Portraits (87 page)

She lay there for a few minutes longer before calmly getting up and brushing the pine needles away, then walked down the hill to the car and went back to Ben’s…

The night before she left Steven asked if he could be alone with her for a little while. They sat now in Ben’s study.

“Mom,” he said, “you know, this is the place I’m going to spend the rest of my life. I was born here. And like my dad, I’m going to die here. How about us finally becoming a family, you and me? I mean, is there any chance you could come live here?”

She was sure he was psychic: it was what she had been wanting all day. This was the place she’d known the greatest happiness, and she had realized today that part of her problem had been that she’d been so cut off from Eliot. Here she felt his presence in everything—and especially when she looked at Steven. Here, in this place, he was the living proof that Eliot had been real, that she and Eliot had been real and always would be…“I’d like that very much. This is where we both belong.”

He got up and kissed her. “I know it’s sort of late in the day”—he smiled awkwardly—“but I’d like to say how ashamed I am for what I’ve done. I was rough on everybody, including myself, but I promise you, mom, I’m going to be the best damn son that any mother could ever have.”

She laughed. That was exactly the way Eliot would have said it…

That night at dinner Steven turned to Ben. “Sorry, gramps, but I think you’re going to have to get yourself a new hand. Mom and I are moving up to the big house.”

Ben smiled. Juanita looked at Doris, knowing what she must be feeling…

Doris hadn’t really lost her children, she told herself, but still, she wasn’t going to have the pleasure of having them close by either. Gary and his family were in Israel, and now her daughter would live in that house for the rest of her life. And she and Henry might never again know the joys of spending
Shabbes
or the holidays with all their children. Well, if this was Michele’s salvation, if she had found herself at last, then Doris would be content. More than content…

A
YEAR PASSED. HENRY
was well over seventy now, and at last preparing to retire, which left Doris feeling anxious about their finances. The social security he received, plus the interest he got from his meager savings, was barely adequate. So she now spent more and more time with her writing, which left little energy to devote to any social activities.

She accepted this with good grace, but she began to worry when she noticed Henry’s lack of interest in developing hobbies or any interest to take up his new leisure time. He had never been a golfer or a Sunday painter, and was no more eager to spend an afternoon playing gin rummy with a few old cronies now than he’d ever been. He spent his days puttering around in the garden or taking long, aimless walks, and gradually Doris began to notice an undeniable decline in his mental acuity.

The first sign was when he began asking her the names of people he’d known for forty years. Then she noticed that during casual conversations his responses were out of context with the subject. And when he started asking the same questions over and over again she finally was forced to the realization that Henry’s vagueness was a sign of approaching senility.

At first, the shock was more than she could accept. She began to urge him to take a part-time job in the medical field, doing anything just so that he would use his mind. But that was one subject on which Henry was perfectly lucid and adamant. “I put my fifty years in and I’ve had enough of the medical profession. I want to be rid of all that, to take it easy…”

He had never exactly worn himself out to create security and leisure time for his family, but when Doris looked at him she really couldn’t be angry or even resentful. She had to deal with him as he was now, and she was dealing with a man who was not entirely responsible.

Still, Henry’s condition became an increasing burden. In some ways it was like living with a large child. It was also a little scary. For the first time in all the years of their marriage, the pressures became so great that she even thought of leaving him. They had never had many interests in common, and now they could not even communicate on the most simple matters. He seemed to take everything she said literally and seriously, and the result was that his feelings were often hurt. She had to be very careful…oh, so careful…

In her desperation she turned for the first time to writing a novel. She gave few thoughts to its success—she knew that few novelists ever gained much recognition or financial rewards. The overriding concern for her was the necessity of saving her own mental health. So much besides herself depended on it…

Steven was twenty now, and had just married Pamela Rogers…

As Doris and Michele sat in Michele’s bedroom the morning after the wedding, Michele realized that her mother was not quite the exuberant, outgoing woman she’d known. “Mama, you’ve been here now for a week and I’ve noticed a change in you. Do you think you’re overdoing it? Too much work on the novel?”

“No, Michele, thank God I have that to fall back on—”

“Look, mama, something is wrong. I know it and you know it. You don’t have to be so brave. Talk about it.”

Tables turned, Doris thought…“All right, Michele, have you noticed any…change in your father? This week or the last few times we’ve been up to see you?”

“Yes, mama, I have—and I wondered if I should mention it…he doesn’t always seem to understand what’s said to him. I’ve had to repeat the same things over and over again to him, and there’s a sort of vagueness about him.”

Doris shook her head. “It’s that obvious?”

“Very, mama—”

Doris started to cry about it, for the first time. “Michele, I’m afraid it’s getting worse. I don’t know what to do. I’ve even thought of a nursing home, but I can’t bring myself to do it. It’s awful even to think about it…But how can I live in the same house and not communicate with somebody? It’s almost worse than living alone. Still, no question about it, I have responsibilities to the man who is my husband. God knows I don’t blame him, Michele, any more than I would if he had anything else wrong with him. And I hope I don’t sound like some damn martyr. But how do I live with this?”

“The one time
you’ve
asked
me
for help… and I just don’t have any answers.”

“Well, don’t feel so bad, neither do I. I may as well tell you, though, that I’ve started seeing a psychiatrist to help get me through this. It seemed to help you…”

“Has it helped?”

“Not especially, I’m afraid…I just feel so desperately sorry, for both of us, and I can’t find any answer.”

“Well, maybe things will resolve themselves, mama,” Michele said, knowing her father’s condition could only worsen.

Doris smiled briefly. “Well, it’s true, they usually do…But that’s not a subject we should be talking about today. The wedding was beautiful, Michele, and Pamela’s a lovely, lovely girl. Looking at you, it’s hard to believe that you could soon be a grandmother, and me a great-grandmother. If it happens very soon I might not look too bad for a great-grandmother. What the hell, next year I’ll only be sixty-five.”

Michele smiled. “Mama, I keep telling you, you’re more gorgeous and glamorous at sixty-four than you ever were. Not a wrinkle on the horizon—it’s scary, really, you’re incredible. In fact, you were hands down the most beautiful woman at the wedding yesterday. Everybody talked about you. More people came up to me and said, ‘I don’t believe that’s your mother.’”

Doris laughed. “Did they really? Must have been the candlelight and champagne…Getting away from the subject of my great beauty, I didn’t want to tell you this before the wedding, but my sister Rachel’s husband passed away last week. Not that you knew him, of course, and I’m not too worried about how Rachel will adjust to being a widow. She generally adapts pretty well…Still…”

“How did you find out, mama?”

“She called from New York. That’s my family…they usually get in touch, at least about the bad things. Anyway, I guess Rachel will survive. She told me in all her bereavement that she’s decided to mourn in the best of two worlds—she’ll divide her time between New York and Paris…Well, enough of the family hour…I’m thinking that with the help of God, when and if I finish the book, I just might take a little hike for myself to Israel. It’s about time I saw my kids. The pictures are getting stacked by the dozens and I’m running out of albums.”

“It’s a shame Gary hasn’t been able to come home. I know you miss them so much…”

But Michele didn’t know the extent of Doris’ fears. Gary had moved from the Negev to a kibbutz in the Hula Valley. It sat just below the Golan Heights and not a day passed that their lives were not in peril. Her grandchildren slept each night in a damp bunker. Doris subscribed to the
Jerusalem Post
, and every issue added another strand of silver to her hair. It seemed there was no end to the conflict. Israel had been besieged with one long war, ever since the War of Independence in 1948, and her son was fighting in many of the battles. He had fought in the Sinai campaign and in the war of 1967, to free the Golan Heights above so that in the Hula Valley below his children no longer had to sleep in a damp bunker. But above all, he fought for the survival of a homeland with a courage and determination that Doris found awesome. And most remarkable of all was Robin. She literally stood shoulder to shoulder with her husband, without a complaint. What extraordinary human beings they were and how proud she was that she had the privilege of being their mother. She sighed, “You’re right, I do miss them. But I promise you, even if I have to hock the old homestead, I’m going. I have faith. You wait and see, everything will work out.”

D
ORIS DIDN’T KNOW HOW
prophetic her words to Michele would be. Things did indeed work out. It was almost like a Cinderella story.

The first publisher the book was submitted to accepted it, and no one could have been more surprised than Doris. It was an old-fashioned story about Jewish immigrants who worked themselves up from starvation to
poverty
in one generation, and she couldn’t imagine what the ingredient was that made it a success. All she knew was that people seemed to like it, and before long she found herself going in a million different directions. It was funny, really…in her old age she was becoming a sort of celebrity, and she was making money that came in very handy. She was even going to be introduced to the press in New York and she needed to buy a few outfits that would be appropriate to the occasion. She bought a smashing cocktail dress and a black mink coat, if you please.

When her publisher asked her to come to New York, she had invited Henry to take the trip with her, but he’d said no, he didn’t like flying and the memories…sensations…of New York and the lower East Side were too painful. It was ironic, Doris thought. He couldn’t remember the names of some of their oldest friends, but he could remember his early childhood, being bathed in a pickle barrel…

She hired a competent housekeeper for Henry, and rather than put him through the task of seeing her off at the airport she took a taxi and set off on her own. On her own…

When Doris arrived at Kennedy Airport she still couldn’t accept the reality of what had happened to her. The fat, curly-haired kid who used to go to the Orpheum and say, “Someday I’m going to be a star,” found the doorman at the Plaza Hotel in New York City opening the door for her. The suite of rooms her publisher had reserved left her speechless. Before taking off her coat, she walked over to an enormous bouquet sitting on the French desk, took out the card and read it. “We’re so happy you’re here. Welcome.” She stared at it. Publishers were real people after all, it seemed. Imagine being thoughtful enough to make such a beautiful gesture. And all of this happened because she’d written some funny little book about a Jewish family that
didn’t
make it from rags to riches. Thank you, Ida Cohen, my favorite character. I really have you to thank for all this, because you’re what every Yiddish mama wanted to be…

In the next twenty-four hours Doris found herself catapulted into an unknown world. A cocktail party was given for her. She was interviewed on television, had her picture taken, met a lot of very important people whose very important names she couldn’t remember if her life depended on it…However, there was one lady this evening she did remember. Her name was Annette Mayer.

“Any relation to Louis B.?” Doris had asked, trying to sound smarter than she felt.

“That’s not my claim to fame, sorry to say.” Annette was taken with Doris, and wanted to arrange a dinner party at her apartment on Central Park West for the following Tuesday, provided Doris was available. Doris was available…

She arrived at seven-thirty, dressed in a Pucci print and her black mink coat and toting two pounds of Lady Godiva chocolates for her hostess. Annette introduced her to all the guests. Considering that they were sophisticated New Yorkers, Doris was more than somewhat surprised by how excited they apparently were to meet her.

“I’ve read your book and adored it” was what she heard over and over again. Funny, the thought, at home I’m just good old Doris Levin, and here on Central Park West I’m a big star, yet—Her thoughts were interrupted when the doorbell rang and she overheard Annette’s greeting to the latecomer.

“Aaron, why do you insist on being a prima donna? You’re always late.”

“That’s very unkind, Annette, and the traffic was horrible as usual. Besides, I didn’t come here to argue with you but to meet your author. That’s what you invited me for, right?”

“You’re incorrigible, I don’t even know why I put up with you. But come on…”

Leading him to Doris, Annette said, “I want you to meet a very dear and constantly late friend, Aaron Brauch…Doris Levin.”

“This is a pleasure I’ve been looking forward to, Mrs. Levin.”

Doris smiled uneasily. “Next thing you’ll tell me you read the book—”

“I’m not only going to tell you I read it, but even reread it.”

“Well, Aaron Brauch, I can tell you have extremely good taste in literature.”