Confronted by her son’s earnest face, I didn’t feel I could follow up on that news. Julie put her daughter in her lap. Margaret leaned her head on her mother’s breasts and closed her eyes. I looked at her boy, Brian. “He’s very good at math,” Julie told me, another non sequitur.
“And basketball,” he told me.
“I bet,” I said. He was tall. “Do you know why six is afraid of seven?” I asked.
Cousin Margaret lifted her head and giggled. Brian frowned at me. “That’s old,” he said.
“You’re right,” I agreed.
“What’s old?” Julie said.
“Why is six afraid of seven?” I asked Julie.
Brian looked at his mother sideways and smiled. “She doesn’t remember anything,” he told me. “That’s an old joke, Mom.”
Margaret said, “You know why, Mommy.”
“I don’t,” Julie said with a pout.
“Because seven ate nine!” Margaret said and laughed loud, showing a row of big and little teeth.
Following tradition, we buried Aunt Ceil both in symbol and fact, each of us in turn digging a shovelful of earth from a mound to the right of the grave and tossing it on the casket. Julie went first. She stabbed at the dirt and flipped the shovel over casually.
She turned to Brian, doubtful whether to offer him a turn. He had no doubt. He took the shovel confidently. He dropped a heaping load into the grave and whispered, “Goodbye Grandma.” He looked to his little sister, pointing the handle at her. Margaret shrank from it.
“You don’t have to, honey,” Julie said.
“Let’s do it together,” I said. Margaret’s hand seemed very little beside mine as we filled only the tip of the spade. We cleared it with a wave over the open earth. “Bye,” Margaret said low and sadly. She ran into Julie’s arms.
Staring down at the smears of brown on the shining black coffin, I thought — Even you, Ceil, will be missed.
While the rest each took a turn, I walked five feet to the right to stand at my mother’s lonely grave, the sister they had killed, to put it as bluntly as I feel. Another fifteen feet to the left and north, was Papa Sam and his wife. Below them I looked at the other solo placement: Uncle Bernie was positioned at the center of the triangle of dead Rabinowitzes, still dominating them. His first and second wives were buried elsewhere. Only he and my mother would rest alone.
Julie’s hand fell on my back, rubbing. Again, I tensed at her touch. She sensed it and stopped. I looked toward the open grave. Her children weren’t in sight. The line waiting to use the shovel was shrinking.
“I want us to be together,” she said in that oddly calm voice, despite the red eyes and stained face.
“What?” I felt stupid. I knew what she meant. “You mean ride back together?” I said obstinately.
She shook her head and frowned. “You know what I mean. There’s no reason we can’t.”
“When did you—” I stopped because I understood why I didn’t like her touch. I had to think more about the revelation, of course, but the obvious worry had at last penetrated. Perhaps the daily recital of “I love you” to Halley wasn’t all medicine.
Someone called to us. “In a minute,” Julie said. “When did I what? Decide? Always.”
“Always? You said you were over it.”
“You knew I was full of shit when I told you I didn’t love you. You see my kids? Don’t I have great kids?” I nodded. “I have everything but you. And I’m greedy. Rafe, I’m forty-five. I’ve already had my face done. My marriage was …” She reached for me, shyly, fingers lighting on the sleeve of my blue summer suit. “Anyway, why? I heard you don’t — I mean … Are you with someone?”
“You’re upset,” I said.
“Of course I’m upset. My mother’s dead. But I’ve been thinking about it for a … Since I knew my marriage was …” She tugged at my sleeve and looked down.
“When did you break up?”
“In reality a long time ago. You know me. It took four years to get up the nerve to tell him. I did it last January. I was chicken. Hurting the kids, and all that garbage. It’s not garbage, but you know what I mean. It was an okay marriage … But I don’t want okay.” She watched me for a reaction and answered what she thought she saw in my face. “I didn’t just think of this!” Julie looked away at someone whose approach I hadn’t heard. She said, “Sit with them in the car. Rafe and I need a moment.” She turned to me and rubbed at the short cropped hairs above her temple. “What do you think this is? ‘Oh gee whiz, I’ll be in New York, so I’ll come on to Rafe?’”
“You have to give me some time, Julie. I’m in the middle of something important … Important work—”
“It doesn’t have anything to do with your work. I’m sorry. I’ve gotten rude in my old age. You can do your work. I don’t care. I’ll move to New York or wherever you want. I can fail to get my movies made in Indiana just as well as in Hollywood.”
I felt ashamed and nervous. Had I lost control with Halley? The thought of never seeing her smooth white breasts again, of never hearing her naughty girl’s voice asking, “Do you love me?” seemed impossible. And to join Julie in middle age, growing old with a woman whose prime I had missed, seemed grotesque.
“Is it them?” Julie gestured contemptuously to the graves. “They don’t care anymore.” She leaned forward, mouth set angrily, and whispered, “They’re dead.”
“Not to me,” I said and thought it was a lie.
Julie nodded to herself and insisted, “They really got to you.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“I’m sorry!” she said louder, topping me. To get away, she walked over Bernie’s grave.
I stayed for only a short time at my uncle’s old house, merely a polite appearance of sitting shiva, instead of the all-night visit I had intended. I expected Julie to be hurt or angry. If so, she didn’t show it. She squeezed me tight, kissed me on both cheeks, on my lips, and finally on the tip of my nose. She said, “Call me.”
I turned to leave. She resumed a conversation with Jerry about the Rabinowitz plot becoming crowded. I reached the double-height foyer, with its long sweeping staircase, and paused on the spot where Julie had tried to defend me from my angry mother the night I found the Afikomen. I heard Julie say loudly, “What we all need is an exorcist.” The room laughed.
My early departure meant I was back at the sublet in time to go to Halley’s for our regular session. I had told her I wouldn’t be able to. Perhaps a surprise appearance would make it all the more effective and I would at last hear grief when I deserted her.
Was effectiveness what I sought? Or consummation?
Probably the reader will be amused that this was when I realized my new method might be impractical. Unless psychiatrists were willing to give up their personal lives how could they imitate it? The obvious to an outsider became clear to me: I was as much on a personal mission as I was engaged in a scientific quest.
At nine-thirty, an hour before I usually appeared to announce myself to Halley’s doorman, I tried to make notes, read, watch television. I microwaved and then rapidly ate a whole bag of Paul Newman’s popcorn, hoping the deafening crunch in my head would silence my nagging desire. I had the night off. I could be myself. So — who was I?
Nothing could distract me. I couldn’t divert my mind from the new questions I planned to ask as I slipped a hand under her pale pink sheets. Who was more addicted, Halley or me? Was her cure fatal to me?
Ten-thirty. Time for me to go, if I was going.
Accept the worst hypothesis, I decided. That was Joseph’s technique, I had learned from Amy Glickstein’s chapters. Presume that I could cure Halley only by infecting myself. With luck I might escape — but accept the worst as inevitable. Was neutralizing her worth it?