Olivia Goldsmith - Marrying Mom

Phyllis sighed deeply. The sun was merciless, and she thought of the skin cancer that Ira had developed on his bald head. She should wear a hat, but she couldn’t stand hats or sunglasses or any of the extra chazerai that most people schlepped around in Florida: sunscreen, lip balm, eye shades, visors. Who had the time? Florida was the place that looked like paradise but wound up deadly. “Ira, Thanksgiving was unbearable. Eating a turkey in the Rascal House yesterday and having the kids calling only out of a sense of obligation? What kind of holiday was that? It wasn’t good for them and it wasn’t good for me. It was depressing, Ira.” She lowered her voice. Phyllis wasn’t vain, but she lied about her age. “My seventieth birthday is on the twelfth, Ira. It scares me. Then there’s Hanukkah, Christmas, and New Year’s coming, I won’t survive if I try to do it down here. Do you understand?”

Nothing. No response. Phyllis told herself she shouldn’t be surprised. Always she talked, he listened. But at least at one time he had listened. In Florida, in the last several years, he seemed to have collapsed in on himself. His world was only as large as his chest cavity and the illness that resided in it. Phyllis had made sure he took his pills, watched his diet, and that he’d exercised. But conversation? A luxury. Phyllis sighed again. What did she expect?

Phyllis turned her back on Ira and wiped moisture out of her eyes. She wasn’t a crier. It was ridiculous to get all emotional. She knew that and fiercely told herself to stop it. She turned back. “You won’t be alone here,” she said. “Iris Blumberg is just over there by the willow tree, and Max Feiglebaum isn’t far away.” She paused. “I know you don’t have patience for Sylvia, but she’ll visit every week to tidy up.”

There wasn’t anything more to say. They had had a good marriage, she and Ira. There were those who saw her as pushy, as too outgoing, as egocentric. Not Ira. And he’d been wrong because she was all those things. You couldn’t reach the age of sixty-nine, she mused, without knowing a little bit about yourself. Unless you were very pigheaded, or a man. Ira, a man, had never really understood her or learned a thing about himself. But then with men, how much was there to know?

With men, either they had a job or they didn’t, they cheated or they didn’t, they charmed you or they didn’t. Ira had been an accountant before he retired, almost a decade ago. Ira was a good man. He worked and brought home his pay, didn’t cheat, and didn’t charm. But he had liked her. If he hadn’t understood her, he had at least enjoyed her. And he’d given her three beautiful babies.

Phyllis thought of Susan, Bruce, and Sharon. Each had been so perfect, so gorgeous. Funny how babies grew up and became just as imperfect as any other adults.

She shook her head, dislodging the tangential thought. As she’d aged she hadn’t, thank God, lost her memory. Instead, if anything, she remembered too much too often. “So anyway, Ira, I hope this doesn’t come as a shock. You always knew I hated this place. Nobody down here but tourists, old Jews, and rednecks. I’ve got to leave you. It’s for my mental health,” she said, though she knew that Ira would hardly accept that as a legitimate excuse. “When did you become sane?” was one of the questions he’d frequently asked her. Despite his mild joke they both knew she was the voice of reason.

“I haven’t told the children. I know they’ll be upset. But I can’t live only for them or you, Ira.” Phyllis stooped down and picked up a stone from the ground beside the grave. She walked up to his headstone and laid the pebble beside the others that still remained from previous visits she or the children had made. Who would visit the grave now? Just her friend, Sylvia Katz? The goyishe groundskeeper she always gave five dollars to when she came in? Whoever it was, she knew Ira wouldn’t like it. “Ira, I have to,” she said as she picked up her purse and prepared to go. “It’ll kill me if I stay here much longer.”

Virtually every morning for nine years and three months, Ira and Phyllis Geronomous had walked the strip of macadamized beachfront that was known throughout Dania, Florida, as “The Broadwalk.” Now, since his death almost two years ago, Phyllis continued to walk it, more out of habit than desire. Today, Black Friday, the day after Thanksgiving, the beautiful weather did not match her mood, though she felt better after her talk with Ira. The sea, a Caribbean azure, winked at her as she made the turn from the shaded section of the path to the straightaway that led past the band shell, the cheap bathing suit and T-shirt boutiques, the snack shops, and greasy restaurants. In stark contrast, on the other side of the tarmac was a swath of flat pristine beach that met the aqua water. No one, not even the meshuga suntanners, was on the beach side yet. The Broadwalk was already peppered with pedestrians—dozens of people over sixty-five who found sleep impossible beyond 5 a.m. and did their morning constitutionals before the heat became too oppressive.

Phyllis didn’t know why she was walking now. She had walked with Ira because he had to: with congestive heart failure you had to keep the circulation moving, the weight down, and the fluids out of your lungs. Ira wouldn’t walk without her, so every morning they’d both gotten up and she’d done the three miles down to the parking lot and the three miles back, past the Howard Johnson’s, past the palm trees and cheap motels, all the way to the California Dream Inn before quitting for the day.

Now she passed the Pinehearst and, as usual, Sylvia Katz was sitting out in front on her webbed aluminum lawn chair, waiting, with her ubiquitous huge black patent leather purse perched on her lap. Sylvia Katz was in her mid-seventies, maybe more, though she wouldn’t admit it. She was zaftig , short, and her hair had thinned. She wore it teased and colored red—the unnatural red of those poisonous maraschino cherries that they put on top of the Chinese food in the bad restaurants down here. She was from Queens—Kew Gardens—and had spent the last fifteen years of her married life living here. She was neither smart nor witty, but she was loyal and patient and the best that Phyllis could do in the friendship department right now. Here, friends had died or dispersed in the diaspora of the aging. “Can I walk with you?” Sylvia asked, as she always did.

“It’s a free country,” Phyllis answered with a shrug, completing the morning ritual in their usual way.

Sylvia Katz pushed herself up from the chair and stepped past the concrete balustrade that separated Pinehearst Gardens from The Broadwalk hoi polloi. They walked in near silence for a moment, the only sound being the noise of Sylvia’s sandals shuffling, and the swishing of her purse rubbing against her shorts. Over and over again Phyllis had begged Sylvia both to leave the purse behind and to get a pair of Reeboks just like everybody else. But Sylvia wouldn’t do it. You couldn’t tell with Sylvia whether it was that she hated change or that she couldn’t spend the money. Phyllis shrugged. What did it matter if Sylvia schlepped the purse or dragged her feet? So it made her walk more slowly. Big deal. They weren’t going anywhere.

“I told Ira,” Phyllis announced.

“Do you think he was upset?” Sylvia asked.

“How could I know?” Phyllis heard her own voice betraying the irritation that Sylvia so often made her feel. “Even when he was alive, you couldn’t tell if Ira was feeling anything. In the hospital, with his lungs filled with fluid, he didn’t complain.”

They were past the band shell, empty except for the sign that announced the swing-band concert that night. Once a week The Broadwalk was thronged with couples joined together by the lindy. Sylvia, whose husband had deserted her a few years earlier after over twenty-one years of marriage, came regularly and sat watching, her patent leather purse firmly held on her lap. But no matter how often she invited Phyllis, Phyllis abstained. Sylvia never noticed and kept asking.