June 2, 2007--Saturday Story: "Crazy Rona"--Part Two

In Part One there was the beginning of an apparent suicide note, perhaps written by Lloyd Zazlo--who else could it have been—and what would appear to be surgical notes from a Dr. Weinstein. Patient unknown, at least for now. But there should be suspicions. All very confusing.

Maybe Part Two, which follows, will shed the light of clarity on the situation . . . .

“So what you are telling me is literally true? I know how you feel about honesty; but to tell you the truth, this is all very hard to believe.”

Without turning to look at me, in a severe monotone, pronouncing each word as if it were an entire sentence, she said, “You didn’t have to live in that house. With them.” The “that” and the “them” were definitely not spoken monotonically. They were spat and in so doing saliva was launched, speckling the inside of the windshield.

“You mean to tell me that you effectively moved into the garment bag in your bedroom closet and they did not do anything about it? Nothing to try to help you?”

“Not ‘effectively,’ as you put it,” she was clearly not happy with my probing or rhetoric, “I was living in it. Yes I did come out of it to go to school—I had no choice about that. And I wanted to. It was the only place where I was noticed, where I gained any sense of appreciation. I was a very good student. And I did have to get food.”

The traffic was heavy and I did not want to take my eyes off the road, but I felt the need to look at her, show some understanding—not that, this time in her life was beyond my capacity to understand, in spite of all the things I had witnessed, lived, or read about. Especially read about. But if I could not understand, at least I wanted to show some sympathy, better, act empathetically. My early home life, too, had not been all that easy. Not like hers apparently, but still I should have been able to muster some of that. Yet living, or whatever, in a garment bag was beyond the range of anything I knew. I thus took my right hand off the steering wheel and slid it across the bench seat in her direction. She did not notice it or, if she did, not wanting to distract me from my driving, did not take it or even swipe at it with a touch of acknowledgement or her own understanding.

She continued. I did not have to encourage her or probe further, “All they cared about was peace in the house. Their version of it. Not any genuine sense of peace. They wanted to be left alone with their own frustrations and in their misery. Isolated even from each other. Pretending, hoping that it—life itself—would just go away. Pass them by. Rather, better, leave them alone. That isolation and ignoring represented peace to them. And of course they isolated themselves from their children. Especially from me, since I was continuously troubled, or wouldn’t go along with their program; but they ignored my sister too and my brother whenever they were having any difficulties or problems. When my brother, their only son, The Prince, a Jewish son yet, the youngest, at long last he was spawned after they had two daughters, when he dropped out of high school and retreated to his room where he smoked pot all day and listened to Steely Dan at full volume, what did they do?” She quickly answered her own question, “Nothing. Actually what they did required a lot of effort—they simply ignored him. Pretended that this was what every 15 year-old did.”

“Incredible” was all I could muster. And added, “Can you believe this crazy driving?” I was cut off again by a 14-wheeler ripping north toward Boston on I-95.

“You’re doing the same thing,” she snickered. More saliva emerged. “I’m talking about living in a garment bag and all you can say is ‘incredible’ and ‘can you believe the driving.’ Sounds familiar to me.” I wondered if she was being ironic. “And here I thought you might be someone who would understand. I thought, you’re a dean, you’re my boss, you’re what 15, 20 years older than me. I’ve never talked about this this way and . . . I give up.”

Out of the corner of my eye I saw that she had folded her arms like a vice across her chest, a chest I was decidedly interested in—thus, for me, this trip together—and knew that there would be no more from her about her parents and that friggin garment bag. To tell the truth, I was hoping we could move on from that; and so I attempted to change the subject.

* * *

Then Dr. Weinstein concluded:

5. Close mesenteric defects (prevents herniaetion)
6. Close wound (mass closure etc)

And in his own handwriting he added—We should have taken him out and shot him.

To be continued . . . .