Jeffrey Wolf ~ Three Stories

 The Edgewater Beach

They called it the Jewel of Uptown. A slice of roy­al Monaco dropped on Lake Michigan’s hum­ble shore. Pink stuc­co tow­ers. Oak and mar­ble every­where. Frank Sinatra and Bette Davis. Nat King Cole and the King of Sweden. Frilly show­girls, big band belt­ing, the young and beau­ti­ful float­ing across the Beach Walk, wrapped in a full July moon and miles of glim­mer­ing water.

Today, only one build­ing remains, saved from the wreck­ing ball because there were enough per­ma­nent res­i­dents to form a co-op. There’s a foot-and-ankle clin­ic on the ground floor. Still, the grand pink arms of its Maltese cross rise above Lake Shore Drive, whis­per­ing romance to any­one who’ll listen.

*

The album tells the sto­ry. Part of it, at least. Fred in a white suit, black bowtie, white car­na­tion on his lapel. His cheeks clean like a baby’s, smooth and edi­ble. How her moth­er can’t stop touch­ing him. Tillie’s gid­di­ness lives on even today. And Bev, the bride, who knew long before that her best look was a slight pout, remains placid, a lit­tle dour. For the group shots she allows a hint of smile. Her elbow-length gloves chafe her fore­arms (are they still gloves if they end at the wrist? more like satin sleeves) and she wants so bad­ly to scratch, but that doesn’t invade her face either. A face curat­ed for all eyes to fol­low. Except they aren’t, are they? Somehow everyone’s watch­ing Fred. He throws smirks left and right. Everyone loves Fred. All through the cer­e­mo­ny, when it mat­ters most—though, in that moment, all she can see is the room. Gardenia bush­es line the stage behind the hup­pah, but stand­ing at the thresh­old, about to march, it’s so obvi­ous she’s get­ting mar­ried in a con­fer­ence room. All the flow­ers in the world couldn’t hide it. Flat walls, linoleum pan­els, dinky American flag draped in back. All the mon­ey they spent—and they’re even get­ting a dis­count! Mr. Dewey, the own­er, has a soft spot for vet­er­ans. He came down per­son­al­ly to shake Fred’s hand. Later she’ll want half the pho­tos from the cer­e­mo­ny burned.

He charms at the recep­tion. Even his cod­fish aunts come alive when he vis­its their table. Her cousin Evie brings him cock­tails and sweets, then push­es her way into every pho­to, even the cake-cut­ting. On the dance floor, while Fred cajoles with his friends, Uncle Irv ges­tures at her new hus­band, wink­ing through his mar­ti­ni. “I hope we’re not pay­ing by the hour for this one.” Shameless chuck­le­head. She could punch him. Sure, it’s all teas­ing, but she knows what’s under­neath. Maybe because she’s felt it too. Eternity’s a long time—and then there’s his fam­i­ly to endure. His joy­less par­ents, his angry sib­lings. Those long, pale faces. Chill of Russian win­ters just look­ing at them. A pack­age deal, though, you buy the extend­ed fam­i­ly along with the war­ran­tee. Just get through this, she tells her­self… and then what? And then.

Out back, she joins the mis­fits get­ting air. A mid­dle-aged man from a dif­fer­ent wed­ding lights her a cig­a­rette. Her view is of rub­ble, con­crete boul­ders and sleep­ing, toothy machines. The city’s fill­ing in the lake­front to extend Lake Shore Drive. The Edgewater Beach, no longer at the water’s edge. Mr. Dewey’s unfazed, promis­ing an Olympic-sized pool, a new cock­tail lounge. The Edgewater Beach will live on, he pro­claims, as mar­velous as ever. Not even the march of urban progress can stop the grand­est par­ty in Chicago. She’s heard the back­fill came from the West Side, from where they’re dig­ging the new express­way. Shards of old Maxwell Street, where her par­ents and Fred’s both lived after migrat­ing from Europe. She feels like this should mean some­thing. The water’s still there, just fur­ther out, more of a sliv­er than it used to be. It’s not ele­gant, far from it, but some­thing peace­ful about all those rocks just sit­ting around, being. Something about this stolen qui­et that she wants to last. Maybe this is what life is, she thinks. The hand­ful of moments when you wake up and look through your own eyes.

Later, when the night is wind­ing down, he’ll find her at the edge of the dance floor. It’s there in the pho­tos. “I thought this was a wed­ding,” he says. “Who died?” And when she doesn’t laugh, he takes both her hands in his. “You look sour, kid­do, what’s eat­ing you?” Something in his eyes now that’s just for her. And I find myself long­ing for the pho­to that isn’t there. The veil of night falling over the lake­front. A haze of lamp­light shrink­ing to points while, in the sky, brush­es of pink sur­ren­der to deep­en­ing blue.

~

Home Movies, 1958

Maybe these were the hap­py times. The late Fifties, cap­tured on cam­corder and set to music. Birthday par­ties, Halloween, dress­ing up for hol­i­days. All the men in white crew-neck tees smok­ing on the patio. Ruthie with a sash pulled tight across her waist. Little Howie hides his face in his hands, then twirls his sis­ter in a pink tutu. Everyone still in love. Parenthood still a nov­el­ty. The kids couldn’t talk back yet. The sour oats hadn’t tak­en root.

*

Four sib­lings, four fam­i­lies, four tidy homes with­in a stone’s throw—until Harry and Libby fol­lowed their gold­en dreams west. In this pic­ture, though, Ruthie’s clan are the stars. Her and the kids front and cen­ter, hus­band Seymour behind the cam­era. Ruthie’s can­did laughs, her art­ful eye­brows, her sashay with a tray of cook­ies. Everyone else just extras.

*

A sum­mer par­ty at their house near the El, its rum­bles mut­ed by the sound­track. Lawn chairs and table­cloths, stream­ers and cake. A kid’s birth­day. Which kid is imma­te­r­i­al. They’re all the same age and run­ning in circles.

Cut to Ruthie’s broth­er, Gilbert, doing “Big Guy on the Swings.” See him laugh. How com­i­cal­ly mis­matched for that child-sized seat. Gilbert mack­ing and cheer­ing, drink­ing and grin­ning. Slapping Harry on the shoul­der. Grasping at chil­dren he feigns he can’t catch.

Off in the back, Fred thumbs a cig­a­rette. Preoccupied, not smil­ing. A giant among friends, but faced with his own fam­i­ly some­thing plummets.

And the grand­par­ents. The ones respon­si­ble, at least bio­log­i­cal­ly. Max in high-waist­ed slacks, walk­ing with a cane. Esther wrin­kled in a pressed blouse. Her head ris­es slow­ly, as if lis­ten­ing for some­thing dis­tant. Her thick glass­es reflect­ing sun­light. Everything about her is opaque.

Max won’t sur­vive the Sixties. You can see it on the cel­lu­loid, how he puck­ers in real-time. But he comes alive around the kids. How slow­ly he moves—yet that sud­den vig­or, eyes and hands search­ing, unable to con­tain. How he bears a grandchild’s weight in his arms and becomes him­self weightless.

*

What do I want to see? What do they want to remember?

Seymour and Ruthie take the kids to California. A bar­be­cue at Harry and Libby’s, their new house in San Fernando. They’ve just come west, and their neigh­bor­hood is the end of the world. Flat hous­es, flat lawns, streets still wait­ing for some­where to go. Power lines like upturned rail­roads. Mountains devour­ing the horizon.

Gail wad­dles the lawn in a duck hat. Baby Cheryl gets stuck in the crib. Libby flows in pol­ka-dots. Her easy grace sweep­ing with sliced water­mel­on, steer­ing her kids with a touch. Small eyes, stiff mouth. She looks like a porce­lain doll. Subdued next to her sis­ter. Libby and Harry, their uncom­pli­cat­ed love. Small, easy, impos­si­ble to miss.

Then cut to Disneyland. Ruthie and her lit­tles. Jungle Cruise, pirate ship, whirling teacups. Confused chil­dren on bored mules. From afar, Ruthie sit­ting with the stroller, inno­cent and young. Then cut to a wood­en hut smok­ing, black­ened by fire.

*

Each par­ty tableau an exer­cise in fore­shad­ow­ing. Shall I pause the video and draw lines? Show them what’s com­ing? Ruthie divorced and estranged from her daugh­ter. Gilbert on an island, his daugh­ter in jail. Fred under­wa­ter, sick of keep­ing the peace. Cousins grown dis­tant. Decades of silence.

But all that comes lat­er. Here there are balloons.

*

Dressed to the nines for Rosh Hashanah. Ruthie in a feath­ered hat and gloves. Howie in a sailor suit match­ing his yarmulke. Then cut to win­ter. Kids, Ruthie, tobog­gan. Seymour pulls them down a snow-packed street, his hand on the rope the sole reminder of his pres­ence. He was hand­some, a navy offi­cer in the war. Tall, slim, shin­ing. Yet he hides from the cam­era. Later strick­en from pho­tos and con­ver­sa­tions. He’s already disappeared.

*

The video takes a turn. A Hawaiian-themed par­ty, just the adults. Men shirt­less. Women in leis and tube dress­es. Ruthie burst­ing in blue. Sex ris­es off the cel­lu­loid, as if that’s why it crack­les. They dance luau-style and play risqué games—and I, the voyeur, in Ruthie’s long-emp­ty liv­ing room, watch the dead revel.

For one game, a cou­ple hides under a bed­sheet. For anoth­er, a blind­fold­ed con­tes­tant feels up a leg and gets pranked with whipped cream. Gilbert tries to yank a man’s swim trunks to his ankles. Then he pulls down his own and moons the cam­era. Shirtless, pantsless—he’s a spec­i­men and he knows it. He dan­gles a con­dom near Ruthie’s face.

Gilbert laugh­ing, chum­ming, life of the par­ty. But I know where this goes. How his antics will wear on peo­ple. How he’ll push it too far. Linebacker clown, lunch­pail engi­neer. He destroyed far more than he built.

And Fred again, hap­py and drunk. Not so meek tonight. He treat­ed folks well, every­one said so, but he could play along with the best of them. Tonight he’s one of the boys. He embraces his broth­er and throws him­self to mischief.

Cut to night’s end. A veil of yawn­ing and heavy eyes. All the cou­ples pull each oth­er close.

*

Maybe it’s all a ruse. Actors on a set. At best, these are high­lights. Yet, I can’t help but notice, through Seymour’s cam­era, the love. How he finds every smile. How he watch­es her, his wife, from afar. She sits with the stroller at Disneyland, star­ing off with her cheek­bones, and he’s up high on a cat­walk, spy­ing like a boy with binoc­u­lars. But isn’t that always our prob­lem? So much watch­ing, long­ing, mak­ing space for dreams?

~

Minor Escape

July 1981. He board­ed a flight. Then he board­ed a train. Now here he is, in the new and fright­en­ing. Barry in Northern France. Old cob­ble­stone and singsong voic­es. Everyone speaks the lan­guage but him. He took French in high school but nev­er paid atten­tion, and already his skills are next to use­less. He sits at a café and points to the menu. He feels both invis­i­ble and under a spot­light. The same way he felt at home. Even here, it fol­lows him.

Lille is dark, sooty. Mismatched build­ings pressed ass-to-cheek. Its name sound­ed like a dain­ty woman. But Lille is not dain­ty. There’s an odd com­fort in this. It reminds him of the rugged cor­ners of Chicago where he used to deliv­er piz­zas. (Even those blocks had more space between build­ings.) He cringes at his own ignorance—so poor­ly trav­eled he’s got nowhere else to compare.

Growing up, Barry always had the answer, except when his moth­er had the answer, because she was always right, and now she’s dead a year and still always right and he’s still alone. He’s real­iz­ing that alone is a con­tin­uüm. It ebbs and flows. Or maybe he ebbs and flows inside it. The world opens up so big, and some­times going back to the same café in a for­eign coun­try is the only way to make it small­er. Yesterday, he passed Rue Jean Sans Peur. Street of Jean Without Fear. He thought of his broth­er, Gene, fear­less and con­fi­dent. When he told Gene what he planned to do, his broth­er was sup­port­ive but con­fused. This kind of thing wouldn’t even reg­is­ter for him. Why trav­el some­where else when your whole life’s right here?

The café is drab stuc­co, small win­dows, all its seat­ing out­side. The tables splay out, flush to the curb, the street behind only wide enough for a sin­gle car. Sparse patrons smoke, argue, read. The view is of oth­er store­fronts and the apart­ment win­dows above. Chipped cor­nices, graf­fi­ti. A small stat­ue of the Virgin Mary that feels like a warn­ing. (To a Jew in Europe, every­thing feels like a warn­ing.) Barry pulls his jack­et tighter against the chill.

He feels aban­doned by his fam­i­ly, who have always loved him and nev­er under­stood him. His father gave him every­thing he need­ed except time. True that his not being around, always work­ing, was pre­req­ui­site for the oth­er stuff. When his father was home, he was either sleep­ing or, in those child­hood years, spank­ing Barry at his mother’s behest. His moth­er had opin­ions, she had a long mem­o­ry, she chafed against life’s imper­fec­tions. She saved her best for oth­er peo­ple. In his mother’s home—as he does in this café—he felt like a chore, some­thing to be endured. Not a pleas­ant feel­ing, but he knows the tableau, can slide right in.

It was only ever tem­po­rary, this voy­age. What else could it be? Already tired, stale, frozen in place. So lit­tle French, but he remem­bers his his­to­ry. This region was bombed to rub­ble dur­ing the war, then rebuilt in a hodge­podge. Not beau­ti­ful by any stan­dard. But isn’t there a kind of beau­ty in mak­ing do, in ris­ing from the ash­es, even as some­thing lesser?

We try to leave it all behind but we can’t help tak­ing it with us. Stuff a back­pack to the brim with clothes, med­i­cines, tooth­brush and razor—it still finds a way in. Your life always fol­low­ing you. The more you try to get out in front, the faster it chas­es. Cobblestones, Formica tables, European sirens in the distance.

~

Jeffrey Wolf is the author of the forth­com­ing sto­ry col­lec­tion And Even This (Cornerstone Press, 2028). His writ­ing has appeared in Conjunctions, Prairie Schooner, Chicago Quarterly Review, and else­where. He has received a fel­low­ship grant from the Memorial Foundation for Jewish Culture and a Special Mention from the Pushcart Prize. He teach­es Creative Writing at the University of Chicago.