The Japanese Lover(66)
She had lost her fear of death thirty years earlier, when it had arrived like a friend to carry off Nathaniel. She herself had summoned it, and handed him over without regret. She never talked about this with Seth, because he accused her of being morbid, but with Lenny it was a favorite topic: they spent long hours speculating on the possibilities of the other side, the eternity of the spirit and the harmless specters that accompany the dead. She could talk to Irina about everything, because she was a good listener, but at her age she still had the illusion of immortality and could not fully identify with the feelings of those whose race was almost run. Irina could not imagine the courage it took to grow old without becoming too frightened; her knowledge of age was theoretical.
Everything published about the third age was theoretical as well, those know-it-all tomes and self-help manuals in the library, written by people who were not themselves old. Even the two women psychologists at Lark House were young. What did they know, however many diplomas they had, of all that is lost? Faculties, energy, independence, places, people. Although if truth be told, Alma did not miss anyone except Nathaniel. She saw enough of her family and was glad they did not often come to visit her. Her daughter-in-law thought Lark House was a depository for decrepit communists and potheads. Alma preferred to speak to her family on the phone, to see them on the easier ground of Sea Cliff or on the outings they planned for her. She couldn’t complain, since her small family, consisting only of Larry, Doris, Pauline, and Seth, had never failed her. Unlike many of those around her at Lark House, she could not consider herself abandoned in her old age.
She could not postpone any longer her decision to close the painting studio, which she had only kept going for Kirsten’s sake. She explained to Seth that her assistant had some learning difficulties but had worked with her for many years—this was the only job that Kirsten had ever known, and she had always carried out her tasks scrupulously.
“I have to protect her, Seth, that’s the least I can do, but I -haven’t the strength to deal with all the details. You’re a lawyer, you can sort that out,” she told him.
Kirsten had her legal allowances, a pension, and her savings; Alma had opened an account for her into which she had deposited funds every year in case of an emergency, but none had arisen, and the money had been invested well. Seth came to an agreement with Kirsten’s brother to secure her economic future, and with Hans Voigt to take her on as Catherine Hope’s assistant at the pain clinic. The director’s doubts about employing someone with Down syndrome evaporated as soon as he was told he wouldn’t have to pay her a cent; Kirsten would be supported at Lark House by the Belasco family.
GARDENIAS
On the second Monday without gardenias, Seth turned up with three of them in a box. They were in memory of Neko, he said. The cat’s recent death added to the weary ache of Alma’s bones, and the overpowering scent of the flowers did little to relieve her. Seth put them in water, made some tea for them both, and then settled down on the sofa with his grandmother.
“What happened to Ichimei Fukuda’s flowers, Grandma?” he asked casually.
“What do you know about Ichimei, Seth?” Alma replied in alarm.
“Quite a lot. I suppose that friend of yours is behind the letters and gardenias you receive, as well as your little adventures. You can do as you wish, of course, but I don’t think that at your age you should be going around alone or in bad company.”
“You’ve been spying on me! How dare you poke your nose into my life!”
“I’m worried about you, Grandma. I must have grown to like you, however grouchy you are. You’ve got nothing to hide, you can trust me and Irina. We’re your accomplices in whatever crazy things you may get up to.”
“It’s not crazy!”
“Of course not. I’m sorry. I know he’s the love of your life. Irina happened to overhear a conversation between you and Lenny Beal.”
By this time Alma and the rest of the Belasco clan knew Irina was living in Seth’s apartment, if not permanently, then at least several days a week. Doris and Larry made no comment, in the hope that this pathetic immigrant from Moldova was nothing more than a passing fancy on their son’s behalf. They received Irina with icy courtesy, and as a result she stopped going to the Sunday lunches at Sea Cliff that Alma and Seth had insisted on dragging her to. Pauline on the other hand, who had been against every single one of Seth’s athletic girlfriends, told her brother, “Congratulations, she’s refreshing, and she’s got more backbone than you. She’ll straighten you out.”
She had welcomed Irina with open arms.
Seth continued pressing Alma.
“Why don’t you tell me the whole story, Grandma? I’m not cut out to be a detective or a spy.”
Alma’s trembling hands risked spilling the tea, so her grandson took the cup from her and put it on the table. Her initial anger had subsided and given way to an immense weariness, a deep-seated desire to make a clean breast of everything, to confess all her mistakes to her grandson, to tell him she felt she was growing moldy inside, dying bit by bit, which was fine because she was so tired and would die happy and in love—what more could she wish for now that she was in her eighties and had lived a full life, had loved, and had always choked back her tears?
“Call Irina. I don’t want to have to repeat myself,” she told Seth.