The Sunset Gang (3 page)

A heavy depression washed over him as he moped around his
condominium thinking that he had lost her, letting self-pity clutch at him.
Mimi made his lunch, not noticing his strange behavior. He did not listen as
she chirped away about her friends, her card games. The incessant patter of her
voice with its empty gossip increased the blackness of his mood. Feeling his
hatred, he hacked away at the sandwich with his teeth.

"Stop eating so fast," Mimi said.

He chewed the food, aware of its tastelessness and
heaviness as it moved down his gullet. Without Genendel, he told himself, life
would be empty--the future just a long wait for them to carry him out and put
him in the box.

After Mimi had gone to her afternoon game, he made an
effort to calm himself, to rationalize his position, to go over his options. He
was, after all, a lawyer. But contemplation of what a divorce might entail
boggled his mind, made him tired. His wife's harangues would be hysterical. The
children would think he was a monster. Would he hate himself later?

He did consider having a clandestine affair, but it was so
foreign to his nature and his morality that he could not bring himself to
accept such a possibility. What he concluded was that he could accept any
pain--from Mimi, from his children, from anyone, pay any price--for the
privilege of spending the rest of his life with Genendel. Anything was worth
that.

He was again tempted to call her on the telephone, but lost
his courage, deciding instead to suffer through the long night and day until
the meeting of the Yiddish Club. It was not an easy assignment.

Feigning a slight cold, he was able to escape from Mimi's
patter by squirreling himself in bed for most of the next day.

"You're going to the Yiddish Club?" Mimi asked as
he dressed.

"I feel better."

"You're acting strangely, Bill."

"I know," he mumbled, wanting to shout out at
her, to tell her what was happening inside of him. Instead he walked out into
the warm night, hoping that in a few minutes he would be once again in the
presence of the woman he loved. But the slight optimism that he felt as he
walked quickly dissipated when he arrived and it became apparent that she was
not coming. He listened listlessly to the speakers, walked out early, and
roamed through the clubhouse.

In the long cardroom, he saw David playing gin. He moved
toward the table and watched the game for a while, waiting for the moment to
ask him news of his wife.

"Where's Jennie?" he asked casually. "Missed
her at the meeting."

"Said she missed the kids. Went up north to visit for
a few weeks." He poked Velvil in the stomach. "Look at this," he
said, holding up the score. "I got him on a triple schneid."

Her absence made his longing more intense and he spent his
time in long solitary walks around Sunset Village. You must come back to me, he
begged her in his mind.

"What's wrong with you, Bill?" his wife asked
with casual but persistent interest.

"I am sad and lonely," he said in Yiddish.

"That again."

"You give me no pleasure," he said, again in
Yiddish.

"This is ridiculous."

"You are ridiculous," he said in Yiddish.

"The hell with you," Mimi responded with anger,
slamming the door behind her as she rushed off to the clubhouse. He savored his
cruelty, yet knew that it was wrong.

After the first shock of Genendel's departure wore off,
leaving him only with a gnawing emptiness, he still participated in the morning
cycling and the Yiddish Club. He went through the mechanical process of the activities
in the hope that when she returned, she too would fall into the same old
patterns. What was her life with David like? he wondered. Was she prepared to
compromise her remaining years? For that?

When she finally returned to the Yiddish Club two weeks
later he felt that the curtain had been raised on his life again, and he could
barely sit through the meeting waiting for a few private words with her. By
then he had convinced himself that he would take half a loaf, to leave it as it
had been. Even a few moments of her time were better than to endure the
suffering of her absence.

When the meeting was over, he dashed over to her, stumbling
over a chair. "Did you enjoy your trip?" he asked, stammering, unable
to control the frantic beat of his heart.

"It was all right," she responded.

He imagined that he could detect sadness in her eyes.
"Would you like to take a walk?"

She nodded. He had gone over and over this request in his
mind and could hardly believe that he had made it.

They walked along the familiar path in silence.

"I promise," he finally said.

"Promise?" She paused and turned to look at him.

"I promise I won't bring up that subject again."
He wondered if she understood.

"You think it's that simple?" she said, looking
at him.

She had touched his arm and he felt his flesh respond with
goose pimples. He was confused.

"How many more years do you think we have,
Velvil?"

Her question left him speechless as his mind groped for
some kind of logic.

"I try not to think about it," he said at last.

"I have been thinking about it for the last two
weeks."

"You have?"

"I spent the time with my daughter. I felt like a
picture on the wall."

He knew instantly what she meant and she sensed his
understanding. She, too, had dreamed and longed for this moment, when she would
reveal to him that she was, indeed, willing to pay the price.

"We are in the elephant burial ground, Velvil,"
she said. "We know the end is coming fast. We have to seize the
present."

In Yiddish, the words came to him as poetry and he felt the
power of himself. His energy surged as he gripped her shoulders and gathered
her in his arms.

"It will not be easy," she said firmly, relieved
at last, unburdened. "And, frankly, I don't know if I'll be able to go
through with it."

"We'll give each other courage," he said.

They resumed their walk, arms locked around each other like
young lovers.

"They'll think we're crazy," Genendel said
suddenly. "And they might be right."

"Between us, Genendel," Velvil said, "we've
been married nearly a century."

"Eighty-nine years," she said. "See? I've
been thinking about it. I even thought of ways that I might get David
interested in your wife. It would make matters so much simpler."

"I wouldn't wish it on him," Velvil said.

On the way back to her car, he pondered the legal problems.
Although he was a lawyer, he had never paid much attention to divorce laws. He
was annoyed with himself for allowing practicalities to intrude. What did that
matter? Somehow they would survive it.

But it was not that easy to break the news to Mimi and he
agonized over it, sleepless, tossing and turning, unable to shut off his mind.
In the darkness he felt the terror of guilt, knowing what Genendel must be
going through. He felt his courage ebb and only when the light filtered through
the drawn blinds did his resolve return.

Following Mimi into the kitchen, he sat down at the little
table and watched her as he gathered his thoughts. It was not that he despised
her. Hardly that, although he knew he had lost all feeling for her except
compassion. He did feel compassion, he told himself. Only because he knew that
she would never understand.

"I want a divorce," he said, flat, straight-out.

She turned and looked at him quizzically, coffeepot poised
in mid-air, hair still disheveled from sleep. The odor of her floated across
the room.

"What?" She squinted, as if seeking comprehension
with her eyes.

"I want a divorce," he repeated.

"You want a what?"

"A divorce."

She started to smile, alert to his words, but not yet
understanding.

"I'm serious," he said, wanting her to be sure of
his meaning, urging himself to be precise. "I want a divorce. I am in love
with another woman."

"Another what?"

He surveyed her coolly, knowing she was aghast, her lips
trembling. The coffeepot slipped with a clang into the sink.

"Another woman. Genendel Goldfarb."

"Genendel?"

"Jennie."

"Her?"

He imagined he felt the eruption begin with vibrations in
his toes, like the beginning of an earthquake. He had seen her like this
before--once when he threatened to leave the government, and again when he had
at first refused to move to Florida. But this time he was girded with the image
of Genendel. Watching her now did not diminish his courage as it had done in
the past.

"Are you crazy?" she began. "An alte cocker
like you. And that dried-up prune. She hypnotized you. You should both be put
away in an institution." She paused, sneering. "You had relations?
That's it. Right, Bill? I got it. Right, Bill? She put her hands on my
husband's fly, right? So what did she get? Such a big deal. And she made you
all hot and crazy, right?"

She rushed into the living room and grabbed the telephone,
her hysteria mounting. "A psychiatrist is what you need. And quick.
Forty-five years of marriage and he wants a divorce. I got a senile old man for
a husband."

He shrugged and walked back into the bedroom, hearing her
voice rise behind him.

"You want me to call your children?" she cried.
"I'll call them. Are you ready for me to tell them about your shame?"
She yelled at him. "I'm calling them."

"There's the phone." He pointed, surprised at his
calm.

He went into the bathroom and watched his face in the
mirror as she banged on the locked door.

"You want a divorce, you bastard?" she screamed.
"I'll show you divorce. I'll get a knife and stick it through my heart
first. You hear me, bastard? I'll put a knife in my heart first."

How absurd, he thought, feeling pity begin. Listening, he
heard her walk heavily into the kitchen, opening doors, making a racket with
the pots and pans. Then he heard her coming back.

"I have a knife," she said. "I have it in my
hands pointing into my heart."

He remained silent, listening. Her breathing was heavy,
gasping. Tempted by the movement at the other side of the door, he put his hand
on the knob, then withdrew it as if it were hot.

"Do you hear me, you bastard?" she hissed.

"I hear you," he said, turning on the tap.

"Your children will curse you forever," she
screamed.

He could tell by the pitch of her voice that she had
reached the outer edge of hysteria.

"And you'll rot in hell."

He knew she was dissolving into self-pity when her deep
sobbing began. She is thinking only of herself, he thought, of her own
humiliation, of the effect on her card-playing friends. Who cares, he thought,
surprised at his own callousness, yet exhilarated by his sense of freedom. I am
no longer frightened, he told himself. I am free. He opened the bathroom door
and saw her face-down on their bed, her shoulders shaking. He kicked the knife
away with his foot.

"I am going out," he said loud enough for her to
hear and embellished his words with a slam of the door.

Genendel met him where the cyclists gathered. Her eyes were
puffy, evidence of her own pain of disclosure. He reached out and held her
hand.

"Done?" he asked.

"Done." Her eyes filled with tears. "It was
like feeding him poison."

"Now what?"

"I had no illusions," she said, the Yiddish
between them a soothing tonic. "It is part of the price. And you?"

"I got a genuine suicide attempt," he said.
"But don't worry. She's done it before."

"Have we done the right thing?" she asked,
brushing aside the tears that had rolled down her cheeks.

"My conscience is clear," he responded. "For
once in my life, I have done an honest thing. Genendel, my darling Genendel. It
was the only way."

"I hope so," she said, squeezing his hand.

"They'll hate us," Velvil said, "but that is
to be expected."

They wheeled away from the main body of the cyclists and
found a bench.

"Now what? Genendel said.

"You mean practical considerations?"

"Yes."

He patted her arm. For the first time in his life he had
not pondered the consequences, had acted not out of fear, but out of love and
honesty.

"We'll rent a place and if necessary move in together
now," he said, contemplating financial matters at last. "It will be
no bed of roses," he said, "but we'll have each other."

"You mean live together before we're married?"

"We'd share an apartment."

"I hadn't--" She paused. "It would be
difficult for me." It was against her grain, she admitted to herself.

"Well then," he said gently, "perhaps David
will move out and I'll rent a place alone." He silently calculated the
burden of supporting two households on his pension. If necessary the children
would have to kick in for Mimi. He knew they did but hid the knowledge from
him. He had been offended by the thought of taking money from his children as
if it diminished him in some way. But that did not prevent his acquiescence,
another act of hypocrisy that was part of his old life.

"I'm sure David has called the children by now,"
Genendel said suddenly. David always called the children in major crises. That
was another hurdle that she dreaded. Was it all worth it? she wondered,
watching Velvil. Her life with David had after all been tranquil. Hardly
anything had happened, except that they had produced children, fussed over them
for a few years, and had grown old. The children were the only thing they had
in common. They cohabited peacefully. Was this what one must accept of life?
David would survive, she concluded. He had his friends, his gin rummy, his
television set, and he would simply have to find himself another companion to
cook and clean for him. In Sunset Village, this nest of widows, it should be
easy enough. She reached out and took Velvil's hand, feeling the bond between
them, the friendship and communication.