September 29, 2007--Saturday Story: Mt. Lebanon--The End

The best way to get there is to take the Long Island Expressway, heading east from the city. Just after passing the old Worlds Fair grounds, look for an exit that will come up quickly on your right. You’ll need to make a sharp turn at Exit 22E, College Point Boulevard, and in less than a hundred yards will have to hit the breaks or you’ll shoot right by the entrance to Mt. Hebron Cemetery, the site of the Zazlo family plot. My Aunt Madeline is the only Zazlo I ever have any interest in visiting so I always schedule a quick stop there before proceeding to Mt. Lebanon Cemetery, where my parents and all the Malones are now buried. This particular time I hoped seeing Madeline would be quick because I knew I needed to be with the Malones for at least an hour since I hadn’t been there for quite some time. But with Madeline one never knows. She always has a lot on her mind and, if you’ve been following this chronicle even casually, you know she has never felt shy about speaking it. I was still ten yards from the gravesite when I already heard her familiar bark, “So you’ve been too busy to visit me. Some favorite nephew you turned out to be.” From that I knew I was in for it and that this was not going to be quick; and so rather than remain standing by her headstone as I usually did, I sat on the bench my father had insisted be placed there even though it took up a precious burial plot—real estate at Mt. Hebron had always in short supply, especially after Madeline lost her third husband and insisted he join the other two, reserving a narrow place for herself squeezed between Murray and her “lover,” third-husband Harry. But in spite of the holocaust that wiped out her husbands and thus took up two more graves than she was entitled to, my father still prevailed, asserting that a family as proudly assimilated in America as the Zazlos could afford to give up a plot for a bench. Little did he know at the time that that plot would turn out to be his. My mother, after he died, ignored his lifelong plan to be buried to the immediate right of his father, the last expression of primogeniture for him, the first-born of a first-born—my mother, ignoring this ultimate wish, arranged to have him buried with the Malones, as close to her parents as possible, in Mt. Lebanon. She couldn’t stand the idea that she would have to endure the Zazlos, all talking at the same time at the top of their voices, for eternity. “It’s just that I’ve been very busy lately,” I hemmed and hawed, “And you know we sold our car. And . . . ” I was trying to make excuses for myself, but Madeline would have none of it. “With all that money I left you you’re too cheap to rent a car so you can come to see me? You think this is a picnic I’m having? My brother over there, your Uncle Sonny, is still treating me like I’m a who-er or something. He should talk. At least I married the men I fucked. Pardon my French. I wish I could say the same thing about him. But what good did that do me? They’re all good-for-nothings, my husbands. All they do is lie around here all day pretending they don’t know me. Even my wonderful Harry. Now that he can’t put his hands on me anymore he has no need for me. And I thought,” she spat, “that he was a man.” “I liked Uncle Harry,” I said, hoping that might calm her and we could move on. I had an appointment back in the city in less than two hours. “I’m not interested in talking about Harry. I’m finished with him.” Good, I thought, we’re making progress. “But I am interested in talking about you.” Uh, oh. “Since I don’t like very much what I’m hearing.” “Well, Aunt Madeline . . . ” “Don’t ‘well’ me. I know all the tricks. Yours included. My dear nephew, I have a bone to pick with you.” I didn’t say anything. “It’s about that wonderful wife of yours.” “You mean Rona?” I said with a quiver of fear. That she wanted to pick a bone with me about Rona was unexpected and put me on my guard. Usually, if she had something on her mind, it was about money. Especially what we were doing with what she left us. To her, unless we put all of it in T Bills, we were being irresponsible. “Of course Rona your wife. Who else? You have another one? I’m not talking about that bag-of-bones Lydia. The one with no chest. Of course I mean my Rona.” It had been a love affair between them. At my father’s funeral service, at the most emotional of moments, Madeline, not hearing—she was nearly deaf—or caring about what was being said, had broadcast a non sequitur for all to hear, especially Rona’s mother, “Don’t tell me she’s your daughter. She’s my daughter.” And though this caused some nervous laughter, everyone knew Madeline was being at least half serious. “Well, she’s OK” I managed to say, “Actually, that’s one of the things I wanted to tell you about—that she’s doing very well indeed. She got promoted at the university,” Rona had remained at NYU after I left to work at the Ford Foundation, “And she . . . ” “That doesn’t surprise me,” she interrupted, “But I’m talking now about the disturbing things I’m hearing. You know I still have my sources.” “I know that, but as I said, we’re doing well.” And though I wanted to distract her and get back on the road as quickly as possible, I still was curious to know what was on her mind and so, unable to stifle myself, I asked, “So, what are you hearing?” “You may think that things are going well, my nephew, but I hear otherwise.” To protect myself from what I knew was about to be an onslaught, I slumped back against the pine tree that was just behind my father’s bench and folded my arms nonchalantly across my chest. Then, against my better judgment, sighed and said, “OK, let me have it.” To complete my pose of studied indifference, I looked up at the sky and took in the drifting clouds to give the further impression that I was only half-heartedly listening. A jet hovered overhead as it circled on its final approach to nearby LaGuardia. “Don’t get smart with me Mr. Fancy Columbia. Let me have it,” she mocked my insouciance, “I told your father if he let you go there you’d graduate thinking you were a big shot. And did he listen to me? Of course not.” I could almost feel her eyes boring through me. “None of them ever did. But look at how I was right. Just look at you sitting there all smug and puffed up. And remember, I was the only one to die with a pot to pee in. “But enough of that,” she continued, “What’s past is past. That’s what we all say now. Look around you here. What do you see? A bunch of ghosts. That’s what. What good would it do us to keep fighting? So therefore let me tell you a little story,” unexpectedly her tone softened. Perhaps, I thought, she realized she had gone too far with the invectives. But for whatever reason, I preferred this gentler, rarely-seen side of my eccentric aunt. “It’s about me and Harry, but if you listen carefully you’ll see it’s also about you and Rona. But to see the connection, you will have to think about yourself as if you were me.” I was confused, but intrigued, and leaned forward, unsticking myself from the sappy tree trunk so I could hear better. “He was very devoted to me. He was always concerned about my well being. He couldn’t do enough for me. And I don’t mean just in bed.” She laughed. “But that too.” I recalled how much she enjoyed telling me how they would spend days lying together naked in their bed. Reading, listening to the radio, and frequently making love. “Fucking,” as she would unadornedly put it. “What was most special was when he would do something for me that was unnecessary. Did you hear that? Unnecessary. Yes, when I had a chest cold he was wonderful—bringing me my medicines, getting me juice and tea, massaging my back—with no funny business--even if necessary taking me to the doctor to get a shot. I know I was lucky that I had a man that would do these expected things. “That nogoodnik Sonny wouldn’t lift a finger even when his wife had a stroke. But Harry was different. On his way home from work he would stop at Ebingers Bakery to buy me my favorite, a pecan coffee cake. He would sneak it into the apartment and hide it from me, though I of course knew what he was up to. And when at night after I got up to go to the bathroom, when I came back to the bed, I would find a slice on a dish on my night table with a glass of hot water. For my constipation. He was also the first to notice when I got my hair cut, not that I had much hair, from dying it so much I was almost bald like my brothers. He would tell me how beautiful I looked even though I knew that there was no haircut in the world that would make me look anything but ugly.” “No Aunt Madeline, you always . . . ” “Thank you, but never interrupt when I’m telling the truth. It’s important that everything comes out. In my current circumstances, what’s to hide?” Actually, with her, very little had ever been left unsaid. “My point is,” she continued, “the point of the story is not how Harry behaved but how I did.” “I’m confused, Aunt Madeline, are you saying that . . . ” “Again, Lloyd, you need to be patient. Since I still have most of my marbles in a minute you will understand.” She paused to take a deep breath, “And what did I do to return all of his caring and love? I disapproved of everything he did. Especially of those things about which he was sweetest and most giving. I know this must sound strange to you.” It did. “And even cruel.” It did. “And it was that. Cruel, I mean.” I was in fact stunned and couldn’t compose myself quickly enough to suppress my reaction. “You did that to him? Why? If he was so wonderful did you . . . ?” “Once more, I told you to just be quiet and listen.” I did as I was instructed but got up from the bench and stood right by her grave, peering down at the ivy that covered it as if to look directly at her. “I already told you,” she continued, “about the coffee cake. How nice he was to bring it home and put it out for me to discover. But when I would get back into bed I barely acknowledged it. Or him. Yes, after a while I did eat it and did thank him, but not in the way he was hoping. And needing. I knew that he depended on my approval, my acknowledgement, to make him feel good about himself. To be a man. He was very insecure and needed this from me. So what did I do? Knowing this about him, I intentionally did the opposite. I withheld from him what he most carved. You know how bad I was?” I didn’t respond. “I will tell you. Almost every day I looked for things about him to disapprove. And I became so good at it that I didn’t even have to do this actively. Just a certain critical look on my face or an extra second of ignoring him before responding to something he said was all it took. Actually, it was these kinds of disapproval that worked to my best advantage.” She paused to let this sink in or because she needed to catch her breath. She was by then very old and frail. Then she said, “I can sense this is shocking you. No, don’t say anything more. There is no need for you to say another word. But you must hear one more thing. Why I perversely did this to the most beloved of my husbands. That is a fair question. Which I will now answer for you.” I bent over to get closer to her because I did need to know. “I did this so I could take total control of him. I was a very spoiled person, my mother’s darling, and wanted to have everything just they way I wanted it. By taking advantage of his insecurities I could have my way with him. And stop smirking please because I am not talking about the things that I’m sure you’re imagining. Though yes I had power over him in that way too. But more important to me was to have him in my emotional control so I could ignore him when it suited me and get him to play any role I wanted when I wanted anything else from him.” For a few moments there was silence. The wind had picked up and scattered pin needles among the grave stones. But then she resumed, and in a hoarse whisper said, “In this way I took possession of his soul; and though this worked to what I thought to be my advantage, it also killed him. Take a look at the date on his footstone.” I turned to where Harry was and realized they had been married for only three years. She had made short work of him. “Now go away,” Aunt Madeline said; and, now in her more-familiar roar of a voice added, “And don’t come back here until you understand.” To be continued . . .