The Last of the Wise Lovers (9 page)

   I had an overwhelming need to tell
her something of what was going on.  I thought about the guy who was
destined to die.

  "If you knew that someone was going to
be murdered," I said in a low voice, "because of someone else who is
very close to you...”

   "What are you talking about?
 Who is this someone?"

   This, of course, I could not tell
her.

   "No one," I said,
"just a joke."

   She eyed me suspiciously.
 "Usually, jokes make you laugh."

       There was no
point in me hiding my annoyance.

 
 "I've had a few problems."

   "Your mom told me," she
jumped up and hugged me again.

   "My mom?  When did you two
talk?"

   "Yesterday, on the phone.
 I called the minute we got back.  She told me you'd had a rough time
without me."  She rubbed her face against my chest and purred the
half-hoarse, coy purr which usually made her seem very sexy, but now only made
her sound half-hoarse and coy. "I had a rough time without you, too,"
she tugged at the light cord.  "I missed you. I was so bored and
lonely."

   As we kissed, she began to tell me
about her vacation: three depressing weeks camping in Louisiana, her father and
her brother going off to fish every morning.  Her mother would bake in the
sun for hours...
 
and if it hadn't have been for another terrific
girl who lived nearby and took her to the movies and to drink beer, she would
have gone out of her mind.

   Debbie is a very attractive girl.
 (You saw her a couple of months ago, at the surprise party they threw for
my seventeenth birthday: tall; long, black curls; blue eyes.)  This whole
time we were squeezing each other in our favorite places and doing all the
usual things to each other, but nothing was happening - until she started to
describe this castle near their camp grounds, which had been brought over in
its entirety from France in the previous century at the request of some
millionaire. "There were great lawns there," she explained, "and
marble statues of naked men and women...” I thought back to Miss Doherty's
buttocks and what had happened that afternoon in the stacks, and every ounce of
me came to life.  Debbie was the first to notice.

"You see," she said with such compassion
that I felt wretched and ashamed, "I knew that once you loosened up
everything would be all right."

  
On second reading, the last details seem pretty
irrelevant. I'd erase them but for the significant role Miss Doherty played in
what happened later.

The next two days were the 29th and the 30th of
August, eight days before the mysterious man whom I didn't know would die, and
things would get "uncomfortable" for Mom if she didn't stop the even
more mysterious thing that she was or wasn't doing.

   No one was upset about it except for
me.  Dad came back from his trip out west and, as usual, went to sleep.
 Mom tended the garden, cooked a little, read, and wrote in her notebook,
which was no longer behind the buffet drawer, but had been moved elsewhere.
 As usual, Aunt Ida did more stupid things, all of them related to Marvin
or what was left of Marvin - photography.  On Saturday morning we dragged
her out of the bathroom, where she'd drowned a bunch of negatives she'd found
in the tub, and on Sunday we spent an hour convincing her not to take the bus
into the city to buy film and printing paper.  In the afternoon some
friends called me and invited me to a softball game.  I declined the
invitation.  A few minutes later I regretted it.  An argument between
Mom and Dad that had begun in a series of terse whispers escalated to the
slamming of the bedroom door, where Mom isolated herself, fuming.  Dad
fell asleep on the couch in the living room, the newspaper over his face.
 The stage was set for a big fight, which undoubtedly would have broken
out later that afternoon if you hadn't arrived.

   I was surprised (only later did I
realize that the visit had been secretly arranged by Mom and Dad to try and
clear up an old disagreement between you and Aunt Ida) but it was a nice
surprise.  I'd always loved seeing you.  When I was a kid it was
because I knew you'd never show up empty-handed (and I never had to wonder,
`Did he bring. . ?' just `
What
did he bring?').  Later, it was our
conversations, the things you taught me (you gave me my first lesson about sex
- remember?), the little treats that only you knew how supply (the twelve
flavors of ice cream that you'd had sent to your apartment the night Mom and
Dad went to an Independence Day party at the consulate and left me with you, as
usual), and the more serious things you got me interested in, always with the
help of some object that had just `happened' to come into your possession (the
stamp collection, the microscope, the electronics set... ).

   But this time there was something
else, because besides the power, the wisdom, and all the other things you had,
you were simply the man I needed.  I ran toward your car just as I had
when I was a kid, filled with the usual joy at seeing you and overcome with
relief.  Here was the solution to all my problems.  Who could be
better than you, the family success story?  You knew about life, knew how
to fill it with substance and wealth; you had friends like the mayor of New
York, and signed photographs of President John F. Kennedy and of yourself
seated beside President Harry S. Truman resting on the mantel of your
fireplace...

   "Hey, Uncle Harry," I
called as the heavy electric window slid down into the car door.  As
always, you wagged your finger at me and said, "Harry, without the
`uncle'".

   "
Harry," I said and, unable to control myself, peered inside the
car.  You smiled.  On the front seat next to you there was, as usual,
something for me.  This time it was a tiny Walkman, wrapped in bright
plastic.

  "They
told me you go back and forth to the city on the bus every day," you said
as you handed it to me, "and I know how boring those rides can be...” You
got out of the car, put your hand on my shoulder and winked.  "How's
she behaving?"

   Even without the wink, I knew who you
meant.

  "She's all right," I said,
"as long as you don't mention Marvin."

   You snickered and turned toward the
house, your hand still on my shoulder.

  "I wonder how she looks," you
said.  "It’s been a long time since we've met.  You know how it
is when you've decided you're angry...”  I wanted to ask you what the
argument between you had been about, but there were other matters of greater
importance.  I was debating how to begin and whether I should wait until
you had exchanged the usual polite greetings with everyone, but before I could
decide Mom came out, Aunt Ida at her heels.

   I wonder if you, too, noticed all the
little things that happened there.  You kissed Mom on the cheek.  You
extended your hand to Aunt Ida.  She took it but didn't shake it, just
held on to the tips of the fingers as if it were something dead, and said how
considerate it was of you to devote your one day of rest to visiting the sister
of your deceased wife, without whom you would have remained a petty importer of
forged fragrances from Hong Kong.  You took the insult gallantly and
continued on inside, where Dad was waiting for you.  He had just gotten up
from his afternoon nap and looked wrinkled and worn.  You gave him a
comradely slap on the back.  It was sad to look at you both, to see how
little likeness there was between you, considering you were his uncle and you
had the same facial features.  Dad looked tired and harried, despite
having slept.  You looked fit and chipper in your sport suit, with your
shock of white hair and eternal tan.

   Mom served coffee and cake.
 That's usually when I cut out, but this time I stayed in the hope that I
could drag you over to a quiet corner and speak my mind.  Mom, contrary to
what I would have expected, did not seem pleased by my presence.  

 After we'd eaten the cake she said,
"I'm sure this is boring you, Ronny," and before I even had a chance
to answer, added, "besides, you promised me you'd straighten up the
yard."  That was an ancient promise, and it was clear to both of us
that it wouldn't be kept this vacation.  So she could have only meant one
thing: please make yourself scarce.  

 I started to get up, but, taking my side as
usual, you said, "He's a big boy already; we have nothing to hide from
him."

   I stayed.  The conversation was
fascinating, maybe because you discussed things I had never before
contemplated.  For example, the fact that your spacious apartment in
Manhattan had actually belonged to the father of your late wife and Aunt Ida,
who therefore had a partial claim to it; or Aunt Ida's contention that you
still owed Marvin several tens of thousands of dollars, which he'd loaned you
to help you purchase and set up your spice factory in Mexico, plus an
additional sum that Marvin had invested in an herb-drying plant you'd acquired
in Panama.  You offered Aunt Ida a "certain" sum of money
(cautious not to state exactly how much) in exchange for all of her claims
(adding, in a whisper, "Without addressing the question of whether they're
justified or not").  She said she'd think about it.  

 You requested an answer by the end of the
month, and Aunt Ida asked, "What's the hurry?"

  You answered calmly, "Because after
that I won't be here."

   We all were silent.  It was
impossible to know what the others made of this, but for me - perhaps because
of Mr. K., with all his pills and pains - there could be only one
interpretation.

   "Are you sick?" I asked.

   Mom and Dad gasped disapprovingly.
 You chuckled and said, "No, it's not that, I'm just finishing up
here and moving to Florida."

   I was more shaken than the others,
perhaps because life would seem so different without you.  

 Aunt Ida, on the other hand, noted hoarsely,
"To enjoy the spoils, eh. . ?"

   You pursed your lips, and for a
moment it seemed as if you were going to say something rather unpleasant; but
in the end you exhaled, "Business has become difficult, there are
problems...”

   Your announcement that you were
having difficulties aroused my fear that perhaps I shouldn't trouble you with
my problems; but Mom's taut face reminded me of all that had happened in the
last few days and of all - far worse - that was liable to happen.  

At the first opportunity I leaned toward you and
said, "There's something I have to talk to you about."

   "Yes, of course," you said,
getting up from your chair to find a place where we could talk.

   And from that moment on, Mom did
everything she could to keep us from getting a chance to talk.  Maybe it
was just my imagination (since I do have an overactive one) or maybe it was
just a fleeting sensation - though after all, it was you who taught me never to
ignore fleeting sensations, since they usually signaled unformed observations -
but how else could I explain why Mom moved the snacks to a small table, which
she then placed between us; or why she started asking you about Rosh Hashanah
services, and about how you'd send her the tickets to the Temple; or why she
tried to encourage Aunt Ida to tell all about her trip from Chicago (you didn't
look too interested, but you listened politely); or why she chattered on about
another four or five inconsequential things?

   I suppose she was afraid that I'd go
blabbing to you about what had happened in the Lincoln Tunnel, or else embarrass
her in some other way.  But the more she displayed resistance, the more
anxious I became.  The need to talk to you became an urge I couldn't
shake.  At last, when you got up to go to the bathroom, I saw my chance.
 I waited for you by the bathroom door, and when you came out I managed to
say, "I don't know where to start...” before Mom appeared (again!) and
asked you whether you planned to stay for dinner.

   At least you managed to pay attention
to me for a minute. "Girl trouble?" you asked.

   Maybe to get your attention and maybe
because Mom was there, I said, "something like that." (In a sense
that was true - at least it was part of the problem.)

As usual you didn't want to leave me hanging, so
you said, "Since you work at that library, not far from me, what d'you say
we get together and have a talk one of these evenings, like in the good old
days?"

I said, "Great."  I wanted to set
it up with you for the following night, but Mom had already dragged you into
the dining room.

   I didn't give up.  I stuck
around during the whole meal and after, until we all went out to see you to
your car - that is, all except for Dad, who said goodbye to you in the house
and started clearing the table (and gobbling up the leftovers).  Mom
walked next to you.  Aunt Ida walked behind you and I was behind her.
 I could swear Mom was trying to whisper something to you about Aunt Ida,
but Aunt Ida was well versed in family intrigue and stuck close by until her
eagerness landed her in the rose bed.  Mom rushed back to help her up -
probably because she felt guilty for conspiring with you.  I took a few
big steps to get past them both and finally caught up to you.

  
You
were already fed up with the visit, or else peeved at something Mom had said to
you.  You were as patient as usual, but you didn't seem too interested or
enthusiastic.

"So, what
is it Ronny," you said, "a matter of love. . ?"

   "No, a matter of...” I searched
for a word that would express what was happening, and "fear" was the
only one I could come up with.

   As usual, you placed your hand on my
shoulder.  A large, heavy hand, yet not oppressive.  Your lips parted
as if you were about to say something, but Mom was already behind us (I knew it
without her making a sound, without my turning around, just from something that
flickered across your eyes) and you hesitated.  

Finally you said, "Actually, there's not much
difference between the two.  When it's a matter of love and fear, the
question is usually whether to respond or not...”

   That sounded right, but it didn't
solve any of my problems.  Mom, however, reacted nervously - maybe because
she was afraid I'd said something about something she'd rather forget.
 Aunt Ida was leaning on her arm, and she gingerly passed her over to my
arm.

"Take her inside," she said in a manner
that left no room for argument.

   I led Aunt Ida along the path.
 Suddenly she stopped and motioned me closer.

"Bad things are going on here, Ronny, very
bad things." I nodded and started to walk a little faster before she could
start in with one of her confounded explanations, but she kept mum until we got
inside.

   Mom came in a little after I heard
your car pull away.  She was very uptight and right away started bickering
with Aunt Ida over something unimportant.  Dad went off to sleep, and I
also went off to my room.  Aunt Ida was still upset, and as I dozed off I
could hear her rummaging around restlessly in the living room.  Later that
night, I woke to find her standing over my bed.

"Bad things are going on," she repeated.

   I turned the light on.  She was
wearing a heavy brown coat over her nightgown.  Her neck and chest were as
crumpled as used wrapping paper.  But her breasts, glimpsed through the
torn neckline, were smooth, beautiful.  I cast my eyes down, so as not to
see.  She took it to be something else.  

"Don't fall asleep now, Ronny, don't fall
asleep," she insisted, pulling the blanket off me.  "We have to
see where she's going."

   The word "she" changed
everything.  I leapt out of bed.  Aunt Ida raced ahead down the hall.
 At the entrance to the kitchen she ducked, so as not to be visible
through the window of the dining alcove.  We crouched forward on the
linoleum, inching up to the porch door.

"He divested Marvin of everything," she
whispered, "and now they want to strip me of all I've got."  For
a moment I felt ridiculous crawling along the floor with an old and vengeful
woman who was oozing out of an ancient nightgown.  But by the time we
reached the porch I felt quite differently.