Haskell himself, p.14
Haskell Himself, page 14
Henry rolled his eyes. “You’re crazy! First of all, Haskell, how well do you know Delia Jacobson?”
“We’re in a class together. I help her study for tests.” I had transferred from lovely Mrs. Green’s class into the Honors English class just so that I could be with Delia.
“I will not spoil it for you. I’ll let you discover Delia Jacobson for yourself. She’s odd.”
“I’m odd. We’ll be a pair!”
“She’s more than odd. Shall I be honest with you?”
“Be honest.”
“You’ve heard of Peter Mathieson? Only kid ever at this school to get a perfect score on his Math SAT?”
“I never heard of him.”
“He got early admission and full scholarship to MIT. Delia sort of dated him. Basically, she used him. She got him to tutor her, for free of course, in first-year algebra. She promised she’d go to the prom with him, but she backed out at the last minute, giving him some phony excuse like she got food poisoning. He was not just disappointed, he was heartbroken.”
“I’m not going to be heartbroken or disappointed. It’s just a movie, and she said she’d meet me there.”
“You’re not picking her up?”
“I don’t drive—at least not yet—so the plan is she’ll meet me at the theater at seven.”
“Chances are, if she shows up, she’ll be hours late, and then you expect her to sit through that Western movie? It’s like four hours with an intermission. Plus, there’s another movie? What time does it get out? Two in the morning? You’re nuts,” he said.
I figured Henry was jealous. Maybe he wished I had invited him, not Delia. If he were jealous, I was glad. Even if he tried dissuading me from going, I’d go anyway. Delia would love these two movies. I knew she would. She was a New Yorker. I was a New Yorker. She liked Macbeth. I liked Macbeth. We had a lot in common.
This night of our rendezvous, the eleventh of November, I would meet her at the Encino Theater. She said she’d be there around seven with bells on her toes.
“Iway ightmay ebay away ittlelay atelay. Ontday aitway. Abgray owtay eastsay,” which translates into “I might be a little late. Don’t wait. Grab two seats.” I was even getting good at Pig Latin.
I did just as she asked. I got us two seats in the middle section. I bought us a large popcorn and an extra-large Coke with two straws, and I waited. Seven o’clock. Debbie Reynolds sings with her accordion. Eight o’clock. Jimmy Stewart courts Diane Baker. Nine o’clock. Edge-of-your-seat suspense, as George Peppard chases the train robbers across the top of a moving train. No Delia. Soon A Funny Thing began. Half the audience walked out once they realized it was, frankly, a dull musical. I stayed, growing steadily depressed and weary. Where was Delia? If she were late, let’s say by half an hour, no big deal. But it was now eleven, four hours late, and I decided it was hopeless. She wasn’t showing up. I walked home alone, depressed and disappointed.
As soon as I opened the front door, I spotted my aunt sitting in her usual chair in the sunroom, sipping a brandy and smoking a Chesterfield. “How’d it go?” I didn’t answer her. I merely trudged into my room, removed my clothes, and buried myself under the covers. The smell of her cigarette soon wafted across the air above my sheets. Was she standing in my doorway? Maybe she hovered over the bed? I did not move. I pretended I was asleep. So humiliated and embarrassed, I didn’t know what to say. I would never admit the truth to anyone.
All right. I couldn’t keep my anger contained.
“Delia didn’t even show up!” I blurted out as I sat up in bed.
My aunt snuffed out her cigarette in the glass ashtray she was carrying. Then she pulled up a chair, sat by my bed, emptied the ashtray into my trash can, and remained silent for a good long minute. I couldn’t stand the silence.
“Why are you just sitting there?” I asked.
“I’m waiting for you to say something.”
“All right. What is wrong with me? Why did I think this might be a perfect date when it was, as Henry predicted, a perfect recipe for disaster? When will I ever learn? Am I destined to live a life where I’m constantly humiliated?”
Aunt Sheila stroked her neck and then let out a long, deep sigh.
“You had a no-show. It happens.”
“What could have been so important that she’d not call me a few minutes before the date and say something?”
“Why don’t you ask her?”
“I don’t ever want to speak to her again.”
“Then, I guess an explanation is not important to you. Don’t say a word. Keep it a mystery.”
“There is no way I can live with this mystery hanging over my head!”
“Well, then say something.” My aunt softened her voice as she smiled gently. “You so remind me of your mother sometimes. She would get equally agitated.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“No. I’m merely offering some advice. My suggestion? Don’t take your anger out on the poor girl. Ask her what happened. Pause. Wait for an answer.” She pinched my cheek. “I hope that makes sense.”
I nodded my head.
“Good. Now get some sleep.”
This was the first time I could remember my Aunt taking a real, solid interest in me, and it did calm me down. I was glad she was here in my room, even though she left this terrible cigarette odor floating over my bed.
I stuffed my face into my pillow. Although I did appreciate Aunt Sheila’s advice, and I found her words very comforting, I feared I would be unable to contain my wrath when I faced Delia on Monday morning.
K__18__L
YVES’ LAST ADVENTURE
I saw Delia in the hallway at school on Monday, and I readied myself for a confrontation. What excuse could she possibly come up with, justifying no phone call, not even a follow-up apology for her absence? I was so angry and perplexed. Why would anyone not show up for a date and not call first?
Delia ran toward me and threw her arms around my neck. “Oh Haskell, I am so sorry. You have no idea how terrible I feel.” I didn’t put my arms around her. I was truly pissed off.
“Where were you?” I asked, disgusted.
“My dog got sick, and I had no way of contacting you.”
“Your dog?” Honestly, this was the lamest of excuses. “I didn’t know you had a dog.”
She started crying. I mean, actually wailing in the hallway. Kids passed us by and glared at me, as if I had done something to her.
“Is the dog all right?” I asked.
“I was up all night with him, and early Saturday morning, he died in my arms.”
Her voice cracked, more sobbing. If she were inventing this excuse and making the whole thing up, I’d congratulate her. I’d give her a ten for realism, maybe a six out of ten for imagination. It fell into the “The Dog Ate My Homework” category, but her performance? Convincing. Maybe her acting chops could pull off a cunning, ambitious, conniving Lady Macbeth.
“He’d been in my life since I was a few years old. We grew up together. We had so many adventures.”
“I’m sorry,” I told her, coldly. I still didn’t believe her.
I watched her swallow and catch her breath. “While Yves was vomiting all over the carpet in my room, I lost track of time. And when he started spitting blood, I mean, I assumed you were already in the theater. What could I do?”
She was right. Even I would miss a double feature if my dog was spitting blood. Though I’ve seen movies at the Encino Theatre a few other times, I didn’t expect managers to track me down in order to deliver a phone message.
Delia was still sobbing hard. “You want to talk about this later?” I asked.
“No, no, it’s okay. You forgive me?”
What could I say? I nodded.
“I’m so glad.”
“You know, there’s a dog graveyard just up the street from my house. Are you interested in burying him there?” I wasn’t sure if I should mention it, but I just blurted the words out. I figured this would determine if she were telling the truth. I expected a laugh, maybe a “You’re kidding, right?” Instead, she surprised me.
“I think that sounds like a really good idea.”
I had no idea if I could even bury a dog from a different neighborhood in the burial site. It was owned by our neighborhood. I figured there were some restrictions on which dogs could enter and which dogs could not. What if the requirement was that any dog buried in the cemetery must be owned by a person who lived there? Then what would I do?
“Will I have to pay for the plot?” she asked.
“I’ll find out. Let me check with my aunt, okay? What kind of dog was it?”
“A Bichon Frise.”
“Is that a big or a little dog?” I had no idea. I was not up on my dog sizes since my mom never allowed me to have one.
“No, very small. In fact, I’ll purchase a tiny casket and be over, maybe tomorrow, after school? I’d like to spend a bit more time with Yves before I say goodbye.”
She was buying Yves his own casket?
“We could just dig a hole and put the dog in the hole. That’s what everybody does around here. I never even heard of a dog casket.”
“I could not possibly consider that, Haskell. He would need a pine casket, and I think I know where I can buy one.”
“All right,” I told her, still not sure if she was pulling my leg. This sounded eerily reminiscent of the scene in Sunset Boulevard where Norma Desmond actually hires a funeral service to bury her monkey. “I’ll call you.”
My aunt didn’t see a problem with burying a tiny Bichon Frise in the graveyard. Most of the dogs had been huge. German Shepherds. Great Danes. Labradors. “I’m sure there’s plenty of room for a small dog,” she said. “What’s her name?”
“You mean what was his name? Yves.”
My aunt blinked. “What kind of name is that for a dog?”
“It’s a French name, like Yves Montand. Yves Saint-Laurent.”
“Make sure you spell it correctly.”
“We’ll work it out. I’ll take care of it.”
So my next date with Delia was Tuesday afternoon. We met in front of my house. She was only an hour late. Delia carried her pooch in a picnic basket, covered in a Scottish print blanket, and we walked up and around the Tara mansion on our cul-de-sac until we came to the animal graveyard. Delia was dressed all in black, including her socks, and in her backpack she had a small pine box, barely large enough for her dog.
“You know, Haskell? I just got him out of the freezer and, by the way, this is the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me,” she said.
“I’m sure that’s not true,” I replied. I pointed toward a small spot that would be shaded by a crape myrtle on sunny days. “We can bury him there.”
I’d say the entire graveyard was about the size of a typical kidney-shaped, Valley swimming pool, and there was quite a bit of room for more dogs. We spotted gravestones for Jeanette, Al, Cary, Roman, Mae, and Joan—dogs once owned by the famed director and apparently named after popular movie stars of the day. On the other side of the graveyard—the non-Hollywood side—we spotted Pooky, Rags, and Shadow, names of local dogs. I had brought with me a stake and some cardboard in case Delia wanted a temporary gravestone.
She shook her head when she saw me carrying the materials.
“That won’t be necessary,” she said. “As long as we mark the grave and people know it’s a grave, we can put up a headstone a year from now.” Delia spread out the blanket, set her dog on one end, and rolled up the cloth until the dog was fully covered. “It’s fleece. Yves was allergic to wool,” she said, winking at me. Delia then laid her dog gently in the casket, and I dug a hole with the shovel I’d brought. The soil was wet, so the hole opened up quickly. We placed the casket inside.
The whole time, I was bandying back and forth in my head the question: Why would we wait a whole year before she puts up a headstone? I’ll be away at college, hopefully at NYU! Or Harvard? Yale? Again, I begged myself not to ask, and yet the words tumbled out of my mouth carelessly.
“I’m just curious. Why wait a whole year before you can put up the headstone?”
She answered without a pause. “In the Jewish religion, we don’t actually put the headstone on until a year after the death.”
I swallowed a few times. “Your dog was Jewish?”
“Well, I’m Jewish. I think that makes my dog Jewish. Aren’t you Jewish?”
“I’m half-Jewish. I don’t think my father was Jewish. Funny, the subject has never come up.”
“Well, following Jewish tradition, Yves’ nameplate will not be set for another year. That’s just the way things are done.”
She squinted her eyes and smiled.
“He was very special. We spent our whole life together. When I talked to the rabbi this morning, he said each soul is judged immediately after death and undergoes the appropriate purification process, which takes about twelve months. So, we’ll wait on the nameplate. I’ll compose something special.”
“You called the rabbi for burial instructions?”
“He also said that by waiting a year, we can make certain the dog will not be forgotten. Also, it will give me time to think about what I want written on his headstone. Don’t look at me that way. Lots of people do this in Los Angeles.”
I knew if I argued with her and began debating whether the dog was actually Jewish or not, I’d lose the battle and maybe start a war. Delia could tell, though, from the flabbergasted expression on my face, that I had a hard time comprehending her enthusiasm for religious ritual. Next thing you know she’d insist on sitting shiva, maybe requiring ten dogs to show up for a minyan.
I mean, the girl was a nut job. How long should I let her spend time with me? It might be better if I let her finish the ceremony, wish her well, and call it a day. Forget Delia.
Soon, a sullen, uncomfortable silence reigned, broken only by a plane overhead.
Delia had brought a tape recorder with her, and she put on her dog’s favorite musician—Fats Waller—and his rendition of “Ain’t Misbehavin’.” It didn’t work at the right speed, though. The batteries were probably old, and poor Fats sounded as if he were drowning. Delia turned it off.
“You know, Haskell, I’m actually glad we have no music since it would only make me cry harder. If you wouldn’t mind, I’ll say the Kaddish after we shovel soil on the grave.”
Why not? The tinny sound of raindrops started plopping against the coffin lid. And as the rain grew stronger, the smell of leaves, dirt, pine needles, and grass pervaded the air. It smelled fresh and good, not like at home on the Upper East Side.
“You know, when my mom and I left New York a few months ago,” I said, attempting some small talk, “we were in the midst of a massive garbage strike. It gave New York a rotting-fruit smell, and before you knew it, we had rats in the kitchen and ants and cockroaches crawling up the walls. This is so much more beautiful, and the smell is much nicer.”
I was desperate to come up with something to say.
Another airplane roared overhead, giving off a loud crack as the underbelly opened, releasing its landing gear.
“Are we near an airport?” I asked.
“Encino is in the flight path. You hadn’t noticed that before?”
“I rarely spend time outside.”
“Well, I have a feeling neither the rain nor the airplanes are coincidental. It’s all in the scheme of things. God works in mysterious ways. Wouldn’t it be lovely if the rain stopped?”
And stop it did, almost as soon as she asked this question.
At this point, she picked up the shovel, dug it deep into the mound of dirt, and threw a pile of wet soil onto the pine box. We did this alternately until the box was fully buried. Delia recited the Kaddish, a Jewish prayer of mourning. I was surprised she knew it by heart, but she said she often went on Friday nights to temple with her father and memorized most of the prayers.
She brought out a blanket, laid it across a mound of dirt, sat cross-legged, and patted a space beside her.
“Please sit. Let me tell you how much I appreciate your help and acceptance today. Some people would think I’m a lunatic.”
“Really?”
“I can be a bit meshuga, I suppose, but I really loved Yves. Have you ever loved anyone so much you would do anything for them?”
I shook my head. “Not really. I once felt pretty close to my mom. Not anymore.”
“I’m not talking about mothers or fathers, or relatives. I can’t explain it. It just feels like I’ve lost my best friend.” Again, tears streamed down her cheeks.
It was the oddest feeling, for in some ways I could empathize, feeling a certain loss myself. True, Henry didn’t die, but the love I hoped we might share remained unfulfilled. I was still reeling from the torment of being a homo hopelessly in love with a boy who would never love me back, stuck with a girl who spoke Pig Latin and sat shiva for her dog.
“I brought some lemonade. Would you like some?” she asked.
She removed a thermos and two glasses from her backpack. We sipped, sat back on the blanket, resting on our elbows, and stared at the sickly yellow haze obscuring the mountains and darkening the sky. My eyes burned from the smog.
“You’re the best, Haskell. Thank you again.” She lay back and reached over and held my hand. “You’re so nice and thoughtful . . .”
I suppose my silence could be interpreted this way.
“Haskell? Would you mind helping me with something? Remember that original sonnet we had to write for class?”
“That was due last week.”
“I’m just a bit behind. Would you mind writing one for me? I have a draft, but I can’t seem to finish it.”
“Did you get permission to turn it in late?”
“No, but it will be all right.”
