The Late, Lamented Molly Marx (4 page)

Today Delfina has recruited her friend Narcissa and a few other stray Jamaican dynamos and the apartment looks as buffed as it ever has. Dull black synthetic fabric, supplied by a funeral home, drapes the enormous mirror in the foyer, and around the living room, following Jewish custom, squat cardboard boxes—where the immediate family will sit—have popped up like online ads.

On the piano, next to a bouquet of lush white roses—which Delfina must have bought, because Jews aren’t big on flowers during mourning—at least ten framed photos have been gathered and stand in a conga line that represents the life of Molly Marx: Lucy and me as newborns; me dressed as Malibu Barbie for Halloween; my high school graduation picture, proving definitively that short brown Audrey Hepburn hair is not my look; Brie and me burdened with backpacks during our postcollege Roman holiday; my wedding portrait in the strapless gown now carefully preserved for Annabel; big fat me, hugely pregnant;
beach-bunny me, and damn, I didn’t look as bad in my bikini as I thought, which makes me wish I’d had dessert every night, as kitchen magnets suggest.

“She was cute,” a brunette in skintight black suede pants observes, “in a midwestern way.” Who is this stranger who feels comfortable enough to critique my appearance on the first afternoon of a weeklong shiva? She must be a friend of the funeral’s soloist because together they march over to Barry and give lingering hugs.

“I am so sorry for your loss, Dr. Marx,” Black Pants says as she leaves her hand on Barry’s arm. “I’m Jennifer, Adrienne’s sister. I wanted to pay my respects.”

To his credit, Barry doesn’t extend the conversation, although—I can’t be positive—he may have rested his hand on Adrienne’s perky behind for one short beat, which is one beat too long. I do notice that he is wearing a small black ribbon with a tear in it on his lapel. If he were really traditional, he would have cut his funeral suit, which would have been a shame. It was expensive, even if it’s faux.

“What a waste,” I hear Lucy say. I’m not sure if she is referring to my life, my death, or the food. I think it is the last of these, since the delicacies Kitty has ordered, augmented by the crowd’s offerings, cover every inch of the dining table: a sea of Nova Scotia smoked salmon and sable sprinkled with capers, pickled herring, sturgeon, whitefish salad, cream cheese with and without pale shoots of green chives, bialys, bagels, and babka, both chocolate and cinnamon. Much babka. All washed down with cup after cup of high-octane coffee. Kitty must have rented dishes for the occasion, because my Tiffany china-service for ten, a blue and white chickadee pattern—is nowhere in sight. Shiny silver bowls heaped with cashews, chocolate truffles, and other delicacies line the side tables. Kitty obviously made sure that Delfina and her crew got out the polish. I was lax in that department. Flaw number fifty-one.

By four o’clock, the crowd swells to more than a hundred. Guests leave their coats downstairs on a rack off the lobby. At our front door Delfina’s sister, in a dignified black dress instead of her usual sequined jeans, gracefully accepts bakery boxes tied with red string. End to end, there is enough rugelach to pave a road to Scarsdale. Inside the kitchen, platters of sandwiches and mountains of fruit—fresh and
dried—artfully arranged under colored plastic wrap arrive by messenger at the apartment’s back service entrance. Manhattan Fruitier should write me a thank-you note, although I’m not sure why people think the bereaved have a sudden yen for unripe papayas. I predict that my practical mother and sister will eventually check out whether City Harvest accepts donations.

“Molly would have loved this party,” Brie says as she divides a white-chocolate-covered pretzel and feeds half to Isadora. Indeed, a party is what it seems to have become. Guests drift away by five-thirty but come back in triple the force by eight, when Rabbi S.S. holds a short service.

After the prayers, Annabel’s meltdown begins. My parents put her to bed, Alfred the bunny at her side and her thumb in her mouth, although she hasn’t sucked it for over a year. Her serious blue eyes close in less than a minute.

My spirit settles in beside her, arms around my tiny, motherless child. I try with all my strange might to will her to dream of us together, so she can feel how much I love her. I conjure up her third birthday, where every guest brought her favorite doll and we had a real tea party. “Mommy, can we do this every year?” Annabel had asked. “Of course, Annie-belle. It’ll be our tradition.” I had already started planning her fourth-birthday party, for which I’d wanted to order a real tea set. The catalog sits by my bed, with a stickie on page thirty-two. Now what? Will Barry take her to McDonald’s instead, hire a juggler, and give her a video game?

I want that tea party dream as much for me as for Annabel, but she is too tired to dream. She sighs deeply and curls into a fetal position, a tiny comma whose blond curls barely peek above the soft white blanket. I breathe in Annabel’s powdery innocence and count her sweet breaths, wishing my chest could move along with hers. And then I force myself to return to the living room, vibrating with nearly 150 visitors. Which is why, at first, I don’t see him. Luke arrives with Simon, his business partner, and brings paperwhites in a white china pot. I am sure anyone who notices Luke and Simon assumes they are a couple: matching handsome men wearing kindness and Italian loafers of fine, thin leather.

Simon walks toward people he knows. Luke searches the room.
“You must be Mrs. Katz,” he says, approaching my mother-in-law, who appears surprised and flattered by the attention of this black-haired stranger.

“And you would be …?”

“Luke Delaney,” he says. “A friend of Molly’s.” No reaction from Kitty. “From work.”

“Luc?” she says. “Like Jean-Luc Godard?”

I hear him think,
Cool Hand Luke
, what I called him. “Like Luke Skywalker.”

The reference is lost on Kitty. “Where did you say you and Molly worked?” she asks.

A small smile begins to light up Luke’s face, crinkling his eyes. “I’m a photographer,” he says. “We met on a shoot in London.”

Kitty says nothing.

“Molly was very talented,” he adds.

“I see,” Kitty says. “Do you know my son?”

“No,” Luke says. “But of course Molly talked about him all the time.” Guilty as charged.

Kitty looks around the room. Luke thinks she is trying to find Barry, but I know she is simply pretending to do that because she has no interest in Luke, which is fine, because Luke does not want to meet Barry. Not tonight, of all nights. Kitty excuses herself. Luke walks over to the photograph display.

The picture he stares at is of me cuddling Annabel when she is a month old. I hear him think,
You’re beautiful, both of you
, even though I am without makeup and my hair can benefit from not just a cut but a shampoo. When he senses no one is looking, he touches my lips gently, as if he can feel them. He moves his finger back and forth.

I swear that I can feel the warmth of his fingertips.

keep thinking there’s something I could have done.”

“You weren’t even in this hemisphere,” Brie’s lover, Isadora, murmurs. She tenderly kneads almond oil into Brie’s long back, starting at her square, slim shoulders and ending where smooth olive skin meets the top of her heart-shaped tush. I look away, and not just because I always thought Brie’s butt was better than mine, which was shaped like a bustle no matter how skinny I got, or because girl sex has never been my thing. To exercise my gift now feels like a grievous violation of intent. I’m sure my ability wasn’t given to me so I could visually Google a friend.

“But there had to be a clue,” Brie says as she sits up on the tautly made white bed. Her dark brown hair, unfurled from its braid, spreads across a crisply starched pillow sham. The design of the loft shows well-muscled discipline. Every surface is black or white-white, the floors are a deep walnut, and each piece of metal—down to the hinges-is matte stainless steel that shows not one fingerprint. Books and magazines sit in neat piles, as if the owners go on a daily rampage with a T square. The furniture is the direct offspring of esteemed midcentury designers—Knoll and Saarinen and names lost on me. It’s so pure here
I always wanted to show up wearing rock-and-roll drag, carrying carnations dyed electric blue.

To live as Isadora thought they should, Brie jettisoned three-fourths of her possessions. It may still be unknown to Isadora that the stuff wasn’t sold on Craigslist, as Brie led her to believe, but landed in a Bronx mini-storage bin. At least Brie listened to me on that one. I’ll bet right now she wishes she were wrapped in an old granny quilt, rocking in the rickety blue chair we scored at a barn sale in Bucks County.

“A clue?” Isadora says. “Like a mysterious phone call?”

Color rises in Brie’s face.

“Kidding,” Isadora says in her seductive Spanish purr.

“I was hoping,” Brie says, “a postcard, at least, with a word on it.”

“Well, the New York mail may be bad,
mi amor
,” Isadora says, “but it’s been over a week.” She reaches for Brie’s hands, but Brie slips on her robe—whipped-cream white, matching Isadora’s—walks to the window, and stares toward the street below. “I’m sorry,” Brie’s lover says. “I know you’re hurting. I wish there was something I could do.”

Isadora leaves the room—she realizes nothing she can do or say right now will be a comfort or received well. Brie continues to look into the beating rain. “I can feel you, Molly,” she whispers. “I know you’re here, close by. I can’t explain it. I swear I can smell your perfume.” Every duty-free shop called my name; I’d worn Eternity each day of my life for the last five years. Half a bottle of the eau du toilette spray still sits on my bathroom counter.

“Yes, I’m here,” I say. “I’m here. Turn around.” Brie was as true a friend as any woman could want. There was nothing syrupy about her, yet she always let me know she wanted only good things on my behalf. Brie brought out my best self. In her presence, even if it were only over the phone, I wanted to rise to the occasion and try to be more—funnier, happier, sharper. I wish she knew I was with her now. “I’m here,” I say.

Brie looks out the window, seeing nothing. “Molly, send me a sign,” she says.

’m Bob,” he says as he shakes my hand. “I’ve been assigned to be your guide.”

“Are you an angel?” Have I read one too many of the
Guideposts
Delfina has left behind?

He is well pressed, dark-haired, square-jawed, as snappy as the young priest the Vatican puts on television. “Are
you
?” Bob asks seriously.

Am I?

Bob clears his throat and laughs. “Yes, Molly, that was humor. We try not to use loaded words like
angel
. A little woo-woo for us. Think of me as a personal trainer, a seeing-eye dog, a big brother.”

“I never had a brother.”

“We know,” Bob answers. “That’s one reason I was assigned to your case. I’d have introduced myself sooner, but you seem to be figuring out the rules on your own.”

Is this a compliment?

“Yes,” Bob says. “You can take it as a compliment.”

“Thank you,” I say.

“Frankly, over the last few days, I’ve been dealing with my needier cases. You know the type. Can’t tell an insight from an isosceles triangle.”

I try to remember what one of those looked like, or if I ever knew.

“Molly, don’t worry,” Bob says. “Taxes? Spreadsheets? Unless you do logarithms to amuse yourself, math is entirely optional here.”

Perhaps I will like wherever it is I am.

Bob takes out a clipboard. “We should, however, review some basics. Let’s start with just now, when you were hoping to reach Brie in her bedroom.”

“Yes?”

“Everyone tries that at least once.” He tsks. “You remember that phrase your mother always used, ‘Like talking to a wall’?”

My mom said that to Lucy and me at least four hundred times. “Bedtime, girls.” We’d tune her out, glued to
Love Boat
. “Molly! Lucy!” No answer. “Like talking to a wall,” she’d mutter.