Florence
The Telephone Call
Joey called me earlier. I have never heard him so upset. He started to lash out at me, asking why I hadn’t told him how serious things were with Father. That was all I needed to hear. “How dare you talk to me like that?” I exploded. “I have been telling you that I’ve noticed there was something wrong with him for some time. And you didn’t even bother going over to see for yourself, or just to spend time with him. And why is it always my responsibility, not only to do everything but to do it to your specifications, and on your timing? I’m not on your payroll, damn it!”
I was actually quite proud of myself for blowing off steam with Joey. That’s not my typical modus operandi. I am usually the one who sits there like a good little girl and takes whatever is shoveled my way, whether it be from my mother, my father, my husband, or Joey. But lately, it has been too much for me. I’m like a soup pot that starts frothing and then floods over onto the stovetop.
I’m at the house more often than usual now. It’s bad enough that Father’s got, at least in my opinion, the beginnings of some kind of dementia. But I can never get Mother to discuss it. And, of course, I could never steal any of Joey’s precious time for him to check it out himself. I feel I am totally alone.
Father and I still go for a walk on most weekends. It’s always been our time together. We ramble down the hill toward the park and just hang around or go over to the dog run. Some days he is just like the father I remember; other days aren’t so good. I’m not implying that his life is over or anything like that. It’s just that there are those occasions, clearly not all the time, when he gets a bit strange, or quiet, or disoriented. But just when I begin to question his behavior, he’s back to his same old self.
After I finished telling Joey off, he quieted down rather quickly. I think he was as taken aback as I was by my harangue. In fact, he promised he would do whatever it took from now on to help all of us deal with this. My mouth was agape. I can’t remember him ever doing anything where there wasn’t an angle, and frankly, I’m not sure it will be any different this time.
Saul
Lost Freedom
The Gestapo showed up today in their winter coats and boots—Joey, Bernie, and Florence. Monique and I were pretty astute naming her, or is it that she has spent a lot of her young life trying to live up to the moniker we bestowed on her? Florence, as in Florence Nightingale, but by now I’m sure you figured out what I meant, has been at more bedsides than a paid executioner at hangings. And she does it for free and generally brings some goodies to boot. If you ever have to be sick, try to have a daughter like mine!
I asked her once why she didn’t become a nurse; that was before a question like that became sexist. Now we’d have to ask why she didn’t become a doctor. Regardless, the answer would have been the same. She gets sick at the sight of blood.
I used to wonder whether she inquired as to the type of illness before committing to visit a relative, friend, acquaintance, or fellow employee—she’s an accountant by trade, like my father was, but she’s a damn good one. If the truth be told, I tried to talk her out of it, not because she lacked the skills, but I just had trouble thinking of her in the same profession as my father. He seems to haunt me even from six feet under.
But I’m getting sidetracked again. So I’m sitting in the living room of our bungalow on Oakland Avenue. It’s nothing great, considering the other houses in the neighborhood. Westmount is the fancy borough of Montreal. It used to be a fancy city, but they did something to make it a borough, some kind of vote or something, although I’m not exactly sure I understood what it was. But now I’ve heard it may be a city again. Whatever. It really is of no importance. At least not to me.
Our house sits at the end of a cul-de-sac, a dead end in most other cities, but Montreal is almost all French, so they like these French expressions. I’m an Anglo. That’s what they say to let others know I’m English-speaking. They use that word a lot and then break it down into Jews and Gentiles. And then there’s what they call allophones—that means everyone else, like the Italians, Greeks, and the rest of them. And then there are the Gentiles, like Monique, who convert to Judaism. It’s all really quite confusing.
I was describing our house. It sits on a Father Knows Best kind of street and is quite comfortable. We’ve been here since just before Monique gave birth to Joey.
That brings me back to the Nazis who showed up this afternoon. They were on a mission—to destroy my life! They huddled around me, all of them. It felt like when the Indians surrounded the wagons in the movies I went to see as a kid in Ontario. No, I didn’t ever live in Ontario, but, you see, they had a big fire in a movie theater in Montreal back then, and the provincial government, in its infinite wisdom, banned kids under sixteen from going to the movies. So my mother, oh yeah, sorry about that—her name was Hannah, right out of the Bible. Anyway, Mother would pack us up, and we would visit my aunt Riva and uncle Sydney in Cornwall, just over the Quebec border. I would spend all day, from when the movie house opened in the morning until I had to be back for dinner, watching Gene Autry and other actors and actresses fighting, kissing, arguing, and riding through the brush.
Sometimes the same movie would play four times before I had to leave. My buddies and I would hide in the bathroom when the usher came in between shows, and then sneak back in. If there were teenagers necking, we would sit behind them and make funny sounds; at least I thought they were funny, until one of them gave me a walloping shiner. Father grounded me for a week. They didn’t call it grounding then; it was called room time.
Back to Hitler’s finest. They squeezed onto the sofa by the fireplace, all except Joey, who can’t sit for more than the time it takes him to gulp down a milk shake. I often wonder what happens when he’s in the bathroom. With his attention span, he probably can’t sit still until it’s time to reach for the toilet paper.
Florence was the first to speak. No doubt prodded by the others, because they know I think hers is the voice of reason. But not today. She said that they had all discussed it. She said it with hooded eyes and a pained expression. She just kept beating around the bush, never saying what the “it” was. Then Joey butted in, blabbering something about me maybe killing someone. Now, I know Dr. Horowitz said my memory is not what it was, but I can’t for the life of me remember coming close to murdering anyone. I mean, yes, there were times when someone in the room may have been the recipient of one of my Reimer stares. They call it the Reimer stare because, as Monique once said, “That stare of yours can make mere mortals quiver in their boots.” And because my name is Saul Reimer.
Florence moved over beside me and started to massage my shoulders as Joey continued his rant. He said I was getting old and my driving was becoming defensive. I was driving too slowly, and that was dangerous. Christ! All I ever heard for the last umpteen years was how I was a speed demon, and how dangerous that was. Now the troops had advanced into my own living room and were telling me I drive like a tortoise. Worse, the punishment was to take my car away from me.
Take my car? How was I going to get around? They said—well, actually it was Joey who said he would give me taxi vouchers—with my own money, of course. All I had to do was sign them. I could go anywhere. I asked if I could go to New York. Joey smiled. Joey doesn’t smile very often. Too bad he wasted it on such an idiotic statement. I knew he wasn’t going to let me go to New York. I would be lucky if he let me take a cab downtown.
I folded my arms across my chest and said I was not going to give him the keys and that I would continue driving. Joey told me about the eighty-year-old man in California who killed ten people, including two children. I told him I am not eighty and I am a good driver. He said it wouldn’t be fair to kill a child. I told him I wasn’t planning on it, although I must admit I was starting to think about how to get rid of one of my own—and it wasn’t Florence I had in mind.
I know this all started after the incident when I forgot my pants. And I told Joey that I wouldn’t forget to put my trousers on again—never, ever. But Joey said the matter was closed. The others in his division mumbled under their breath, nodded their heads, and offered up sad but resolute expressions. Then Joey said it was best this way. Best for whom?
Monique
Sadness
Unfortunately, it takes forever to get a doctor’s appointment here in Quebec because of the socialized medical system, but I finally got one for Saul to see Dr. Horowitz three weeks after I first called. Saul has been down in the dumps, but the doctor said that was normal. Actually, he said Saul was less depressed than most early Alzheimer’s patients, although he made it very clear that he was only a general practitioner and that we should go and see someone who specializes in that field to get a firm diagnosis. He gave me a referral to Dr. Yves Tremblay. I made the appointment—this time, a two-month wait!
Saul is so different now. Here was a man who roared at his own gags no matter how bad they were, someone who had so much energy, we all joked that he must be on drugs. And now he seems withdrawn, not wanting to participate in any activities except sitting in front of the television with a blank look in his eyes. The only good thing is that he doesn’t click the remote over and over anymore. That used to drive me crazy.
The other night, he got up while we were playing gin and threw his cards on the table, saying he had no interest in playing any longer. When I asked him why, he said the game was for imbeciles. But I could tell he was becoming frustrated because he couldn’t remember all the rules and didn’t want me to know. I told him I would help him with his hand. Then he really got angry and stormed out of the room. Minutes later, he was back, dragging a sheet from the linen closet. When I asked him what he was doing, he just stared at me.
Today, everyone was there to give Joey support as he told Saul that he shouldn’t drive anymore. Joey told us it was going to be like taking a man’s penis away. Sometimes, for an educated young man, he has a foul mouth.
This is going to make our lives more difficult, because I never learned to drive. I think Saul’s driving is okay, maybe a little slow, certainly better than the kids who speed around Mount Royal in their fancy cars. But Joey said it was too dangerous, and the others agreed.
Saul didn’t take it well. I could see him fuming under his stiff smile. A few minutes after they left, he collapsed onto the sofa by the window and started sobbing—the first time I ever actually saw him break down. Once, after Florence was born, I heard him crying through the bathroom door. Those were tears of happiness.
I walked over to the sofa and sat down beside him. He took my hand and held it to his wet face. I started to weep. He asked what was wrong. I told him it hurt me that he was so sad. Suddenly, his tears stopped. He threw my arm off his chest and left the room.
I never know what to expect anymore. But I guess that’s a minor problem compared to what he’s going through. I can’t even imagine the anguish he must be feeling, knowing he will morph into someone I no longer know, and someone who does not know me. But I will be by his side, giving him whatever support I can—that’s the least I can do after so many years of marriage.