcastically. “You turned out better than her own children.” Rona laughed at Doreen’s comment, and Michael smiled a bit, too, while continuing to cry.

“Talk about a couple of
shmeggegies
,” Rona said as she laughed.

“Do you know that when I was little, I used to scream every time Arlene came over to the house?” he said, remembering a story from his childhood.

“That’s because you thought Lucille Ball had come for a visit right out of the television, and it scared you,” Doreen said. “I think that is why Arlene changed her hair color. You really scared her, too, the way you would scream and run.”

They laughed at one of the few funny moments from when Michael was a child.

“I cannot thank you enough,” he said. “All these years, I always thought nobody really knew what I was going through, and now I find out you girls were looking out for me all along.”

“Eat, eat, enough of this sad talk, Michael, you have a great life now,” Doreen said as she resumed eating her lunch.

They finished lunch, and he was stuffed as he had not been stuffed in years, but Michael made room for the prune Danish they served for dessert. He loved prune Danish. Although Michael protested, they made him take a couple of containers of food home with him, packing them in a cooler with dry ice. Only Rona, who was always prepared for any occasion, would have a cooler and dry ice on hand. As Michael kissed them goodbye, hugging them both and walking to his rental car, they cried once again. He asked them to visit him in Washington, and they said they would try. They both stood there waving at Michael, and as he started the car and looked back, he could see they were bickering about something, and then Doreen walked back into the house and attempted to slam the door in Rona’s face. These girls were friends for life.

Michael drove back to Richmond and caught a flight the next day for Washington. It seemed ridiculous to fly as he was only in the air for about twenty minutes. He took a cab back to Eric’s apartment and decided not to turn on the computer and check his e-mails. He had been through enough, and he didn’t want to deal with his feelings for Steve at the moment.

The next morning, Eric’s landline rang. It hardly ever rang, and Michael would usually pick it up when it did to give whoever called Eric’s cell phone number, unless it was a telemarketer.

“Hello, Eric Sagman’s residence,” Michael answered.

“Eric, is that you?” an older woman’s voice asked on the other end.

“No, Eric is in Brazil. I am subletting the apartment,” he answered.

“Oh, I knew that,” she said. “It is just that your voice sounds just like his. Is this Michael Bern?”

Michael’s voice sounded like his also? And, if this woman knew he was in Brazil, why was she calling Eric’s landline and not his cell phone?

“Yes, this is Michael. Can I give Eric a message?” he asked.

“Actually, this is Eric’s mother, Harryette Sagman,” she said.

“Oh, is something wrong?” he asked.

“No, no, nothing’s wrong,” Mrs. Sagman said. “Michael, what was your mother’s name?”

What was my mother’s name? Why the hell would she ask me a question like that?
Michael pondered. “Why do you want to know?” he asked.

She hesitated for a moment then answered, “I think I knew your mother.”

She knew my mother. This is odd.
“Her name was Hannah Stein,” Michael said.

“Oh,” Mrs. Sagman said, “Was that her maiden name?”

“Well, no,” he answered. “But, you see, my mother was married three times. Her maiden name was Summers, then she married my father, Adam Bern, then Bart Shimmer, and her third husband was Karl Stein.”

“So your mother
was
Hannah Bern?” she asked as if a light bulb lit up in her head.

“Yes,” Michael answered as he sat down, wondering how this woman knew his mother.

There was an awkward silence before she spoke again. “Michael, is your mother still living in Newport News, Virginia?”

“Well, she’s buried there. She died in 2001.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Mrs. Sagman said.

“Thank you,” Michael said, never knowing how to react to that sentiment.

“Did you know Florence Greenberg?” she asked.

Michael took a deep breath and answered her question, “Florence died in 2004. She was my godmother, however, we called her Flossie,” knowing she sensed the sorrow in his voice.

“I’m sorry, you must miss her very much,” she said.

“Thank you, I do,” Michael said.

“Michael, would you mind if my husband and I came over this afternoon to meet you?” she asked.

He was curious as to why she would want to meet him, so he answered yes, and she said they would drop by around two.

Michael tried to get some work done and e-mailed Sharon a couple of scenes. She asked what he was doing the rest of the afternoon, and he told her just some errands. Michael didn’t want to go into Eric Sagman’s parents’ stopping by although she probably knew them, since she and Eric were friends. Then, he thought of something that had not occurred to him before. Sharon knew that Eric and Michael looked so much alike, so how come she never mentioned it? Michael did have a suspicious mind sometimes, dizzy, but suspicious nonetheless.

He showered, shaved and changed into a pair of kakis and an orange turtleneck wondering if he would clash with the décor. Right at 2:00 pm on the dot, there was a knock on the front door. Michael was surprised they could find parking so easily. He opened the door, and a woman he presumed was Eric’s mother was standing there. She was about five-foot-six with dark red hair, and he guessed her age to be around seventy or seventy-five. Standing behind her and using a walker was apparently Eric’s father. He looked to be in his eighties or even close to ninety. Although stooped over to support himself on the walker, he was a tall man, not as tall as Eric or Michael, but taller than usual, but may have been as tall when he was younger. He had thick white, wavy hair and wore large glasses with coke-bottle lenses that barely revealed green eyes with long gray lashes. Eric, who wore bifocals, must have inherited his father’s eyesight as his mother did not wear glasses.

Eric’s mother walked in first and introduced herself, and his father slowly entered behind her. Michael closed the door and asked if they wanted to sit in the kitchen, thinking it would be more comfortable for his father. They decided to go into the living room instead, and his father sat on one of the chairs, and Mrs. Sagman and Michael settled on the futon.

“I forgot my manners; can I get you anything to drink?” Michael asked standing up.

They both said no, so he sat back down.

“Sharon was right, Seymour, look at him,” Mrs. Sagman said.

“Yep, he does look just like Eric,” Mr. Sagman responded with a raspy voice.

“Sharon told us you did, but we didn’t believe her,” Mrs. Sagman said.

“Sharon talked to you about me?” Michael asked.

“When were you born, Michael?” Mrs. Sagman asked, ignoring Michael’s question, very curious about Michael and not hesitating to ask him questions.

“November 22, 1962,” Michael answered.

“Yep, Seymour, that would be about right,” she said, looking at her husband as he shook his head yes.

“Mrs. Sagman, why are you so curious about me?” Michael asked still not sure why he was sitting here with these people.

Again, she was silent. Then she took his hand. “Eric was born on December 4, 1962,” she said.

Michael really wanted these people out of the apartment as they were starting to creep him out.

“Michael, I have to tell you something you may find upsetting or unbelievable, but coming here today has confirmed it for us,” she said.

“Go on,” he said, wondering if he really wanted to know the reason for her visit.

“My husband knew your mother,” she began, and again she paused. “We were married in June 1962, after I found out I was pregnant with Eric. Yes, even in those days, girls got into trouble.”

He suddenly felt as if he were on one of those horrible tabloid talk shows, but he sat there quietly waiting for the bomb or Jerry Springer to pop out of the closet.

“At the time I got pregnant with Eric, my husband was having an affair with your mother,” she continued.

Michael’s heart stopped. His stomach knotted up, and he thought he was going to throw up. He also had a feeling what was coming next. She sensed his uneasiness and probably saw the color drain from his face.

Mrs. Sagman put her hand on Michael’s, squeezed it and said, “You and Eric are brothers … actually half brothers. I am convinced Seymour, my husband, is your father.”

Michael’s jaw dropped to his lap. When he arrived in Washington, he was Michael Bern, an only child. When he woke up this morning, he was still Michael Bern, an only child, whose father was killed by a runaway golf cart three months before he was born. Now, he was the result of an affair that happened forty-three years ago? His mother had three husbands, and now none of them were his father?

“Michael, are you OK?” Mrs. Sagman said to him.

“How long have you known?” he asked, after clearing his throat and trying to talk. Neither of them said a word. “Please, I need to know. How long have you known?” he asked again, with more strength in his voice.

“Michael, didn’t you think it was unusual that your mother and father were married almost six years before they had their first child?” she asked.

Again with the goddamn questions
, he thought. “No,” he said, as he never wondered about that until his recent visit with Rona and Doreen.

“Your father may have been sterile … it was only after the affair with Seymour that Hannah became pregnant. Had I not become pregnant at the same time, she may have left your father and married him,” she continued, still with little emotion in her voice.

Michael started to shake and stood up. He paced back and forth trying to process what he was being told – his mother, his father, affairs, dead husbands, sterile husbands, half-brother, and a single pregnant mother. It was too much to take in, and he started to get angry.

And, now with an audience, he knew he was about to make a scene.

He started yelling at them, “You are my father? Eric is my brother? What the hell is this? You waltz in here and tell me my father, whose grave sits next to an empty plot in Hampton, Virginia, waiting for me, is not my father! Then you tell me your husband could have been my father had you not been knocked up! Now, I am supposed to just swallow all this? My father is dead and buried. Everyone said I looked like my father, although I never saw the resemblance … I …”

And then, Michael stopped.

He just stared at them as they looked at him with alarm. Then he thought about something …

* * * * *

It was a Tuesday night in March 1979, and all the girls were over at Hannah’s house playing Mah Jongg. Michael came downstairs for a drink and walked into the den to say hello. Arlene was sitting out and standing at the side-bar fixing herself a plate of food, while his mother, Rona, Doreen and Florence were getting their
mo-jo
on the tiles.

“Hi, girls,” Michael said as he perused what his mother was serving – egg salad, tuna salad, chips, soda, pickles and the like.

Arlene, who had recently dyed her hair blonde and started wearing it in a teased flip, gave Michael a kiss and said while pinching his cheek, “He gets more handsome every day, Hannah. Who in your family does he look like?”

“Don’t be silly, Arlene, he looks like his father,” Michael’s mother said with a cigarette dangling from her lips and mixing up the tiles.

Florence looked up at him, took off her large purple-framed glasses and said, “I don’t know, Hannah. He doesn’t even have the same hair color as Adam, and his eyes are green. No one in Adam’s family had green eyes.” She then resumed mixing the tiles with the other three girls.