Purple Haze

He stood out front, staring at his cell phone. The Red Sox were up one run over the Orioles. Not usually a timely person where social occasions were concerned, he was early tonight. He didn’t want to risk being late. It was his first date in a year.

Joyce had encouraged him to see women after twelve months.
“You have to mourn me for a year.” She had insisted.
“But then, I want you to meet someone and not be alone for decades.”
She had said this with humor and with all the sparkle she could muster, even while her skin became paler with each passing day and her cheekbones protruded more and more unnaturally from her face.

He walked inside and requested a patio table. Then he came back out and looked at his reflection in the window. He still had a lot of hair and in spite of his SPF 30 sunscreen, his face was flushed from a recent Good Harbor Beach afternoon. He turned as he heard the unmistakable clack of her platform sandals on the pavement.
“Zeb, is that you?”

Kara was some things that Joyce was not, but he willed himself not to compare. A friend of a friend, their paths had crossed often in the past year at benefits and barbecues. Younger than he but not young enough to raise the ire of his adult children, she was the logical choice for a first date. A divorcee with a nineteen year-old son studying abroad, she spent plenty of time working in development at a non-profit, but she also liked to have fun.

Zeb remembered a hand placed a little too familiarly on his arm, a good-bye hug, and a kiss on each cheek. She was not afraid to touch. Joyce had said that her therapist friend explained that a bereaved spouse should eventually look for a new companion. It is a testament to a good marriage.

Kara walked ahead of him, out to the patio. Their table was in the corner, under an umbrella, and candlelit. He ordered Grey Goose, on the rocks. She ordered a glass of the house chardonnay, dry and not fruity. He opened his menu. She put her hand on his, and asked him about his day.

He appreciated her interest, but that look of genuine concern still brought tears to his eyes. The women in his family and the women from the Temple had been so kind. Yet sometimes he wondered if he had played the role correctly, if he had fulfilled their expectations. On that beastly hot July morning, they had arrived with platters of cut up fruit, chicken Caesar wraps, and veggie roll ups. Attired in black linen, they looked freshly ironed. He was barefoot, and in cargo shorts with a Springsteen tee shirt from the concert in Fenway Park. Was he supposed to be hosting, greeting, setting out clean tablecloths and cutlery, and then seeing people to the door? Was there no book on this? Joyce would have read the book and known what to do.

Kara raised her glass to his and exclaimed:
“Let’s have a toast to a new chapter in your life.”

Yes, he was going to try. He still marveled at those who had contacted him, and those who had not. Some had interrupted vacations, while others had neither phoned nor visited. People have baggage about death.

His day had been fine. Several skin tags to be removed, a possible melanoma biopsy, and a Botox consult. Being a dermatologist had always enabled him to have a schedule he could count on with enough time off for travel to Barcelona, Paris, Jerusalem, Mexico City, Santa Fe, and Seattle. He and Joyce loved to wander through the Arab market, ride bikes along the waterfront in Barcelona, and devour patisserie and café au lait in St. Germain des Pres.

Kara’s son was studying in London. Maybe they could meet there for a few days in the fall? He contemplated this for a moment. Things were moving much too fast, like the sea of faces and the bodies that milled through his home. It was a beautiful tribute to his wife and to him, but he had felt dizzy. At one point, he had to go upstairs and lie down on his bed, their bed. His daughter, Eloise brought him a glass of ice water, and a plate of Melba toast with peach preserves. She sat back on the spot once kept warm by her mother.

“So Weez, how are you?”
He was using the name coined by her baby brother, Matthew before he could say Eloise.
“Oh Dad, I feel sad for you, for Mom, for me, for Matt…I wasn’t prepared for the finality…and it sucks.”
They embraced, and Eloise went to her old bedroom to collect her thoughts. Now the guest room, it still had her wallpaper, her vintage tapes, and her stuffed animal menagerie. Babar and Celeste provided comfort.

Later, his friend Jake mentioned:
“You know, everyone means well but if you’re a peripheral acquaintance you could write a sympathy note or make a donation to a charity specified by the family, I mean if you want to go the extra mile.”
Jake had a point.

He needed to turn his attention to Kara. She was naturally fresh faced with a touch of colored lip gloss and a suggestion of eyeliner. Her blond highlighted hair was caught back in a wooden clip perhaps from Bali or maybe from that craft center over on Mass Avenue in Central Square. He ordered another Grey Goose, this time straight up with a twist of lemon. She ordered another glass of chardonnay.

He regaled her with the tale of the couple that came into his living room and sat on his sofa, he with his ascot and carved cane, she with a tight face-lift, carefully coiffed bun, and expertly polished fingers and toes. They chatted about their yacht moored on Nantucket and their cruise around the Greek Islands. All the while, he wanted to reminisce about the happy times with Joyce and peruse the stacks of old photos that Matthew had arranged on the cocktail table. These images displayed how vibrant and pretty Joyce had been. It turned out that these two were business contacts of his brother Ruben’s but at the time, he had no idea who they were. Ruben and his wife, Nell hadn’t arrived yet. They were at Whole Foods purchasing more cut up fruit, and disposable cups for coffee and sparkling water.

They were a family in mourning, so why did they feel as though they were organizing a six-day party? He started to laugh, as did Kara. The absurdity of that situation finally got to him, and the relief of releasing pent up emotion was cathartic. People at neighboring tables turned and stared. He wiped the laughing tears from his cheeks.

Suddenly he remembered the Straubs, who had walked up his driveway at 5:20 p.m. on the fifth day of Shiva.
“The Jewish concept of sitting Shiva seems so comforting and civilized…” Kara was commenting.
“Yes, it is, but there are logical afternoon and evening visiting hours published in the newspaper obituary….” He explained.
“These people were not in our inner circle.”

Matthew had played fourth grade soccer with their son and they had carpooled on occasion, supplied water and orange slices. His son never even liked their kid. He had tripped Matthew once when he was running up the field, getting ready to score on goal. Even at nine years old, this child was competitive with his own teammates, not wanting anyone to have an edge on him. His parents already had dreams about college recruiters and athletic scholarships. His father was the type who shouted orders from the sidelines, and argued with the coach about his kid getting more playing time. And years later when his wife died, they thought they could show up during the quiet hour while he was attempting to force some pasta primavera down his throat before the minyan, the evening prayer service.

“They are Jewish; they should have known better.” He declared.
“So did you invite them in?” Kara wondered.
“No, I told them they should come back later…actually Nell asked them to leave before I could get the words out…Nell can be formidable.”

He knew they lived a few streets away. They claimed they couldn’t come back. Mrs. Straub’s mouth froze in the “O” that reminded him of “The Scream” painting by Munch. Mr. Straub said that he was just home from the office, and they were rushing to leave for the long weekend. You are aware of how it can be with that ferry. They hurried away from his door.

Had he been unbearably rude? All these weeks later, it still bothered him. Kara assured him that he and Nell, for that matter, had had guts, that the Straubs had been completely inappropriate, that he had somehow been an obligation for them to check off of their “to do” list.

He ordered a bottle of Montrachet for them to savor with the chef’s special almond encrusted halibut. For dessert, he chose the strawberry/rhubarb cobbler topped with a spoon of vanilla ice cream. She requested two scoops of sorbet, mango and raspberry. After he finished his espresso and she had sipped her ginger tea, he walked with her down Mt. Auburn Street to her home on Foster, a tidy house with an English garden out front. She put her key in the lock, shut off the alarm, and beckoned him inside to look at her pictures from Ecuador. Her bedroom was visible from the front entry. Beyond it was a terrace furnished with wrought iron chairs and terra cotta planters.

“I’d like to come in, Kara, but I have an early morning appointment, a forty year-old freaked about spider veins…can we look at the photos another time?”
“Zeb, I understand, we can make another plan.”
“How about The Beehive next week for great jazz and dinner?”
“I’d like that Zeb, let’s talk soon.”

She reached up and kissed him on both cheeks. He gave her a quick hug. As he walked the few blocks to his car, he realized he had noticed that her bed was plumped with a duvet, a coverlet, and piles of pillows. He remembered Joyce lounging on her Indian bedspread in her dorm room, a scented candle glowing on her nightstand, Hendrix belting out “Purple Haze” from her turntable, and a hookah filled with hashish.