C A L I F O R N I A
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This memorial is from Holy Wars, |
HEAT SHAKES MY VISION the minute the plane lands in Phoenix. I want to
go home-even LA isn't this hot. But then I see them waiting for me, wearing
shorts, Hawaiian shirts, and straw hats.
"How are you, honey," Nan says, reaching up to kiss me on the
cheek, and Gramp says, "Sol, where's that girlfriend of yours?"
"I couldn't talk Mattie into it this time of year, Gramp."
That's not exactly true. "I love your grandparents," Mattie told me. "But you're impossible! You make me so mad. I'm not going to visit them again when I'm afraid we're breaking up."
Nan fans herself. "Mattie hates the heat. She's fair, like I am."
"More kreplech for me," Gramp says.
It's good to be back. They fuss over whether to put my suitcase in the trunk or just set it on the back seat next to Nan. Since I turned twelve she's insisted I sit in front so I can stretch out my legs.
"Good. You can't bug me about my driving from back there," Gramp tells her. Already we're in the realm of ritual. I'd bug him if I had the nerve. He can barely see over the hood. He pokes along, honking his horn when he should stop, stopping when he should honk his horn. Camelback Mountain shimmers with heat. I'm glad it's a short drive to Sun City.
"So how's our future rabbi? Any more wedding plans? Looking forward to your studies this year?"
I clear my throat. I could tell them everything's fine. Or I could tell them Mattie and I are having trouble. Maybe they'd even be relieved.
Nan saves me. "Are you eating enough, dear?" she asks.
"Does he look thin to you?" Gramp says. "Samson should look so good."
We laugh. I have a slender build, but I'm not so thin anymore. I've grown a beard. I look like a rabbi, matter of fact.
Eventually we arrive at their complex in Sun City-small ranch houses landscaped with cactus and gravel. The patio furniture is what they had back in Syracuse, whitened now with age and sun.
Familiar stuff inside, too: the table with the hanging leaves that I played Indians under, quite a few visits back. Gramp's chair, which I liked for serious thinking when I was a teenager. The white walls are covered with Nan's art projects-gold sprayed macaroni and bright watercolors, the outpouring of a good heart with sudden leisure. My brother Nate calls it the Sarah Gold School of Shlock.
Nan has finally decided she doesn't have to do all the cooking herself. She tells me she's had a college student in all day ("What a nice girl. If you were still unattached, I'd have asked her to stay!") helping her cook, so all she has to do tonight is serve. I'm glad she got help. And I'm sorry she had to. Out of the refrigerator come uncooked kreplech in a bag (Jewish ravioli, as I explained to Mattie-hold the tomato sauce), ready to go when I pull the big frying pan out for Nan; chopped liver, wheat thins, cut celery and carrots, olives.
"Look at all this food!" I say, although it shouldn't surprise me. They've served the same pre-dinner spread here for as long as I've been eating.
"You shouldn't have gone to such trouble, Nan," I say.
"I told you, honey, I didn't make it. I have angina just making the bed. I'm getting old, damn it. Sy, what do you want to drink, sweetheart?"
Gramp wants one scotch with ginger ale, just like he's wanted every night since the crash of '29. But she always asks him just in case. Someday he might change his mind. I missed the wedding anniversary party last month because I had finals. They call it platinum, I think: sixty years. Nan pours herself a drink, takes two sips, then puts it into the refrigerator.
"Atta girl, Nan," I say. "Give her one drink and it lasts all week."
She hands me a beer. Gramp steers me toward the sofa. He wants to hear about school. He wanted me to be a lawyer like he was, but he never said so. A rabbi's almost as good.
"Do whatever you want," he's always said. "Just be the best." But his eyes light up when I tell him I took a seminar in tax law. A crazy course for a rabbinical student to take. I don't know why I did, except to better steward a congregation's money. And lengthen my conversations with Gramp. Nan scurries around in the kitchen while we talk.
Chicken. Rice with mushrooms. Green beans. Jello salad. Biscuits. More chicken. A Friday night dinner for the ages.
"Do you have enough, honey?" Nan asks.
"No. You better get him another plate," Gramp says. "Now there'll be no sound but the gnashing of teeth," he says.
Two stories I know I'll hear at dinner. One is getting married, the other is retiring.
Gramp is the second of seven children, and Nan is the second of eight. Their parents were immigrants from Lithuania and Austria-Hungary. Gramp's older sister married Nan's older brother. Gramp's dad, who actually was quite fond of Nan's brother (Uncle Iz) gave him a hard time when he asked for the hand of great-aunt Fanny (Aunt Great Fanny, Gramp's sister). Made Iz think the answer was going to be no. Is all of this perfectly clear? Nan and Gramp used to draw family trees on paper napkins for me till I got it straight.
They give me the background once more to make sure. And now they take turns telling their story.
Fanny and Iz-their siblings-had married, after threatening to elope. So when Sarah and Sy, Nan and Gramp to me, wanted to marry too, Sarah coached her dad to make it hard on Sy. Sy (Gramp) would report it back to his dad, who'd given Iz that evening of hell: Let old Gold see how it felt.
"Gramp actually got nervous!" Nan tells me, "Even though he was in on the joke. I spied on them from the kitchen. You'd have thought Gramp had forgotten why he'd come over."
Gramp frowns. "I wasn't so sure Nan's father wanted her to marry me after all. I didn't want the answer to be no. Didn't want to elope, or be told to wait." Gramp shakes his head.
Then they start laughing. They've remembered how the story turns out.
"All Nan's father said to me, when finally I expressed my intentions, was, 'Vell, I think that can be arranged.'"
They're in hysterics. I am too, for this worry sixty years solved. Maybe my troubles will turn out so well.
I always look, but I don't find it here. I don't find the reason for their children's confusion and restlessness. A poet, a soldier, four divorces and twelve grandchildren in all. My mother, arguably the happiest of Nan and Gramp's three, married Simon Morales, a fine man who's never been interested in any religion. That made it easier to tell them who I planned to marry. They've heard it all before.
Are Nan and Gramp jiving us-maybe they're not so happy? Or maybe it's hard to be the child of so much niceness. Maybe the world has changed too much.
"Vell, I think that can be arranged." Nan and Gramp are still laughing. They repeat the old man's words to each other, imitating his accent, as if those words were the vows themselves. They laugh till they have to wipe their eyes. Then Nan pushes her plate away and walks slowly over to get the wedding pictures.
"Watch you don't get extra schmaltz on these," she laughs, setting the book between Gramp and me.
These are some pictures. A line of Uncle Mike, the poet's, comes to mind: "We thought joy arose from the body, sorrow from the mind. That's how young we were."
You've never seen anybody prouder or more beautiful than the woman in the photographs. She's tiny and serious and blonde. She could conquer anybody. Gramp's hair is thick and black; he looks energetic. They're both full of fire in these pictures. I look at the young faces under the canopy, then I look at the real faces, and a surge of fear runs through my gut.
"Oh, she was quite a number, your grandmother." Gramp looks one photo up and down and says, "You haven't changed much, dear."
"Oh!" she says. "My poor husband is going blind." She kisses him.
I had a different problem last trip, six months ago. The good news was, I'd been accepted for the second year at the theological school. I was indeed going to be a rabbi. The bad news was, I planned to marry a priest. You've got to admit, it hasn't been done to death. So why does it sound like a vaudeville bit? Now I don't know what will happen with us. Say good-night, Mattie.
"I wish for you a marriage as happy as ours," Nan says. "Our families were close. We had so much in common."
Yeah, Mattie and I have a lot in common, too. Our profession, for one thing. Her name is Martha O'Hara Halbert, and she's Irish as you please. Or don't please. But she's become Episcopalian, so now she can be a priest. Her folks aren't wild about that. Our families are close, also-too close: Both live in California. Mattie's dad, Brian Halbert, clashed with Simon the minute they met. Fights about dinner plans or where we plan to live or how are commonplace for the likes of us. Nan and Gramp don't seem to fight.
Maybe I'll just tell them it's off, this wedding we were going to perform ourselves. At least we didn't have to worry about who would marry us. But Nan's probably had her aqua dress cleaned already. When Uncle Mike divorced the second time, she said, "A tragedy happened in Syracuse." Do I ruin a nice evening for two old people I love?
"When things got bad, Gramp and I would let off steam by singing in harmony," Nan says. They laugh. This does not comfort me. Mattie and I do not sing in harmony. She's got this Irish temper, says I argue like a lawyer. Nan puts more chicken on my plate.
As we're finishing dinner, I hear the second story. This one is set in the late sixties, instead of the roaring twenties. Gramp's a successful lawyer, Nan is his secretary. They both work too hard and smoke too much. Everybody in Syracuse is relying on Sy Gold. Nan has ransomed half of Judea with Israel bonds, and they both have health troubles. One winter they take a vacation in Arizona.
"I looked over the edge of that paddleboat and saw our reflection in the water," Nan says. "Then Gramp had an idea."
"It was you, honey. 'Do you know, there's a way out of this rat race we're in.' That's what she said." He pauses dramatically. "This story always makes me want a cigar."
She slaps his knee.
"We sold the house," Gramp says. "We didn't have a mortgage. We've paid cash for everything."
"The kids were all married, for the first time, at least. We hated to leave Syracuse, and our brothers and sisters, but we felt our lives depended on it." Nan frowns a moment at water in cut glass.
"Here we are. Twenty years later."
It's a story I like: doing what's right for oneself turns out to be best for everybody. If one can figure out what it is.
"After this meal, one corn flake for dinner tomorrow," Gramp says.
"I hope you saved room for sundaes with my homemade topping," Nan says. Gramp and I groan.
"A walk first," Gramp says. "Let dinner settle."
Outside it's twilight. The sky looks like a piece of Nan's favorite china. I broke a cloudy, iridescent blue bowl at ten and haven't been allowed to touch any china since.
"Boys don't have to do dishes," Nan told me.
"Could we get that in writing?" Gramp asked.
We walk out through the toy gardens made of pebbles and succulents and tiny cactus. Gramp looks at the deepening sky. Nan looks down at the neighbor's garden. Maybe I'll tell them.
"Why don't our donkey tails look like this?" she wonders.
"The answer I shouldn't give you," Gramp says.
She looks up, too. "Is that Venus, dear?"
"Evening star." He takes Nan's hand and turns to me. "Sol, these are the best years of my life."
We stop walking. I've never heard this. I've heard happy memories, sure, but never this.
"When the children were little, that was wonderful, too," Nan says.
"Too full of worries," Gramp says. "Too many skinned knees. Chicken pox and nightmares. Made the big bills seem even worse."
"Well, I loved working for you," Nan says. "We never could relax. There was always a new problem. But that was what we loved about it."
"But now there's no worry," Gramp says. "I'm with my bride here. And we're in pretty good health. We've done our best by everybody. I wish my whole life had been old age."
Nan frowns. Seems she's not sure about this. "I'm glad we're old now," she says.
"Do what you think is best, Sol," Gramp says. "Listen to yourself."
"But is that what you did?"
"Of course it is. I've always worn the pants in this family. I say, Sarah! Where do you want to go? And then I take her there!"
Another shtik. We laugh. But Gramp isn't finished. "I did exactly what I wanted through the years," he said. "Even if I didn't do what I wanted each minute. Is that the best way? I don't know. Do I have everything I want now? Yes."
The desert gets dark so suddenly. We head back and go into their small house, still hot from the day despite the buzz of the air conditioner. We eat sundaes and look at pictures of great-grandchildren. By nine they're sleepy. They'll be up puttering around again before dawn.
"Anything we need to discuss that can't wait till tomorrow?"
The look in Nan's eyes says she hopes I don't have news-everything's fine right now. How long can anything wait? Twenty years? Sixty? Maybe Mattie and I could put off breaking up.
"No, Nan. Nothing that can't wait."
They offered to sleep together so I could be comfortable in Gramp's bed. They've slept apart for a few years, because of Gramp's snoring.
"Look at these bags under my eyes!" Nan once explained. "I need my beauty rest, honey. What's important is what you do together when you're awake."
"When you're asleep, who knows the difference," Gramp said.
Who am I to question it. But one morning one of them won't wake up, and then the other will wonder if being there would have made the difference. Meanwhile they get their sleep, which on the other hand might prolong their lives.
They offer me Gramp's room again. I tell them I'll be fine on the sofa. They insist.
At exactly nine-thirty they wish me good night and go off to Nan's room. I read a book I brought in my bag and watch the eleven o'clock news. I hate to hoist myself off the sofa, but around midnight I head for Gramp's room.
Something wakes me in the night. A small earthquake, maybe? No, not here. Nan and Gramp are speaking-too softly to have awakened me, but they're up, too. Maybe Gramp's snoring did it.
"I'm too old," I hear Nan say.
"No we're not, honey," Gramp says.
"Not you. Me."
"You're still mad at me for saying that before," Gramp says. "I was just kidding you, dear."
"You're not funny. You make me so angry, Seymour."
The elevator in my throat drops. I do not want to hear this conversation. I never had much curiosity about my parents' private life, let alone my grandparents'. I've never heard them so much as disagree before. It's irrational to feel worried-they've been married sixty years, for God sakes. Maybe I think any problem means it's all impossible. And my marriage sounds improbable before it's even started.
"Too old for love?" Gramp asks. "How long are we going to keep living this lie?" They're eighty-six and -seven.
"Don't be melodramatic," Nan says. "It's no longer a lie."
The same rhythm, if not the same topic, as the fights I have with Mattie. I dread the day Mattie and I have this particular argument. Looks like we've got some time, at least.
They're silent now. I can't tell who won. Maybe I should get up and go to the bathroom so they'll know I'm awake and won't say any more. Or maybe I keep quiet so they don't suspect that I've heard this much.
"I'm tired. For God's sake. Go back to sleep. You know I love you, Sy."
"'Isle of view.' Like you write in the greeting cards." He laughs a little. "Good night."
I want to wish them good night too, even if they don't agree on what that is. I wish them thousands more chicken dinners and walks in the twilight, nights of love they aren't too old for. I wish them an eternity of good nights. I wish for the impossible.
Copyright 1998 Catherine deCuir.
All rights reserved.