Part 12 (1/2)
”Heard 'im screaming all the way from my house. Fockin' banjaxed. Mimi took him to the hospital, smacking him the whole way for being so reckless.” He chuckled, then coughed, his face turning red. ”Don't think he ever climbed 'em trees anymore, used a pick 'en pole rest of the time during harvesting season.”
”What's a pick 'en pole?” Shoshana asked, walking back to the kitchen to hunt for a bowl to give the dogs some water. She also wanted to ask what ”banjaxed” meant, but perhaps she didn't want to know. She found a large red ceramic bowl covered in dust that she rinsed under the faucet, using her finger to push out the cobwebs.
”Nifty little tool. It's a big long wooden stick, got a grabber for the high apples, little wee basket underneath to catch 'em, holds about five or six. Mimi's got some out in that shed, I believe.” He indicated the white structure at the back of the house that was leaning to the right and had long strips of white paint peeling off it, with some flakes sprinkled on the ground like confetti.
”So you knew my dad most of his life, then?” Shoshana asked, leaning over to set the bowl on the floor. Patrick O'Leary gave her an enthusiastic lick on her hand, then began to drink. Sinatra was curled up on the couch, not sure how he felt about his new surroundings and visitors. Every once in a while he'd blow air out of his snout, sending the pouf of hair above his eyebrows straight up.
”When he was older, your old man would come over sometimes for a beer. Great guy. I was sad to hear he'd pa.s.sed,” Joe said, bowing his head respectfully.
His voice lulled her into memory: Summer. Pressing her chubby little white hands against the smooth bark of an apple tree, she and Emily in matching white cotton dresses, the feel of tall gra.s.s swis.h.i.+ng against her thighs as she ran, the feeling of roller-coaster excitement bubbling inside her as her father counted, ”One, two, three, four, five, ready or not, here I come!” Pressing her small body as close to the tree as she possibly could to hide herself, the joy in her father finding her and throwing her onto his shoulders, going to look for Emily, who was always hidden in the long, seaweedlike gra.s.s, apples strewn around her body like red b.a.l.l.s.
”I remember!” Shoshana said now, delighted, her voice sounding loud to her own ears in the soft hush inside this house that was hers but not. ”I remember running over that hill and into your fields. You have a huge mansion, right?”
He laughed. ”Well, some folks might see it that way. I built it just like Georgina-that's my wife, see-just as she liked it. Fockin' saint, she was. She always saw herself living like the Queen of England, I think.” By the way his eyes shone Shoshana could tell it was an inside joke, something he'd teased his wife about many times.
”I remember her,” said Shoshana. ”She used to bring us apple pies. Is she ... is she still alive?”
”No, oh, no.” He coughed a little, and took out a stiff white handkerchief to wipe his mouth. Shoshana fought the urge to clap him on the back. ”Georgina died five years ago. She's buried right at the base of her favorite tree, ta first apple tree we ever planted,” he said.
”Oh.” Shoshana peered at him.
”Have you been through the house yet?” he asked her, shaking her out of her thoughts. ”Mimi was real proud to be able to leave it to one of ye girls, you know. Meant a lot to her.”
”Er, no, I haven't been through the house, not yet. I guess I should.” She turned to sort through the cupboards, took out two chipped water gla.s.ses, and filled them from the tap. A small red beetle made its way lazily over the kitchen's blue floor tiles. The sun had come back out and it was. .h.i.tting the green gla.s.s in the bottom half of the window, spilling the color onto the sink and counter. She handed a cool gla.s.s to Joe, and took a sip herself. The water felt wonderful rus.h.i.+ng down her throat. She realized suddenly that she was starving.
”Can't beat good ol' Jar-sey tapwater,” Joe said. ”Best thing next to Jack, ain't that the lord's truth.” Shoshana smiled; Joe Murphy seemed to ask questions and be perfectly content to respond to them himself.
”Cheers.” And they clinked their gla.s.ses together.
”That's just the thing,” she said tentatively. ”I was kind of surprised that Aunt Mimi left the house to me. I mean ... I loved her, we all did, but I hadn't been to see her in several years, when she started to ... when the Alzheimer's ... when she, um...” She wasn't sure how to phrase it. Here was a man Mimi's own age, who might very well be suffering from dementia himself, although she doubted it from the gleam of intelligence in his eyes when he threw back his head and laughed. It was a young man's laugh. Shoshana heard birds signaling to one another in the back of the house.
”When she was one card short of a full deck?” he asked. ”It happens to the best of us. Fock! I've been batty for years. It's a d.a.m.n shame, a woman as sharp as your aunt Mimi to lose her screws. Sad. The last few years, it's just been me and her. Thank G.o.d for that business, ye know, FreshDirect? Yer mom found out about them and had them deliver food to Mimi when she couldn't come by. Amazing little company. Crafty idea. Good for us old beans.”
Shoshana sat down at the small wooden table in the kitchen. The top was made up of blue, white, and yellow tiles. She felt overwhelmed. She wished Mimi had never left her this house. What did she know about owning property? It was such a mess, too. She took off her sungla.s.ses and took a deep breath, blowing it out of her mouth like a raspberry. Patrick O'Leary settled down at her feet, crossing one paw over the other. She felt his long, soft fur like a blanket over her ankles. She reached down to scratch him behind one ear, and then smiled when he rolled over, paws up, for her to rub his soft belly, which was spotted with light pink blots. Sinatra made a whining sound. ”Oh, be quiet, you little jealous boy,” Shoshana called over to him.
”Can I ask why you named him Patrick O'Leary?” she asked Joe, sitting down next to the dog cross-legged. She felt the floorboards s.h.i.+ft beneath her weight. ”Isn't it a mouthful for a dog's name?”
”Eh! My wife Georgina used to say the same thing. Patrick O'Leary was a skinny lad, lived down the lane from me back in the Aran Islands. Good lad he was, Patrick O'Leary. So skinny ye could see right through 'im. Then we became teenagers, and we would get into little bits of trouble 'ere and there. Patrick O'Leary was arrested, for trying to rob the gas station down the street. Wore his mother's dress and a wig, took his father's gun. Wouldn't ye know it, the lad never had used a gun before, and accidentally shot himself in a place that's not nice to talk about in front of a lady.” He raised an eyebrow. ”We called him 'Lefty' afta' that.”
”And the dog?” Shoshana asked, cupping the animal's paw in her hand, feeling the roughness of the black pads beneath, dark like tar.
Then, looking down between the dog's legs, she got it. ”Oh. I see. He's a 'lefty' as well.”
”Pound had no idea how that happened, but he's just as much a man as he could be intact, ain't that the truth, Patrick O'Leary?”
The dog wagged his tail, his panting mouth open and showing his pink gums, as though he were smiling.
Shoshana burst out laughing. It felt good to laugh. The uncertainty of the day had been pressing at her. ”My father would have liked your story,” she said. ”He loved dumb robber tales. He used to find them in the paper and cut them out.”
Joe smiled, and took another swig from his flask. ”Would ye like me ta help you go through the house? I can tell ye where everything is, I've been coming over here so long. And then, an early dinner? I don't know what ye like, but Greta can fix you anything ye want, she's our cook, although I've recently been informed she don't want ta be called that anymore.”
Shoshana was struck by two things: One, that this man still referred to Greta as ”our,” as in his and his wife Georgina's, even though Georgina was dead. It was sweet. And two, that he could afford a private cook.
He rolled his eyes. ”Women's lib, and all that. Bunch of c.o.c.kamamie nonsense, if you ask me.”
Shoshana laughed again. His misogyny was obvious, and thus harmless. ”What does she want to be called, then?”
”Master chef, or some such nonsense. Can't get that woman off me back. Tried to fire her a hundred times over the years, but she wo't have it.”
Shoshana got the distinct impression Joe was probably very reliant on Greta but didn't want to admit it. The name sounded familiar, like Shoshana had met her before, when she was young.
He kicked at some crispy leaves lining the floor. ”We'll get some brooms and cleaning things, too. Place will be s.h.i.+nier than a baby's a.r.s.e in no time.”
”Um, sure. That sounds great,” she said. She stood, and brought her gla.s.s over to the sink. Joe set his water down and she noticed he hadn't taken a sip.
”I don't want to bother you,” she said as they walked toward the staircase. Patrick O'Leary, replenished, bounded up ahead of them. Sinatra reluctantly followed, eyeing the other dog and his master suspiciously.
Joe was struck with a sudden bout of coughing. Shoshana reached out and slapped him on the back. ”Thanks, la.s.s. Believe me, I ain't got much to do these days. You showing up is just about the highlight of my year. I'd much rather be around a young person than sit in my armchair and wait for death.”
”Oh.” She was touched, and she kind of liked his macabre sense of humor. She started up the stairs, glancing at the photographs lining the staircase, all black-and-white and tastefully framed. She saw Mimi young again. She was very curvaceous in a neat-looking swing coat, leaning over Marilyn Monroe on the set of Gentlemen Prefer Blondes to adjust a small pill hat atop Monroe's head.
In another photograph, taken in the forties, she was standing with her husband, Fred. He wore a fighter pilot uniform, the goggles resting around his neck, his arm thrown around Mimi, who wore a white polka-dot skirt. Her hair was pinned back in two identical waves. Shoshana imagined he'd just whispered something naughty in Mimi's ear, as her head was thrown back in midlaugh, her arm pus.h.i.+ng against his chest a little as if she were admonis.h.i.+ng him. Shoshana remembered Pam saying Mimi felt sad her whole life about not having children.
In another picture Mimi stood with her arms around several adults, and when Shoshana peered closer she could see both her parents in the picture (G.o.d, they looked only a few years older than she was now!) and Joe, standing with a woman who must have been Georgina. Shoshana remembered her smile. Joe was younger but instantly recognizable. Even then he wore a full suit, though everyone else was dressed casually.
Her father had on a checkered flannel s.h.i.+rt Shoshana knew well, his beard surrounding his smiling face. He had one beefy arm around Joe, who looked like a dwarf next to him. Georgina was short, with large b.r.e.a.s.t.s her flowered dress couldn't hide, and short, curly dark hair with streaks of white in it. Shoshana was there, about ten, and Emily stood next to her, just around seven. Emily was already chubby, and she was pouting at the photographer, her lower lip stuck out. Shoshana wore several beaded strands around her neck and six or seven bracelets; costume jewelry that must have belonged to Mimi.
Georgina looked like someone who smiled a lot, and Shoshana turned to Joe, who had stopped beside her on the staircase to view the photographs. He took some tobacco out of his pocket and pushed it into his pipe. He stuck it in the corner of his mouth and lit it before grinning at her. ”We had some good times, all of us. Your mother used to tell the filthiest dirty jokes.”
”She did not!” Shoshana said, eyes wide.
”Oh, but she did! She liked to make your father laugh. The dirtier the joke, the harder he laughed.”
Shoshana peered at her parents. They'd been so happy. When all her friends' folks were getting divorced, her mother lost her soul mate. It simply wasn't fair. She had a flash of memory, calling home from Princeton, in the winter of her junior year.
Her mother had answered the phone, breathless. ”h.e.l.lo?”
”Mom? You okay?”
”Oh, yes, my love. Your father and I were just out sledding! Can you believe that, in our old age?” And she'd giggled, like a teenager.
The farmhouse had two floors and a small crawl-s.p.a.ce attic. The second floor held a large bedroom, bathroom, and two pint-sized guest rooms.
In one, Shoshana recognized her father's childhood toys. Mimi had kept it neat and clean, a fraying train quilt covering a single bed in the middle of the room. Sinatra leaped onto it, turning around several times before settling down with a soft, contented moan. Patrick O'Leary preferred to sniff around the room's corners, following some scent unnoticed by his human companions. On a bookshelf near the window were old comic books, carefully preserved in paper bags. She pulled some out, and was greeted by Blue Beetle and Superman covers.
Old records lined a milk crate, and she recognized the Beatles' Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band with its cut-out people on it standing around, and Bob Dylan's Blonde on Blonde, where he wore that thick, striped scarf. She took Blonde on Blonde out of its sheath, ran her finger over it to clear the dust, and placed it on the record player atop the nightstand. She didn't have much experience with records, and she lifted the needle, carefully placing it down on a random spot. A warbly, scratchy Bob Dylan sang out ”Just Like a Woman.” The first few words of the song wafted over Shoshana: ”You make love just like a woman, yes you do.”
”Ah, Bobby,” Joe said. ”Everyone got so angry when he went electric. You'd have thought he killed the fockin' pope, or something.”
They stood there for a little while, listening to the song, until it turned into ”Most Likely You Go Your Way (And I'll Go Mine),” which they both agreed they didn't like nearly as much.