Page 5 of On Fire Island

“I assume that you and my granddaughter have had sex?”

The whole family, who were now glued to this inquisition, jumped in to stop her.

“I have a point,” she insisted, raising her hand in the air like a traffic cop.

“When you are at your most fulfilled moment in sex, do you scream out Oh God or Jesus Christ?”

“Oh God,” he replied sheepishly.

“Okay, how about when you’re flying on an airplane and there is horrible turbulence? When the plane lands safely, what do you say to yourself?”

“Thank God,” he responded.

“One more. You’re a sportswriter, right?”

“I was. I recently took leave to concentrate on writing novels and to spend more time with Jules.” He looked over at me lovingly, and I wasn’t sure if he was for real or trying to score points with Nana Hannah. He hoped his affection and accomplishments would distract her. It didn’t. She continued her inquisition.

“What football team do you root for—Jets or Giants?”

“Whoever is playing against the Pats.”

Nana laughed. “Nice. Mets or Yankees?”

“Yankees.”

Nana Hannah shook her head and laughed some more. “Mets or Yankees he’s sure of!” She continued, “You’re home on the couch watching the Yankees. Bottom of the ninth, tie score, two outs, bases loaded, and the phone rings. You get up to grab it and catch your pinky toe on the corner of the cocktail table. What say you?”

“Jesus Christ!” he proclaimed, laughing along with everyone else.

Nana Hannah stood up and kissed Ben on top of his head, officially proclaiming him to be Jewish enough. Ben had adored her since that moment and was very sad when we lost her a few years later. I knew it was out of some sort of respect for her and her sweet proclamation that day that he had agreed to be a part of the elaborate mourning rituals—because he had assured her that he was Jewish enough.

Ben stared out the window for most of the ride to the city, clutching the unlit candle whose flame, he was told, would burn for seven days, guiding a part of my spirit on its journey toward the afterlife.

The Rabbi had taught me that everything has a soul and that every soul has five dimensions. One of those dimensions, theRuach, translates to the wordsspiritandwind. I clung to this often in my last weeks on earth. It comforted me.

I am the wind, I thought, in the moment.

Back at the hospital, I only realized I had passed when I could no longer feel Ben’s hand cupping my cheek. At first I attributed it to the morphine, but it soon became obvious that I would never feel his touch again. As I realized it, I saw Nana Hannah, clear as day, coaxing me to come join her.

From what I could tell so far, you are given two choices when you die: go right ahead to see the people who have passed before you, or stay with your person until you are ready to go. I missed Nana Hannah something awful, and it was hard not to run to her, but after everything I’d been through I yearned for one last summer, with Ben, on Fire Island. It was obvious that he needed that too. As Nana Hannah faded from sight I wondered if I would spend eternity in limbo.

three

The Shiva Fugitive

The skyline rose in front of us as we crossed the bridge. Ben hadn’t grown up in the city as I had, but about forty-five miles away in Jersey. His delightful, childlike reaction to the sight of the Manhattan skyline, even after years of seeing it rise into view, always delighted me in return. Today he was devoid of expression.

The shiva would take place at our apartment, another detail that I found worrisome. Ben had wanted to be at home for the week, as opposed to being held hostage at my parents’ palatial pad, but when the Rabbi announced our address at the funeral, I could see the shiver of fear it sent down his spine. It wasn’t an overreaction: all of those people strolling about our new two-bedroom, peeking into the room we had once been decorating for our baby, empty except for an orphaned treadmill and errant splotches of nursery paint colors, as if my dying wasn’t pity-inducing enough.

The limo stopped at the corner of Columbus and Seventy-Second. Everyone but Ben piled out. My sister had been sobbing uncontrollably since we’d crossed the bridge, and Ben never eventurned toward her. Normally, he cared for my sister very much, but I doubt he’d even heard her crying.

My father slid back into the car and put his arm on Ben’s shoulder in encouragement. I questioned where my dad was getting the strength. His composed-mourner act was a little suspect and left me wondering if he had uncharacteristically helped himself to a taste of my mother’s Valium.

“Cousin Shirley has everything set up. Nothing for you to worry about. C’mon, son,” my father said, coaxing Ben out of the car.

I had never heard him call Ben “son” before. I’d never heard him call anyone “son” before.

Ben gave in and dutifully followed, more zombie than man.

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