Enter we now this unknown world. Sun, moon, birth: joy, tears, death. Each word disconnects the present. Each moment brings forward the past. It is autumn and I have come home to stay.
I pull back my childhood bedroom curtain, peek out, and search the familiar neighborhood for clues. What does it all mean? The maple still grows from the front lawn. I see my dad and myself standing beneath it this moment, raking up papery leaves, dumping them into a huge box borrowed from the back of an appliance store. I am a boy, climbing into the box with tennis shoes, jumping up and down, smashing leaves. Again and again we fill the box, I climb in and pack down leaves. There seems to be no bottom to the box. The leaves fall, autumn after autumn, year after year, and my dad grows older, slightly stooped, temples graying, yet I remain a child.
One day he falls, clutching his heart. His face turns blue and his lips twist in pain. I am terrified, not knowing what to do. The strange color slowly leaves his face, flows upward through skeletal branches of the maple, past chirping sparrows, into the larger color of the sky. His clear blue eyes seem to follow, then stare, as if blind. My own heart aches, but there is nothing I can do. I go on raking without him, season after season.
Now he opens my bedroom door and peeks in. What am I doing, he wants to know. Am I ever going to come out of the bedroom and join the family?
Uncle Noah is asking about me, he says. Noah wants to know why I didn't visit him when his second wife died and he sat alone at his kitchen table, drinking, drinking. He wants to know why, a year later, I got frightened when the voice on the phone told me he had died of a heart attack while riding in a car that beautiful day at the coast. I can hear his rough voice in the background, yelling out to me now. Dad opens the door wider so I can hear. "I forgive you!” says Noah. “It was a good day to die! Come out and join us! Don't be afraid!"
"Come out when you want," says Dad. "I know you've got some thinking to do. Just don't spend too much time spinning your wheels. We're having a good time. Queenie is here. How long has it been since you petted Queenie? Forty years? She's still as spry as ever. Come on out and throw sticks for her. Don't stay too long in here." He comes over and puts his hand on my shoulder. His voice is softer now. "Your mom is here, too." He pats my shoulder, then leaves me alone.
Mom. I was in Munich when I got her final letter. Something about the handwriting told me to go home at once. It was weak, not like Mom’s. But I had my life to live. I had to continue on to Klagenfurt, Austria, to see if they could cure me. It meant a lot to me. More, even, than my mother's life. But thinking again …
I compromised, made a hurried trip to the clinic in Klagenfurt, learned only that my cure was locked in the future, then traveled by train back to Munich and caught a plane to London. The first snow of the season had powdered villages and forests across West Germany and France, stopping abruptly at the English Channel. I landed at Heathrow, grabbed a taxi and settled in my hotel room. When I called home, Mom answered, her voice weak. I told her I loved her. I would be home for Thanksgiving, just as she had prayed.
I can hear her now, laughing in the kitchen. Dad and Uncle Noah are swapping stories. Like the time they saddled up and rode from their father's ranch on a sunny day and were surprised by sudden floodwaters from the river. Noah didn't want to get his boots or pants wet, so he took everything off, stuffed it in his saddlebag. So did Dad. At first it was fun. But after a while the flooded plain surrounded them. They became lost. The brothers rode naked through the floodwaters, searching, searching.
After Thanksgiving Mom told us she would die wherever we wanted. We weighed hospital sedation against the familiar warmth of home. She stayed, bravely, fighting the final stages of cancer with a few measly pills. I read stories to her. She loved the sound of my voice. It soothed her more than the drugs. But I realize now she may have said that just to relieve my anxiety. She knew I was upset because I could do nothing to stop the cancer.
Mom was a great dancer. At twenty she tried out for a chorus line in LA or NYC, I think. She had good legs, rhythm, but lacked formal training. She didn’t make the cut because no one ever taught her how to do the time step. The Time Step, yes. That’s one we’re all working on.
Later tonight Dad and Mom and Noah will go out dancing. Noah will watch with a drink in his hand while Mom and Dad glide across the floor. They make quite a couple. Dad is tall, six feet, three inches--a head taller than Mom. She has a way of looking up and smiling at him that always made me proud. I’ll bet they could dance as gracefully as ever.
I remember looking in the closet for something to wear to Mom's funeral. I couldn't decide what to wear, and the absurdity of my confusion both amused and sickened me. My God, what did it matter? We should have all gone nude.
The sun is setting. Amazing, how the neighborhood looks the same after all these years. Is that Babe? Yes, Babe is walking across the street to join the family. It was the year after Noah died that Babe followed. He was a big man, friendly, generous. He sees me peeking out the window and smiles and waves. It's good to see he hasn't changed.
I remember all those Thanksgivings with Babe. He would fuss over the eggnog, separating eggs just so, adding the perfect amount of sugar to the yokes, slowly pouring in rum as he stirred. "You've got to be careful not to bruise the eggs," he'd say, raising his thick brown eyebrows. "Or the booze. Don't bruise the booze, that's what I always say." And then he'd turn to Dad, his drinking buddy. "Don't bruise the booze, isn't that right, pardner?"
My dad would just smile.
When I first told Mom and Dad about my condition, years ago when their faces were aglow with life, Babe invited us all out to dinner. "What the hell," he said, "we're all going to die, we know that. No one knows when, not even you." He slapped me on the back. "The damn doctors don't know any more about it than any of us. Let them do the worrying. Let's go out and have a good time!"
I told him I appreciated the offer but would rather be alone. Then I encouraged Mom and Dad to go. I had some thinking to do.
And here I am, 20 years later, still thinking. Why do I have to die? Why do any of us have to die? How have I managed to live this long? No one seems to know. We just go on, never quite understanding why we are born without having anything to say about it, and why — suddenly or slowly, young or old, smiling or not, with little or no control over matters of when and how — one day, we must leave.
*
The sun has gone down. The moon lights my room. I hear Mom laughing again. I hope she isn't drinking too much. It worries me the way she always had to match Dad, drink for drink, even though she weighed 70 pounds less. But what's wrong with me? That's all in the past now. This is no time for worrying. We're all together again. Well, almost. All I have to do is open the door, walk out, and join them. They're waiting.
I have a confession to make. I'm afraid.
Oh, I've heard people say they're not afraid of dying, but I find it hard to believe. It's not so much what comes after death that worries me. It's leaving everything behind, once and for all. That's what bothers me.
I remember Mom's face the last time I saw her. She lay in bed, peaceful, eyes closed, wig removed, her thinning hair soft and gray at the roots, the first time I had seen it that way. Moments before, I had come into the room when the hired nurse stood over her, taking her pulse. Mom wore a brown wig and her eyes were wide open, no sign of life in them. It was a formality. A person dies, staring into the world with no expression, and someone takes her pulse one more time, to make sure. I couldn't watch. I left the room to get Dad, who was talking to the doctor on the phone.
When Dad came into the bedroom and saw her blank stare, he couldn't speak. He walked to the window and looked out at the leafless maple. I went to his side. "Let's go to my bedroom," I said. "The nurse will take care of things here." We went into my bedroom, Dad sat on my bed (the same one I'm sitting on now), buried his face in his hands, and cried. "Fiftyfour years old," he sobbed. "It's not fair."
When we returned to Mom 15 minutes later, the nurse had brushed her natural hair one last time and closed her eyes. She had even put a little make-up on her, so our final view of her would contradict the moment of her dying, when she stared, unseeing, into the unknown world.
When I got her last letter in Munich, I told myself she would somehow overcome whatever had made her weak. It was just like her not to tell me she had cancer. She didn't want to ruin my trip. She knew how important this was for me, but I sensed something was terribly wrong from reading her letter. Still, I went on to the clinic in Klagenfurt, quickly, to seek a cure for myself.
The train climbed, traveling through mountains, and I looked out the window, down steep slopes to the bottom of narrow valleys scattered with small farms. When I reached Klagenfurt, a coal-burning haze hung over the old city. It smelled like burning hair.
Doctor Friedrich saw me in his office. He had bushy eyebrows, stiff gray-and-black hair and rimless spectacles. "Sit down," he said. "You have come a long way. How can I help." He sat across his desk from me.
"They tell me you are an expert in this field."
He waved his hand as if to brush away the compliment. "No, no. I am no expert. Just someone who knows something about the human heart. Tell me. What is the problem?"
"Sometimes my heart aches so much it feels like it will burst."
"Yes. A common condition."
"I don't mean angina. The pain is deeper."
He nodded. "When did you first notice the aching?"
"I was a young boy. One day my dad came home and told me my dog, Queenie, had been run over, killed."
"And then you had this heartache?"
"Yes. Uncontrollable heartache and tears. It's funny. I tell other doctors this story and they just smile. They don't take me seriously. One of them even told me there was nothing wrong with me, that Queenie was just a dog and I had overreacted."
"I understand. Please, continue."
"You see … This doctor didn't even know Queenie. She loved me. She was unselfish and devoted. We were constant companions. And one day, suddenly, she was gone. My heart hasn't been the same since."
"Has the aching increased over time?"
"Yes. It happened again when my grandmother died, and then Uncle Noah, and Babe. Each time the ache goes deeper and stays longer. And now, I fear my mother will be next, and then my father. I fear they will be lost to me forever."
"It's a feeling I know. A condition I know."
"Then it's real, Doctor? There really is something wrong with me?"
Doctor Friedrich got up from his chair and went to the window. He clasped his hands behind his back and seemed to study something outside.
"What is it, Doctor? What's wrong with me?" He turned and leaned down, supporting himself with both hands on the desk. His large brown eyes looked into mine from behind his spectacles.
"Young man," he said. "The world is old. Centuries come and go. No one knows when death comes. And yes, maybe we never see loved ones again. I'm afraid it is hopeless. There is no cure for the human condition."
"That's it — the human condition — that's my illness?"
"I'm afraid so. And you have a bad case of it." He stood, sighed, and wrung his hands. "Such little time …"
"How long, doctor? How long do I have?"
"You? A week, a few months. Could be four-five years." He returned to his chair and sat down. "With much care, good fortune, grace of God, maybe twenty-thirty years." He drummed his fingers. "Fifty, tops." Then he leaned forward and squinted. "This aching will come and go. But one day …" His eyes grew huge as he sliced the air with his hand … "Death!
And then …" He shrugged and smiled. "Who knows?" I wondered how a person can have such a calm reaction to such profoundly tragic circumstances. "I feel so powerless when I think about it," I said.
"You must live with the condition. There is nothing I can do. But some things maybe you can do."
"What can I do? How can I get rid of the ache?"
"Express yourself. Don't hold in. Can you sing?"
"No."
"Dance?"
"I stay away from it."
"This is unfortunate. This is unfortunate."
"I can write …"
“Good! Write! Maybe you can bring loved ones back, if only for an instant, yes? But don't lock yourself in a small room for long times. And remember the old saying.” He patted his heart. “‘Tears and laughter share the same home.’" He stood and extended his hand. "It is a long journey.
"Yes." I stood and took his hand. "A very long journey. And time is short.
*
Through my bedroom window I see the moon, the big dipper, the north star. Millions of stars. Amazing, how each star is a sun in itself. How many worlds do you suppose there are? How many worlds waiting for life?
A quiet voice comes from the next room — Nanu, my grandmother. She lived nearly all her adult life alone, after divorcing my grandfather. She was the only one in my family who never drank or smoked. After Grandfather left her, she swore off men, never had another. She worked in a small dress shop until she had her first stroke.
I remember one Thanksgiving. Babe had managed to set an eggnog in front of Nanu, who sat on the couch, quiet as ever. She was 70 years old then and had never taken a drink. A half-hour later, Babe noticed she had drained her cup. "My God, I don't believe it!" he roared.
Nanu cleared her throat, held out her cup with one hand and adjusted her glasses with the other. "I'll have another," she said.
"Another?!” said Babe. "What is this world corning to?" He turned to Dad, to those clear blue eyes.
"Next thing you know," Dad said, "she'll be asking for Rhett Butler." Nanu cracked a sly smile and said softly, "Bring on the Cossacks."
No doubt they'll tell that story tonight, before Nanu goes to bed early. I'd like to join them, but I have so much to remember, here in my bedroom.
I hear a soft whine. It's Queenie. She’s standing in my doorway. She holds a stick in her mouth. Her tail wags gently. She still looks the same — long thick hair, black-and-white face, long nose. So eager to please, so faithful, so lacking in the qualities that cause strife among humans.
For more than 40 years she has never felt envious or intolerant, never considered betrayal. She is incapable of egotism. I am here to do whatever you ask, she seems to say, and I will love you unconditionally.
"How're you doing, old girl?"
I pet her soft head. Her tail accelerates. She wants me to leave this room, cross over the invisible border and enter the world she now inhabits, to be with the rest of my family.
"Sorry, girl. I'm not quite ready."
Her brown eyes hold an expression of perfect understanding. Okay, then, I can wait, she seems to say, I know what it is to be patient. Believe me, I know better than humans. She turns obediently and disappears. She walks softly now, hardly a sound.
I hear a voice. Nanu again. She's probably sitting in the den, telling Queenie to go away in her own gentle manner, flicking her hand as if brushing crumbs from her lap. "Go. Go away now." Nanu never did like the way Queenie stood in front of her and stared.
The last time I saw Nanu she had been moved from one nursing home to another and I had come home from my travels for a short while. When I went to visit her, they told me she would be in the utility room, where they kept the heating equipment. I couldn't understand why she would be there. The door to the room was open, and I found her sitting in a wheelchair, facing a tangle of pipes and a large holding tank.
"Nanu?" I said softly, trying not to startle her.
She smiled a little, but didn't move, stared straight ahead. I held her frail hand. She couldn't have weighed more than 60 or 70 pounds. It was a slow process, her dying. An esophagal obstruction prevented her from eating solid food. Day by day, she wasted away, staring at water pipes.
But this day, as I held her hand, it suddenly hit me why she was in this strange room. She wanted to die as she had lived. Alone.
I told her about my travels, how I intended to see some of the world and one day, perhaps, write down my stories. At the time I knew little of life, and Nanu, in her condition, seemed to know even less. Or maybe she knew immeasurably more but preferred to remember less. After a long time of silence, she finally spoke. "Did you see Marilyn?" Marilyn was my mother, Nanu's daughter, her only child.
"Of course. I'm staying with her, at home. I just came from there."
"Does she still live on Blossom?" I was shocked. Blossom was the street where Nanu had lived most of her life. My mother hadn't lived there since she was a girl. Nearly 40 years! Nanu's mind, her memories, the sum of her experience, her entire life was rewinding like a used-up tape.
She was going all the way back to her beginning, and she would not die until she reached Sedalia, Missouri, 1894. I kissed her hand. Blue veins pulsed slowly beneath wrinkled, waxen skin.
And now it is my turn. It is my tape that is rewinding, playing back memories.
Perhaps I can stay in this room another day, remembering. When morning comes, I can pull back the curtain, look out at the maple tree. Dad, after his morning coffee, will go out to rake leaves, just like always, and later I can join him, still his little boy, looking for guidance, even in matters as simple as raking leaves. Is this the way you do it, Dad? Yes son, he will say, gathering leaves, preparing them for the box. This is the way it is done. Leaves upon leaves. Season upon season.
***
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