Tales From A Broad (38 page)

I go downstairs and Van Morrison has been replaced by the TV; Memory is but a memory. Frank gets off the sofa and pulls out a chair for me at the dining-room table. He pours out some coffee with sweetener and milk and hands it to me.

‘Dank ew,' I say because I can't open my mouth very wide until my face mask comes off. I take little pebbles of bagel and put them on the tip of my tongue. The coffee's steam melts my cucumber peel. Frank sits back and gives me a soulful smile and fixes his gigantic blue eyes on mine. (NB: When I say ‘gigantic', I do mean it. Most people say, of eyes, ‘big' or ‘bright' or ‘almond-shaped' or maybe even ‘brooding' and what have you. Frank takes ten minutes to blink. Beat that, Yoda.)

‘I'm sorry,' he says, shaking his head, ‘for last night. Forgive me?'

‘Ew k.'

‘Here,' he hands me a piece of notepaper, ‘I even wrote out a list of things I want to do on Father's Day.'

I take another pebble of bagel and read the list:
Go hiking, biking, kayaking, swimming, rollerblading, bowling, picnicking, drinking …

‘Frank,' I let my mask crack, ‘you gave me the wrong list. Yours says
take nap, read paper
. I think this is my Mother's Day Boot Camp one.'

He comes over and hugs me. ‘You deserve it. You have good ideas, Fran, and I love you.'

‘But I push.'

‘Sometimes over the edge.'

‘But you love me.'

I remember the time a mentally handicapped person in the halls of the Jewish Community Center came up to me and showed me a picture she drew. It was a vibrantly sketched flower and vase, not bad at all, by any standard. Except she scribbled with black crayon all over the picture, bearing down and ripping it in places. Perhaps she was only handicapped when it came to leaving the picture well enough alone.

‘But you love me,' I repeat.

‘
Yeeeessss
.'

‘Frank, what's been wrong with you lately?'

‘Look, I'm sorry. I don't know how to explain … I … It's, I don't know, it's

‘You're having an affair!' I shout. Now I get it. The list. My ‘good ideas' … favourite breakfast … make everything look like my fault … right … I knew it all along.

‘No. I am not.'

I didn't think so. Too much effort. ‘So, what? Are you going to lose your job or something?' I wish the panic didn't come out so loud and clear. Why didn't I think to ask him about his health? I guess even that has something to do with me, me, me, me.

‘No, no … I guess I'm sick of some of the shit …'

‘Well! Join the club. I haven't told you what I got emailed today! I cringe when I think about it. God! Anyway, listen, now I know I did the right thing.'

‘I don't follow.'

‘I was going to tell you last night but, you know … Anyway, you need a party and we're having one tonight, a big get-together at Safra.' Frank glowers and gets up.

I stand. ‘Frank, not big-big, just big-fun big. It's only our good friends. Remember, you just said I always have good ideas? Well, I think you need a party.'

Frank doesn't have much fight in him after last night. He sits down and sullenly opens the paper. He puts it back down. ‘Okay, Fran, you know best.'

‘And why don't we get there early and rent kayaks?' I suggest, warming up to the whole wonderful day ahead.

‘I guess you'll insist on riding the bikes?' Frank smiles.

‘It's the best way to get there.'

I try to do some work but Frank and the kids are playing hide and go seek and Huxley wants to be sure you ‘don't look in the closet' and ‘don't look under the bed' so it's hard to concentrate. I close the door but they're laughing so loud, the best I can manage for viperous language in paragraph two of my email is
Ha ha ha
. At three, we put Sadie and Huxley in the bike cart and cycle the 12 kilometres to Safra Resort. We rent kayaks, paddle to our secret beach and ignore the flotsam – discarded clothing, bricks, ottomans and other unbeachy things – that have washed up. We bob up and down in our life jackets, find some good shells and sea glass and then get back in the kayaks. I've almost forgotten the party. ‘Hey, we have to go and get changed. Let's shove off.'

The kids complain, but they'll cheer up when they see their gang of friends and go off to the playground or the beach or the parking lot or the highway while the adults totally lose track of them. They have a club, a brotherhood, with these kids. Such memories of Halloween and Christmas and New Year's and umpteen barbecues and Sunday happy hours at our place, not to mention the many times we've all found ourselves together at Safra.

After Sadie and I have a lovely shower in the clubhouse, I organise the seating so we're under the cabana on the beach with two big tables – adults here, kids over yonder. I get a pitcher of guava-lime juice and three jugs of beer. Sadie and Huxley are already in the playground. Frank and I sit side by side, admiring the view. We are so close to the airport here that you can see a passenger's tie; you can't hear your husband point out, ‘This is the last 747 they made using tsongtung in the fustlegrade.'

‘Isn't this fantastic?' I say.

‘
What?
' Frank says.

‘Yes,' I say.

I feel wonderful, from the bike rides, the kayaking, the walk on the beach, the shower, the sun, and here's some nice, chilled, lovely Tiger Beer and a yummy bowl of
ikan bilis
(fried anchovies and Spanish nuts – yum, yum,
not)
. I push aside the snacks and pour another mug; tomorrow is my day off, say Maj and Mag. Yeah!

‘Happy Father's Day, Frank.' I raise my glass. The plane has passed and all is calm and easy.

‘Happy Father's Day,' comes a chorus of voices. Kiss kiss. ‘Sorry we're late.' – ‘Just got back from a soccer match.' – ‘Is that new?' – ‘How's your day been so far?' – ‘Did anyone order another jug?' – ‘Where are the kids?' – ‘Oh, you're so tanned.' – ‘I just got up.' It's Tilda and Hugh, Dana and Regular Collin, Jenny and Steven, Lisa and Roy, Simon and Melanie all at once. Frank and I don't clink.

My favourite waitperson arrives with more
ikan bilis
and I bring out my cheesy crackers to share, remembering Dr S's words: ‘crackers and wine'. But this is crackers and beer. We always ask for this waitperson who loves the kids, knows our peculiar way of doing things (like wanting all the dinners brought out together so we're all eating at the same time) and makes sure we never gaze upon an empty jug. But we also ask for this waitperson because we're dying to know if it's a she or a he. The name is Trace (long e).

After two hours, we order food. Burgers and chips for the kids, some fried rice and curries. Sadie wants plain white rice. Frank looks at me for approval on devil's beef. (‘Go ahead, it's Father's Day!') I get egg foo young, fried calamari and dry vegetarian
kway teow
. Two seconds later, it all arrives except for the burgers and the plain white rice. Ten, 15, 20 minutes later, after many reminders, there is still no sign of burgers and white rice. This is appalling. The kids have nothing to eat and our dinners are cold. I get up. ‘No, Fran, don't,' they all implore. I walk. ‘Please, Fran. Let Frank handle it.' No one can stop me. I'm running on steam. Someone has to save the day. I'm damn glad I didn't take Dr Soon-feel-fucking-better powder; I want to be mean and I want to be scary and someone is going to pay for this.

I plough over to Trace and shout, ‘What is so, incredibly, fucking hard about giving a kid a bowl of white rice?! And the hamburgers? We all
came
together, capiche? We want to
eat
together. Get your pitiful act together!'

‘Sorry, sorry. So sorry, Ma'am. Busy kitchen. New staff. Food's on the house, okay? Very sorry. Okay?'

They always do this over here: douse me with patience and kindness. No one ever gets mad. It makes me mad. It makes me ashamed.

‘Oh, yeah, that's good, thanks. Hey, I'm sorry too.' We hug and I feel bosoms. I can't wait to tell everyone.

Eventually, we have our feast and continue our lively chatter. The kids disappear again off into the dark and we swoop down on their leftover French fries, pour out more beer, wave cigarettes around and circulate. By nine, we've had enough. Frank locates the kids and straps them in and I ride like the wicked witch, pedalling furiously, berating anyone walking on the cycle track or riding stupidly.

Frank and I are brushing our teeth.

‘Have fun?' I ask.

‘Yeah, it was nice.'

‘So much fun.' I sigh, getting under the covers. ‘Frank?'

‘What?'

‘You had a great time, didn't you?'

‘Sure.'

‘Really?'

‘Sure.'

‘Good. Me too.'

‘Yup,' Frank says and turns the lights out.

I turn them back on. ‘Are you being sarcastic?'

‘Let's not fight. It was great.' He closes his eyes.

I sit up. ‘Did you or did you not have fun tonight?'

‘I did. It was great. I just said it.'

‘But what?'

‘But nothing.'

‘Really?'

‘Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!' He bolts out of bed. ‘Shut up already.' He takes his pillow.

‘Frank, don't go. I'm sorry. It's Father's Day. Please stay.' I crawl across the bed.

He pauses by the door. ‘Yeah.' He grabs a pen and writes on the wall, ‘FATHERS DAY'. ‘See, lots of fathers. No apostrophe there, no singular possessive, not in your little world. Your complicated, scheming, ever-expanding …'

‘Screw you. Go to hell!'

‘I was just about to!' He slams the bedroom door and I hear him taking a blanket from the closet; he stomps downstairs.

My alarm goes off. How could I have forgotten today was my day off? But when my hand reaches the clock, I'm aware that it's the phone ringing. I know it's just some client calling to tell me how much he hates me, not realising of course that he's waking me up but delighted when he finds out that he ruined my day after I ruined his life.

‘Hello?' I say warily.

‘Fran.' It's Frank's brother, Walt. My face gets hot and my stomach drops. ‘Bad news,' he says, ‘Dad died.'

‘I'll get Frank.'

I find Frank working on his computer out on the balcony. I hand him the phone and sit on the sofa he made up for himself when he's ready to sleep. I will be here when he's ready to come to me.

Dear Samantha
,

Thanks for your note. Can't believe we've been in New York this long. Good news is we leave in a week! Here's the lowdown:

Not many people attended the service. In fact, it was four Rittmans – me, Frank, Walter and Pat – and one Bybell, Anne Bybell, mother-in-law of the deceased. The last funeral I attended with these people was for her husband, Frank's grandfather, Pat's father. I was pregnant with Sadie, and Anne thought I shouldn't view the body, bad for the baby or something. The way I remember it, I didn't need to make a special trip to view the body. He was perched way up on a pedestal, the walls were mirrored and the casket was spinning round and round like the prize car on the showroom floor. I could clearly see the entire head reflected to infinity around me. After that initial excitement, I mostly thought about getting a slice of pizza across the road. Anne seemed in a rush, burdened in a very busy-person way, someone who simply didn't plan for this glitch in the day. Frank's grandfather was a lovely man. He was the sort to don a hat and tie every day of his life. He took Frank and Walt to see fire engines and feed ducks. He loved Pro Wrestling, knew every character on the circuit and was either a very good actor or one of the few clean souls in the world who, with all his heart, believed it was a real sport. We'd egg him on and try to get him to admit the stuff was staged but he'd become glossy-eyed and recount wonderful rounds he'd seen on the television between Buster Butt and Wild Man Marvin. I bought him linen handkerchiefs every Christmas. When he was very old and very feeble, one day I saw him patiently, with true self-acceptance but not without great effort, get out of an easy chair. Uuuuuup he heaved with shaky limbs, slowly, thump, thump, dragging his old and feeble body down the hall. At last, he almost reached the bathroom door. He paused, took a breath, and suddenly a blur confronted him, a whirling dervish, who swung open the bathroom door, slipped in and slammed it shut, locking it for good measure. It was his wife on her battery wheelchair. I don't know why Anne couldn't have used one of the other four bathrooms on the ground floor. She's like that. Every time I ask Pat to babysit, Anne shouts, ‘Pat, you promised to take me to the hairdressers.' Hey, it's important to look your best when you're a 94-year-old widow who never goes anywhere. But I do admire her. The day I saw her thwart her husband, a prostate cancer victim, on his way to the loo, I also saw her reading the stock pages while watching the Bloomberg report while phoning her broker
.