An Absent Mind(2)

That’s probably how he felt about me. He certainly chased after me, told me what I wanted to hear, what any young girl wants to hear from an older, powerful suitor. And he showered me with gifts.

One day we were walking downtown, and I admired a blouse in a shop window. He told me to wait outside, then barged through the door of the shop and came out with the same blouse in four different colors. Frankly, I would have been happier with a little more affection and fewer material possessions.

I should have realized early on that warmth would not be a cornerstone of our relationship, but I guess I was used to that from my childhood. I had no brothers or sisters, my father died when I was ten, and mother worked day and night to feed and clothe me.

We married in his synagogue after a two-year courtship, and after I converted to Judaism, but it didn’t take long for things to go downhill. There were fights—I don’t mean real fights—just constant bickering. But if you ask me if I love him, the answer would be, in a certain way, yes. And if I have been faithful, the answer is yes. And if he has been a good provider, the answer would be yes. Has he been a good father? One of the kids might say yes. Given everything, would I do it all over again? Maybe. Maybe not. But I made my choice years ago, and I am almost sixty-six and a grandmother.

In spite of it all, I thought we would grow old together. We had talked of moving out to Arizona to escape the damp winters because of his arthritis. But all that changed today.

The doctor on duty in the emergency room told me Saul should be tested for Alzheimer’s. It’s true he had been acting differently for several months—temper tantrums, hiding things around the house, telling the same stories over and over again, forgetting little things, being suspicious of me. I should have figured it out. And maybe I did and just didn’t want to face it, hoping I was wrong. But if I’m honest with myself, you don’t forget to put on your pants before you go out if you’re normal.

Now, as I lie in our bed, my head resting beside his, listening to more of a purr than a snore, I fear that the rest of his life will be short and difficult. Mine may be long, but full of worry.





Saul





The Family


Florence and Bernie came over today. I wish they wouldn’t fuss over me like I were some kind of child or old fart. Maybe Bernie feels bad about getting upset with me last Thursday for wetting my pants and leaving a big stain on their good living room chair, although I explained to him that drinking all that water sometimes catches up with you—at least it caught up with me, and more than once.

Bernie is high-strung. You never know when he’ll explode. He makes Mount Vesuvius look like a water fountain in a neighborhood park. I still can’t figure out why Florence married him. Maybe because I told her not to. Well, I didn’t exactly come out and say it, but she got the message. Next time I have a daughter, I’m going to tell her the opposite of what I think, and then she’ll do it my way. Oh well, live and learn!

I haven’t mentioned this yet, but we have another child, who is two years younger than Florence. His name is Joseph, but we’ve always called him Joey. Maybe that’s because he still looks like a kid, with his long hair and dimples—and acts like one, too. He and Florence are as different as black and white.

Florence is an old soul—I’m sure she has been here on earth many times before this incarnation. I could tell that the first time I examined the inside of her hand when she was barely two weeks old. There were more lines crisscrossing her palm than there are on a Canadian football field. I say Canadian because a Canadian football field is ten yards longer than an American one and the playing field is also wider, although I don’t recollect how many yards wider. But even to have more lines than an American football field on your hand at two weeks old proves my point.

I don’t think Florence’s pulse or blood pressure ever change. That’s probably a good thing. Sometimes when I am boiling over, I just have to look over at her to find a peacefulness I could never discover on my own.

As for Joey, well, he is like a racehorse, always on the go. Need I say more?

Anyway, I got sidetracked. I wanted to finish up on Florence’s Bernie. A real piece of work, as my father used to say. Oh yeah, my father—his name was Lawrence. He had the physique of a boxer, probably lightweight division. Just a little thicker than wiry, but not much. He had six-pack abs until he was almost seventy, and even then he still looked like the kind of guy who could eat nails for breakfast—big ones! Talk about Mount Vesuvius. He could blow like Mount Vesuvius and Mount Etna at the same time. And it would come from nowhere. Like the first bolt of lightning just before the sky blackens. Then just as quickly as he exploded, his famous smile would be plastered over his angular face.

Sorry, I was telling you about Bernie. He started hanging around our old house near the park just after Florence’s graduation from high school, or was it before? Yes, it was before, because I can remember him sitting in the first row, blabbing away during the ceremony. Florence was the head of her class—you know the one I mean—the best one. And that was a big deal, at least to our family. But I guess not to Bernie.

I figured she would get over him and go on to the next one, like we all did at that age—well, almost all—but she didn’t, and he became more of a fixture in our house than Roxy, the kids’ mongrel dog. I say the kids’, but I guess I was the true owner, since I bought her from the SPCA, walked her, fed her, and eventually buried her.