Control

  “The beautiful pimple-brained swimmer, if you don’t mind. My single mad passionate affair—the one Phillip never knew about.”

  “You ran into him?”

  “Indeed.”

  “Don’t tell me—he’s lost his hair and got a paunch.”

  “Wrong. More of a dish than ever.”

  “I’m getting horny,” Sally said. “Get on with it.”

  “Well, we had coffee. You remember how he broke my heart.”

  “I was there, tootsie. Remember who nursed you. Now get on with it—you’re having coffee and…”

  “It was just so wonderful.”

  ‘What was so fucking wonderful?”

  “He wanted me, Sally. Middle-aged mother of three, and this perfectly breathtaking specimen was on the prowl.”

  “So you went to his hotel and then what?”

  Edith shook her head. “Sally, I know this is against all laws of physical science, but his brain has shrunk.”

  Sally couldn’t help laughing.

  “It’s true—I don’t know how he makes it across the street without accident.”

  “You’re telling me you shot him down.”

  “In flames. I played Anna Karenina for my farewell—wasn’t it Anna Karenina?—those long-suffering women get all mixed up for me—’the children, Doyle, we must think of the children’— anyway, out I traipsed. It was glorious.”

  “I don’t believe it,” Sally said. “It’s too perfect—have you got proof?”

  “What kind of proof could I have?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, a picture of him—or his card, maybe, his business card with some kind of message—”

  “He did give me his business card. I stuck it in my purse. He put his phone number on it. I think it’s unlisted.”

  Sally looked at Edith, slowly shook her head. “That would convince me, I admit it.”

  “Oh dear,” Edith said then.

  Sally waited.

  “Now I have to tell about the control part.”

  ‘‘Sweetie, you don’t gotta tell nothing you don’t wanna tell. You’re probably tired anyway.”

  “I am tired,” Edith said, her voice softening.

  “Well, then.”

  “But I want to.”

  “Well, then.”

  “And if you’re me, and there’s something you have to tell somebody, who else can that somebody be but you?”

  “Make it brief then, Edith. Just get to it and over with.”

  Edith shut her eyes for a moment. “You know how important it’s always been to me—probably ever since my father died—to be in control, on top of things.”

  “I’ve heard tell.”

  “Well, I got to Bloomingdale’s a few minutes after leaving Doyle, and I felt so fine I bought myself a present, a scarf, and then I went to the tie department…” Now a long pause.

  Sally waited.

  Edith quietly began to weep.

  Sally reached out, took her hand.

  Edith turned her head away.

  Very sweetly Sally said, “Aw shit now, c’mon.”

  Edith lay there.

  Sally waited.

  “… it was just the worst moment, Sally… it came so fast…” Now her voice trailed off.

  “Can you describe it?”

  “Maybe.”

  “Try.”

  “Something was in my brain besides my brain,” Edith said. “All, all my carefully built-up defenses, gone. Invaded. In the middle of my brain. It was like a child was thinking inside me— a child that knew me—and hated me so—all my failings burst out, all the bad things I’d done in my life, all those scars and guilts were ripped free and loose inside and I spun around, tried to get to it, tried to make it stop, but it kept on getting worse, it was as if all your sins and evils were bursting free and tormenting you, and enjoying tormenting you—and I knew I had to do something because it was as if you were being tortured by a sadist, by an ultimate sadist, only that sadist was you, and whatever steps you have to take to make it stop”—now she looked at her bandaged arms—“you take them.”

  During the outburst Sally could see the cost in energy, and she said nothing when Edith was done, just leaned forward, smoothed Edith’s lovely reddish hair. When Edith was asleep again, she kept on for a while, then contented herself holding Edith’s hand.

  Sally was exhausted too, and when the night nurse whispered the room across the hall was vacant and wouldn’t she feel better with a decent night’s rest, Sally felt genuinely grateful. She had more trouble getting to sleep than she thought, considering how whipped she was. Edith’s phrase kept recurring, making her wonder. “Something was inside my brain besides my brain …” What the fuck could it be, Sally wondered.

  Whatever it was, it returned in the hours before dawn.

  Edith’s long-time wish for cremation was, of course, honored. And she’d also wanted just the family to gather in the living room of the Beekman Place place for a really good glass of champagne and Phillip was unable to function much so Sally bought a magnum of Roederer Cristal from Sherry-Lehmann and maybe they would have gotten through it—it would have been awful but they might have made the moment work, if Edith’s mother, old Mrs. Mazursky, hadn’t chosen to invite the rabbi of her congregation.

  She didn’t tell anyone she’d done it, and until he arrived, she contented herself moving around the room, from Phillip to Sally to the daughters, Abigail, Caroline, and Kate, saying that Edith was a bubble of a child. “Your mother was a bubble of a child,” she said to the children. “My daughter was a bubble of a child,” she said to poor, dazed Phillip.

  Sally, anxious to avoid her turn, went to the large picture window and stared out; ordinarily it was one of the premier views of the city, but since Edith had chosen to drown in that same East River that flowed so beautifully by, the view, at least for now, possessed sorrows.

  Sally turned sharply from it, hoisted the magnum from the nearby table, filled her glass, put the bottle down, drained her glass, lifted the bottle back up, filled the glass again. It was while she was intent on this that she heard the words, “Oh thank God, come in, Rabbi.”

  Stunned, Sally looked as the chubby old woman went to the tall man in the doorway. He was impeccably coiffed, Sally watched as he smiled a perfect smile of sympathy, and as she watched she wondered did she hate him more for how he looked that he was there.

  “I’ve asked Rabbi Korngold to say a few words,” Mrs. Mazursky said.

  Sally watched as Phillip, dear thing that he was, tried to stop the festivities before they rolled. “I don’t remember Edith having requested…” he began. “I hadn’t intended…” he tried again.

  I wish I was family, Sally thought. But she wasn’t, she told herself. And her job was to shut up.

  In a deep, controlled voice, Rabbi Korngold said something in Hebrew.

  At least Sally assumed it was Hebrew. Probably a prayer. Getting her mind off the situation, she studied Phillip, washed up and slumping, Lincolnesque no more. And the three daughters: Kate, angry at her mother’s betrayal, Abby, angry but still more stunned, Caroline, forlorn but fighting not to give in to tears.

  “Edith Mazursky Holtzman,” Rabbi Korngold said, his voice growing deeper as he repeated the name. “Edith… Mazursky… Holtzman … a flower plucked before her springtime.”

  Now Caroline had lost her fight, was weeping.

  “What can we say of Edith Mazursky Holtzman … what can we capture in mere words of her joyous spirit; how can we encapsulate a spirit as wide as the horizon … ?” He looked at the girls now. “Who but you can know the greatness of your loss?”

  There went Abby.

  Kate was still fighting the good fight.

  The rabbi turned toward Kate now. “You must not sorrow because you are alone. You are not alone. You have your memories and they are gold.”

  Kate began to sob. She ran to her weeping father, buried her head. Mrs. Mazursky had been in tears since the rabbi had cleared hi
s throat.

  He moved into the center of the room now, spread his long arms, his voice deeper and slower than ever. “Yes, they are gold, our memories of Edith Mazursky Holtzman … and gold shines… and our memories shine… they shine today… they will shine tomorrow… they will shine forever…” He pointed to Mrs. Mazursky “… daughter memories…M Now to the girls. “… mother memories …” Last to Phillip. “. .. and memories of wife… for she was fully all those things, a daughter, a mother, a wife—”

  “—and painter!” Sally cut in. “Now you must stop this.”

  “What?—” He spun toward Sally.

  “She was also a painter.”

  “A painter, of course.”

  “No, I don’t think you knew that,” Sally said. “But she was very good, really a remarkable gift and Lord knows where it would have taken her and I suppose it’s sad we’ll never find out, but lots of things are sad, aren’t they, sir.”

  “Oh yes,” Rabbi Korngold said. He looked around now, not quite certain as to what to do next.

  Sally was more than certain. Yes she was small and pert and on occasion, demure, but she could also be, on occasion, a tank, and that was the role she played now, moving toward the rabbi, clasping his hand, starting him deftly toward the door. “We won’t forget your appearance here,” Sally told him, hoping it was ambiguous enough.

  “Thank you,” the rabbi answered.

  “And if we need you, we’ll feel free to contact you.”

  “My phone is always open,” Rabbi Korngold said, which isn’t quite what he meant to say, he had meant to say that it was his door, of course, that was open, and he wondered if he ought to clarify the thought, but a look at his escort made him decide not to.

  Sally stayed in the doorway till he was gone. Then she faced the room. Phillip, still holding Kate, nodded a “thank you.” Sally looked at them all. Then she said, “My beloveds: we are here because Edith chose to desert us. Maybe someday we’ll know why…”

  She crossed to the champagne, drank a glass empty, poured it back full, sat and stared out at the river. Behind her now, she could hear the tears subsiding.

  Sally didn’t cry. Ever. Sometimes she wished she could. She sat at a table that was placed by the window and put her chin in her hands, hoping Mrs. Mazursky wouldn’t be angry at her for ending the peroration early.

  Evidently she wasn’t, since not too many minutes later, the old lady was standing beside Sally, saying that Edith was just a bubble of a child.

  “I’m sure, Mrs. Mazursky.”

  “She was, she was. A bubble. Just a bubble of a child.”

  Sally nodded.

  Now Mrs. Mazursky leaned close, whispered into Sally’s ear. “And it was an accident. That.” She pointed toward the water. “I’m positive. It was an accident. Believe me.”

  Sally tried very hard to nod again. But it wasn’t easy.

  An accident?

  Forget it was the middle of the night when Edith drowned. Forget it was February. Forget it was freezing. Forget it was the East River. Forget she was wearing only a hospital gown.

  She couldn’t swim …

  La Dolce Vita

  —Billy Boy stood silently on the steps, took a last look at the two women lying below, and wondered what the hell to do now—

  —he had meant to go to Hero’s, to go to Hero’s and get clothes, but that was before he got lucky with the queen of the shop-lifters—

  —and before he hit the nosy bitch with the red hair—

  —if he went to Hero’s now he’d go without money, and maybe they were the kind of place that took gold watches and gold bracelets and all the other stuff he’d jammed in his pockets, but then again, maybe they weren’t. This was in New York, and in Milwaukee there were places that did and in Waukegan there were plenty of places that did but New York you didn’t want them laughing at you.

  So what he had to do was barter, the gold for some bread, and what he also had to do, right now, was get the hell away. He climbed the steps and there were half a dozen people standings clustered so he said, “Get the cops, didja for Chrissakes call the cops?” and when they shook their heads he exploded, “What’s wrong with you people, I gotta do everything?’ and he pulled his black wool cap down tight around his head and bulled away, calling out “Police” a few times until he was safe out of sight around the corner which is when he started running—

  —running? Are you crazy? You know what they do to guys in New York who run away from crimes? Book ‘em and throw away the key.

  He stopped and took a deep breath. He was—he had to admit it—flustered. Flustered. And they were looking at him. AH the people were looking at him. They knew. People from the Apple knew when you’d done something, unless you were smart enough to fake ‘em, and he was smart enough in Milwaukee and he was a whiz in Waukegan, but New York? He wished then what he always did after a job—

  —lemme be invisible—I wanna be invisible, I wanna make ‘em stop staring—

  The Duchess. She said it was a lucky day, and hadn’t it been lucky so far, hadn’t she been on the money?

  The money. If he gave her some, she’d protect him, make ‘em stop staring, make him as good as invisible, make him safe…

  The Beast growled as he entered. “ ‘Scuse,” Billy Boy muttered, and he took a seat across the room, making no noise, because the Duchess was talking to a client, an old black lady.

  “She misses you, of course she misses you, every day she misses you,” the Duchess said. “But she’s happy. And that’s the main thing.”

  “Main thing,” the old black lady repeated. “An’ she don’t doubt I love her?”

  “Never. She loves you too. And when you cross over, she’ll be there to take your hand.”

  The black lady nodded, took out some rumpled bills, handed them over. “I broke my health putting her through school. Two jobs every day of the worl’. Hardly seems worth it now.”

  “God works in mysterious ways,” the Duchess said.

  “See you again in a month,” the black lady said, and she moved with pain to the door and was gone.

  “I hate that ‘God works in mysterious ways’ garbage, but sometimes you just have to bullshit the people.”

  “But you weren’t bullshitting me.”

  “How could I? You’d know.”

  “I would, wouldn’t I.” He fumbled into his pocket. “Here—this gold bracelet’s for you—I found it in the street while I was applying for a job. The job went great so I thought you deserved this.”

  “You can’t buy luck.”

  “I just thought you’d like it,” Billy Boy said.

  “I do. We both do, don’t we?” The Beast, in reply, growled.

  “Maybe I’ll come back again.”

  “I’m always here.”

  “An’ it’s still my lucky day?”

  She put the gold bracelet on her thin wrist. Then she said, softly, “Fear nothing, you’re on fire.”

  That was almost as good as being invisible…

  He tried several Eighth Avenue places before he found one that was right. He sensed it as soon as he stepped from the darkness of the street to the greater darkness of the bar. A ton of hookers moving restless to the beat of the nigger music coming from the juke. And in the rear, a bunch of well-dressed pimps, sitting like they owned the world.

  Billy Boy took a seat in the corner of the bar, ordered a seven and seven. A couple of hookers hit on him right off but he brushed them, they weren’t right. The fourth or fifth was white and scrawny, burned to pieces; anyone who’d work a chick that hard had to have money. “I could learn to likejou a lot,” she said. “Bet you’re big all over.”

  “I want your pimp,” Billy Boy said.

  She looked shocked. “I got no one. Free-lance all the way.”

  “Too bad.” He took out a ten, put it on the bar. “I’d of given you that if you’d brought him over.”

  “I think maybe my agent’s here,” she answered. “In the bac
k.”

  Billy Boy faced front, said nothing, nursed his seven and seven. In a minute the burnout was back. “He’ll be most glad to talk to you,” she said, pointing toward a large black man in a cowboy hat who was moving toward them. Billy Boy pushed her the ten and she left.

  “What’s doing, my man?” the black guy said.

  “I’m a little short on cash,” Billy Boy told him.

  “So’s half the civilized world.”

  Billy Boy took out a man’s gold watch, flashed it briefly, put it back in his pocket. “There’s more. I’m selling, if you wanna buy. But not here.”

  “A business venture, huh. Well, I shouldn’t but I will—promise you won’t take advantage of me, my man; you look awful smart.” He was smiling all the time he talked and Billy Boy tried not to let it bother him. They left the bar, went around the corner to a flophouse, paid for a room on the second floor. Billy Boy followed the other guy up. He was big, six four, and he moved like an athlete.

  Inside the room, Billy Boy emptied his pockets on the bed, dropping the gold bracelets and the earrings and the men’s watches and the women’s watches. A ton of stuff.

  “Relative die and leave you this?”

  “Why you all the time smiling? You could piss people off smiling like that.”

  “It’s a mean world, I try to spread happiness.” He studied half a dozen bracelets, examined a watch. “Looks like quality stuff. But then, what do I know?”

  “It’s the best. Straight from Bloomington’s”’

  Now the black guy started laughing. “Dale’s, my man. Bloom-ingdale’s.”

  Billy Boy could feel his hand starting to turn into a fist.

  “Eighty bucks,” the black guy said.

  “You listen now—you listen now—I got a number inside my head—if you guess more than my number, you get all this—if you guess less than the number inside my head, deep shit is what you’re into.” He opened the bathroom door, tested it, made his arm a club, and blasted the door off its hinges.