Goodbye Without Leaving (27 page)

Dr. Frechtvogel motioned for me to relight his cigar.

“I just want him to have what I didn't have,” I said.

“I will die soon,” he said.

“Oh, don't do that,” I said.

“I wish to die,” he said. “Last week I went to visit Mrs. Weinberg. Along the way a large man came and demanded my money. He says I must give him my money or he will kill me. I said,
‘Kill me at once
! I long to die. I am very old.'”

“What did he do?”

“He dropped his knife and ran away,” said Dr. Frechtvogel.

His face had the sheen of parchment. He resembled one of the big cats that drowse, fully alert, with its eyes closed. His great eyebrows shot up, but he wore a faint smile, like a sleeping newborn or a Buddha.

“I don't want you to die,” I said, sitting in the chair next to him. Dr. Frechtvogel took my hand. His was as soft and worn as an old kid glove. “I need you to be alive,” I said. “Are you sick?”

“I have had enough of life,” said Dr. Frechtvogel. “I will be happy to enter heaven, where I can smoke in peace.”

“I didn't know you believed in heaven,” I said. “How do you know you'll go there, anyway?”

“As I get closer,” said Dr. Frechtvogel, “I believe it more. It is pleasant to think about. A quiet place, some splashing water, just like in the Heinrich Heine poem. A nice girl like you to bring lunch and some decent cigars. But I would also find eternal nothingness very agreeable.”

“I need you,” I said.

“And for what?”

“I need you to be in my life,” I said. “You know things I don't know. Where I come from, everyone is the same. We grew up, the same. Nothing terrible ever happened. We're the treacherous innocent Americans you rail about all the time.”

Dr. Frechtvogel patted my hand. “You have Leo,” he said. “Although he is like a library book and must be returned, yes?”

“Yes,” I said. “But it isn't the same.”

“You will learn, my dear child, when you get older, that it is all the same,” said Dr. Frechtvogel. “Or very near.”

60

One morning I was taken aside in front of the school by Paulette Goldberg, the former Pixie Lehar.

“Oh, hey,” she said. “I hope you don't mind, but I put your name in to the board as entertainment for the school fair.”

I stared at her.

“It's traditional to have parents perform. Remember last year? We had Janice Bracken, who plays the fiddle. She's done it for years but her daughter is graduating, so I thought you would be perfect.”

I continued to stare.

“They were thrilled and amazed,” she continued. “I mean, when I said you had backed up Ruby. Nobody knew that about you. They were just overwhelmed. They want to advertise and everything.”

“It's totally out of the question,” I said.

“Oh, come
on
,” Paulette said. “It's for the school. No one's asking you to take your clothes off. Think about it.”

I thought about it. “No,” I said.

“You could get Doo-Wah to back you up. He'd do it for you, right? There's a couple of musicians in the school. You could do ‘You Don't Love Me Like You Used to Do,'” she said. “Or ‘Hi-Heel Sneakers.'”

“That isn't really one of Ruby's songs,” I said.

“She did it once at the Newark Armory. I saw her, and you were backup,” Paulette said.

“It's totally out of the question,” I said.

“I don't get it,” Paulette said. “I mean, are you ashamed or something?”

“Why don't
you
do it?” I said.

“Because I was a dud,” Paulette said. “It wasn't just drugs why Vernon fired me. I was really pretty terrible. He did some deal with Big Thing, or maybe it was Little Ed, I don't remember, and he like owed them. That's how I got hired in the first place, and then Vernon realized that I was a lousy singer and a terrible dancer, and in addition to which Spider used to come around with his neat brown heroin and that was Vernon's excuse. But you were sensational. You had it all right. I heard Vernon say that you were the best he had ever seen, so think about it, okay?”

I had plenty of time to think. That weekend we were going to Johnny's parents in the country. Each year they gave their enormous presummer party to which the entire community was invited. My parents would be there, and I was pressed into service. The lake would be open for swimming. Family photographs would be taken. I would be introduced and reintroduced to a large number of people and their accomplished offspring, who sat on plaid blankets on the beach with an air of perfect security—the product of peace and prosperity, good schools, balanced diet, high-tech dental care, up-to-the-minute immunizations, continental travel, and enough money to foster excellent sleeping habits.

As I packed for the country I told Johnny that Pixie Lehar had nominated me as entertainment for the school fair.

“Great!” Johnny said. “I think that's wonderful. You never sang enough with Ruby. I remember the first time I heard you. It was in Portland, or someplace like that. You sang the beginning of ‘Love Makes Me Feel So Bad.' It was thrilling.”

“It's out of the question,” I said. “They want to advertise it.”

My husband sat on the bed wearing his lawyer's trousers and a ruined T-shirt with a faded picture of Little Richard on it. On the back it said
THE QUASAR OF ROCK
. He was barefoot, and the
Wall Street Journal
was spread in front of him. His duffel bag was neatly packed: he was an organized fellow, my Johnny.

“So what if they advertise?” Johnny said. “It'll make a lot of money for the school.”

“Listen,” I said. “I don't want to do it. I don't want to be identified as something I can't do anymore. It only reinforces my feeling that I'm a used-to-be.”

“You can still do it,” Johnny said. “You can't be a backup, but you can be a front-up.”

“You don't want me to let this go,” I said. “You need me to keep this thing going so you can feel that the real world of adults and lawyers hasn't sealed you up. If I stop being an ex-Shakette, the last shred of your old true self is gone.”

Johnny was silent. He knew this was perfectly true.

“Okay,” he said. “So maybe I do need you to be an ex-Shakette. What's so horrible about that? What's so horrible about the fact that you need me to be an adult and a straight-bag so you can be marginal? If you weren't married to me you would be living in some furnished room someplace, working at some marginal job.”

Now I was silent. That was quite true, too.

“It's pretty depressing,” I said.

“No, it isn't,” said my always optimistic husband. “The past is undeniable. You were a Shakette. You were a terrific singer. You were a great dancer. Wouldn't you like Little Franklin to see you perform?”

“Sure,” I said. “And then I'll take him down to court and he can watch you argue a case.”

“Listen, honey. It's the same thing. I have to wail and boogie too. That's what arguments in court are all about.”

We discussed it the next morning at breakfast.

“It's out of the question,” I said again.

“What's out in the question, Mommy? What is it? What did Daddy mean?” said Little Franklin.

“We were just having a family discussion,” I said.

“I want to have a family discuss too!” said Franklin.

“Please eat your breakfast,” I said, “and then I have to pack your clothes for the country.”

“Can I take my bathing suit?” said Franklin. “I want my bathing suit. Can I take it with me, Mommy?”

“You can take it, but it may not be warm enough for swimming,” I said.

“I want it to be warm. Okay, Mommy?”

He said this several thousand more times while I packed his bag, made the bed and put away the dishes.

As we walked to school he said, “Can I swim without my swimming wings, Mom? Can I go out to the float? Can I run on the dock? Will Evelyn be the lifeguard? Will Jessie give me swimming lessons? Can I go frogging? Can I go swimming all day long? Can I swim in the big people's part? Look, Mommy! There's Amos.”

Ann and Amos came up alongside us.

“I'm losing my mind,” I said.

“And I, mine,” Ann said. “I've lost my verbs, a bad sign.”

“They think I should perform at the school fair,” I said.

“Hey, far out,” said Ann. “Theme night! I'll wear my tie-dyed dress.”

“Johnny wants me to.”

“I want you to,” Ann said.

“I can't stand up in front of all those people,” I said.

“You used to stand up in front of thousands of people,” said Ann.

“But these people are people I
know
,” I said.

“So what?”

“So I'm Little Franklin's mother,” I said. “I can't just throw on my dance dress and be someone else.”

“You won't be,” said Ann. “I mean, they're both the same person aren't they? Besides, you're not going to let a little thing like being Franklin's mother stand in your way, are you?”

61

As we pulled into the long driveway of Johnny's parents' house, a striped caterer's truck pulled up in back of us and out hopped two sleek young men dressed all in white carrying dozens of large white paper boxes. Johnny dropped his duffel bag to help bring them in; I was left with Franklin's bag, my bag and the duffel, and a child who had been transformed from a zippy, bouncing person to a dreamy infant crawling along the ground.

“Franklin, what
are
you doing?” I said.

“I'm looking for worms,” said my boy. “I am a worm. I'm a worm today, Mommy. Daddy said there would be lots of worms and I could take them home in a jar. Okay?”

The Millers' summer house was a low, Japanese-looking sprawl set beautifully along a winding forest road in a clearing in the sun. In the front of it was Dolly's cutting garden, and in the back was Herbert's attempt at shrubbery, each winter eaten down to little stubs by white-tailed deer.

The Millers spent every weekend of their existence in this place, and their annual summer party was a tradition.

It was abnormally hot for May. The sky was gray and heavy. It looked as if it might eventually storm. The gnats and no-see-'ems swirled around my head like a turban. But inside Dolly's house everything was crisp. There was no surface that did not feel clean to the touch, and there was not a frill or unnecessary object anywhere.

“This party is going to be a steam bath,” Johnny said.

“Well, we'll encourage everyone to go outside,” Dolly said. “Herbert, get the flambeaux and the mosquito coils. We'll need them for the bugs.”

In the cellar were enormous candlelike incense sticks that emitted a strong, pleasantly flavored smoke. Dolly uttered a prayer against rain, and went down to the cellar to bring up the carton of citronella candles in little tin buckets.

Down at the beach it was easy to see that by nightfall it would storm. The lavender and gray clouds hung heavily over the water. The beach was a sandy sward cut out of the forest, with a gravel path leading down to it.

It was as hot and as close as August. Dolly, who kept in excellent trim, wore a tank suit under her white ducks and sailor shirt. She brought a big plaid stadium blanket, a basket of fruit and fruit juice, and the morning paper. There was hardly a soul at the beach she did not know, and if some young couple she had never seen before—some new summer renters—appeared, she had them pegged within three days.

This comfortable beach, Dolly's comfortable house, the abundant good food, the beauty of the landscape, somehow made me feel that there was not quite enough oxygen for me. In the comfortable bedroom, from whose picture window I could see grosbeaks, juncos and chickadees perched on the bird feeder, I longed for my own home.

There was no escape. I longed to fall asleep or take a walk, but this weekend, like many of Dolly's weekends, was rigorously planned. The day after the party we would have pancakes for breakfast and then go walking to see the Devlins, and then we would have lunch at the beach, followed by a barbecue at the beach club. My one out was Little Franklin, who would, after all, have to go to bed early.

I never got over my intuition that I was not presentable enough for Dolly, and the beach always gave me a quiver of dread. At the height of the season, arrayed on towels, were her friends, their children and numerous, stunning grandchildren. These small children wore T-shirts announcing the schools they went to, all approved of by Dolly, who did not like the idea that her grandchild went to a school so few people had heard of.

Fortunately the beach was almost empty—it was too muggy, too stormy. Three white-haired ladies played cards. Two big boys—at least eight years old—horsed around by the dock. Johnny and Franklin splashed in the water, or Franklin practiced jumping off the dock, crying out “
Geronimo
!” as his father had taught him.

I heaved myself off the blanket, where Dolly and Herbert sat reading the paper. I put on my cap and goggles.

“I'm going for a swim,” I said.

I stood up to my shoulders in water and closed my eyes. When I looked back at the beach it seemed the whole world had frozen—an optical trick. The next instant the color came back into everything, but in that eerie purplish light everyone seemed drained, like people in a faint.

The water was perfect: not cold, not warm. The lake spread out in front of me.

I swam a slow, easy crawl, out to the float and past the markers. I felt my body move easily through the water. I was a fish, a whale, a creature that belonged in water. There was perfect sympathy between me and the lake. When I looked back, I saw the beach had grown considerably smaller, and when I finally heard shouting, I was halfway across.

It was wonderful and terrible. I had never swum so well, I could not bear to stop. Life gives few moments of such ease—dancing on stage was one, sitting in a rocker with the infant Franklin was another. I was not going to stop. I was going to cause a hitch in this perfectly set-up day. Johnny would have to drive the car around to the other side to get me. I would drip all over the seat, even though Dolly would have remembered to send a towel.