Bedside matters, p.8
Bedside Matters, page 8
We missed the gourmet dinner, too, Polly reflects smiling, her lips forever painted bright red.
We went to the diner for a burger and beer, says Walter.
More than a few, she adds. Later in bed, cuddling at our best, could have been the night I conceived Paula. Walter, I did know what I was getting into. I knew perfectly well you were a free one-way ticket to my own career, no-holds-barred. I loved you for that. I needed and wanted a mate who valued me for my mind, my independence, my energy.
Don’t forget you were gorgeous, Polly.
Oh, my God, who isn’t at that age? she retorts.
Me, he responds. Okay, so no more slide-rules but worse. Bulging briefcase. Ever-thicker lenses for my eyeglasses. Nerd reincarnate.
Polly shakes her head no. Her lively mop of curls, those untamable curls from girlhood to prematurely gray never stopped springing into action, as if the hellion in her could not be contained and oscillated in every last strand of her hair like a leaf in a gale-force wind. I have to remind you, Walt, I did not enter a convent. To me you were adorable. I didn’t care about your body like some girls with their fullbacks and what-not. I, too, was interested in your mind. Yes, you didn’t say much but you could be pithy. Witty. A bit snarky, early on.
Really? I know. So long ago. Before the work was all-consuming. Before…before…oh, Polly. With us I’ve tried to focus on all that was good, in the early days.
Walt, do you realize you were good in bed?
I know. Before.
No, for me you were great. You did everything possible to please me.
About which you explicitly instructed me, he interjects.
Well, yes. Women are more complicated that way.
You’re telling me? And not just the plumbing. That’s only for starts, at least in your case, Polly. I remember your tale of you building a puppet stage for Hansel and Gretel when you were seven or eight. Sewed the curtains, the costumes, painted the scenery. Used your dad’s black boot polish for the witch’s kettle. And you made everyone in your family attend plus the families of your best friends in the neighborhood. And you held up boxes of soapsuds between the scenes and delivered commercials! And you charged admission and printed tickets.
Polly giggles.
You see, my dear wife, you married that part of yourself—the mad entrepreneur—there simply was no room left for.
Polly goes Hmm, for her, at a loss for words.
Polly, you became the salesperson extraordinaire that I partnered with Will for—not in my bones. You would dish out two or three proposals at a time. Art supplies for the school, escort volunteers for the women’s health center when the abortion wars began, testing for asbestos in the old, ramshackle squalid homes, raising money to fight the slaughter of baby seals. Plus, eagle-eyed over our kids.
How can I shut her up? he questions. Whoops, I mean myself. Did Irma say something about Polly the other day, this morning, whenever? No way to tell. Here when I’m down-and-out she has a way of creeping in, a draft from an ill-fitting window lashing at me in an icy stream.
Polly’s back is now turned. In the kitchen. Bustling on the phone. Even in bed.
Don’t go there, Walter, he cautions himself. Instead of splitting apart the calm, uneventful day-tripping of your mind, reinforced by Rumi, with the saga of Polly like a migraine, try with all your might to zero in on the present and future in which she doesn’t have a part.
“Did you remember, Walter,” says Irma, serving him watered-down carrot soup with a straw, “that Polly is scheduled for her visit this afternoon?”
“Oh,” he mumbles and sucks on the straw.
His mind becomes a blank. Of course, that was always his habit with her. Let her rave, let her stomp an angry flamenco, especially near their end. Standing perfectly still, he managed to survive.
•
“Walt, hello,” says Polly, uncharacteristically demure in lower decibels. She heads to the cushy armchair, rearranges the cushions, and before sitting strokes one of his shins and then more lingeringly the crewelwork upholstery of a wingback chair’s armrest in need of repair. All of this, it strikes Walter, is like a dog circling several times to get it right before finally plopping down. “You look less peaked than the last time.”
“There was a last time?”
“You were very groggy. Probably a new med.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Walt, you need apologize for nothing.” She is snow white but the curls have not diminished one whit in frolicsome bounce. Maybe a trifle more compact.
“You look vibrant as always, Polly. Obviously, you’ve got a full plate. As ever.”
She smiles, barely lifting one side of her lips. “Oh, you know all that. I want to know is how you’re faring. If you’re willing to tell me.”
“Thanks. After so many months it’s the doldrums, imagine, that keep me going. Time to think.”
“Oh, dear. I hope that’s not too down in the dumps. I can see perfectly well, Walt, plus the visits before, that you’ve made peace. Paula fills me in.”
He holds up a few of the slim books. “Poetry helps. Can you believe it? They’re from Paula.”
At this she stands, arranges her dressy pink sweat suit that has bunged up her crotch. She’s portly now, of course, but was never much concerned with her weight.
“Oriental. Buddhist, Hindu?” she says, reviewing the titles, then retreats. “Good for you! On to another realm. Sorry, you know what I mean.”
“No, that’s exactly what they’re about. Paula hasn’t talked to me specifically about confronting the end, but in their way, the books she’s brought me do. For she herself to broach the subject…she’s too blunt.”
“That’s our Paula.”
“Your Paula. She got all that vim and vigor from her mom.”
“And now she’s the business maven?”
“All right. I’ll admit, for a change. We, underscored, did good. As for Gavin…”
Polly’s forehead, no longer encased in rambunctious curls, exposes a network of frown lines. “Now you brought him up, I did not.”
“He was here. I’m sure you know. Seemed, well, almost normal. His yachting thing. Poor as a church mouse, he didn’t need to tell me. He didn’t ask for a cent, Polly.”
“But you doled a nice chunk out to him. I know that, too.”
“Well, shoot. Paula can’t object. She has it all.”
“We just hope he can stay on this course, Walt—semi-independence, all right, the woman’s money, but for him, and without leaning on you, maybe he could go straight.”
“Have you seen him?”
“No. But that’s his choice.” Her shoulders, already rounded, sink lower into resignation, not relaxation.
Walter is now on high alert. This is taking every ounce of his attention and his wherewithal. In response to Polly about Gavin he simply nods. If he is to make amends with Polly, their son is not central to that. Years ago, yes, but now is a different story.
“How is Jack?” he says, he hopes without a trace of opinion one way or another, as if he’s not himself but a casual old acquaintance of Jack’s passing on the street.
Polly smiles, this time in earnest. “Thanks for asking, Walt. He lives on the golf course. We connect at happy hour.”
“Sounds like us in our day. You having been in a whirlwind beyond the house and me as well.”
Polly is immobile in the armchair, seeming to review what she will say. Any pause, certainly with Polly, eyes unflinching, only heightens the impact of what is said next. “I worry about you, Walt. I mean, I worried about you all these years. You’re the father of my children.”
“Till death do us part?” he attempts as a little joke but he knows and she knows he means it.
“I did not suffer guilt at leaving you. It was a two-way street. We each knew it was time. And thank goodness we separated amicably. Paula and Gavin hardly seemed to notice. They were happy for me.”
“They adored Jack right off, how can one not?” states Walter.
“But they did not preoccupy themselves with your heartache. Nor did I, even though it was plain as day. You admitted—”
“That I’d long since paid you serious attention. The sex was standard issue.”
“Sex is not the key element for couples, we all know that. You never, not once, had anything but the hard-on from hell.” And here she makes a rosebud of her bright red lips, too bright for her matronly self, but Polly’s indifference to those details was always part of her charm, and her power. “But you did worship that darn thing. I suppose every man does. The Holy Grail.” She halts, abruptly, straightening the fabric of her rumpled pink slacks.
Walter takes his deepest possible breath. “I know why you left me for Jack. It’s very simple. He was more fun. I know that, Polly, because for me, from the beginning, you yourself were so much more fun. Me the cog in the wheel and you gloriously whipping everything left, right, and center into shape. Good grief, the tango lessons. Remember those? And dressing me up in drag that time, all the guys, and the women in pants and ties at some protest at the shoe factory for equal pay?” He seizes up with a coughing spell.
Polly stands, yanking down the shocking fuchsia sweatpants more in keeping for a Pilates instructor. Her sneakers fit for a marathoner are also, he realizes, the sensible, overbuilt shoe for the aged. He has plenty of his own, now idle. Polly’s being consumed in their early married years overseeing this neocolonial as Williamsburg-perfect was simply a phase. She is one woman for whom surfaces have their place but issues are essential.
“I can see,” Polly says, “this has been plenty enough activity for you, Walt. I’ll come again I hope—” She swallows the thought.
“Before the end,” he finishes. “But really, Polly, all the way from Philly.”
“It’s a nonstop flight. I’m catching up with friends. And it’s lovely to see the old place shipshape.” She picks up one of his limp hands, nary a trace of a mirth or frown of sympathy.
As best Walter can, he gives her hand a squeeze. “I forgive you, Polly.”
She squeezes his hand in return but with her forehead locked in a frown.
“Nothing you ever needed forgiveness for,” he hastily adds. “And I’m fine. Always been. Even after.”
His mouth has run dry, but Polly waits as if sensing he’s not finished.
“I love you, Polly. Lucky for me that lasts.”
At this Polly nods, finally allowing her lips to form a slight smile, acknowledging his sentiment, he figures, but holding whatever may be hers in reserve.
Chapter 8
Late, by myself, in the boat of myself, no light and no land anywhere,
cloud cover thick. I try to stay just above the surface,
yet I’m already under and living within the ocean.
I found a passage I thought would interest you,” says Irma during one of her increasingly frequent bedside visits apart from pills and food. She’s paging through a book he doesn’t recognize.
By way of response, Walter simply adjusts his head and neck her way with a tentative smile. He can sense the occasion is for her benefit, not his. And good for that. It’s she who could use a lighter moment or two midst her manual labor, plus managing the mail, the crew, the calls, him.
“He’s a contemporary author, very well-known and regarded for making Buddhism and meditation relevant. Jon Kabat-Zinn.”
“I’m kind of hooked on the Middle Ages. I don’t know.”
“Now here he’s talking about shutting off the flow of mental gibberish like a faucet. Just listen: ‘It’s as if you died and the world carried on…all your responsibilities and obligations would immediately evaporate…they’d get worked out without you…By—quote—dying—end quote—in this way, you actually become more alive now. This is what stopping can do.’”
Walter lets this sink in.
“‘You don’t have to wait until the end of your life,’” she continues reading, “‘you can get a fresh take on everything right away.’ Isn’t this what you’re appreciating about the poetry? A whole lot less of more of the same hogging your thoughts?”
He signals her to hand him the book. “Thanks, Irma. Head of the class, you are. But we already know that.”
“I’m sure Paula has digested a lot of this material, subtler than the simple self-help books. Beyond her yoga, Walter, you must give your daughter credit for more than running her business. She’s a complicated lady.”
“As are you.”
•
“Hello, Chuck. Walt here,” he says, long ago having switched from Charles, claiming his investment manager as what amounts to his only close male friend. “No, nothing has changed, I just lie here…oh, I’ve got some books, the television…gosh, the other day I think it was, ‘Auntie Mame,’ so funny, Roz Russell, the technicolor like a century ago, I almost thought I was back in the fifties or sixties or whenever…no, Irma’s doing all that. She does everything. There must be three remotes, I couldn’t decipher just one! But I can handle the laptop…the portfolio? Haven’t bothered. Oh, no, that’s your job, Chuck. What do I care at this point? All for the kids…What about him? Horace is still the tax stuff, estate plans, but done all that…it doesn’t matter, Chuck…besides, you know all those things that Horace has put into fine print, I only need you not him at this point…well, maybe…I’ve been thinking of a special…donation, gift, whatever…no, it won’t affect the trusts, but the way it’s set up I couldn’t write a check, we’d need to transfer funds…no, Irma can help with all that, just fax the forms for me to sign, she can get a notary here if necessary, no big deal. I know, Chuck, cool is it not? Me with a cell phone! I can place calls but can’t answer them, that’d be like doing a pole vault…yes, I thought I’ve maxed out the lifetime gift exemptions…well even if this would be taxable to me, so what? Oh, Chuck…I do have a clear head, the voice and hands work, you’d be surprised how active my days are. I can’t believe it myself…incredible, isn’t it? Never exercised. Maybe my body is used to being a slug and it keeps on going as if everything’s normal! Oh, yes, you the jogger…if you were like this, you’d waste away in no time…used to being a well-oiled machine, idle you would rust. Somebody told me years ago, probably Paula, that fitness was ninety percent what we put into our mouths. So, of course, I count out the seven raw almonds, never less, never more, never salted or roasted, kills the nutrients, I just do what I’m told…right! You don’t argue with Paula…sure, she’s paying the bills, handles the accounts, as you know, or one of her assistants I suppose…all this is down pat…no, you don’t need to see me, this way is fine. I like my solace, Chuck. The fewer interruptions the better…thanks, Chuck. You’ve been such a good mate as well as all the investment business. It’s been great we don’t involve any others…oh, the craziness with Will, everything at the company for so many years. Nice that it’s now so simple. For me, anyway. You worry your tush off with the ups and downs, your job. Mine’s done…sure, I’ll let you know about that transfer if I decide…I’ll keep in touch.”
•
When Walter interacts with the world—his financial advisor or the visiting nurse checking his vitals—his brain if not his body hums along as would his Mercedes at seventy-five in the car-pool lane. With Paula and Gavin, however, he has to slow down and stay attuned to the extra effort required of shutting up. He must be watchful and wary, supportive of what’s bugging them. They trot slightly ahead like pedigreed pets with him holding the leash, but in fact he’s completely engaged for the time being with their needs and not his own. This is certainly true now with him the passive invalid and them mobile and in their prime. What’s the difference going back decades? it pops up to ask himself. Early on, he adopted his stance as a parent by fleetingly side-stepping the crushing concerns of his business to listen to theirs. He let them roar ahead even when he had doubts. Learn from your mistakes! And this held true with Gavin once he was ostensibly back on his feet, a half-year after the latest rehab. Did this do them a disservice? You bet, Polly surely argued. For now, Walter not only harbors zero regrets but doesn’t really care. All in the past, over and done with. But still, here with his adult children bedside, he finds himself recreating his forever mindless role. It’s like reciting the Lord’s Prayer without paying it the least attention. He listens to Paula and Gavin. And he plays his part of all-powerful parent who doesn’t cross-examine, keeping his thoughts to himself. But, try as he might to remain neutral, he becomes very much embroiled of late, perhaps even more so straining to stifle give-and-take for the sake of returning to his realm of repose.
As for Irma, when she doesn’t suggest an interlude of reading or exchanging his or her more serious thoughts, she glides in and out without notice. She has become an extension of his most inward being, that unnamable, vital component that operates alert and alone. Like crystal up close, it’s something so clear as to lack even an outline, but it’s as substantial as stone. This makes Irma so wonderful for him. When he slips into curiosity about her past, which she’s reluctant to share, he is compromising her privacy. He knows she came to the States from Hungary, but possibly some of her stock is from Slovenia? Rumania? Croatia? For him it’s all the morass of a newfangled map, polar opposite of the one he mastered in third grade. He knows she married an American GI. They split up, no kids she’s ever mentioned, but she’s mum about all the rest. In addition to their toying with the semi-spiritual, Irma has become the physical self he can no longer control. He is like an autumn leaf fallen from the tree, withering but still partially intact on the ground, while she’s the mighty trunk and limbs standing tall and will do so right through winter.
By spring I’ll be gone. He is picturing himself as a cat knowing life is to end but with no complaints, and simply, slowly, walking into the forest and curling up out of sight. The aggrieved folks at home wail away…for a bit…before the replacement, but for them life goes on. In truth, is it so different for any of us? Bleeding heart for the spouse of fifty years…or not…certainly a hole for all others easily filled with the flux and flow of their lives. What was there in Paula’s book, the eerie one about the Hindu system? The sequence of four ashrams: student, worldly service, retirement, finally true dissolution as a wandering saint in the outback. Walter likes this. Here he languishes, for the most part, swallowed alive by the mists of his mind. No longer a renunciation. He’s done that. He’s arrived in the thicket, circled around himself like a sleeping cat, still purring but ever so faintly, eyes already closed, with one quiet, shallow breath at a time…
