The Anglophile (15 page)

“Yes.”

“Your father was a good man?”

Kit says nothing, and smiles sadly and emphatically.

“There. Turn on this road,” I say.

As Gene twists the wheel, I am still amazed. Tears. I have never seen my older brother cry, not once during the time he had acute tonsillitis nor even at Dad's funeral. Alan and I thought we heard him once, that same year. He was in the bathroom with the door locked, and there was an awful-sounding whimper emanating from under the cracks, but we mutually decided to leave him alone and do our homework. When we saw him again he acted cool as ever.

“Turn here,” I say again.

“And again,” I say a few seconds later.

My final direction: “There's the sign.”

We can see tiny gravestones marking several acres of land shaded by low and gnarly trees.

There's nowhere to park but on a bit of side road. As we emerge, Kit lends us privacy by walking a few hundred yards away toward the cemetery to roll a cigarette.

I hold Gene. “Dad really loved you.”

“He loved all of us,” Gene says, and then manages: “I didn't mean to do that in front of your new boyfriend. Sorry about that.”

“You had a Dad moment. Happens to me all the time, but I lose it more. I started welling up a few months ago when Cathy ordered Beef Lo Mein—”

“Dad's favorite dish,” he cuts me off.

“Yes.”

“Except it was chicken with cashews. Lo Mein was his second favorite dish.”

“Hey, you're the big brother. Any memory you have goes.”

“That's right. Pop quiz: The one day Dad went shopping, he bought seventeen boxes of what?”

“Jell-O. I helped Mom unpack them.”

“Ten points,” he laughs with red eyes.

I hesitate a second and Gene catches my expression. “What?”

“What side did he comb his hair on—I honestly can't remember anymore.”

Gene considers the question as he moves hair out of my eyes with the back of his hand. “The left,” he says. “Like you.”

“Thanks,” I mumble gratefully.

Gene coughs uncomfortably. He hates mushy sentiment, especially from himself. “By the way, do you want me to race ahead of the two of you to talk to the family?”

“Why?”

“I'll save you the embarrassment. Mom is certain your boyfriend is named Kevin—”

“No, she knows about Kit. I told her on the phone last night when I called to say I was coming to the funeral. I was seeing a Kevin, until about a week ago.” I quickly ease out of the big story. “I'll tell you about it another time, when there's not a hole in your heart. What brought this on, Gene? Was it really that song?”

“Well, yeah, but—don't you know what today is?”

I nod slowly. God. It's the anniversary of Dad's death. How could I have blotted that out?

Gene straightens. “Come on, let's get Kit. We have a skunk to mourn.”

I give him a kiss on his cheek. His breath is curiously free of tobacco. What's that familiar scent in its place? Oh, gum. “Big Red or Trident Cinnamon?”

“Big Red.”

“Does that mean what I think that means?”

“It's true. I stopped smoking.”

“Gene! That's great!”

“Yeah. Listen, I like your friend a lot even if has no clue who Gene Wilder is.” He pauses for a second and then adds, “If you really like this guy, you should tell him not to smoke. I just hope I wasn't too late. Mom's working on Dot. How crazy is it that the two women Dad loved the most smoked after his death?”

After my lack of answer he says, “I wasn't thinking. I meant two out of the three women.”

But I hadn't even thought about that slightly careless sentence. The rest of this conversation is what's getting at me. Sorrow is always at the surface, but those deepest horrid memories that threatened to come back during Kevin's mother's illness are pounding the inside of my head again even after I'd thought I'd finally sealed them up again during these last few glorious days with Kit.

Gene slings an arm over my shoulder. “Dot's already down a pack.” An omniscient guide returns, the one
who led me down the rope-and-plank corridor to my first grade class when Mom and Dad had to work or get docked.

As we walk to Kit, his back to us, a perfect cube of smoke, the kind old-fashioned magicians puff, rises above his head.

I
n my solemn mood from Gene's emotional outburst, I walk past animal headstones to the funeral office a hundred yards or so into the grounds. I stop to read a few of the memorials, and soon can't help my amusement at the names people come up with for their pets. Sure I feel a bit guilty, as they were not laid out for anyone's day of fun, but one reads:
Here sleeps our beloved little schnauzer,
and even the head of PETA would have trouble not smirking at a headstone that reads
Pussy 1921–1937.

As I walk about ten more feet past the Pussy grave, I'm struck with an awful case of giggles. Despite its inconvenience, the laughing fit is a great release from the intensity of a few minutes ago. Kit hears me, and is at my side again with a helpful, intuitive understanding of the immediate task required of him as boyfriend.

“Nuclear holocaust,” he says to get me solemn again. “AIDS in Africa. Rwanda.”

As Kit holds open the door for the cemetery office, I spot Mom, coat off, so featherlight in her black-knit dress. Gene kisses Mom and then my aunt. Dot's big belly curves out like she's in her second trimester. Her eyebrows are particularly gruesome today, and I'm sure Kit blinked. Maybe I didn't prepare him sufficiently.

“Thank you for coming, kids,” my aunt says in a gruff voice. We hug and kiss.

After my own kiss for Mom, I say, “Sorry we're late. We got a bit lost.”

“But Shari navigated us here,” Gene says for his passengers' amusement.

“Shari with a map?” my mother says.

I ignore the slight. “How are you holding up?” I say to Dot.

“They're about to let us view his body.”

Kit is remarkably composed at that, but I'm fighting the sardonic smile threatening to take over.

“This is Kit,” I say quickly, just to let some, any, words come out of my mouth. “Kit, this my aunt, Dorothy Diamond.”

“Such formality,” she says. “Dot. Just Dot.”

“I'm sorry for your loss,” Kit says, always the man of manners.

“Oh, you're British?” Dot says, and I pray she won't continue. She doesn't.

From somewhere, Eric puts out a hand that Kit shakes. “Eric Fine. Nice to meet ya.” My aunt's nerdy boyfriend of ten years has no idea how many Kool Kats ob
sessed with killer fifties-wear would ironically dig the red Slim Jim tie that peeks through his olive green parka. He has had on a variant of this dated tie every time I've met him. There's probably an unironic vintage era tie rack back in the Catskills condo.

“Kit Brown,” Kit says.

“Hi there, Eric,” I say. Another hug.

“Shari. Nice to meet you, Kip.” Eric pumps Kit's hand up and down like he's gone a-milking. “I tell ya, folks, Galoot was like a son. I know that sounds a bit strange, but it's damn well true.”

“Kit,” Dot practically screams into Eric's ear. “His name is Kit.”

“I don't have good hearing,” Eric screams to Kit.

“We're going in the viewing room,” Dot yells toward Eric again. “Straighten your tie, honey.”

“I buried a dog once,” Kit says after a self-conscious group pause. “It killed me.”

I guess Eric heard that well enough because he says, “Dogs are nice, but I tell ya, skunk ownership is an even longer commitment. Think at least twenty years if you buy a skunk.”

Dot adds, “You learn to love them even though they chew up your bedspread.” This memory brings on a big flow of tears. “Tell them, Eric, there's nothing nicer than feeding your skunk a vanilla wafer as you watch
Access Hollywood
together.”

“And he was much better than a cat,” Eric follows.

Dot nods her head vigorously. “All skunks are better than cats. They appreciate you more.”

Gene is admirably straight-faced as he asks, “How did Galoot pass, Aunt Dot?”

“Listen to me, kids, never give any animal chocolate. I left out an open bag of bittersweet chocolate chips and—it killed him.”

Kit winces. “Theobromine. A woman I lived with had a dog that ate it once. He had to have his stomach pumped.”

“He lived?” Dot says earnestly.

“Just barely,” Kit says.

Who's this woman Kit lived with? File that detail away. Now's not the time to grill him.

“What did Galoot normally eat?” Gene quickly asks Eric.

“He liked boiled chicken,” Eric says. “And tuna fish.”

“Vegetables, fruits, low-fat cottage cheese, yogurt,” Dot manages to add. “We gave him goodies like the wafers occasionally. But usually we were hyper-careful. Our first one was a fat skunk because we didn't know how to feed him. At least Galoot was fit during his life.” She clutches her boyfriend's hand. “He did, though, leave us an unfortunate gift after his death. Maybe it's his payback for the chocolate.”

Eric shakes his head after his girlfriend speaks. “Oh, Dottie, please, Galoot would never want anything bad to happen to you.”

“What do you mean?” Gene says.

“We're still suffering from bellyaches. Turns out they were brought on by skunk worms he picked up off the veterinarian's table. But we're on medicine now, so don't worry about shaking our hands. All this
tsoris
coming on the heels of Eric's pinkie accident a few months ago.”

After digesting the bit about skunk worms, my carload of three look to Eric's hand. There is a pinkie gone.
Indeed,
I say in my head, in Kit's voice.

“What happened to your pinkie?” Gene says.

“He chopped it off while slicing a cucumber,” Dot answers for him.

“Made it through the Korean war with just a bloody nose,” Eric bellows. “I got a lot of use from that pinkie, it did me proud, but I don't really miss it. I'd rather have Galoot back than a pinkie.”

When Alan arrives, Mom pounces on him, feathering her delicate son with kisses. There's an almost-gorgeous woman with long hair behind him, no doubt the commune girlfriend. This gal's looking mighty uncomfortable. With Alan's usual lack of social grace, he has forgotten to introduce her. But everyone in his family knows to let that be. He will introduce her on his own terms.

For a skunk funeral Alan has decided on blue jeans and a black sweater under a jean jacket. Alan looks—somewhat ironically considering our car-ride soundtrack—much like the noticeably cutest Beach Boy, Dennis Wilson—that is, before Dennis got old and overdosed as a way out of his headlong slide into self-destruction.

Gene sticks out a hand to his little brother and punches him in the tummy. “What are you up to, guy?”

“Nothing much,” Alan says quietly.

These two brothers—talk about night and day. I as
sume that Gene's knack for self-perseverance has greatly helped him in the banking industry. He certainly didn't have any contacts going in. He spoke of colleagues kick-started with a nepotistic post, but Gene was not too proud to entry-level himself as a mail clerk. He has never once looked back or made a lateral move: A-Z is his life strategy. As a teen he applied that same stick-to-it-ness to Pac Man—he was the champ for our entire neighborhood, and shortly thereafter king of our neighborhood's Asteroid enthusiasts.

I carefully check Alan's face. He's definitely afraid to ask what his brother is up to, especially since Gene has landed a fat job that Mom has hinted scored him serious bucks.

As much as Gene strived through our childhood, Alan retreated. After Alan dropped out from the Queens College philosophy program, he swore blindly to my mother that he would try to earn an honest living. But he was just too shy, too nervous. After a few executive assistant interviews that didn't go well, even a humiliating termination from a summer gig of Popcorn Man at Coney Island, he retreated from day jobs with a fatalistic weariness. In his view, every conceivable profession in New York was a competitive sport, and he cited as evidence that even social workers raise an eyebrow when another one among them has that master's degree from Ivy League Columbia.

(I thought about it once, briefly entering his mindset. If you want to live in New York City and don't want to compete for jobs, your basic choices are squeegeeing and sandal communes—and I haven't even seen a squeegee man for at least ten years.)

The sight of Alan carting along a girlfriend is unnerving; Alan has never brought a woman home to meet his family, not one. So who is this mysterious woman with long hair? Her brown eyes are startlingly intense. She would be gorgeous in a hippie-dippy
Love Story
-era Ali McGrawish way if not for her unfortunate nose that verges on a snout.

“By the way, this is Summer,” Alan finally says to the collective family.

A group hi.

Summer opts for a sympathetic hug to both Eric and Dot instead of a handshake. “I know the pain when a pet dies. My cat died last year and a part of me shriveled.”

Dot gives her an appreciative peck on the cheek.

Alan breaks us down into individuals. “This is my mother,” he starts.

“Summer,” Mom says in her quiet yet congenial manner, “do you live on the commune with Alan?”

“Down the street, actually, but I've considered joining.”

“This is Shari, my little sister by a year.”

“I heard you had a nice time at the commune,” Summer says politely.

“Yes, I did.” Well, a time, anyway.

Dot audibly whispers to Mom, “Is Summer Jewish?”

How will I make it through this without Kit abandoning me?

“Nice to meet you. This is my friend Kit.”

“We're ready,” says a smiling representative of the cemetery, a man in a dark funeral home vested suit with a tucked-in pocket watch. The director of the ceme
tery is by our side, ready to lead the eight in our mourning party to the viewing room.

Dot waves Kit and me ahead. “We'll go last.”

We see what I was afraid we'd see: a skunk, belly-up in a two-foot-long open rosewood casket.

“My little man,” Dot says, and she holds Eric. Gene beckons my family, Summer and Kit out of the room, leaving Dot and Eric in their tearful embrace.

 

“So, that was an experience,” I say to Kit repentantly after we're back in the waiting parlor.

“A little oddity doesn't bother me.”

Gene emerges before Mom, no longer able to keep his lips pursed as he fights off his own brewing laugh. “Now I've seen it all. So what do ya think of that little ceremony?”

Kit raises an eyebrow. “I found it very sweet, actually.”

Gene says, “You're right. It was. Sometimes I'm just a bit of a jerk.”

“You were just chatting. Think nothing of it.”

I feel like a jerk, too. Gene is mildly appalled by this family circus, but certainly not mortified. And Kit looks fine with the most outlandish relations I have to offer. I'm the only one suffering here. I quickly remind myself about his gong uncle and feel better.

“Did you ever have a skunk buried here before?” Gene asks the respectful man from the cemetery.

My mother is out of the viewing room now. Exploiting her most uncanny talent, she reads my mind. “Be respectable, Shari.”

“We're mostly dogs and cats,” the director says to Kit
as he scratches at his arm (flea bite?). “We have one lion cub here, and there are squirrels, ducks, turtles, ferrets, birds and hamsters in the smaller leftover spaces on the plots—the plot owners can use every inch they bought if they want more than their dog buried.”

“No skunk?” Gene says with considerable irony.

“First one,” the man says just a bit conspiratorially.

“But how can you keep from laughing every day?”

“Don't be so rude, Gene,” Mom says.

“Don't think I haven't heard that question before, sir. I've been director of Hartsdale since 1974, and anything you can ask I can answer.”

Gene has his patented stupid grin on as he asks, “So come on, why do you bilk money out of suckers like my aunt then?”

“Idiot,” Alan mutters toward Gene.

“He's not bilking her,” Mom says firmly. “This burial is Dot's decision.”

“Yes, I would agree with that assessment,” the director says with fine diplomatic skill. “Celebrities choose us, but the majority of people who bring us their animals are everyday folk who for whatever reason, feel this is the right thing to do. The pets buried here were their friends.”

Gene snorts. “And they can get a new friend at the pound. Or the skunkery or whatever you call it.”

The director shakes his head. “What do you think you would say if you lost a friend, and were told why don't you go to a bar and get a new one? We let people grieve in whatever way they want to. Some choose to cremate, some choose to bury. They can use the viewing room
for however they want to say goodbye. If they want a service, that's okay, too. We hold no judgment at Hartsdale because the death of an animal has a deep effect on many people, in different ways. That's exactly why a lot of pet owners hold in their grief—people don't understand what they're feeling. Yes, animals probably could fend for themselves in the wild, but we choose as a society to domesticate them, and many people who don't have families of their own view their pets as children.”

The skunk funeral is becoming less tragic to me by the second. I'm even proud of Dot that she is not one of those that has chosen to “hold in her grief.” She is a woman of action. Okay, a slightly senseless woman of action, but look at me, I could use a little of her gumption. And Kit's.

Chastened, Gene concedes, “Aunt Dot to a T. Galoot is her surrogate son.”

“As I said, this doesn't surprise me in the least.”

“So how many animals do you have buried a year?” Kit asks the director.

“This year we buried about eight hundred,” he says. The conversation abruptly ends as Dot and Eric emerge. The director looks kindly upon them and says, “You can walk over, and we'll bring Galoot right to the grave in just a few minutes.”