Bereavements (17 page)

“But they’re perfect! And beautiful!”

“Well, it’s all in a viewpoint, I suppose.” And, overly polite: “What about his mother, if I may ask?”

“But of course you may ask! When haven’t you! She died, I would guess, months ago; and I didn’t inquire. About her color.”

“Black as a scuttle of coal.”

“Perhaps.” Mrs. Evans waved the scented card under Rose’s nose. “Angel has a cousin name
Furie.
Isn’t that fine?”

“That’s a name? I thought it was an emotion.”

Mrs. Evans laughed. “Rose-dear-Rose!”

But Rose-dear-Rose, busy and bored with her employer’s rare frivolous mood, swept by and beyond her in her dusting.

She remembered to ask, however: “Are any more coming? I mean—like we’ve already seen—so I’ll be prepared. We’re not getting Furie?!”

“No no. No more. No more boys, only Angel. Certainly Angel. And Bruno I do suppose, perhaps . . . from time to time.”

Mrs. Evans had forgotten entirely the name Martin Dzierlatka. But the following day was the 15th of October, when he was destined to appear, exactly on time as promised, ringing the doorbell as the clock struck four.

The phone rang, well after midnight. Roused from a drugged sleep, Mrs. Evans took some moments to answer. It was a slightly thin-voiced Rose.

“Ma’am—I’m sorry, but it’s the boy. Angel.”

“On the phone?”

“Yes. On Two. I told him you were asleep, but he keeps calling back. Now he’s woke Cook and she’s angry.”

“I see.” She paused. “Give me a moment.” She sat up, breathing deeply, trying to shake off her dizziness. “All right. I’ll take it now,” and she pressed the little light on Two. Someone else, Dori probably, must have been using One.

“Hello? Angel?”

After they’d finished their odd conversation, Mrs. Evans tried to piece it together.

Someone had died. Who? “Well—a relative, you might say; like an aunt.”
Was
it an aunt? “Well—you
could
say that.” Impossible child!

Anyway, he couldn’t visit her. On Sad’day. Like he promised. He was sorry. ‘Cause he really wanted to take that ride to the country and see the autumn leaves, all gold, like she said. Only that was the day the funeral was. And burial.

Besides, his father needed him now. “He wants me to be, sort of, aroun’ more than I use t’be. That is, he wants . . . ” Angel’s voice broke, and the breaking contained such an eerie quality, a nuance of hidden content, that Mrs. Evans felt a rush of cold across her shoulders and back. She was wide awake now, the effects of the drug worn away.

“My father . . . ” Angel repeated,

“Your father what?” she demanded, distraught.

“Well—like I said. He wants me aroun’.”

And that was the most she could get out of him. But if it stopped there, if she couldn’t see this boy again, soon, very soon, if she didn’t have that to look forward to, plan, keep her sane, she’d be prowling the night and the Village streets again, before the week was over, or back at Jamie’s tomb, stumbling through the dark in a passion of grief, or, worse, planning, believing—her fantastic delusion returning—that soon she would have enough power to raise the dead.

I’ll find a way!

“Angel—!” She steadied, calmed her voice, and it couldn’t have been more emphatic. “When will you be free? What day shall we drive to the country?”

“Well . . .” Silence. “Maybe Sad’day after nex’. I might be able to get away by then.”

“No no.” She was firm. “That won’t do. You must promise. I must be able to count on it. Because if you don’t—” (had she become so desperate so soon?) “—if you aren’t here when you say, then I’ll have to drive by, I’ll find out where you live, someway, and I’ll go and speak to your father. I’ll simply tell him that you and I—that we’re friends. How could he mind that? And that we’re going to . . . “

“Oh no”—a tremor in his voice. “You mustn’t do that! My father wouldn’t—My father— Look. I promise. I swear. God can kill me dead with lightnin’ if I don’t. I’ll be there Sad’day after nex’. Early, before the sun, like we said. So’s we can have the whole day.”

“You promise?”

“I swear.”

But days before the drive to the country—to see the golden leaves, to visit briefly the Long Island house where a small “but, man, perfeck” feast awaited Angel, to walk through the grounds where the boy on that glorious Indian summer’s day found the afternoon sun warm enough to want to strip to his jockey shorts after declining, oddly, any of at least twenty swim trunks that had belonged to Jamie, and splash happily (though he couldn’t swim) in the shallow end of the leaf-scattered pool; finally to talk about, answer his shy strange questions regarding the tomb, barely visible in the distance where her beloved son lay—before any of this, there was the astonishing, unexpected
Martin Dzierlatka.

What happened, was that this unprincipled young man—his brash, bold nature evidently a product of his years “in the theatre”—had persuaded a friend as immoral as he who worked at the Village Station Post Office to supply him, illegally, of course, with the name and address of the Occupant of Box 89.

And, at his self-appointed hour, Rose announced his arrival with a face just a bit too straight. A Mr.
Deer-lot-ker
(she said, pronouncing each syllable separately) had arrived.

“Who?”

Rose repeated the word and then broke down, confessing fretfully: “I made him repeat it four times, and I still didn’t know—” with rare profanity “—what the hell he was saying. It sounded something like I said. Anyway, if he isn’t expected, as he said, he’s here, all but pushing his way in, and is sitting, smoking a cigarette—” one of the cardinal sins of the household “—in the living room.”

“Well . . .”

Mrs. Evans appeared perplexed. “Is he selling something? Sometimes they go
mad
when they fall short of their quotas. Or is his head shaven? And is he wearing a saffron robe? If so, he’s a Hare Krishna, or some other religious, begging for alms.”

Wordless, Rose stared in disbelief at her employer, unable, always, at such “playful” moments to decide whether or not the woman was high or profoundly depressed, the latter sometimes so disguised and mixed with grief (plus idleness and boredom) that she was ready to play any game at hand for a moment’s relief.

In any event (Mrs. Evans said) salesman or priest, get rid of him, and his cigarette. “Afterward, be sure you air out the room. If he’s any trouble, call Dori; let him do it.” Then she stopped the girl, who was almost out the door. “No! Wait!”

It was such a dreary, rainy afternoon. Almost as much as ever, she had awakened that day aching with grief and loneliness. It was a day to lose one’s mind. But how well she had learned to play sly tricks on madness!

“I’ll see him,” she decided. “Do we need a new vacuum cleaner, Rose? I’ll buy one. Or a twelve-speed blender? Or a few scented tapers to burn along with our prayers . . . ?”

The woman had been impossible since the moment she’d gotten out of bed that morning, changing the breakfast menu from the invariable three minute egg, whole wheat cinnamon toast and tea, to fresh strawberries, light cream, melba toast and grapefruit marmalade—all of which had to be sent out for.

Worse: she had returned, though it was to be hoped only for the day, to her mourning, wearing a black chiffon dress that was just a bit too young for her age, and penny-size onyx earrings, together with a double-twist throat string of narrow black velvet, knotted in the back, and so long it not only reached, but trailed dramatically on the floor behind her. If anyone stepped on it (the girl thought) she’d be choked to death, a second Isadora.

Mrs. Evans went directly to the living room to confront a most attractive, slender, well-dressed young man whom she instantly liked: at least his appearance, and his initial ease of well-bred good manners.

“Mr.—?”

“Dzierlatka.”

She made him spell it, and found it simple (stupid Rose!) It was that “dz” was not found in the English language and was to be pronounced with the teeth closed, tongue pressed against them, producing a sound like a buzz.

“Martin,” he supplied, “Martin Dzierlatka.”

“Ah yes,” as if she’d made a connection. But the young man was not to be deceived.

“You’ve forgotten me.”

Mrs. Evans shook her head. “Not forgotten. I don’t know you. We’ve never met.”

“My letter,” he smiled. “Some weeks ago . . . The photo torn in pieces.” Good heavens! The mad one; “one of the mad ones,” as her mother used to say.

“Did you put it together; the photo?”

How shameful and annoying to confess that she had! But the rules of this game, from the very start, she knew, was to tell the truth. ‘Else there was no reason to play it at all.

“Yes I did. Carefully, and with scotch tape. And then I threw it away. But I remember it clearly. And clearly that it wasn’t you. It must have been a photo,” looking at his handsome face (he was at least twenty eight years old), “that was taken ten years ago. Or more.”

“I’m in the theatre,” he replied. As if that explained everything, which quite possibly it did. “I’m an actor; a good actor; a fine one. With a great deal of experience and considerable critical acclaim, but without—these things do happen—commercial success. I’m not a star. Or a celebrity. Not yet. Do you have an ash tray?”

“We do not smoke in this house.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” His eyes were a bit wild looking for a suitable place to discard his barely half-inch of burning tobacco. Finding none, and no help at all from a cool and mildly curious Mrs. Evans who simply watched to see what he would do, he was marvelously resourceful. He simply dropped the cigarette into the cuff of a trouser leg and with a quick pressure of his fingers crushed it out. Not a trace, not even the faintest whiff of smoke remained. Admirable, and absurd.

In addition, he seemed to have forgiven her rudeness, or was hiding his anger, awaiting his turn. Either way, she now felt guilty. But it was her grief turned inside out. She was so tired of suffering that, even in small ridiculous ways, she wanted others, everyone, to suffer, too.

“About the torn photo,” she said, really wanting to know, “it puzzled me exceedingly.”

“Did it.” He was surprised. “I thought you were playing a joke, a game, and I wanted to tease you, or amuse you with one of my own. I mean—after all! Your ad! A mother!—looking for a son!”