He sighed; heaved a second sigh; he must have heard a snatch of conversation from one of the relatives in the other room. Clearly. Obviously. Maybe.
“You don’t talk to your own mother when she speaks to you? Out of sight is out of mind, is that correct?”
Now the voice had drifted down and was coming from just in front of his face. He brushed at the air, as though cleaning away spiderwebs. Nothing there. He stared at emptiness and decided the loss of his mother had finally sent him over the brink. But what a tragic way to go bananas, he thought. I finally get free of her, may God bless her soul and keep her comfortable, and I still hear her voice nuhdzing me. I’m coming, Mom; at this rate I’ll be planted very soon. You’re gone three days and already I’m having guilt withdrawal symptoms.
“They’re really fressing out there,” the voice of his mother said, now from somewhere down around his shoe tops. “And, if you’ll pardon my being impertinent, Lance my darling son, who the hell invited that momser Morris to my wake? In life I wouldn’t have that shtumie in my home, I should watch him stuff his face when I’m dead?”
Lance stood, walked over to the sink, and ran water on the cigarette. He carried the filter butt to the garbage can and threw it in. Then he turned very slowly and said—to the empty room—“This is not fair. You are not being fair. Not even a little bit fair.”
“What do I know from fair,” said the disembodied voice of his mother. “I’m dead. I should know about fair? Tell me from fair; to die is a fair thing? A woman in her prime?”
“Mom, you were sixty-six years old.”
“For a woman sound of mind and limb, that’s prime.”
He walked around the kitchen for a minute, whistled a few bars of “Eli Eli,” just be on the safe side, drew himself a glass of water, and drank deeply. Then he turned around and addressed the empty room again. “I’m having a little trouble coming to grips with this, Mom. I don’t want to sound too much like Alexander Portnoy, but why me?”
No answer.
“Where are you… hey, Mom?”
“I’m in the sink.”
He turned around. “Why me? Was I a bad son, did I step on an insect, didn’t I rebel against the Vietnam war soon enough? What was my crime, Mom, that I should be haunted by the ghost of a yenta?”
“You’ll kindly watch your mouth. This is a mother you’re speaking to.”
“I’m sorry.”
The door from the dining room swung open and Aunt Hannah was standing there in her galoshes. In the recorded history of humankind there had never been snow in Southern California, but Hannah had moved to Los Angeles twenty years earlier from Buffalo, New York, and there had been snow in Buffalo. Hannah took no chances. “Is there gefilte fish?” she asked.
Lance was nonplussed. “Uh, uh, uh,” he said, esoterically.
“Gefilte fish,” Hannah said, trying to help him with the difficult concept. “Is there any?”
“No, Aunt Hannah, I’m sorry. Elka didn’t remember and I had other things to think about. Is everything else okay out there?”
“Sure, okay. Why shouldn’t it be okay on the day your mother is buried?” It ran in the family.
“Listen, Aunt Hannah, I’d like to be alone for a while, if you don’t mind.”
She nodded and began to withdraw from the doorway. For a moment Lance thought he had gotten away clean, that she had not heard him speaking to whatever or whomever he had been speaking to. But she paused, looked around the kitchen, and said, “Who were you talking to?”
“I was talking to myself?” he suggested, hoping she’d go for it.
“Lance, you’re a very ordinary person. You don’t talk to yourself.”
“I’m distraught. Maybe unhinged.”
“Who were you speaking to?”
“The Sparkletts man. He delivered a bottle of mountain spring mineral water. He was passing his condolences.”
“He certainly got out the door fast as I came in; I heard you talking before I came in.”
“He’s big, but he’s fast. Covers the whole Van Nuys and Sherman Oaks area all by himself. Terrific person, you’d like him a lot. His name’s Melville. Always makes me think of big fish when I talk to him.”
He was babbling, hoping it would all go away. Hannah looked at him strangely. “I take it all back, Lance. You’re not that ordinary. Talking to yourself I can believe.”
She went back to the groaning board. Sans gefilte fish.
“What a pity,” said the voice of Lance Goldfein’s mother. “I love Hannah, but she ain’t playing with a full deck, if you catch my drift.”
“Mom, you’ve got to tell me what the hell is going on here. Could Hannah hear your voice?”
“I don’t think so.”
“What do you mean: you don’t think so? You’re the ghost, don’t you know the rules?”
“I just got here. There are things I haven’t picked up yet”
“Did you find a mah jongg group yet?”
“Don’t be such a cutesy smartmouth. I can still give you a crack across the mouth.”
“How? You’re ectoplasm.”
“Don’t be disgusting.”
“You know, I finally believe it’s you. At first I thought I was going over the edge. But it’s you. What I still want to know is why?!? And why you, and why me? Of all the people in the world, how did this happen to us?”
“We’re not the first. It happens all the time.”
“You mean Conan Doyle really did speak to spirits?”
“I don’t know him.”
“Nice man. Probably still eligible. Look around up there, you’re bound to run into him. Hey, by the way: you are up there, aren’t you?”
“What a dummy I raised. No, I’m not up there, I’m down here. Talking to you.”
“Tell me about it,” he murmured softly to himself.
“I heard that.”
“I’m sorry.”
The door from the dining room swung open again and half a dozen relatives were standing there. They were all staring at Lance as though he had just fallen off the moon. “Lance, darling,” said Aunt Rachel, “would you like to come home tonight with Aaron and me? It’s so gloomy here in the house all alone.”
“What gloomy? It’s the same sunny house it’s always been.”
“But you seem so… so… distressed….”
From one of the kitchen cabinets Lance heard the distinct sound of a blatting raspberry. Mom was not happy with Rachel’s remark. Mom had never been that happy with Rachel, to begin with. Aaron was Mom’s brother, and she had always felt Rachel had married him because he had a thriving poultry business. Lance did not share the view; it had to’ve been true love. Uncle Aaron was a singularly unappetizing human being. He picked his nose in public. And always smelled of defunct chickens.
“I’m not distressed, Rachel. I’m just unhappy, and I’m trying to decide what I’m going to do next. Going home with you would only put it off for another day, and I want to get started as soon as I can. That’s why I’m talking to myself.”
They stared. And smiled a great deal.
“Why don’t you all leave me alone for a while. I don’t mean it to sound impertinent, but I think I’d like to be by myself. You know what I mean?”
Lew, who had more sense than all the rest of them put together, understood perfectly. “That’s not a bad idea, Lance. Come on, everyone; let’s get out of here and let Lance do some thinking. Anybody need a lift?”