“I thought Jerry is doing great now,” I said.
“Ronald Reagan did great,” Bernie said. “Jerry went along for the ride.” Bernie took another long drink of water. I was reminded of my mother; he didn’t see the world very differently from her. He believed, as did she, that social tides bear individuals at their whim, that often successful businessmen are driftwood who imagine they are Olympic swimmers. Indeed, Bernie’s edge had been the clear vision of his brand of Marxism: he didn’t try to make waves, he rode them. As if he were thinking along those lines, he wiped his lips and said, “It’s time to get out of real estate, especially in New York,” he said. “He thinks Bush will keep things good. They’re so greedy,” Bernie said. “It isn’t hard to make money. Buy low and sell high, that’s what’s hard. But these geniuses think the good times go on forever. I keep telling him, it’s supply and demand. We’ve built and built and built. Prices have to come down. The Japs want our real estate, he says, that proves things are going up.” Bernie grunted. “I’m supposed to take that seriously? I know this city.” Bernie nodded at his view of Manhattan, certainly commanding and panoramic. His buildings were reduced in size, toys for the gigantic hands of his wealth and power. “Nobody makes things anymore. Maybe they will again, after the disaster, maybe …” He grunted. “It’s gone. My father’s world is gone.”
“Have you been in the Korean grocery stores?”
“What?” Bernie looked at me sharply, squinting, as if I had brought him something to examine.
“They remind me of the old Jewish delis. Whole families work. The children. Everybody. Twenty-fours a day, seven days a week. The kids do their homework between making change.”
“They’re fools too,” Bernie said. “My father was a good man, but he was a fool.” He laughed suddenly. “Kids do their homework and make change. You approve?”
“I approve and I don’t.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
“They include their children in their work, I like that. Apprenticeship has many benefits. Much less alienating than going to school well into adulthood for what amounts to learning a trade from a stranger. But they have no childhood and that’s too hard. They may grow up to be hardworking, decent and successful, but their hearts will be empty. They’ll never feel joy as adults because they have nothing in the bank to draw on.”
Bernie stared at me, his head trembling slightly. His eyes were fierce, as challenging as ever. “It’s better they grow up to be drug addicts like the blacks?”
“No. But there should be some other choice.”
“Your trouble is, you think people can be happy.”
“I think they should be given the chance.”
“Enough. It isn’t that I think you’re wrong.” Bernie glanced at his pile of papers, at Aaron’s letter. “I know you’re wrong,” he said quietly. “Now listen,” he leaned toward me, although he lowered his eyes. “If this goes badly for me, I’ve left enough for you to try to save the world.” His head came up with a broad smile, dentures gleaming. His attitude was a confusing mix of humor and malice. “You want to help this grandson of mine, go ahead. They get nothing from me.”
“What happens if you live?”
“Tough.” Bernie took another sip. I said nothing. I didn’t believe him. He put the glass down and said, “Go and get my adoring family.”
This was goodbye. Too many others had gone without my acknowledgment. I took his trembling hand. He was surprised, but gripped me hard. My thumb brushed across the white knots of hair, the knuckles that had fascinated me so long ago. “I love you, Uncle. You saved my life.”
Tears welled in his hard eyes. He shook his head as if denying it.
“No, I’m not pretending there weren’t things you did wrong. And that I did wrong. I don’t mean that. I mean, you did the best you could and it was more than enough. I’m grateful.”
He covered my thumb with his other hand and squeezed, a tear falling. He shut his eyes, sighed, and said, “I’m proud of you.” We sat there, holding hands, for a while. When he opened them again, his eyes were red. “Are you happy?”
I nodded. “Sometimes.”
“Because of your work?”
I nodded. He sighed again. “You did a good thing with those Grayson kids in Boston. Is that what you’ll do with my money? Help kids?”
“I’m going to try.”
Bernie nodded. He let go of my hand, shut his eyes, and put his fingers to them, pressing as if he wanted to push them into his skull. “Okay,” he sighed, straightened, and looked at me. His eyes were clearer, but still sad and guarded. “Okay,” he repeated and added in a doomed voice: “I’m ready to see them.”
Two days later, he was dead. As I feared, his last forty-eight hours were spent in an agonized delirium. From my internship, I was used to the wreck medicine can make of a human being and, with everyone’s permission, I made sure that once Uncle was too far gone, there were no more resuscitations. By the time they let him go in peace, his heart had been restarted twice. At the finish, the bold thirteen-year-old who once led a band of Jewish kids in triumphant battle against the toughest of the Irish gangs weighed less than eighty pounds. It was an ugly death, unworthy of him.
I finally reached Toni the day of my uncle’s funeral. She had two free hours a week and would be glad to see Gene. When I called Gene, he greeted my brief explanation of Toni with a doubtful, “Oh.”
“You sound unhappy.”
“I don’t mean to be sexist, but …”
“You’re uncomfortable with a woman therapist?”
“Well … You know, I’ve been sleeping pretty well since I called you. So maybe … Or is that — like when you’re on your way to the dentist — the tooth stops hurting?”
“Could be. If you see her and don’t like her, I’ll be happy to get you the name of a male therapist.”
“Okay,” he said in a forlorn tone that meant it wasn’t okay. I was too tired and sad to explore it further. I had a thought that deserved to be analyzed: this guy is bad luck for me. I was in distress, not only about Uncle’s death and funeral. Ahead of me that day was the uncomfortable prospect of seeing Julie for the first time since her father’s death. She was then unmarried and childless.
I didn’t have long to wait. I saw her standing alone outside the temple in Great Neck, on the fringe of the parking lot, smoking a cigarette. Although Julie was, besides being the mother of two, a movie producer living in L.A., she allowed her hair to show gray. She was right to. The streaks of white threading her flowing black hair added to her elegance. She tossed the cigarette down and opened her arms to greet me. From my car as I pulled in, she had looked worried and upset. That surprised me. She never liked Uncle and the incident at Columbia banned him permanently from her heart. I was pleased that, as I walked toward her, her unhappy expression relaxed and she smiled.
“Oh, Rafe,” she whispered in my ear while we hugged. “Is this what the future has in store for us? These fucking funerals?”
Embracing her called up sexual memories for me: resting my head on her belly; her behind bucking in my palms as she climaxed; toes stroking my pants under the table at a bizarre Seder at Aunt Sadie’s. I was naughty about this embrace in our mourning clothes. I pressed against her and didn’t let go until she pushed me off with enough emphasis so that her discomfort was clear.
“You look great,” I said, my husky voice concealing nothing.
“I do not. I’m an old mother of two.”
“Don’t fish. You know you look great.”