WelookedatMissApplebaum.Shelookedatus.Ithinkthatwasthemoment
allthreeofusknewitwouldsoonbeover.
15
Ican’tputalltheresponsibilityonHenrytowriteaboutMissApplebaum’slast
days, although there aren’t too many more details about Miss Applebaum’s stayatthehospitalanyonehastoknow.HenryandIdidbuyMissApplebaum
thesmallplasticfanshewanted,butsheneverreallyusedit.Byherforty-fifth dayatthehospital,theystoppedherchemotherapyandMissApplebaumrefused
totakeanymoreofthepillsintendedtohelpkeepherheartgoing.Theevening
of that forty-fifth day, Henry and I arrived at Miss Applebaum’s bedside, and shesimplysaid,“Pleasetakemehome.”
Ittookusuntilthenextmorning,whichwasaSaturday,beforewecouldrent
a wheelchair from Delancy’s Hospital Supplies on West 81st Street, and bring over winter clothes, including Miss Applebaum’s mouton lamb coat, and
blankets. Miss Applebaum insisted that we shouldn’t hire an ambulance or orderlyorevenavisitingnurse.HeadnurseRuthPerez,Dr.HarrietSilver,and
the doctor of the week for the ninth floor, Dr. Manley, all tried to talk Miss Applebaumoutofleaving,butshetoldthemtherewerealotoflovingfriends
waitingforheratherapartmentandthatshewantedtobewiththem.By11:15
A.M., Miss Applebaum was in the wheelchair and signed out of Parkview
Hospital,andHenryandIandNursePerezbroughtherdowntothelobby.The
one rule the hospital insisted upon so that no one could sue them was that the patienthadtobeescortedbyastaffnursetothelobbybeforebeingentrustedto anyone else’s care. Henry gave Nurse Perez a ten-dollar tip, we all said good-bye,andHenrypushedMissApplebaumouttoFifthAvenuewhileIcarriedthe
overnightbagpackedwithhernightgownsandnotions.
“We’dbettertakeacab,”Henrysaid.
“No,please,”MissApplebaumsaid.“Pleasetakemehomethroughthepark.”
Henry and I looked at each other and really didn’t know what to do. In the cold December light of day, we had to admit the Miss Applebaum we were takinghomefromthehospitalwasverydifferentphysicallythantheonewehad
broughttothehospital.Evenwrappedinhercoatandblankets,shelookedtoo
sicktobeout.Someofthepeopleonthestreetstaredatheraswewentby.Miss Applebaumliftedacornerofoneblankettopartlyhideherface.
“Throughthepark,please,”sherepeated.
“Yes,”Henrysaid.
Togetintothepark,wehadtopushMissApplebaumalittlewaysdownFifth
Avenue past the Metropolitan Museum. As we went by the museum entrance, thegargoylefacesofancientgodslookedliketheyreallywerestaringdownat
us,andIrememberedourvisit.MissApplebaum,Henry,andIwalkingthrough
thegalleriesoflifeanddeathinancientEgypt.TheRosettaStone.Hugeflagsin front of the museum snapped like whips, and the water still gushed from the frontfountains.
Oncewewerepastthemuseum,thewindhurtledagainstusasitrushedoutof
thecementcanyonstotheeast.Buthere,thesunwasshiningbrightagainstour
faces,andtheskyitselfwasastartlingwinterblue.Attheentrancetothepark,a solitary old man was trying to sell hot pretzels and chestnuts, cans of Sunkist orangesoda,andMott’sapplejuice.Butthesidewalksweredeserted.
We turned in to Central Park at a point where the sidewalk sloped steeply downhill. Henry had to hold back the wheelchair or it and Miss Applebaum wouldhavepickeduptremendousspeed.Themostobviouschangeinthepark
sincewehadlaststrolledthroughwithMissApplebaumwasthatthetreeshad
lostalltheirleaves.OnlyanoccasionalevergreenstoodoutlikealostChristmas tree.Wewalkedbyahugestoneslabthatwassupposedtobeaworkofartbya
man called Randolph Gans. At least, he had the good sense to call it
“Unidentified Object,” which is what it looked like. There were posters
announcing upcoming activities in the park such as the “Belvedere Castle Family Workshop: Making Holiday Cards” and “The Dairy Children’s Class”
about “Shiny Shapes and Bright Balloons.” Soon, all about us the branches of thehugetreeslookedlikemonstrousbonyfingersreachingoverusforthesky.
Deadleaveswereunderfootandsomoistandcrushedthattheylookedlikethey
had been already well transformed into earth. The smell of near winter dilated the nostrils, and despite the barrenness and complete death of the leaves, the fragrance was strangely exhilarating. The park now looked like vast English moors,rollinglandlyingnakedforthewindtoplay.Theblacklamppostsstood
out like burned stakes from the ground. Construction and playground repairs weregoingonintheparkwithahaste,becausemorethananyone,theworkers
knewadeepfreezecouldn’tbefaroff.Masonryworkersrepairedanoverpass.
Cobblestoneswerebeingreplacedalongapath.Parkcrewsrushedtogetthelast
ofsnowfencesintoplacebeforeitwouldbetoolate.Alldeedsthatneededtobe
finished while the earth was still moist and soft were being done. Mothers pushedtheirbabiesinstrollers.Ascantfewchildrenplayedaboutthestatueof
AliceinWonderland.Wereachedthetoyboatpond.HenryandIwereshocked.
“They’vedrainedthepond.”
“Yes,”MissApplebaumsaid.
Deadleavesandmudwereallthatwasleftofthepond.Goneweretheyoung
and old weekend sailors with their remote controls. No miniature tugboat or submarine.Ahugeflockofseagullsandwildduckshadgatheredinthecenter,
whereafewsmallpuddleslay.Thebirdswereexcited,pickingoverthelastof
anytrappedsmallfishandcrayfishwhohadn’tthegoodsensetodigdeepinto
themudforthewinter.
“Takemetomybench,”MissApplebaumsaid.
WepushedMissApplebaumuptheknolltoherfavoritespot.Fromhere,all
Henry and I could see was without magic. The cafe was closed. There was no violintobeheard.Nocarouselcalliopeinthedistance.Tractorsandbulldozers
weremovingearth.Thepipelinehadbeenlaiddownlikeahugedarkartery,and
its open trench still split the hillside like a wound. The beauty of the spot was gone for Henry and me. All was desolate. Depressing. The entire area behind Miss Applebaum’s bench was still being ravaged by men with shovels. A
cementmixerwasnoisilyforminganewcurbinthedistance.HenryturnedMiss
Applebaum’s wheelchair so she could see whatever she wanted to see. Henry andIlookedateachother.MissApplebaumglancedupandcaughtourpainful
exchange.
“Don’tbesad,”shesmiled.“Winterhasapurpose,too.”
Shelookedatthelongtrenchandseeminglyendlessstretchofblackpipethat
layatitsbottom.
“Takemehomenow,”shesaid,cheerfully.“There’ssomuchtodo.”
16
ZeldatookthekeysandopenedthedownstairsdoorofMissApplebaum’s
building. I gently pushed the wheelchair with Miss Applebaum into the
lobby. What was really weird was that Zelda looked like she was ready to cry andIwasscaredstiff,butMissApplebaumseemedtobeinthebestmoodI’d
seen her in since we had last played Elevator Roulette! In spite o
f her fragile appearance and our knowledge that she was close to death now, Miss
Applebaumactuallymadeperfectsense.Shetoldusexactlywhattodo.Wegot
herintotheelevatoranduptotheeighthfloor,andthesecondwerolledherinto herapartmentshestartedsinging,“Hello,plants!Hello,plants!”Shedidn’tbelt itlikeTinaTurneroranyonelikethat,butshewasveryfocusedandclear.She
couldn’thaveweighedmorethaneightypoundsbynow,butsheactedlikeshe
wasgoingtoaparty.ShehadmestarttheflowerFerriswheelandaskedmeto
roll her around to a couple of dozen of the larger pots while she checked their moisture.“Youreallyhavetobeespeciallycarefulwithficuses,”shesaid.“You
andZeldahavedoneawonderfuljob!Wonderful!”
Zelda went straight into the bedroom to turn down Miss Applebaum’s bed, andwhenIrolledinMissApplebaum,itwasveryeasytoliftherintoherbed.
MissApplebaumlookedcompletelyexhausted,butvery,veryhappy.Allalong
shewashavingtroublebreathing,yetitdidn’tseemtointerferewithherjoyat
being back in her home. She just kept looking around the room and nodding happilytoalltheplantsandfurniture.
“Weshouldorderahospitalbed,”Isaid.
“Oh,no,”MissApplebaumsaid.
“Theyrentniceoneswithairmattressesandalltypesofequipmentlikethey
have at the hospital,” Zelda said. “Delancy’s said they would even send over oxygenandwhateveryouneeded.”
MissApplebaumsmiled.“Iwon’tneedanything,”shesaid.
MissApplebaumlaywithherheadagainstabigwhitepillow.Shelookedlike
ababybirdthathadfallenoutofitsnest.Wewantedtodoeverythingwecould,
butwedidn’tknowhowtohelphernow.ShelookedatZeldaandme.Ithought
Isawsorrowinherface.Ididn’tgettheimpressionshewassadaboutanything
thatwashappeningtoher.Ithinkforthatmomentshewasfeelingsorryfor us.
“Would you please get paper and pen?” Miss Applebaum requested. “In my
desk,”sheadded.“Inthedesk.”
“Wouldyoulikesomethingtoeatordrink?”Zeldawantedtoknow.
“No,thankyou,”MissApplebaumsaid.
“Maybeyogurt?”
“No.”
I found a pad and a pen and scooted back to the foot of Miss Applebaum’s bed.
“Pullchairsover,”MissApplebaumrequested.
ZeldafoundasmallswivelchairandsatatMissApplebaum’sleftside,andI
movedawickerchairsoIwassittingattherightsideofthebed.
Miss Applebaum spoke slowly, almost in a whisper. “I’m going to be
leaving,”shesaid.
Zelda and I didn’t know what to say. Zelda looked at the floor and I found myself mumbling and turning a Papermate ballpoint pen over and over in my hand. “There’s over ten thousand dollars left in the skull,” I said. I was really babbling nonsequiturs. I hadn’t even told Miss Applebaum I was keeping her moneyintheskeleton,soImumbledsomemoreandtoldhernow.“There’sover
tenthousanddollarsleftintheskull.”
“Averygoodbank,”MissApplebaumsmiled.Thenshetookafullminuteto
catch her breath, and continued. “You and Zelda use the money to keep my friendsuntilspring.Wouldyoudothat?KeepHelenandalltheothersalive?”
“Yes,”Isaid.
“Yes,”Zeldasaid.
“Just keep them until spring. It will be warm then and they’ll find someone elsetohelpthem.Iknowthat.Justdon’tletBernicetakeit.She’sanicegirlbut toomuchofapragmatist.Andtomorrow,callthecockroachlady.”
IthoughtIwashearingthings.
“Whatcockroachlady?”
“Call the museum. Tell them you want to talk to the cockroach lady. She works in one of the turrets. She’s a naturalist . . . very old . . . and she works
there studying cockroaches and centipedes. She’s very famous. They write articles about her. She loves living things. Just ask for the cockroach lady. I don’trememberhername.Ican’tremembernow....”
“We’llcallher,”Isaid,jottingdownthewords,“cockroachlady.”
“She’llknowwhoshouldhavemyplants.Tellherabouttheplants....They
need to be picked up. They need a new home. Probably the botanical garden.
She’ll probably say that—the botanical garden. They’ll come. Take the plants.
ButgiveoneofthelittleplantsontheFerriswheeltoeachoftheapartmentsin this building. Just leave one in front of each door. No note. There are a lot of caringpeopleinthebuilding.They’llloveaplant.Didyoumakeanoteofwhat
Isaid?”MissApplebaumasked.
“Yes,”Isaid,scribblingawayatamileaminute.
“The cockroach lady will also tell you who should get the scientific
apparatus.”
“Won’tthemuseumwantit?”Zeldaasked.
“The city museums don’t have much space left,” Miss Applebaum said.
“Boston University. Or a museum in Philadelphia. They send students in vans.
Callthem.Butaskthecockroachladyfirst....”
“Wewill,”Zeldasaid.
“And you,”MissApplebaumsaid,liftingafingertopointfirstatZelda,and thenatme.“Youbothtakeafavoriteplant.Theylikeyou.Youarechildrenwho
lovelivingthings.Youtakesomeofthemandthemagnetsandsomethingsto
rememberme.Takesomethingyoulike.Takewhatyoulike....”
“MayIhavetheskeleton?”Iasked,andthenIwantedtoyankmytongueout.
“Idon’tmeanthemoney.Idon’thavetotaketheskeleton.”Idrifted.“Icould
stillhidethemoneyinit,ofcourse,butIdon’tneedtheskeleton,Icouldtake thewindtunnel....”
“Please take them.” Miss Applebaum smiled. She slowly turned her head to lookatZelda.“Whatwouldyoulike?”
Zeldacouldn’tanswer.Shebegantospeakandhervoicecracked.Finallyshe
wasabletosay,“MayIhavethemodeloftheflower?”
“Yes,” Miss Applebaum said. “Yes. That would be perfect.” She started to cough.
Kleenex box. Zelda rushed back practically spilling the water on Miss Applebaum,butMissApplebaumdidn’tseemtonotice.Iwasn’tsureshecould
even recognize what a tissue was anymore. Finally, Miss Applebaum stopped coughing.Zeldapattedherlipsdry.
“Ithinkweshouldcalladoctor,”Zeldasaidsoftlytoher.
“No,”MissApplebaumsaid.“Getthetypewriter....”
“Thewhat?”weasked.
MissApplebaumstartedpointingtowardalargepottedbush.“My...Smith-
Corona...typewriter...”sheclarified.
I got up and had to go straight over to the bush before I could see a small whitetableagainstthewallwithanextremelyoldtypewriteronit.Itlookedlike somethingyou’dseeinasilentmovie.MissApplebaumtoldmetobringitover.
Ipickedupthewholetable,typewriterandall.Irememberfeelingveryqueasy
because I was certain Miss Applebaum was going to make us type up her last willandtestament.
“That’sright...bringithere,”shesaid.“Putapieceofpaperinit..
..”
IputthetypewritersmackinfrontofZelda.
“Youwantmetotype?”Zeldaasked.
“Yes,”MissApplebaumsaid.
“Type what?”Iasked.
“Aletter...”
“Towho?”
“To Bernice,” Miss Applebaum wheezed. Just the mention of her niece’s nameagainwasenoughtosummonuptheknotofguiltthatlayever-presentin
ourstomachssincetheeveningwhenBerniceyelledatusatthehospital.Even
so,wereallyhadnoideaofwhatMissApplebaumwouldwanttotellheratthis
point.
MissApplebaumbeganspeaking.
Zeldabegantyping.
Thewordscameslowly.Whenitwasfinished,MissApplebaum’sletterreally
shockedus.
MissApplebaumsignedtheletterusingthePapermatepenandhadmeleave
it on her nightstand. “Bernice will find it . . . sometime . . .” Miss Applebaum
said.
“Yes,” we agreed, but I didn’t know what we were agreeing to. Miss
Applebaumclosedhereyes.Shebegantomoveherfingers,asthoughshewere
countinginadream.Itturnedoutshewasrestingbeforeshewouldmakeafinal
request of us. Her eyes opened. Now every motion of her body became
diminished. Her fingers moved slower. I wished Miss Applebaum would have diedatthatverymoment.IfZeldaandIhadtobewithherfortheveryend,I
wantedittobelikesleeping.Ifdeathwasmerelygoingtosleep,IfeltZeldaand I would be able to live without our own fear of it. Death as sleep. It would be okay.Butitwasn’ttoendthatway.
Nolies.
Notnow.
MissApplebaumopenedhereyeswide.Herlipsbegantomove.ZeldaandI
moved closer to hear. Miss Applebaum wasn’t trying to speak. She was
trembling.Wemovedtositonthebed.MissApplebaumcouldlookupnowand
seeusbothwithoutturningherhead.
“I’m frightened,”MissApplebaumsaid.
Wecouldn’tspeak.Wedidn’tknowwhattosay.Wedidn’twantittoendlike
this.OursmartandbraveMissApplebaumsayingshewasafraid.Ididn’tthink