Good Riddance(11)

Jeremy was kind enough to disparage the brides and grooms who think they can produce a wedding video on their friends’ iPhones.

“The contract says that no guest can hold up a phone during the ceremony. The officiant announces that before he or she begins the ceremony.”

This is when I said I had to run. I had homework to do. Or maybe I said I was meeting my dad. Neither excuse was true. Jeremy stood and said he had to get going as well.

Out in the hallway, I asked what he thought of our neighbor.

“Rich girl. Grew up on the Upper East Side. Majored in film. Wesleyan, maybe Bennington, maybe USC; tried LA for a while but got no further than assistant. Has to brag because she does next to nothing.”

“Wow. When did she tell you all of that?”

“Never. She didn’t have to.”





6


For Reasons I Never Understood



One day ahead of the moving van, as my father was painting the bathroom of his empty New York apartment a deep, brave midnight blue, I was pushing a sponge around, mostly to keep him company. There was something about our working side by side, our heads covered in matching bandannas, that made me confess, on my knees by the tub, “Mom’s yearbook? The one she obsessed over? I had to declutter. I threw it out.”

Expecting disappointment if not anger, I was surprised to hear “I don’t blame you. I wouldn’t want the damn thing.”

I was swishing tepid water around the tub, which was clean to start with. “I thought you might be upset that I didn’t give you the right of first refusal.”

“Why would I want it?”

“Sentimental value? Because it meant a lot to her. Because she must’ve thought I’d cherish it—”

“Nonsense! Signing up for every reunion! Joining the committees. She took that advisor thing way too seriously. After the first couple of reunions . . . never mind. I promised myself never to speak ill of your mother now.”

“Give me a hint . . . It won’t leave this room.”

“I’ll say this much: I thought her attending every damn one was unnecessary.”

“That’s hardly speaking ill of Mom.”

“Except that I found it . . . vain. How many times did she have to take a bow? I got that the thing was dedicated to her—but we’re not talking about War and Peace.”

I asked how many reunions he attended with her.

“Pickering High’s? None.”

“Really? She didn’t insist? Didn’t want to show off the handsome Principal Maritch?”—out-and-out flattery, for sure, but it didn’t seem to be registering.

“No, never. Apparently, a principal is considered a wet blanket at a reunion. It was her thing, her night out. She used to plan her outfit months in advance.” He was now rerolling paint onto the same track of deep blue. “She didn’t need me there—that was obvious. And you know how many of these acolytes came to her funeral? Not even a half dozen; not even the ones she had up on a pedestal for reasons I never understood.”

I’d heard this sad fact before. After the funeral, after the visitors to our house had left, we’d remarked on the hallowed class of 1968’s poor showing. Holly and I had wondered aloud, not in front of our father: Had our mother’s devotion been one-sided? Worse: Had it been a topic of ridicule?

I changed the subject by announcing that we had toilet-bowl cleaner but not a brush, so until we did, what else could I do? Should I run out for one?

“It’ll be on the truck. I packed everything. So just keep me company. Tell me what else is new? Any prospects in the chocolate field?”

With nothing to report and with my conscience nagging, I said, “I put it in the recycling bin on my floor, and someone found it.”

“Are we talking about a toilet brush?”

“No! The yearbook.”

“You already told me that. I said I didn’t care.”

“There’s more.” I skipped the email overture, the phone call, the cookies and vodka, and went straight to “The someone who found it wants to make a documentary out of it.”

The roller stopped. He turned around. Drips of paint landed on the tile floor.

“You said you didn’t need a drop cloth,” I scolded.

“It’s latex. Just explain to me how a yearbook gets made into a movie.”

“She, the alleged filmmaker, thinks the world’s in love with reunions. And at every one you get the ugly duckling who returns as a swan, the football captain who’s never topped his high school glory days, the nerds who founded software companies and show up with trophy wives, the high school romances that get rekindled.”

“Are you in love with this notion, too? Because you sound pretty sold.”

“No! I told her I’d have to speak to a lawyer. And to you. And I threw in Holly for good measure.”

“But can she just show up in Pickering with the yearbook under her arm?”

“She wants to start at the next reunion, whenever that is, and work backward.”

“To where . . . ?”

“To high school? To graduation? But we didn’t get that far because I kept saying no, no, no.”

“So it’s over? Not going to happen?”

I mumbled something noncommittal, followed by silence and the running of more tub water, before I said, “Paper towels, sponges, rubber gloves, milk, bread? I’ll make a list.”