Saul
Miriam
She was really quite pretty and smart. A bit on the skinny side, maybe a bit more than a bit. I like that—“a bit more than a bit.” I’ll have to remember that one. Fat chance of that!
Anyway, what else can I tell you about Miriam? Let’s see—a great musician. She played the flute, clarinet, and saxophone. And she played well, well enough to be first clarinetist of the school orchestra.
But she didn’t just have a serious side. She couldn’t resist the opportunity to flirt. Even when I would walk home with her, she would bat her long eyelashes at the guys waiting at the bus stop. I think she just wanted to be wanted. I don’t think she felt comfortable at home with her overbearing and nutty parents.
Did I tell you about how she would sometimes set up two dates on a Saturday night? I thought only guys did that—you know, one till ten o’clock, then sneaking out and meeting up with the next one at ten-thirty. And she was so extraordinary, she got away with it, even if they found out.
When Miriam got older, she looked up to me. But when we were young, it was Miriam who watched out for me. I can’t tell you how many times she would bang on my bedroom door, begging my father to stop hitting me. It didn’t do any good, but it made me feel better that someone was in my corner. Sometimes I think it hurt her more than me. If that were the case, it must have really hurt her, because I can tell you Larry’s belt was made out of the toughest leather ever manufactured!
Miriam graduated from McGill with honors in psychology. With her upbringing, she probably could have passed her exams without even taking the course. I mean, look at all the practical training she had. Hannah and Larry for parents, me for a brother.
Those years at university were wasted. She could have been out having fun, enjoying her life—or whatever she had left of it.
One Saturday afternoon, Miriam called me and asked me to get together with her downtown at Woolworth’s. She was going to buy an LP first, and then we’d meet at the snack bar. I hadn’t seen here in a while, so we had a lot of catching up to do.
We hung around while she drank her usual coffee with the tons of sugar she liked to dump into her cup, and while I went through two cherry Cokes. Miriam asked me if I wanted to go for a walk on Mount Royal. I was supposed to meet my new girlfriend, Cathy, so I passed. We agreed to get together that night, Cathy and I, Miriam and her new heartthrob—with Miriam there was always one hanging around.
A few blocks later, Miriam was struck by a streetcar. She never made it to the hospital. She was twenty-two. I still miss her.
I can remember the blue skirt and matching wool sweater set she wore that day, and her dark hair combed in a flip. And I can remember her black pumps. Yet today, I can’t even remember yesterday.
Florence
Symptoms
The telltale signs are all over the place.
Last Sunday, Father and I were on our way back from the park, when he started heading in the wrong direction. I asked him where he was going.
“It doesn’t matter,” he answered over his shoulder.
I steered him back toward the intersection, but as soon as he saw the redbrick school building, he muttered something about being late for class. He made a beeline for the entrance. I didn’t try to stop him, assuming the doors would be locked. But the janitor or someone must have left them open, and he rushed in. Once inside, he raced up the stairs and marched into a classroom.
He stopped in his tracks, eyeing the empty desks neatly lined up in rows that stretched to the back of the room. I couldn’t get him to budge from the space he had commandeered. His eyes moved slowly and deliberately, stopping in front of each desk. He mouthed words that were neither intelligible nor of sufficient volume for me to make them out. Then he walked to the back of the room and tried to squeeze his large frame between the seat and the underside of a desk— probably a difficult task in his day, and an impossible one now. Suddenly, he lost his balance and stumbled backward in what seemed like slow motion. When his body finally settled onto the hardwood floor, he opened his eyes and stared up at the ceiling. He held that pose until I reached down and took hold of his arm, guiding him slowly to his feet.
After we left, he began telling me about the good old days at school. He talked animatedly about his different teachers and some of the kids in his classes. It was a normal conversation, like nothing had ever happened.
When we got home, Mother was in the den, waiting. I asked Father to share some of the stories with her. He looked at me like I was crazy and asked me what I was talking about.
Yesterday, I took him to see Dr. Swidler for a checkup. Actually, it was Mother who suggested it. Knowing that it’s only a matter of time before he moves into Manoir Laurier, she wanted to make sure he didn’t have any problems with his teeth, on top of everything else. The waiting room was full, but there was one empty seat between two Westmount dowagers. I motioned for him to sit between them, but he, ever the gentleman, insisted that I sit down. Normally, I would have argued the point, but frankly, I was afraid of engaging him in any conversation that could lead to his becoming belligerent. So I sat down, and he stood, hovering in front of me.
Celine Dion’s voice blasted through the speakers in the ceiling, and the sounds of drilling emanated from behind the door. The women on either side of me were practically spitting in my face as they tried to talk to each other above the Muzak, the drilling, and the nearby conversations.
The cacophony must have gotten to Father. He slammed his hands over his ears and made grunting sounds, his body rocking back and forth. I jumped up, but before I could get my balance, he shoved me back in my seat and rushed through the door to where Dr. Swidler was working on a patient. I pulled myself up and went after him. By the time I got there, he was standing beside a sink, banging his fist against the wall, shouting, “I can’t stand this anymore! I can’t stand this anymore!”
Monique
Happy Birthday
Today is Saul’s seventy-fifth birthday, a milestone, but not what I was expecting whenever I thought about how we would celebrate—before his illness, that is. It’s funny how things happen. I don’t count the years numerically anymore; instead, I go by how long it’s been since Saul was diagnosed. So this is the end of year four, going on year five.
Florence and Bernie brought the kids, something they hadn’t done in a while, not after Saul yelled at Daniel so loudly a few months ago that the poor boy wailed in terror for a good five minutes. It’s sad that they will probably remember Saul only the way he is now.
Joey was there, as was Arthur Winslow, Saul’s childhood friend. I had baked a carrot cake with the cream cheese icing Saul loves so much. Obviously, I wasn’t going to decorate it with seventy-five candles, so I put on three, one for yesterday, one for today, and one for tomorrow.
I had made a collage of Saul’s life, including pictures from his childhood that he had kept, pictures of us during our marriage, and both of us with the kids—and with the grandchildren, of course. Although I must admit he was never much of a grandfather, even before he was sick. It was always an effort even to get him to go to their birthday parties. If I put up a fuss, he usually went, but not with a big smile on his face—until he got there. Then he would take the presents that I’d bought—I always bought one for each of them, so one wouldn’t feel left out—and make a big deal about giving them to the grandchildren.
Today, I put up some red and blue streamers between the two lamps by the sofa and a plastic happy birthday tablecloth on the dining room table. Because we were only eight people, I didn’t bother with a caterer, but I made brisket with sweet potatoes, another of Saul’s favorite dishes.
We all sat around in front of the fireplace. The weather was quite mild for February, but I lit a fire anyway. Saul likes to watch it, and it usually keeps him still.
Bernie, Florence, and the children were the first to arrive. Florence bent over to kiss her father and then pushed Daniel and Howard in Saul’s direction so they could do the same. I was waiting for the fireworks to start, but Saul bent over so they could reach his cheek, and both of them gave him a quick kiss before retreating. Arthur was the next to arrive, and finally, a half hour later, the king himself, Joey.
Everyone brought a present. I told them not to spend a lot. There wasn’t much that Saul could use at this point. Florence brought a bright paisley tie. Why would she do that? I wondered. Arthur brought him a DVD. Joey gave Saul a brush for Dugin. Speaking of Dugin—and I’d rather not, to be honest—he stayed right by Saul’s side the whole time.
Bernie took the collage over to the fireplace and put it on the table. We took turns showing Saul the pictures. His eyes sparkled just like in the old days. He put his finger on a photograph of us holding hands in front of the Eiffel Tower, and a big smile came over his face. “Beautiful,” he said, “Simply beautiful.”
Florence asked him if he knew what birthday it was.
Saul said, “Eight.”
“No father,” Florence said, “I mean how old are you today?”
Saul closed his eyes for a few seconds but said nothing.
Florence said, “Seventy, seventy-five, eighty, one hundred?”
Saul answered, “The first one.”
Florence corrected him. “No, Father, seventy-five. Isn’t that great?”
Saul’s face tensed and he said again, insistently, “The first one.”
I motioned for her to stop before he got agitated, then asked everyone to go to the table. Joey helped Saul out of his easy chair and led him to the seat of honor. We all sat around chatting, mostly about Saul before he got sick. Occasionally, he would jump in, sometimes with appropriate remarks, sometimes with ones completely off base. But, regardless, he was calm and smiling.
After lunch, I lit the candles on the cake, and Joey carried it to the table. I asked Saul to blow them out. He did—two of the three anyway.
Florence put a birthday hat on Saul’s head and gave him a party horn. He started to blow the horn, and in between he started laughing, as if he knew something no one else did. It was really quite cute. He was having so much fun, laughing and laughing. After a few minutes, he became quiet, but he stayed seated at the table.
The whole day couldn’t have gone better. Everyone left by four. Saul took a nap while I cleaned up. I saved the candles. There won’t be many more birthdays.
Saul
A Bit Lewd
I’m not myself today. Now, that even gives me a tickle. I mean, how can you be yourself when you’re morphing into a monster? And by at least one account, I am not only a monster but also a pervert.
Monique told me that today through her running mascara. If she’s going to be on a constant crying jag, why doesn’t she give up the damn mascara? I mentioned that to her, and all I got was a tongue job. No, I don’t mean what you think I mean, but in a way it’s all related.
First of all, by tongue job, I mean she kind of stuck her tongue out at me like we did in Miss Novak’s grade-three class. You were probably thinking some sex thing, when some of them do the tricks. But like I already told you, Monique doesn’t do the tricks.
She said I went into the kitchen last night as naked as God. I guess I’m going to find out if he’s wearing clothes soon enough—and frankly, I think I’m ready. Anyway, Monique said I was playing with my thing, and that she told me to stop, but I wouldn’t. She said it was repulsive.
I asked her if I’d had an explosion. That really upset her. But I figured it would have been a pity to go through all that and not have an explosion. I can’t remember the last time I had one of them with Monique, but given my state, that’s probably not news to you. And maybe, just maybe, now that she knows I won’t remember much, she tried a couple of those tricks, or at least one of them—you know the one I mean. But I doubt it. I don’t think Monique ever had much fun with me when it came to sex. It was always a reward for good behavior. Some reward—a zaftig woman with cellulite and stretch marks lying face up on the bed under the bright light, with her eyes squeezed shut, as if awaiting her executioner—not exactly Linda Lovelace in heat!