Second Acts Page 2

  __________

  On the Sunday before I left for Sidney’s birthday party in Florida, I met Beth and Miriam for our monthly brunch, a tradition we started after I moved back to New York. Miriam had made reservations for us at an East Village bistro located in a building that had once been a shoelace factory and was still in the midst of renovation. I had to duck beneath scaffolding to get in the front door.

  Miriam waved to me from the back of the restaurant. Her pale green blouse perfectly matched her eyes. Amazing, how many articles of clothing she owns in that color. She had been there for about fifteen minutes, she told me as I sat down, long enough to have learned that our waiter was an aspiring actor awaiting a callback for a deodorant commercial. Miriam, beautiful and outgoing as she was when we met in college, engages strangers and collects details from their lives as if she were preparing to write their biographies.

  “Something to drink?” the waiter asked me.

  “A mimosa.”

  “With a little Chambord?”

  “Without. I’m a purist,” I said earnestly. He nodded his approval.

  Beth arrived a few minutes later. She was dressed, as usual, mostly in black, a necessary precaution, she says, lest anyone be able to guess just by looking at her that she lives in Connecticut and not Manhattan. She caught the waiter’s eye and mouthed, “Cappuccino.”

  “Sorry I’m late,” she said, glancing at her watch. “Nicole called from school just as I was walking out the door. She’s doing a psych paper, and she thought I might have some books that would help. It’s hard to believe, for all the tuition we pay, that the campus library wouldn’t have everything she needs. Maybe she misses me, just wanted to talk to her mom. Jim, of course, is at work, so he didn’t get to talk to her. You know, most of the time she doesn’t even say ‘Where’s Dad?’ when she calls. She just assumes he’s at the office. Anyway, she sends her love to both of you.”

  Ellie comes to me from time to time with a question about her schoolwork, but then she rejects my ideas. Last year she was home for spring break working on a paper about the women’s movement. I dragged out my souvenirs. Showed her my t-shirt: “A woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle.” She rolled her eyes in that dismissive way she does with me. Nice male-bashing, Mom.

  “I wouldn’t mind if Ellie asked for my advice now and then,” I said. “Miriam, remember when Ellie was in high school? She used to call you to talk about schoolwork and tell you about her crushes on boys. She always took your advice.”

  “I’m not her mother,” said Miriam. “Your daughters may call me Aunt Miriam, but they think of me as Auntie Mame. Not quite like other grownups. No kids of my own, for one thing.”

  “Oh, yeah, unlike the responsible adult I am?” I said.

  “You know what I mean. To Ellie, you are the grownup who matters.”

  “Until, as I’ve told her repeatedly, I take up residence abroad and live in a manner that will cause no end of embarrassment to her, her future husband, and my grandchildren to come,” I said brightly.

  “Ellie must love when you say that,” said Beth. “And Kevin? What does he think about la vie de bohème that you’re planning?”

  The waiter returned, asking us to choose from the menu on the blackboard across the room. We decided on omelets. Miriam ordered a hot crab dip for us to share.

  “Did you see the dessert list?” Miriam asked. “New York magazine says their truffle cake is the third best chocolate dessert in the city.”

  “How is it possible for a middle-aged woman to eat as much as you do and never gain an ounce?” Beth asked.

  The old jibes—teasing Miriam about the way she looks (and her sex life), Beth for abandoning Manhattan (and being rich), me for being obsessed with traveling (and preferring books to real life much of the time)—I love them. They remind us of how well we know each other. And for how long.

  I told them about Sidney’s party in Florida.

  “Will Kevin go with you?” Miriam asked.

  “No, he won’t be back in time. Anyway, I’ll bet he’s not entirely sorry to miss being in the same room with Martin.”

  “Can’t say I blame him,” said Beth. “I’m sure he still remembers that Martin wouldn’t even shake his hand at Ellie’s high school graduation. But you’ll have a good time, and you can see Violet while you’re there. Don’t forget to tell her we expect her to be at our fall bash again this year. Fifteenth annual!” Beth and Miriam had visited me so often when I lived in Florida that Violet had become their friend, too.

  “Oh, God!” Miriam cried. “The Gillian gala. I’ll have to start thinking about a date.”

  “Why don’t you come by yourself?” Beth asked. “Jim is inviting so many new people this year. I’m sure some of them are single.”

  “No, thanks,” said Miriam, holding up her hand like a stop sign.

  We finished our meal, including a shared slice of New York City’s third best chocolate dessert, and made our way to the street. Beth offered to drive us home.

  “I’ve got some shopping to do,” Miriam said. “You can drive Sarah home. I’ll just take the Lexington Avenue train uptown.”

  We watched Miriam disappear down the stairs to the train. Beth slipped her arm through mine as we walked to the lot where she had parked.

  “Are you all right about Florida?” she asked. “Being with Martin and everything?”

  “I can survive seeing him in a crowd. He’ll be polite to me because Ellie will be there.”

  We got into Beth’s car and headed to the West Side Highway.

  “I don’t know that I’d ever get over being angry at Martin if I were you,” she said, looking straight ahead as she drove.

  “Well, you know how it is when you are forced to deal with something you can’t change,” I said. “I just tell myself that Martin was the right father for my child. I was meant to have Ellie. I have finally accepted the fact that Martin has no intention of spending a minute or a dollar on his child that isn’t court ordered. I got tired of being sad about how things worked out, and being angry at him just wore me out. So I avoid thinking about him.”

  “Yes, I know what you mean,” Beth said, her eyes on the road.

  I suddenly regretted what I said. Of course she knew, better than I, how to cope with helpless sadness and anger. Her world nearly came apart not long ago. I changed the subject.

  “How are things at the museum?”

  “Being on the board takes more time than you’d think. They’ve talked me into giving tours this fall. Once a month, I’ll dust off my BA in art history and play volunteer docent-for-a-day. Which reminds me, I’m trying to talk Jim into going to Rome to see the Caravaggio exhibit that’s opening in the spring. If he won’t take the time, would you come with me? It would make up for your never having visited me in Italy when I studied there.”

  I didn’t have the money to visit Beth in Italy thirty years ago, and I’d have to go into debt to travel with her now. Depressing how little progress I’ve made in some ways. I’ll need a windfall, or a miracle, to join her. For as hard as I work, why am I still struggling?

  “Sounds great,” I said, forcing a smile.

  __________

  On my flight to Florida, the passenger next to me, in an ill-fitting suit and a terrible toupée, looked remarkably like the lawyer I had hired when I divorced Martin.

  Barney Palmer was a good ol’ boy with a veneer of Southern gentility and a reputation for getting the wheels of justice, or whatever, to turn reasonably fast when it came to divorces. He warned me that some Florida judges, if they sensed even the slimmest hope of salvation for a marriage about to be torn asunder, were known to order a couple into prolonged marital counseling instead of granting an immediate divorce.

  “Don’t get sentimental on me now,” Barney drawled as we headed for the judge’s chambers in the Acedia Bay co
urthouse. “When His Honor asks if you still have any feelings for Martin, there’s no need to be recalling how much you used to love him or that he’s the father of your child or any such foolishness. Say that you detest the son of a bitch and that you regret you ever met him.”

  The whole thing took less than twenty minutes. The four of us—Martin, his lawyer, Barney, and I—sat like school children in front of the judge, watching him flip quickly through a pile of folders, listening as he prepared to officially release Mr. and Mrs. Martin Roth from each other’s lives. The judge asked us if we thought there was hope of rescuing the marriage. Martin just shook his head. I said, “No, Your Honor,” rather energetically. Martin never looked at me, but I snuck a glance at him from time to time. He looked tired, he had gained some weight, and he somehow seemed shorter than he was when I was married to him. When the hearing was over, I went home and wrote a poem I entitled, “Was the S.O.B. Always So Short?” It was clever and funny and only the slightest bit mean, considering how I felt about Martin at the time.

  After our divorce, Martin sent child support payments more or less on time but excused himself from being a father in most other ways. The infinite worries that define parenthood were left entirely to me. Does she need an algebra tutor? Does she need braces? Should I raise her allowance? Should I let her go to a rock concert? Is that heat rash, or chickenpox?

  Ellie, so demanding of me, was content with whatever little time and attention her father afforded her. I juggled my work schedule to drive carpools, to race to pediatrician visits, to deliver green eggs and ham to Ellie’s class for Dr. Seuss Day, to attend teacher conferences and dance recitals. Martin would fly into town for maybe one event out of every dozen in his daughter’s life, and Ellie would happily talk for days afterwards about how nice it was for him to have come.

  __________

  I expected to see Helen when I landed in Jacksonville. Instead, Sidney was at the gate, ashen and jittery.

  “There’s—um—no party, Sarah,” he began. He was fiddling with his car keys. “Martin had a heart attack. We got the call from what’s-her-name, the girlfriend, Pauline, early this morning.” He paused for a moment, and then he began to race uncomfortably through the rest of his news.

  “Martin died en route to the hospital. We’re going to have his body flown in from Nashville. You know, Jewish funerals should be the next day after, so we don’t want to wait. It’s a little complicated because of the distance, but I’m trying to arrange everything for tomorrow. He’ll be buried next to his parents in that cemetery on the north side of town.”

  “Sidney, slow down. What do you mean?”

  “I know, it doesn’t seem real to any of us. Young guy, always active, seemed healthy.”

  “And Ellie? My God, how is she?”

  “She came in late last night. She was still asleep when we got the call. It was so early this morning, and then I had to—um—go make some arrangements for the—um—and then I came here to get you, so I don’t know.”

  We were moving along with the tide of people heading for the baggage claim. My mind leapt to the family drama that had ensued when Martin and Helen’s parents died. For both funerals, each family member took on a predictable role, as if they were working from a script. Helen was expected to remain dignified and self-effacing in her grief, and she didn’t disappoint. Sidney, famous for his allergy to open emotion, was permitted to retreat, and, except for his occasional appearances to provide bulletins about funeral arrangements, we barely saw him. Martin, as usual, remained in charge of being angry. He criticized the rabbi; he snapped at the funeral director; he made snide comments about well-intentioned neighbors who brought casseroles and cakes for us as we sat shiva for a week. Practical details fell to me—calling family and friends, making sure there was enough fresh coffee on hand. I wrote eulogies for both of Martin’s parents and read them at the funerals. Ellie was so small and so sad, too young for the rituals surrounding death to offer her any comfort. I imagined her now, stunned and silent, trying to figure out her role.

  Ignoring the wheels on my suitcase, Sidney picked it up by the handle and walked me to his car. As he drove, I tried to evoke the feeling of being in love with Martin, but all I could recall were the last years of our marriage, when I dreamed frequently of my husband’s demise. The widow fantasies I had confided to Violet, and my caustic wit at Martin’s expense, now seemed surreal and reckless.

  “It’s so good that you’re here,” Sidney said as we pulled into the garage of the yellow stucco house that he and Helen had lived in for more than thirty years. I knew Sidney wouldn’t want to deal with Helen’s raw grief alone.

  I found Helen curled up on a chintz-covered chair at the kitchen table. Her eyes were swollen and red. She stood and put her arms around my neck.

  “Helen, I know how awful this is for you,” I began, but she interrupted me.

  “I’ll be fine, sweetie. Go to Ellie, she’s in the guest room.”

  I let go of Helen and made my way down the hall. I knocked softly on the guest room door.

  “Come in.”

  Ellie was sitting cross-legged on the bed, still in pajamas. She was pale, but she didn’t look as if she had been crying. I sat on the bed and put my arm around her.

  “Honey, I’m so sorry,” I said.

  “It doesn’t seem real, Mom. I spoke to him yesterday. He told me about a book he was reading on transcendental meditation.”

  From the front hallway, I heard the doorbell ring and then Sidney’s voice greeting the family rabbi.

  “Can I get you anything?” I asked Ellie.

  “Um, maybe find me an iron, okay? I bought a new dress for Uncle Sidney’s party,” she said. “It’s just a black linen thing, and it got a little creased in my suitcase. I guess I’ll wear it to . . .” her voice broke, and then she asked me to leave so she could get dressed.

  “If you want to talk . . .”

  “Not now, Mom.”

  I returned to the kitchen. Rabbi Weisgall introduced himself. He had never met Martin, and he asked if we knew who might want to say a few words at the service.

  Helen wiped her eyes and stared at me. “Sarah, I remember what you said about Mama and Daddy at their funerals. Would you please?”

  The rabbi looked at me expectantly. I thought about the poem that I had written the day I divorced Martin. Not exactly the stuff eulogies are made of.

  “Helen, I . . .” I began, and then saw Ellie standing in the doorway to the kitchen. The rabbi told her how sorry he was. She looked away.

  Helen pressed on. “Ellie, don’t you think your mom should say a few words tomorrow?”

  Ellie remained stony-faced. “I don’t know,” she shrugged.

  Rabbi Weisgall looked at Ellie and then at me.

  “Sarah, why don’t you and I go outside?” he suggested, and so we excused ourselves and walked out the back door.

  We sat at the wrought-iron table on the patio. The mid-day Florida heat and the fragrance of orange trees were overpowering and familiar. Years ago, Martin and I had wept with Ellie as we buried her goldfish under the satsumas in our own backyard, only a mile from where I was sitting.

  “In some ways, this may be harder for you than for the others,” Rabbi Weisgall began. “Death is always harder for those who have unresolved conflicts with the departed.”

  I shook my head. “Rabbi, I’m sorry that Martin died, but I have no conflicts about him. We had an unhappy marriage and a bitter divorce, and except for Ellie, nothing that passed between us has meaning for me anymore. I loved him a long time ago, but I can’t summon up many positive feelings for him, even now. He disappointed Ellie so many times over the years, and I can’t forgive him for that. I just want to help her get through this.”

  “I understand that forgiveness may take some time, but I hope you’ll find a way,” he said. “You may be surprised how doi
ng the eulogy will help you. And Helen. And especially Ellie. I expect that Helen is asking a great deal of you, but I think you’re up to it. She has great respect for you.”

  “I love Helen. But my relationship with her has nothing to do with Martin anymore.”

  “I can perform the service without your saying anything, but you may feel different by tomorrow. For your own sake, I hope you do. I can’t begin to know what you’re experiencing now. But perhaps God is offering you a way to unload a burden you didn’t even know you were carrying.”

  As we walked back in the house, Sidney met us to say that Pauline would be arriving with Martin’s body late that night. The funeral was set for the next morning.

  Ellie pulled me aside. “Are you going to do it?” she asked.

  “Oh, Ellie, I’m not sure I can.”

  “You should do it, Mom, for Aunt Helen. She can’t do it, and Uncle Sidney wouldn’t know what to say. Otherwise only the rabbi will speak, and he didn’t even know Dad. Really, you knew him best.”

  “Let me think about it,” I said. “Listen, I’m going to stay with Violet tonight. Would you like to stay with me?”

  Ellie sighed. “No thanks. Maggie will be here soon, and I want to stick around.” Maggie was Helen and Sidney’s daughter, a few years older than Ellie. Unlike me, Maggie wouldn’t press Ellie to talk or cry.

  I borrowed Helen’s car to drive to Violet’s house, grateful for the solitude of the ride. In my head was a slide show of events I hadn’t thought about in years. The yellow roses Martin sent me after our first date. Martin and I happily cooking our first Thanksgiving dinner in our tiny New York apartment, and our last Thanksgiving together in Florida, when I demanded that he pack his clothes and move out. Martin’s dark moods and punishing silence during our last years together. Ellie’s face when she caught sight of Martin and me in the bleachers at her swim meets. Ellie’s face when Martin didn’t show up to see her in the school play. The promises Martin and I had made and broken to each other.