Silently. He didn’t express himself much, except maybe to his cronies, but he certainly felt things. Saul was actively interested in all of you — that’s true. You want to hear how it happened?”
“If you want to say.”
“Rae said he was watching television last night. That that’s where she last saw him — in front of the TV — when she left him to take a shower. He was watching the eleven o’clock news, or the ten. I forget exactly what time she said.”
“I think the news comes on at ten in L.A.”
“That’s right, you lived there. But maybe it’s changed since then, or like us some of their stations have an hour of local news and then national. When she came out she said ‘Anything important happen in the news today, Saul?’ and he didn’t answer. She saw him slumped over — just a little to the side — his head. So he died peacefully.”
“That’s good at least.”
“He had no means to prevent it. It was the heart muscles — there was no way to repair them with a new valve and he was in no condition for a heart transplant. He knew he was going to die, though nobody told him. I could tell by his voice in that last phone call we had that he knew he’d never see us again.”
“It’s terrible, mom — I can’t tell you. For you, for Rae, for myself. I hate to think of him gone.”
“I know he knew you appreciated him. He felt the same to you. He always respected you. And since they moved out there, when we talked he asked after you every time.”
“How are you holding up?”
“You mean by knowing it?”
“Yes, is anybody with you? Maybe you should go to Leslie’s tonight or have her and Ben or just Leslie stay with you there.”
“I’m all right. He’s not my first brother to go, just my youngest. I miss him already. I wish I had called him yesterday when I thought of it. I always get the time zones mixed up. I think eight here is eleven there and he might be in bed. I forget it’s the other way around. But I don’t need anyone with me. It’s good talking to you about it. That’s what happens when you come from such a large family. So many brothers and sisters to lose. Sometimes I wish I’d gone first. Before my parents even. I’m sad, though, that’s true. I’ve had two drinks and feel tired already, so I’ll sleep okay. But tell me what you think. Rae wants me to hold some kind of ceremony for Saul in New York. He’ll be cremated out there, but she wants me to put an announcement in the Times about his death and a brief service at my place for his family here and friends. It’ll be a lot for me to do, I don’t think I’m up to it, but I’ll do it if Leslie and Ben help out.”
“I’ll come in for it and help.”
“I was hoping you could. I’ll make it on a Friiday — you don’t teach that day I remember — and you can get back to school by Monday. You think Magna will want to come? She met Saul, didn’t she?”
“A couple of years ago. I’ll ask her. It’ll also give her a chance to see her folks and you.”
“I look forward to seeing her. Probably next Friday or the one after. Before sundown, because it has to be. All right, I don’t want to keep you any longer. Give my love to Magna.”
“Goodnight, mom. Thanks for calling.”
I hang up and go into the bedroom. “What was it?” Magna says.
“Something wrong as I thought?”
“My Uncle Saul died last night.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Will, I’m sorr.” She puts her pen down and comes over to me. I start crying. She holds my hand, touches my cheek. I break down and she puts her arms around me and pats my back and I sob for a while. I try to speak. I say “I loved…I loved…” I wanted to say “I loved the old guy very much,” She says “I know how you feel about him, you don’t have to say. He was a very nice man. He was like a second father to you.” I nod. “Did he have it rough?”
“At the end?”
“It wasn’t bad for him, was it? I remember he had a very bad heart. The walls. I hope not.”
“He died peacefully while watching the news. He must have just went — quick. Nothing painful. Maybe just a second — I don’t know. He didn’t suffer if he only felt pain for a second or two. That’s not suffering.”
“No. You poor dear. And his poor wife. They didn’t have children, so she must feel very alone. Want me to get you a drink?”
“No, I’ll be all right. And it’ll only make me sadder.”
“It also might relax you. No? Water then? Some apple juice?” I shake my head. “Maybe I better rest.”
“Maybe you should. Want me to work in the other room?”
“No no, I like having you here.”
I lie on the bed. Magna goes back to grading papers, turning around to me every other minute. I close my eyes. Images and thoughts of Saul go past. Shaking hands. Wagging a finger at me. Talking to me through his car window. Smiling. Smiling Saul his family called him because of his cheerful disposition. His very bald skull. Wearing a hairpiece for a year before he gave it to Goodwill. “Too vain,” he said, “and what am I hiding? I happen to have a very nice-shaped head.” Teaming up or playing one on one basketball with him in Central Park. He’d been first-string forward for NYU and he was only five-seven. “In those days, “he said, “if you were five-ten you automatically played center.” He wrote me encouraging letters when I was out of work and included a ten or twenty dollar check in the envelope. “Go out to a fancy lunch with it. You’ll feel better after, which will make you more appealing to your interviewers.” He’d get miffed if I didn’t tell him the more important personal and professional news of my life. “Remember, I’m the official Bederman Family Circle chronicler.” He once took a composition class with Thomas Wolfe. “We called him The Giant, but only because of his size. We didn’t know who he was then. We were all sons of European immigrants, so his southern accent had to be translated.”
“Will, your mother on the phone again,” Magna says. I’ve been asleep for more than an hour. “She sounds even worse than before.”
“Something about Saul?”
“I’m not sure. When I told her you were sleeping she said not to wake you, but she’s so distraught I knew she had to speak to you.”
I go to the phone. “Mom?”
“I’m sorry to wake you. I told Magna don’t. I have some more bad news to tell you. I didn’t want to so soon after Saul, but I promised Mr. Koven I would.”
“Larry’s father? Something happened to Larry?”
“Not to. Larry. Mr. Koven said he didn’t have the heart to tell you himself, but as Larry’s best friend you had to know.”
“We haven’t been best friends for twenty years. I mean, I like him and I’ve seen him when he came to Chicago on one of his business trips and lance visited him in Phoenix—”
“That’s just it. His trips. He was away — for over two days — I don’t know to where — and the previous week their dog had died.”
“Their dog died?”
“I know it sounds strange, but it’s important to what happened.
Larry’s very rich according to Mr. Koven. Lives in a mansion with a big swimming pool.”
“It’s not a mansion, but what is it I’m supposed to know? Their children?”
“No, they were safely away at college. I don’t like telling this, but he insisted. I said I just told you your uncle died, and he said he was sorry and gave us both his condolences but that this was more important. That uncles die of old age — heart, blocked arteries — but that this is today, somebody young wiped out by tragedy. He wouldn’t sleep unless he knew I told you tonight, because right after it you were supposed to call Larry. He said Larry had asked him for you to call.”
“His wife?”
“‘Murdered!’ he screamed into the phone. ‘Murdered, murdered!’ The dog died naturally a week ago, and when Larry got back from his trip he found the house ransacked and his wife strangled. “