Chapter Seventeen

SEVENTEEN

SEPTEMBER 1987

Goldie Stern was driving Irving crazy.

Her sudden appearance at Rallentando Springs had unleashed an avalanche of memories. Even from behind, with her hair in a swim cap, he had been certain it was her. And when she turned around, it had taken all his self-control not to blurt out that he’d thought about her almost every day for the past sixty-two years.

To him, she still looked fantastic. She should, with all that swimming she did. But it was more than staying in good shape. Goldie looked exactly like herself, with every expression he remembered intact. When she pulled away from him, he wasn’t insulted. It was exactly the reaction he knew she would have—annoyed, stunned, exasperated. By eighty, most people had lost their mettle. But Goldie still had plenty to spare. It was like the line from that Shakespeare play he’d read in his continuing education class at Florida Atlantic University last year: “Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety.”

He almost recited the line right then, almost started quoting Shakespeare at the goddamned pool! Back in Brooklyn, he’d hardly heard of Shakespeare. But now he understood what all the fuss was about. Those words might have been written about the queen of Egypt, but they applied to Goldie Stern as well. In his eyes, she would never be boring; her unpredictability was part of her charm. Still, he didn’t want her to think he’d gotten pretentious in his old age. The Irving she knew barely made it through high school. She wouldn’t expect him to be a reader.

One day, maybe he would explain to Goldie the influence she’d had on him, how it was that he’d finally come to appreciate the power of the written word. He doubted she remembered the gift she’d given him for his high school graduation—a book of poems by Robert Frost. Irving took the volume with him to Chicago (at the time, it was the only book he owned), but he didn’t open it up until his twins were three years old.

Lois wasn’t one for cuddling or reading, so as soon as the boys were a little older, Irving took over their bedtime routine. One evening, when the two of them grew bored of the picture books in their limited collection, Irving pulled out the book of poems and read them to his sons out loud.

The boys couldn’t grasp the meanings, of course, but the words and the rhythm held their attention. Irving read a few poems every night, and when he finished the collection, he started over from the beginning. Between the boys’ third and fourth birthdays, he read Frost’s book at least a dozen times. Certain poems made him more emotional than others, but every time he read “Nothing Gold Can Stay,” he could not stop his eyes from tearing.

The collection of poems was just the beginning. Though he was eight hundred miles away from Goldie by then, he still remembered the way she used to talk about books, the way she’d called them her best friends. He remembered her telling him that when she was sad about her mother, reading helped to make her feel better. And so, as his marriage grew increasingly painful, he began turning to books as a source of comfort. After Lois left him, he joined a book club at the local community center. When he retired to Florida, he decided to take literature classes at the nearby college. It was there that he read Dickens and Austen and all the other classics he’d skipped in high school.

More than anything, he wanted to tell Goldie how much her graduation gift meant to him.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t sure she’d ever sit still long enough for him to explain. Goldie had made it very clear that she did not want to spend time with him. Of course, after all that had happened, he supposed he couldn’t exactly blame her.

He sure as hell could blame Nathaniel Birnbaum, though.

Dr. Birnbaum just had to be tall and handsome, didn’t he? With season tickets to the Palm Beach Symphony and a fancy “cottage” up in Maine. Birnbaum went to college and to medical school. He probably knew every Shakespeare sonnet by heart. And somehow, he still had a full head of hair. How was Irving supposed to compete with that ?

At least he’d had a few days alone with Goldie before the competition showed up. Jesus, he’d go straight back to the hospital tomorrow if only she would look at him the same way she had after he’d fainted on the tennis court—like if he croaked, it might break her heart.

Those Oh Henry! bars she bought meant something, too. She hadn’t forgotten that they were his favorite. It was a less-than-ideal way for her to meet Vera, but when the time was right, he would explain. There was nothing romantic between him and Vera—they were dinner companions, nothing more. One day Vera had moved to Rallentando, and the next day, she was making Irving dinner. He’d never had the heart to tell her to stop. He asked his son Bill a few times if he should put an end to it, but Bill said he thought it made Vera feel useful. “As long as you don’t lead her on,” Bill insisted, “I don’t think there’s anything wrong with eating the woman’s food.”

But from the way Goldie and Vera had glared at each other, Irving knew he’d made a mistake. He never should have listened to Bill. Now he could see the situation more clearly: Vera wasn’t cooking him dinners for fun. If that woman cooked, it was because she meant business.

Ever since that unfortunate encounter, things had been going in the wrong direction. Goldie was traipsing around with Birnbaum and patently ignoring Irving. Vera was calling him every five minutes and had already made him promise to accompany her to the Rallentando barbecue.

Every spring, dozens of Rallentando Springs residents left behind the blistering summer heat for their family and friends up north. And every September, the Social Committee held a cookout to welcome everyone back. The cookout marked the official start of the Rallentando Springs social season.

The barbecue was nothing fancy—it was always held around the pool, and some people even came in their bathing suits. The men who ran the snack bar brought in extra grills to cook hamburgers and hot dogs for the crowd. A long folding table bowed from the weight of the smorgasbord of sides: coleslaw, potato salad, corn on the cob, baked beans, sauerkraut, and platters of pickles. A second table was placed on the other side of the pool, piled high with an array of homemade desserts supplied by the many residents: Shirley always brought her strawberry cheesecake and Dora made her famous lemon meringue pie. Harold’s wife, Gail, made Black Forest cake every year, and Marlene usually made apple or cherry strudel.

An hour before the barbecue, Irving showered and searched his closet for the unworn polo shirt his daughter-in-law had given him a few years back. He usually favored crew-neck T-shirts—the collared polos were stiff and itchy. But he’d noticed that Birnbaum always wore them, so he decided to wear one, too. He walked to Vera’s, but she kept him waiting, fussing first with her outfit, then her makeup, and finally with the dessert she was bringing—an enormous lime-green Jell-O mold, which wobbled precariously on the plate. By the time they got to the barbecue, it was half an hour after the appointed time. The two of them made quite an entrance—Vera, in a shiny leopard-print blouse and oversize coral beads at her throat, and Irving, carrying the quivering green mound as if it were a ticking bomb.

When he spotted Goldie out of the corner of his eye, talking with Shirley, Birnbaum, and some others, he felt his pulse begin to race. He’d made up his mind to play nice with Birnbaum, to keep the conversation light and upbeat. He was going to show Goldie that he could be civil. He could be as gracious as anyone else.

Unfortunately, Vera wouldn’t let him out of her sight. When he got a hot dog, so did she. When he sat down, she sat beside him. After he’d polished off two hot dogs and a Diet Pepsi, he brushed off his shirt and rose to his feet.

“I’m gonna go say hello to some people.”

“I’ll come with you. Let me fix my lipstick.”

He gritted his teeth, but what could he say? Vera followed him over to the table where Goldie, Birnbaum, and Shirley were sitting. When Irving saw Goldie’s empty plate, he couldn’t help making a joke. “Tell me you didn’t eat the potato salad.”

“What’s wrong with the potato salad?” said Shirley.

Goldie covered her smile with one hand and tried to comfort her friend. “He’s only being funny, Shirley,” she said. “Remember I told you how sick I got from the tuna? Anything with mayonnaise in this heat doesn’t sit well in my stomach, that’s all.”

But Vera’s face was abloom with concern. “I ate the potato salad, Irving. Why didn’t you say anything to me ?”

He did his best to reassure her. “It’s a joke, Vera. The potato salad is fine.”

While Vera was pouting, the Rallentando staff were clearing away the dinner buffet to make more room for dancing. Music began flowing through the outdoor loudspeakers, and a few of the residents got to their feet. Birnbaum danced with Shirley first, while the others looked on quietly. After a few songs, the couple returned.

“Augusta,” said Birnbaum, extending his hand, “would you do me the honor?”

Vera’s lashes were like windshield wipers doing double time in a downpour. “Augusta?” she repeated, confused. “I thought you said her name was Goldie ?”

“It’s Augusta,” Goldie clarified. “Goldie is a childhood nickname. I haven’t let anyone call me that for the past sixty-two years. No one except Irving calls me that now.”

Vera frowned. “He doesn’t have any nicknames for me. ” But before Irving could address her grievance, Birnbaum and Goldie left the table. Irving cursed under his breath as he watched the two of them go. That Birnbaum was a smooth operator. He’d always been a good dancer, too.

The combination of the music, the lights, and the image of Goldie in Birnbaum’s arms transported Irving back to that evening at the Arcadia Gardens restaurant in Brooklyn. The night when Birnbaum had proposed to his wife. The night when everything had gone wrong. As he watched Birnbaum lead Goldie in a waltz around the pool, a spark of anger ignited in Irving’s throat. And when Birnbaum spun Goldie around and she smiled, the anger exploded in his chest. Before he knew it, he was heading toward them, on a furious collision course.

“I’m cutting in,” Irving said roughly after tapping Birnbaum on the shoulder.

“What are you talking about?” said Goldie. “People don’t do that anymore.”

“Well, I’m doing it,” Irving insisted, elbowing Birnbaum out of the way.

“Listen, Irving,” Birnbaum said. “Please try to calm down.”

“Don’t tell me what to do!” shouted Irving, stepping between the graceful pair.

“Irving, shh. People are staring.” Goldie was trying to reason with him now, but he was having none of it. He didn’t care if he embarrassed himself. He didn’t care if he caused a scene. He felt as if he’d been struck by lightning—desperation surged through his eighty-two-year-old body, burning him from the inside out.

“You already ruined things once!” he said to Birnbaum. “I won’t let you do it again!” The next thing he knew, his hands were on Birnbaum’s shoulders and he was pushing him out of the way. Birnbaum tried to steady himself, but it was no use—one moment he was standing next to Goldie, and the next, he’d fallen onto the dessert table, landing on top of Shirley’s strawberry cheesecake. The plastic folding table gave way, Birnbaum crashed to the ground, and the rest of the desserts slid on top of him in a spectacularly hideous mess.

Dora yelped for her lemon meringue pie, and Harold’s wife cursed for the Black Forest cake she’d spent the better part of the day baking. Vera’s Jell-O mold had melted slightly in the heat, and puddles of the greenish goo splashed all over Birnbaum’s polo.

Irving was instantly overcome with remorse. He hadn’t meant to go that far. He moved toward Birnbaum to apologize, to help the man up, to offer a napkin, but Goldie managed to get there first. “Nathaniel!” she shouted, “are you all right?”

She darted to him, knelt down on the cement, and checked to make sure that he wasn’t injured. Shirley handed her some napkins, and Goldie began scooping melted Jell-O and chocolate frosting off of Birnbaum’s neck. The care with which she did so made Irving’s heart ache. It seemed to him that Goldie had sprinted to Birnbaum even more quickly than she’d run to him when he’d collapsed on the tennis court. Had he read that incident incorrectly? Was Goldie simply the kind of woman who ran toward others in a crisis? Irving’s head began to spin, and he felt as dizzy as if he’d fallen himself.

Once she was satisfied that Birnbaum wasn’t hurt, Goldie stood up and scoured the crowd for Irving. Eventually she spotted him, sitting on a folding chair with his head in his hands. He didn’t need to look up to know that she was standing beside him.

“I don’t know what game you think you’re playing,” she whispered. “Coming here with Vera and then flirting with me ; causing a scene while your girlfriend is waiting.”

When Irving finally lifted his head, all he could see was the white-hot resentment flashing in Goldie’s gray eyes.

“Vera isn’t my girlfriend,” he murmured, but he knew she wasn’t listening.

Her tone was as dark and bitter as a pot of overbrewed coffee. “Do you really think I’d fall for the same stunt twice?”

“Look, can we go somewhere and talk? Please, Goldie? There’s a lotta things I want to explain.”

“Save your explanations for Vera,” she hissed. “And for the very last goddamned time: My. Name. Is. Augusta.”