Your Duck Is My Duck Page 6

  * * *

  “Darling!” Zoe said when Emma announced she was getting married. “How exciting, how wonderful! I’m so happy for you. How soon do I get to come to New York and meet your gent?”

  Emma pictured Zoe at the other end of the phone, blinking back the tears that she produced so easily when a script required her to. “Hey,” she said, “since you think marriage is so great, don’t forget that Duncan is still on those lists every year of the world’s most desirable bachelors.”

  “Oh, please. But darling, I’ll make you and Ed a big, beautiful wedding.”

  “No,” Emma said. “I want to get married at City Hall.

  “I want to get married at City Hall,” Emma told Ed later.

  “But, Emma,” he said. “Would you really deny your mother this pleasure?”

  “I don’t want a wedding, I want a marriage. She’s just playing with dolls.”

  Looking back, seeing the aggrieved expression on Ed’s face, another face that looks so young from this distance, it seems obvious that Ed had basically believed himself to be marrying Zoe, not her.

  But Zoe came to New York anyhow, to help them, as she put it, celebrate, bringing various extravagant, ornamental, useless little gifts, which Emma eventually left behind in Ed’s apartment, along with Ed.

  The night before they went to City Hall, when Emma arrived after work at the lavish restaurant where Zoe was treating, Zoe and Ed were already deep into a bottle of some splendid wine, and Zoe was sniffling beautifully. She dried her eyes, also beautifully, and kissed Emma. “Oh, don’t mind me,” she told Ed, and Ed actually touched his pocket hanky to her face.

  “What was that all about?” Emma asked when she and Ed got back to their apartment.

  He looked at her coolly, speculatively, as if she were his teenage child being released by the police into his custody. “She’s a very sensitive person. She’s very fragile. It’s understandable that she’d be very emotional on this occasion.”

  “She’s an actress. She was embodying sensitivity. She was embodying fragility.”

  “Really, Emma, I can’t imagine what makes you think you’re always right.”

  “Since when do you have a pocket hanky?”

  “Naturally, I wanted to dress appropriately for your mother,” Ed said.

  And the next day, when dear Sandi, who never flashed around embodiments of anything, had a party for them at her tiny place, Ed behaved as if he were graciously allowing the peasants to bring them garlands in the pigsty.

  * * *

  Ed and his career! A career for him, a job for her. Did she not work like a dray horse and come home to cook and to clean? Well, how could he cook or clean—he had a career, as opposed to her job, to attend to.

  And eight years later, when she confessed to Zoe that there was serious trouble between herself and Ed and that she was seeing someone she’d met, a liaison between the mayor’s office and the Parks Department—a dynamic, adventurous, astute, and charming man—Zoe raised an eyebrow. “Really,” she said. “I see.”

  Emma had not used the words handsome and married, but Zoe had known just what she’d meant. “Well, I’m sorry, but you’re bound to wake up soon, darling, wondering what happened to you.”

  Naturally Zoe was right. How could Emma have been such a stooge? “Dynamic, adventurous, astute, and charming.” She winces; she’d actually used those exact words, she thinks. And it wasn’t for a long time—some time, in fact, after Avery had moved on to another woman—that the sparkling haze finally blew off the thought of him.

  By then, of course, Emma’s marriage was nothing but rubble. Well, that marriage was prefab rubble! What but rubble could it ever have become? “Darling, what are you doing at home on a Saturday night?” Zoe apparently called to ask. “You’re an attractive young woman—you should be going out and having fun!”

  * * *

  And when Emma runs into Avery, as she does, inevitably, from time to time at events like last night’s—events at which she more or less has to show her face, where practical alliances are formed, damaged, or reinforced, events that are more tournament than dinner party (who has survived, who has been disgraced, whose status excites envy, whose pity? Who has a new condo, who has a new wife?)—she feels nothing more than a dull rage: when something is unfair, it’s unfair again, because there’s just nothing at all you can do to make it fair.

  How easily Avery had introduced her, just last night, to a very young, very beautiful woman, lacquered to a high, impermeable gloss—his new wife.

  * * *

  Well, it’s over and done with, she said out loud this morning. As if anything were ever over and done with! Oh, but could she not even spend the morning in bed, snoozing a bit? No, she could not; she had to get up to meet Zoe’s friends. And now here she is with them because Clement Rouse has altered some bit of the past—he unlocked some door and out popped this highly improbable day.

  * * *

  There came a point when Zoe stopped calling. A relief for a time, then a concern. Emma conferred with Duncan; he was mostly at his place in Idaho in those days, but still in daily touch with Zoe. He was concerned, himself; Zoe seemed anxious and distracted.

  Emma flew out to see her. “Are you eating anything, Zoe?” she said. “You’re too thin. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, darling. I just don’t seem to have much energy. And it makes me sad that there are so many things I’ve missed out on in my life.”

  “What are you talking about? You have a very full life.”

  “I did at one time, I suppose. What do I have now?”

  “Well, I mean . . . you still get parts, you—”

  “A few parts,” Zoe agreed. “A very few. All contemptible.”

  “You have . . . well, you have me . . .”

  Zoe had looked at her blankly.

  “Me?” Emma said. “Remember? Your child?”

  “Ah, my—I wish I’d had a lot of children.”

  “Me too.”

  “Well, darling, it’s not too late. If you’d only find a nice man to marry.”

  “No, I meant—”

  “One who isn’t married already. You were so adorable. I really should have had more children. There are so many things I’ve missed. I wasted so much time! I’ve never read War and Peace, can you believe that?”

  “I’ll get you a copy of War and Peace tomorrow, Zoe.”

  “I’ve read so little. I always had so many scripts to read—I never had time. I wish I’d read War and Peace, I wish I’d read Oliver Twist and Moby-Dick and Pride and Prejudice, all those wonderful books.”

  “Have you seen a doctor, Zoe?”

  “Why should I see a doctor—there’s nothing wrong with me. I just regret not having done more in my life. Emma, I’ve hardly traveled at all.”

  “It’s not possible to do everything. No one can do everything. You’ve worked very hard, Zoe. It’s not possible to work and to have a wonderful life at home and to go off traveling at the same time.”

  “I ought to have traveled, at least. Isn’t it a waste to die before you’ve seen the Alhambra? Or the Taj Mahal?”

  “A waste of what? Zoe, are you taking some kind of pills? If you’re taking some kind of pills, they’re not doing what they ought to be doing!”

  “How long do you plan on staying, darling?”

  “Why not pack a suitcase right now and get on the phone and get yourself a ticket to India. You could see the Taj Mahal this week. I’ll go with you. We can go visit the Taj Mahal together.”

  “Very sweet of you to offer, darling. I’m sorry that one day I’ll die without ever having seen the Taj Mahal, but I really just don’t have it in me at the moment.”

  “What are you talking about, Zoe? Stop taking whatever it is you’re taking, and go to the Taj Mahal! Meantime, why don’t you call someone, one of your friends?” Emma pleaded. “Why don’t you call Duncan? He wants to see you.”

  “He doesn’t want to see me,” Zoe said.r />
  “He wants to see you. So does Coral, I spoke to her. So does Luther. So does Greta. So does Austin. So does Roman. Everyone wants to see you.”

  “They don’t want to see me.”

  “They do. They all want to see you.”

  “I don’t want to see them.”

  “Zoe, please. Mother.”

  “I want to see Anton.”

  “Anton is dead, Mother. I’m sorry. Don’t you remember?” Emma’s heart had started to pound. “Anton went to Europe, and he died there a few years ago.”

  “I know. I want to see Anton.”

  Zoe closed her eyes and lay back on the sofa. Emma moved over to sit beside her and took her hand. “Should I get us some tickets to India?”

  Zoe laughed. “Darling, what for? Just let me lie here and yearn to see the Taj Mahal. Really, Emma, when you die, you don’t know whether you’ve seen the Taj Mahal or not.”

  * * *

  That particular generation of successful American actors was lucky. They lived richly, in the sunshine, and they made some notable movies. Now the industry has been all but destroyed by digital techniques and global economic trends. The creative energy is now in low-budget independent films, or television, which has largely moved East. The sunny bower those people lived in is gone.

  But there still is television and independent film, and for those who are trained for it, the stage. So some of those from Anton’s set have given up the comforts of Southern California for the harsh climate of New York, to spend their old age doing the only thing they’ve ever known.

  Coral Durance, despite two hip replacements and a dependence on painkillers, made a great success on the Broadway stage as the wise grandmother in Harvest Day. Roman Karsk can still be seen doing his Mafia don in season after season of Tarantella. Luther Kaminsky’s comeback in the surprise hit Potluck, which showed his broad style to advantage, maintains an apartment in New York as well as his old place in the Hollywood Hills, and is spotted at fashionable events. After Zoe died, Duncan Macgregor returned from his self-exile in Idaho, and now leads the quiet life of a squire in his home overlooking the Pacific Ocean, where presumably, before too long, he’ll end his days.

  When that great talent Anton Pavlak died, he left to me a beautiful Viennese desk, which I like to imagine had once belonged to his family, long before the dark days in Europe. He knew that I had admired that desk even when I was a child, and perhaps he pictured me as I would be so many years later, sitting at it to memorialize my times with him.

  After a rapid and fierce battle with cancer, Zoe Sills succumbed. I made great efforts to visit her toward the end, but I failed. She had shut herself away, I was told by her attendant, a very handsome and slippery young man, and she was seeing no one at all. It is very likely that he was more or less keeping her a prisoner, driving a wedge between her and those who loved her, in hopes of inheriting her money. He did, however, on my final attempt, bring out a note to me signed shakily in her hand: “For dear Clement, I wish you nothing but happiness in your life.” I will treasure that relic until my own dying day.

  * * *

  More coffee for anyone? No? “Thanks, we’ll just settle up,” Roman tells the waiter.

  Be not afraid. Be of good cheer. Though you walk through the valley of the shadow of—“Do you think Zoe knew she was sick before she was really debilitated?” Emma asks.

  Duncan nods. “I believe she had a strong intuition.”

  “Oh, yes,” Coral says. “Otherwise she never would have burned her letters when she did.”

  “Her letters?” Emma says.

  “Her letters?” Duncan says.

  Coral looks at him. “Well?” she says.

  “Very strange,” Emma says. “I didn’t know there were letters. And Rouse doesn’t say anything about them.”

  “How would he have known about them?” Coral says. “Even if he had ransacked the little bungalow where she was living at the end, he wouldn’t have found any. We burned them.”

  “‘We’?” Emma says.

  Coral shrugs. “Trevor helped.”

  “A good kid, Trevor,” Duncan says. “Huh, letters . . .”

  “Do you know, she actually did manage to leave him a little,” Emma says. “It was very sweet. She was so broke there at the end, but she split up the tiny bit left between me and Trevor, as if we were brother and sister.”

  “He certainly took good care of her,” Luther says. “So many people clamoring to get in to see her.”

  “Oh, yes, he was great,” Roman says. “He wouldn’t let a soul in who she didn’t want to see.”

  A silence has fallen over the table. Emma looks at her mother’s friends. Their old age seems provisional, a temporary blurring or slackening of outlines. Here in the dim restaurant they appear to be indistinct embryonic forms, waiting with patience and humility to be issued new roles, new shapes. They all seem to be thinking, considering, dreaming a little, floating halfway between heaven and earth. Coral’s hand extends slightly and opens, as if to take someone else’s—

  “Excuse me! Excuse me!” someone is shouting, and something that’s bumping at Emma’s shoulder turns out to be a large rear end that belongs to someone from another table who is looming over them with his phone out. “Excuse me,” the person, rear end to Emma’s shoulder, is shouting apparently at Luther, “I hate to interrupt, I wanted to wait till you were finished, but do I know who you are?”

  “Well,” Luther says, as his face arranges an amiable but regretful smile, “eh—”

  “I know that voice—it’s you, isn’t it!” The man shouts, as if Luther were in another realm. “Wait, don’t tell me—am I wrong? No, I know you, don’t I? I know you! All right, I give up, what’s your name?”

  “Em, Luther Ka—”

  “Right, that’s right, you used to be Luther Kaminsky! Listen! My kids were huge fans of Potluck when they were little, they’d never forgive me if I didn’t get a picture. God, that was so damn funny, where you were running all the way up in the Empire State Building in your underwear!”

  “Eh—” Luther chuckles vaguely and ducks his head apologetically to his distinguished colleagues as he rises stiffly from his chair. “Maybe, em, maybe over there where we’re not in everybody’s . . .”

  Watching Luther and his admirer getting photographed together by the waiter, Roman and Coral smile a little. Luther has been vocal about Potluck, about how humiliated he felt to sink to its level, but this stranger is beaming with joy. Who could help feeling good about that?

  “Well.” Luther returns to the table, looking a bit sheepish, and they all stand up, shake themselves out, and head to the coat check.

  “By the way, I’ll be doing Lear next fall,” Luther says bashfully. “Horowitz is directing. It’ll be announced Wednesday.”

  Lear! The others are gleeful. Lear—just think! He’ll be perfect, won’t he, he’ll be the best ever!

  “Well, I’ll certainly be the oldest ever,” Luther says.

  The restaurant is almost empty. They slip into their coats, Luther knots his elegant muffler and leaves a lavish tip for all of them. “What’s everyone up to this afternoon?” he asks.

  “I? I will be napping,” Coral announces. “Oh, and maybe I’ll take a handful of those nice painkillers, to which I’m reputedly addicted. You know, this business of pretending to be other people all the time is quite all right. It gets harder to learn the lines, but at least there are lines. Pretending to be other people is fine. It’s pretending to be oneself that’s exhausting.”

  “Maybe you’ll visit my father with me sometime,” Emma says to her.

  “Oh, I’d love to, Emma, dear. Let’s be sure to arrange that.”

  “I don’t really know what I’ll do today,” Duncan says. “I’m so rarely here, and there’s always so much . . .”

  “Why don’t you come to the museum with me?” Luther says. “There’s a Goya show. It’s supposed to be splendid. And it’s a beautiful day—we could stroll.”r />
  “Really?” Duncan says. “That would be wonderful. Anybody care to join us?”

  They pause on the sidewalk, blinking in the wide blue dazzle.

  “Good to see you all for a change,” Roman says. “But I have a date to take my great-grandson to a movie. Keep in touch now, everybody, yes?”

  “Your great-grandson!” Duncan says, and makes a little bow.

  “Emma?” Luther says.

  Duncan takes her arm. “Will you join us, Emma?”

  But his voice comes from far away, from long ago. Do you remember that day, she thinks, when we got together and we talked about that stupid book? We were all together, and it was a perfect day, a perfect fall day—do you remember?

  Cross Off and Move On

  Adela, Bernice, and Charna, the youngest—all gone for a long time now, blurred into a flock sailing through memory, their long, thin legs streaming out beneath the fluffy domes of their mangy fur coats, their great beaky noses pointing the way.

  They come to mind not so often. They come to mind only as often as does my mother, whose rancor toward them, my father’s sisters, imbued them with a certain luster and has linked them to her permanently in the distant and shadowy arena of my childhood that now—given the obit in today’s Times of violinist Morris Sandler—provides most of the space all four of them still occupy on this planet.

  I was preparing to eat. I’d plunked an omelet onto a plate, sat down in front of it, folded the paper in such a way that I could maneuver my fork between my supper and my mouth and still read, and up fetched Cousin Morrie’s picture, staring at me. Of course I didn’t exactly recognize Morrie, and if I hadn’t glanced at the photo again and been snagged by the small headline, I might have gone on for years assuming that my only known remaining relative was out there somewhere.

  The tether snapped and I shot upward, wafting around for a moment outside of Earth’s gravitational pull, then dropped heavily back down into my chair next to my supper, cracks branching violently through my equanimity, from which my family, such as it was, came seeping. I picked up the phone, I put it down, I picked it up, I put it down, I picked it up and dialed, and Jake answered on the first ring. “Yes?” he said wearily.