Bob Fingerman - Pariah

“May His great name grow exalted and sanctified in the world that He created as He willed. May He give reign to His kingship and cause His salvation to sprout, and bring near His Messiah in your lifetimes and in your days, and in the lifetimes of the entire family of Israel, swiftly and soon. Amen.

“May His great name be blessed forever and ever. Blessed, praised, glorified, exalted, extolled, mighty, upraised, and lauded be the name of the holy one, Blessed is He beyond any blessing and song, praise and consolation that are uttered in the world. Amen.”

What a load of horseshit, Abe thought amid a chorus of hushed amens. So be it .

“Listen, there’s all kinds of nonsense you’re supposed to do for Jewish funerals, but let’s face it, we’re not equipped and I’ve done what I can. None of that malarkey means anything anymore anyway. I’d rather eulogize Ruth in my head than aloud. It’s too tough. You people never got to know Ruthie at her best. Quite the opposite, to be frank. But trust me, Ruthie was a sweet lady, way back when. She was a beauty, too, and a good mother. Maybe a little overbearing, but good. Anyway, there’s supposed to be a procession and all that rigmarole, but forget it. I don’t even remember which is supposed to come first. The tent of prayer. The rending ritual. Without a cemetery to orient me I’m at a loss.”

“So what do you want us to do, Abe?” Dabney asked. Maybe because he was the second oldest in the room he had some sense of the absurdity, as well as solemnity, of the situation.

“I just want Ruthie’s body removed from the premises. I know burial’s out. Same for cremation. So, all I ask is dispose of it in as dignified a manner as you can. But I don’t want to see. I’d rather lie to myself that she got what she deserved.”

“Okay, Abe. You got it.”

Abe sat on the upholstered bench before Ruth’s vanity and watched as Dabney and Alan lifted the enshrouded corpse of his wife of forty-eight years. Five minutes later, they cast her from the roof of the northernmost building like a perished sailor at sea. That roof dropped to another roof, rather than the street, so her body would remain unmolested, to decompose in peace.

Hunched over Ruth’s vanity Abe held his head in his hands, the grief beginning to hit him and take hold. All her powders and liniments, her tinctures and paraphernalia neatly arranged on the low table reminded him of the great pains she’d taken to look attractive for him before it all went south. His nose ran but his eyes remained dry. He sniffled and kneaded his scalp. Wife, children, grandkids-all gone. He snorted back the snot and clenched his eyes shut.

“Allergies?” came a soft, female voice.

Abe started, nearly toppling from the bench. He thought he was alone, but there stood Mona in the doorway, clutching her childish bag.

“What?” Abe said.

“Allergies? Your nose.”

“No, not allergies. Just plain old anguish,” Abe said, adding with a touch of sarcasm, “You got anything for that ?”

Rather than look insulted or display any recognizable emotion, Mona opened her bag and rummaged through it. “Valium. Prozac. Paxil. Zoloft. Wellbutrin. Parnate. Nardil. Effexor.”

Not five words in a row from this girl in the last month and now this checklist of multisyllabic antidepressants. Abe wiped his nose with a tissue and stared at Mona as she crouched by the door, still foraging in her cartoon backpack. The backpack reminded Abe of the baby snowsuits. The more he looked at her the more she reminded Abe of his granddaughter. Danielle hadn’t been as phlegmatic, but she took her job as a teenager seriously and was as sullen and uncommunicative as possible. Abe missed her.

“You take much of that stuff?” Abe asked.

“Not much.”

“What constitutes ‘not much’?”

“Enough. You want?”

“Yeah, I guess I’ll try some of that Zoloft.”

“Takes awhile.”

“How long?”

“Couple weeks.”

“And the others?”

“Couple weeks. Maybe more.”

“Never mind, then. I’ll just deal with it.”

“Valium’s quick.”

“Okay, I’ll go with that.”

Two tabs later Abe slipped off into narcotized slumber, his body in the exact spot Ruth’s had been. He slept the untroubled sleep of a babe.

“You can’t be thinking of keeping it,” Alan said, trying to sound as reasonable and nonjudgmental as possible.

“And why not?”

“Why not?” Alan had so many reasons at the ready he was at a loss for words. How could she be seriously considering taking this baby to term? He was astonished she’d even been able to conceive. Maybe it wasn’t even his. That was possible. But what the hell did that matter? His, Mike’s, whoever’s. This was no time to be bringing new life into the world. He tapped the home pregnancy tester on his knee. “Why not? I really want to phrase this right. I don’t want to be patronizing or insulting or anything like that, because you’re an intelligent woman and…”

“And you’re already being patronizing. If you’re going to hammer me with a whole laundry list of how shitty it is out there, spare me. I’m not blind, I’m not stupid. I’m fully abreast of the state of the world.”

“Then how can you justify such a selfish act? How could you even remotely think having a baby is a good idea? Just explain it to me. I really want to hear your rationalization, because that’s all it will be. Fuck it, I’m sorry, but there is no good rationale for it. None. Forget telling me. I don’t want to hear it. It would be some irrational female desire to procreate. You need something that will love you unconditionally? That’s the apex of selfishness.”

“Who said anything about that? Don’t go putting words in my mouth!”

“Then explain it. I’m sorry. Maybe I’m totally wrong. Please. Enlighten me .”

Ellen smacked Alan across the face, hard. “You’re totally patronizing me, you asshole.”

“I don’t mean to be,” Alan said, rubbing his stinging cheek, suppressing the innate urge to retaliate. “This is a very emotional moment. Let’s calm down.”

Ellen sat and stewed, eyeing Alan with newfound scorn. Sure, she was good enough to fuck, but like most men it was only if the rutting was consequence free that it was desirable. Alan hadn’t seemed to object to boning her without the benefit of a condom. What, did he assume she was taking precautions? Didn’t most men put the burden of responsibility on the woman? Alan had seemed so atypical at first, but now? Since the reintroduction to creature comforts like video he’d been a lot less attentive to her needs. Sex, at times, seemed a chore that she’d cajoled him into performing. He’d rather watch movies and comedy shows.

And Mona . Presently she was posing with her clothes on, but how long would that last? First a little “innocent” modeling fully draped , as the artistes say. Then, when she’s gotten used to posing, comes the suggestion of undraped sessions. Then, the artist-and Alan had elaborated his theory on the inborn oversexedness of artists during one of their own postcoital bouts of pillow talk-puts the moves on his quarry, and bango, Alan’s boning Mona. What would she be like in the throes of passion? Could she even feel passion? Would she suddenly become a chatterbox? Wouldn’t that be hilarious? Or would she just lie there like a corpse? Maybe Alan would like that.

“You just don’t know what it’s like,” Ellen said, somewhat cryptically.

“You’re right, I don’t.”

“I lost a child! Do you have any idea what that’s like?”

That Alan had been through three abortions probably wouldn’t count, so he kept mum.