NO SIMPLE REMEDY
Barbara came into the room with a rush of excitement and stopped when she realized the interviewer was still in the room. She stopped, looking at the woman, and then at me.
“I love your hair,” she said with a smile. “I’m Barbara,” she added, and then stepped forward to offer her hand.
The woman accepted the compliment and I looked at the door where Richard was standing behind Roger—towering over him, but unable to get around him. I knew I should have introduced her, and felt bad because I couldn’t remember her name.
“Where’s Charlie?” Mother asked Roger. He stood silent for a moment too long. “Richard? Where’s your uncle?”
“He met someone.”
“What do you mean he met someone? Who?”
“A friend,” Barbara said.
“A friend? What kind of a friend?” She looked at Richard.
“Someone he knew. I don’t know. He didn’t tell us who he was, Mother. He just told Roger to make sure we made it home.”
“You mean he left you there?” Mother asked.
“Roger was with us,” he said.
“And this friend he met? Who was he?”
“Someone he knew,” Richard said. “From the war,” he added, as if he knew what that meant more than I did; that it was a secret I'd learn when I got older.
“Does it matter, Mother? We’re here. Roger drove,” Barbara put in, sitting on the edge of the bed beside me. “It was no big drama.”
“No big drama? I let my brother take my children to Rome with the promise of looking out for them. A friend asks if he can hitch a ride into Rome with them, and joins them. My brother then abandons my children so he can run off with a man into the nearest alley and perform his filth with this man, rather than take care of my children, as he promised! And you say it was no big drama? Do you know what he was doing in that alley? You seem to love your uncle Charlie to distraction. Do you know what your uncle Charlie was doing with that man?”
“Mother, watch what you’re saying,” Barbara said, looking at the interviewer who seemed to have her head down in her steno pad the entire time. She looked up at the sudden silence.
“I never indicated that the interview was over,” she said. “I was told I’d have two hours with your mother. I’ve been here less than an hour.”
She looked at Mother, and then turned to look at Roger.
“You can’t print that,” Roger said, taking a step forward. “What’s your name?”
“Alison. Alison Howard.”
“Well Alison,—”
“He’s sucking him off,” Richard said, stepping into the room.
“Richard!” Barbara called out at him.
Her anger was wrapped up in a howl of anguish that seemed to echo inside the close confines of the room. Barbara looked at me—her eyes wide, her nostrils flaring, her breathing disturbed—and then I turned to look at Mother staring at Richard, the nod of her head ever so slight, as if acknowledging what was understood between the three of them. Maybe there was a sense of relief within her that had been building up over the years, until confessing what she must’ve thought was her brother’s great secret—something she’d been holding in for her entire life—only to discover it was no secret at all.
I looked at Alison sitting in her chair, scribbling in her steno pad. I wondered what part of the strange scene she was writing. A part of me knew it wouldn’t be good. It would tarnish Mother’s reputation. I looked at Roger standing by the door. He still hadn’t come into the room. Maybe he thought by staying out of Mother’s sight it would save him the embarrassment of having to explain things.
I stood up, looking at Mother—purposely—and then let my eyes cross the room to look at Alison, head down, hair tucked in behind her left ear, still writing. I looked at Mother again and she nodded. It was just the one time, and no one saw it except for me. I walked up to Alison and snatched the steno pad from her, crossing the room and giving it to Mother.
“This is shorthand,” Mother said, looking up from the steno pad, flipping through the pages.
“That’s why I’m so good with my interviews. I get every word that’s said. I make comments and write questions as I think of them; that way I can come back to them.”
“I want to read everything before you send it to your editor. Do you understand me? I want final approval of everything you’ve written. If it’s not in there, the editor won’t be able to add things later, so that nothing I say gets taken out of context.”
Alison sat and thought for a moment. It seemed like forever to me, but she nodded.
“Deal.”
Mother died that night.
III
Another day I’ll always remember, I told myself.
The doctor later said it was a massive hemorrhage due to a ruptured ovarian cyst. It happened sometime during the night. She’d bled to death while all of us slept, tucked safety in our rooms. It was the one night Barbara slept in her own bed. It was possible she was asleep herself, the doctor added, and a part of me wondered if he’d said it to give us all peace of mind.
If I let myself, I can still remember Barbara’s scream piercing the morning quiet. I doubt if I’ll ever forget the sound. The birds outside fell silent; it was like Nature itself fell tacit through the space of a single heartbeat. In that brief second of silence, I could hear my heartbeat echoing through my ears with a drumming panic that resounded through the empty silence of the apartment.
Barbara was on the floor, hysterical, by the time I got to Mother’s room. Mother lay half out of her bed. The sheets were pulled back like she’d tried to get up, but failed. Perhaps she’d awoken during the night with that cold, intrusive touch of her own blood against her body? The blood had soaked through her cotton night gown which had absorbed it. There was a fading stain that lay looped around her like the rings of a tree, soaking through the sheets and into the mattress. Barbara was on the floor, covered in blood, and a part of me thought she’d tried to pick Mother up and place her back in the bed.
Richard came running into the room and skidded to a halt at the sight of Mother’s body. He staggered back and fell against the wall. He was shaking his head from side to side. I could see tears in his eyes. He looked at Barbara on the floor and I could see he looked conflicted. I thought maybe he’d offer her some comfort, but he remained rooted to the same spot.
It fell to me to put my arms around Barbara and let her cry into my tiny shoulder. I knelt beside her and put my arms around her. She melted against me and wept. It was long; it was gut-wrenching; it tore my heart out of my chest and brought tears to my eyes to see her in such anguish. I could feel the heat of her efforts as it soaked through her nightgown. I tried to control the stuttering sobs, and looked up as the door crashed open after the hasty tattoo of footsteps coming up the back stair.
It was Shu. She’d heard the scream down in the street, and she came into the room with a tentative step at the same moment Roger and the Alison stepped out of their own rooms. Roger looked confused, standing in his pyjama pants, with his big belly hanging over top of them. He took the width of the room in six long strides, and stepped through the door, stopping, his large frame blocking the natural light. Alison had followed, and was right behind him when he stopped inside the door frame. He stumbled forward as she tripped into the room, falling; there was a gasp of breath as soon as she looked up from her hands and knees and saw the blood.
I looked at the clock on the nightstand.
It was 6:00 am.
“I’ve got to phone my editor,” Alison said, trying to stand up.
“I’ve got a better idea,” Roger said. “How about we contact the police, or the doctor, and tell them what happened first—maybe even ask them what we should do? That sound like a better idea?”
Alison nodded, backing out of the room.
Barbara nodded at the same time. I could feel her head moving against my shoulder. I moved away from her and turned to look at Roger. He was looking at me and I wondered if he was sorting each of us into some filing cabinet in his mind. He turned to look at Richard, still leaning against the wall. He wasn’t crying any more—he’d wiped his cheeks with the palms of his hands—but his head was still leaning back against the wall as he looked at Mother laying half in and half out of the bed.
“Shouldn’t we pick her up and put her back in the bed?” he asked.
“No one touches her,” Roger said, pausing long enough to look at the tragic scene.
“What do we do now?” Barbara asked. “I’m the oldest, and it’s all going to fall to me, isn’t it? I mean…everything. I don’t know what to do,” she said. I could see a tear hanging from her eye; it caught the light and danced there before spilling down her cheek. “She wanted to die in Florence. They have an English cemetery there—that’s why she said it. But I don’t know what do. Where’s Uncle Charlie?”
“He’s the last one we need here,” Richard said.
“That’s not true!” Barbara snapped.
“I’ll help,” Roger said, his voice as soft as a whisper in the rain. Then he stood up as tall as he could, clearing his throat as he looked at us—all of us—one at a time. “I’ll do everything I can to help you. I promise. I owe her that much,” he added, taking one last look at Mother’s body before walking back to his room.
I could hear him sometime later on the telephone, his voice seeping through the door, sounding distant and broken. He’d been trying to speak Italian but gave up, his frustration getting the better of him, before settling on English until someone on the other side answered him. I could hear sirens in the distance, and walked to the window. In a moment everything was going to be chaos. I could see that. There’d be no time for grief now—for any of us. It promised to be the same circus that followed Father's death—but at least then we’d had Mother to protect us; who was there for us now?
Shu made food, and even though we all claimed we weren’t hungry, we ate. I walked to Roger’s door, wondering if maybe he’d like something to eat, and heard him weeping behind the closed door.
I went to Alison’s door instead, and knocked.
She opened the door, looking over my shoulder.
“There’s food?” she said, taking a deep breath.
“Would you like some?” I asked.
“I’m starving,” she said, pulling her suitcase out and placing it by the door. “Is there a taxi in this town?” she asked as she turned around.
“I don’t know,” I said.
Roger opened his door and stepped out of the room. He was dressed, looking professional—more professional than I’d ever seen him. His shirt was tucked into his pants, his buttons were all buttoned, his tie centred. He even had a waistcoat and carried his coat on his arm.
“You should call your editor now,” he said to Alison, hanging his jacket on the back of the chair and sitting at the table without a second thought. He stretched across his place setting and filled his plate with a scoop of everything he could reach: sausages, bacon, ham, fried potatoes, scrambled eggs, croissants, fresh coffee, butter—jam for his croissants—as well as potato pancakes. He had no way of knowing we never ate like that when he wasn’t with us. Shu made it for him because she thought that’s how they ate in America.
“They’ll be sending someone over to take care of your mother’s body,” he said between bites of food.
“Who?” Barbara asked.
“Where’s the telephone?” Alison called out.
“On my bed,” Roger said through a mouthful of food. “Who?” he asked, turning to look at Barbara. “I didn’t ask for a name. They said they have to do an autopsy to determine the cause of death. I told them she had cancer, but they said it didn’t matter, they still have to do an autopsy.”
“How long before they release her back to us,” Richard asked.
“What?” Roger said, a furrowed brow replaced by a shake of his head as he took another bite. “When they’re done, I’d think.”
“We have to make arrangements to take her to Florence,” Richard said.
“Florence?”
“She wants to be buried there,” Barbara reminded him.
“Tell me there’s more to it than that,” Roger said.
“Didn’t you just say you’d do anything you could to help us?” Richard said. He was standing behind a chair, his hands resting on the back of it, his fingers white from squeezing. I could see his jaw clenching, he’s eyes hardening as he stared down at Roger.
“Florence?” Roger said, looking at Richard; studying him.
“It’s what she wanted,” Barbara reminded him.
“I’ll start calling around as soon as I’ve finished eating,” he said.
I had no idea Mother was as famous as she was. There were well over three hundred people who attended the service—as well as a large crowd of well-wishers outside, braving the weather. There were speeches—endless speeches, it seemed—from people in the business we’d never met: producers, directors, writers, and several famous actors, as well. As the poets say, the tears fell like rain; appropriate considering the clouds were bringing the promise of rain they were quick to fulfill when we stood around the graveside.
In the meantime, I sat in the front pew beside Barbara, on her left, her hand clenching mine so tight my fingers were numb. Richard was on her right, his left arm wrapped around her, her head resting on his shoulder as she wept. There was no one else, no other family, so we asked Roger to sit with us. I watched as the long line of mourners approached the coffin, each of them looking at Mother in her coffin, whispering endless prayers like they were tender endearments of those who had gone before.
I kept wondering where Uncle Charlie was; I kept hoping he was in that long line of mourners waiting to pay his respects. It was his own sister’s funeral and he was nowhere in sight. I tried not to look at the coffin; I tried not to look at the mourners as they filed past. But there were tears among those staunch looking faces that appeared genuine; they were people who came to us as well-wishers, telling us they loved our mother and how they wished the best for us in the future.
I was numb, my feelings dead as I accepted the endless hugs, perfumed kisses, handshakes, and uncomfortable moments of silence punctuated with tears. I smiled through my tears as we walked to the graveside, the rain coming down in a light mist around us. The rain puddled on the coffin, dripping down the sides and onto the pallbearers. I realized, watching them, that I didn’t know any of them; Roger had made all of the arrangements.
And when it was all over, Roger drove us home in the little Fiat Uncle Charlie had bought in Rome. Alison, whose editor had told her to stay with the family, sat in the front seat, while the three of us sat in the back. I was looking out at the endless, rolling hills, the memories of my mother punctuating my thoughts.
“Why do you think Charlie wasn’t there?” Alison asked Roger.
“Charlie? The man’s never cared about anyone. Do you think it matters to him if he’s not there?”
“That’s not true,” I said.
“Shut up, Dennis,” Richard said, his head resting against the window, staring out at nothing.
“No,” I said. “It’s not true, and you know it.”
“No?” he asked, turning to look at me. “He’s a drunk and a fag, Dennis. I’ll bet he’s laying in a ditch somewhere, drunk, with his pants down around his knees. It wouldn’t be the first time, and you know it. Why do you think he never has a job?”
“Stop it,” Barbara said. “I don’t know why you hate him as much as you do. He’s never done anything to you.”
“No? He’s the reason Father died,” he said. “Or are you going to deny it?”
“Is that what you think?” she asked.
“It’s true.”
“No, it’s not,” I said.
“Then why didn’t you stop him from leaving? You were there,” Barbara added.
“Do you think he was going to listen to me?”
“Still, you didn’t say anything, did you?”
He was silent.
“Is that what your problem is, Richie?” Barbara asked.
“It’s Richard,” he said.
“Richard,” she corrected herself, a venomous spite in her voice. “Mother was there too, you know. You didn’t blame her. Or did you?” she asked, the sudden realization coming to her when he didn’t respond. “You did,” she said, and I could see Roger looking at us in the rear view mirror.