The Sixteenth of June (4 page)

“The two guys smoking are Mike and Jon, by the way. Sharon's kids.”

“Oh! Your cousins!” She squints at them, having mentally filed them away as strangers. One has a goatee and unruly sideburns; the other has large, black disks tugging open his ears, visible even at this distance. “And those two are definitely related to your dad?”

Leo smiles. “Mom always says they brought the wrong one home from the hospital.” Nora has in fact heard her utter this very line; June treated the subject of her in-laws like a used tissue. Still, it is a shock to see them. The contrast to Michael, clean-cut and sharp, couldn't be more pronounced.

“Jon works at a CVS. Mike—the one with the goatee, named after my dad, actually—has a record. Drugs, I think. There was a call once, in the middle of the night.” Leo squints, remembering. “They both live at home. And you should be forewarned that Sharon is, er, living large these days.” He holds out his hands to approximate her girth. “George—her husband—he's a good guy, though. They've been married like ten years now. He's a car salesman.”

Nora feels a momentary layer of warmth. The warmth is a picnic blanket opening in slow motion. She watches as it comes to rest, unfolding before her. Flaws, she thinks happily.

“And this is why you locked me in? For an overview of the family?”

“My dad—he told me that Stephen was visiting my grandmother. Like, a lot.”

She hears an edge in his voice and waits for him to continue.

“I swung by Delancey this morning. I guess my dad saw the visitor log when he, you know, signed her out or whatever. Stephen's been going to see her for ages. Every single week without fail.”

“Okay.”

“He never said a word about it to any of us. We didn't have a clue.”

Nora can hear the question coming like the approach of a missile, its quiet whistle parting the air.

“He ever say anything to you?”

Nora watches as the two guys stab their cigarettes out. A spark of ember arcs out from a shoe, showering orange.

“Nora? Love?”

“No,” she says, turning back to Leo.

He nods to himself. “Okay.” The missile falls away, called back home. “It's just—it's so
weird
. I don't know why he'd keep something like that to himself. Let alone why he'd do it.” Leo shakes his head. “My dad said she might've modified her will. She met with her lawyer a couple of months ago. Not that it matters. I mean, she wasn't loaded or anything. And, you know, it's her money. Obviously.”

Nora nods. What bothers you isn't the money, she wants to tell him. What bothers you is the secret. “I'm sure Stephen wasn't trying to hide anything.”

Leo frowns.

“He definitely wouldn't have wanted her money.”

“I guess we'll find out Monday,” Leo replies.

Nora glances out the window. Stephen is holding the synagogue doors open, indicating for his cousins to go forward. “Why not just ask? Pull him aside before the service. Clear the air.” But she knows, even as she's suggesting it, that Leo will do no such thing.

“I'm not supposed to know. My dad said not to mention it, that he doesn't want Stephen feeling spied on.”

“But the point is that you
do
know. You can't pretend you don't.”

“He's the one who decided not to tell us.”

“He started it, you mean?”

“Listen, if it happens to come up—”

Nora shoots him a warning look.

“You don't have to raise the subject or anything. But, you know, if
he
were to bring it up, on his own—”

Nora realizes there is a lock button on her door. She reaches for it.

“Well, don't go telling him about this.”

She looks at Leo, exasperated. This is his specialty, this particular form of unreasonableness that strikes him as perfectly fair. Asking the unaskable of her, but then refusing to ask perfectly benign questions of anyone else. How come Stephen gets the kid gloves while she gets the land mines?

Something in her look gets across, for Leo nods and says nothing more, hitting the unlock button.

The two shades of black she wears are not the same. She realizes this stepping out of the car, the cloud-filtered light illuminating her outfit. Her dress is a wool sheath that has proved too useful. The jacket, meanwhile, purchased for auditions, is silk. It has been sitting untouched in the closet and is fresher, nearly shiny, like paint that hasn't yet dried. She had thrown it on just before leaving the apartment.

June will notice, she realizes miserably. What had seemed like such a clever solution to the predicament of a chilly morning now strikes her as foolish. She wonders if she should leave the jacket in the car, though it's probably inappropriate to enter a synagogue with bare shoulders. Etiquette is etiquette, she decides, resigned to her two-toned fate.

“Always have to leave everything to the last minute,” her dad would say with irritation.

June had no doubt consulted the weather ahead of time, laying her outfit on the bed. “Make sure it gets steamed,” she would have instructed, and Carol would have held up the wand of the garment steamer as it issued its great, hot billowing clouds.

Inside the synagogue, it is warm and dark, redolent of wood. Leo steps forward to don a yarmulke, provided by the temple in what strikes her as a thoughtful gesture. The yarmulkes look like black Pringles, nesting in a concave stack.

“Any sign of June?” Stephen asks, materializing beside her.

“She's probably looking for you,” Leo retorts.

“Your mother had some calls to make,” Michael intones from behind. “Hello, by the way.” He leans in to hug his sons and to kiss Nora on the cheek. His normally bright eyes look a few notes quieter, laugh lines more visible because they are not in use.

Michael has close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair and strong, angular features. He is one of those men who cause women to look. Nora has seen it when they are out at dinner, waitresses and wives glancing at his gold wedding band with regret, then looking at June appraisingly. Men took in his black, rubberized watch in lieu of a Rolex and saw a man who had confidence without conceit.

“We've been wondering about you,” Leo says pointedly to Stephen. “No one knew where you were.”

“Ah,” Stephen replies. “Judy the Cruise Director. I forgot to sign in.”

Leopold's ears ignite.

“You took the train?” Michael asks pleasantly.

“I took the train.” Stephen wriggles his briefcase for them as though it were a prop. “Too much work. Papers to grade, research to do. If only the world stopped for death.”

“Indeed,” Michael says.

“Has June been a nutcase this morning?” Stephen inquires.

“This is a busy day for your mother.” Michael straightens Stephen's lapels, giving them a tug, perhaps more firmly than necessary. “A long day for everyone.” Here, a trace of his usual spark, his eyes musing over the day that awaits them.

“The Dow is up,” Leo offers.

They all turn. His eyes are focused on his phone. Michael goes to say something but stops. The comment sits in the air like a fart.

“I'm so sorry for your loss,” Nora blurts out.

“Thank you,” Michael replies. “It was kind of you to come.”

They make their way down to the front of the room. There are pews, just like at a church, and Nora registers this beneath the lash of self-chastisement (“I'm so sorry for your loss?” Really? That was the best you could do?) hissing in her brain.

“She's probably on the phone with the caterer,” Stephen mutters at Nora's elbow. “Instructing them to churn the butter by hand.”

Nora smiles. “Party planning until the very last second. The devil is in the details.”

“That it is.”

“I'm worried I don't match,” she confesses as they sit down.

“Mourning is no time for vanity. You show respect by not being particular in your dress.”

Nora takes this in and wonders if it is a tenet of Judaism or one of Stephen's aphorisms. I should make a collection of his sayings, she thinks to herself. Though she isn't sure his words have done much to reassure her, particularly when she sees June coming down the aisle.

June is resplendent, even in grief—her blond hair perfectly coiffed, her makeup flawless and just so. She air-kisses her sons and nods at Nora, glancing over her outfit before taking a seat next to Michael. She wears a chic pantsuit, the jacket fitted; there is no doubt as to its inky shade of black. Stephen's asceticism dissolves before its glory.

The rabbi enters the room and Nora watches the rows of yarmulkes pivot. Conversations come to false conclusions and the background hum quiets. Leo is in the midst of showing Michael his new phone, the Palm he just purchased at Best Buy. “Cingular,” he says. “I wanted to show you the other night. But, you know, the timing.”

“Right,” Michael replies, his eyes on the rabbi.

The rabbi makes his way around the coffin. It is hard to believe Grandma Portman is inside. A closed coffin, thankfully, though how do Michael and June know it's the right one? Had they been shown the body before the service, the rabbi opening the latches like a sommelier presenting a fine wine?

A prayer commences in Hebrew. Stephen follows along on her left while Leo remains silent on her right. Nora has been acutely aware of Michael these past few days. But it occurs to her that if what Leo said about the visits was true, it is Stephen who grieves the most.

A week from now it sprouts open, she should tell him. A month from now and you're dealing with it like it's the first time. The box you put the person in holds nothing. You end up carrying them around with you.

Meanwhile, people share their silly notions. “Time helps,” they say. “I know exactly,” they say. The polite response—the only response—is to pretend such words have meaning. Feign gratitude, if you can muster it.

At the end of lessons, the moms sometimes grab Nora's hand to examine the ring. “Are you
so
excited?” they gush. She can see the visions of bridal shops and calligraphic flourishes pass before their eyes. She can see them remember their own excitement. It gets transmitted through the grip on her forearm, the pressure too firm. Meanwhile, her students say nothing about death, nothing about marriage, their eyes darting up to hers only briefly before retreating to their sheet music. And for that, she is grateful.

Growing up, Nora never daydreamed about her wedding. She was never one of those girls. Even when she performed at weddings in college, she didn't give them any thought. There was that lovely one where she did the Bach cantata in the family's backyard, sheltered by the trees. Still, she didn't think any of it would apply to her—that she would be on the other side of things one day, hiring rather than being hired.

Not that it matters much. June will commandeer the planning, slowly wresting it from her. There are probably clipboards and files waiting in her office, organized in meticulous rows. “We'll release doves in honor of your mother,” June will say. “Or perhaps sound a silver bell in remembrance. What do you think, Nora?”

They sit back down in the pews. Nora adjusts her skirt and realizes that Stephen was right. Gray, black. Who cares?

The rabbi pats his pocket for his bifocals with a distracted air, an accountant about to review forms. She realizes, before he begins, that he will do a bad job. He probably has a template on his laptop, “Deceased, Female,” and simply fills in the name. Copy, paste, print.

“Hannah Portman was a woman who loved art,” he begins. He seems surprised by the words, pausing over them, as though reading from a novel, the strange book of someone's life. Nora feels Stephen stiffen beside her. “She was actively engaged in the community. She loved her family deeply. This was clear to those who knew her.” The rabbi scratches his nose with a gnarled finger, its knuckles oversize with age.

“She is survived by her son, Michael, her daughter, Shannon, and five grandchildren.” Leo snickers over the gaffe. Nora nudges him to be quiet.

Stephen is sitting very still, his hands clasped. He had never talked with Nora about his grandmother, but maybe the rabbi is getting it all wrong, each word a wound. Michael and June and Sharon might not have known how Hannah Portman spent her days—if she read books or played bridge. If she gossiped with a group of friends or kept to herself. “My grandson is engaged!” she might have said. “A lovely girl. Used to sing opera.”

Maybe Grandma Portman did love art, or maybe that was an embellishment from the rabbi. Michael and June might have hinted at it, suggesting he mention it. They probably wanted to imagine Grandma Portman at a museum, gazing reverently at a painting. No one wanted to think about life's banality at its end. No one in a eulogy ever said, “She watched TV with the volume on too loud.
Wheel of Fortune
was her favorite.”

Nora got the impression that Grandma Portman had been dumped off at the nursing home, unwanted furniture shoved into storage. “You're living a life of leisure there,” Michael had teased. Meanwhile, he and June grumbled about the bill. “You'd think Sharon could at least
offer
,” June once said hotly.

Glancing around the synagogue, Nora realizes there are no floral arrangements—no enormous bouquets of lilies gathered in remembrance. No programs placed at intervals along the pews. Maybe no one gets an elaborate funeral. She imagines June shrugging: “Why put on an event for someone who can't appreciate it?”

Nora shifts in the pew. She remembers how Grandma Portman used to sit alone on the couch during the rare family gatherings. Once, at Yom Kippur, Nora had braved that upholstered island and joined her. Nora's tentative “How are you, Mrs. Portman?” had been met with a lightly accented “Oh, fine, dear. Just fine.” Then they had watched the room in silence, sitting as though before a play—June zipping around, making the final adjustments, Michael selecting jazz on the audio system. Leo finally called out, looking for her, and Nora tried to hide her relief as she slipped away.