Chapter Twenty-Seven

The county coroner pronounced Howard dead and tried to give Elizabeth the death certificate. Elizabeth wanted a second opinion. The county coroner said she would have to go to another county; he didn’t tolerate second opinions on his turf.

The guests started to shuffle towards the valet; the party had died along with Howard. The baggers stood in line for their short bus.

Tyrone climbed up on the ambulance’s roof. “Stop!” he shouted. “The party has to go on! The professor woulda wanted it that way!”

“No,” Natasha said. “He wouldn’t.”

She was right. He would want them to be miserable.

***

When David got on the bus home, his heart was racing and his palms were sweaty with inspiration. He whipped out his notebook and wrote about the tropical greenhouse massacre, describing it in literal and graphic detail.

When he got into his apartment, he looked over what he had written and realized it was no good. It was too realistic. He had planned to tell Elizabeth what Lugo and Black had done; he couldn’t let Tyrone’s friends and the baggers take the blame. But now…he wasn’t so sure.

Anyone who heard his poem would know what had happened, and if Elizabeth in her weakened state found out about the dead flowers, it could drive her over the edge into an abyss of despair, insanity, and catatonia. He had to hide the truth from her, at least temporarily. His plain, realistic workingman style wouldn’t do any good here; he would have to use metaphors.

The goddess of agriculture’s bouncing breasts (Lugo and Black—he couldn’t use their real names) burned down the rainforest (tropical greenhouse) killing all the endangered Bengal tigers (flowers) to make living space for farmland (protect America’s agriculture.)

Some day, after he became a famous poet and was long dead, people would look for secret codes in his poetry. They would find the secret meanings. For now, however, if someone starting reading into it, he would have to say, “You’re crazy! It’s just a poem!”

***

The next morning, David was reading his new poem, Jungle Fire, to the tulips, when Elizabeth came up to him. She wore all black, mourning clothes, and her face looked puffy behind her black gauzy veil. She apologized to David that he wasn’t able to read his poem, again. He told her not to worry about it. She told him she wanted to have Howard’s funeral in the garden. “Howard wasn’t religious,” she said. “He wouldn’t want a preacher. I think it would be best if you gave the eulogy.”

David said he didn’t think he could; he had never given a eulogy before. But his inexperience wasn’t what worried him—he had no idea what there was nice to say about Howard Roseman.

He went to the library to find a book on the subject of eulogies: something like the Idiot’s Guide to Eulogies, or Bereavement for Dummies. He found one helpful book on public speaking that had a chapter on eulogies. It advised the eulogizer to find a life-affirming meaning in the deceased’s life. But what was the moral of Howard Roseman’s life? Maybe it was: don’t round up a bunch of odd-looking strangers and have them jump out and scream at an old man. Especially when he doesn’t know it’s his birthday.

***

Lugo had chipped several of David’s teeth when they were fighting. David grinned into the mirror at his broken teeth and wondered if he should leave them that way. Workingmen didn’t have dental insurance; their teeth were yellow and crooked. Meanwhile, the wealthy winked at each other and smiled with perfect straight white teeth. The emoticon was a semi-colon followed by an end-parentheses.

;)

No. He had to get his teeth fixed. His vanity demanded it. Unfortunately, the health insurance that Elizabeth gave him didn’t cover dental, so he had to get his father to fix his teeth.

He went to Max’s office on the seventh floor. The waiting room was stuffed with people. There weren’t enough seats and many people had to stand.

“Do you have an appointment?” the secretary asked.

“He’s my father,” David said.

The receptionist was new. Max made it a point to fire his secretaries every six months. He didn’t want them getting too comfortable. Patients who came for a checkup twice a year never saw the same one. Max thought this was classy.

“Why do you need to see him?”

David smiled, exposing his shattered teeth. The secretary screamed.

Everyone in the waiting room jumped. The door to the office swung open and Max ran out, brandishing a dental drill.

“What happened?!” he shouted.

David smiled, baring his teeth.

Max walked close, peered into David’s mouth, and grimaced. “They didn’t like the poem?”

“I didn’t get to read it,” David said.

Max gestured to the waiting room. “I’ve got a full schedule. Why didn’t you call ahead?”

“And give you a chance to call Pat Henderson?”

“All right. Come on.”

Max walked back into his office and David followed him. They heard the waiting people complain angrily at this brazen display of nepotism. There was no budging, they claimed. One woman threatened suicide.

In the antiseptic office, David heard the familiar easy listening music. Max thought art should be easy to listen to. Well, David’s art wasn’t easy to listen to. The truth was never easy.

David went over to the sink, took out a disposable toothbrush, and began to brush. Max took stainless steel instruments out of the cabinet and set them on a small table.

“Did you get in a fight with a Venus fly-trap?” he asked.

“No,” David said.

“You know how I feel about fighting.”

“I know. Don’t fight unless you know you can win.”

“Well? Did you win?”

“You should see the other guy.”

“Who did this to you? Was it that old lady? Were you hurt doing some strange flower cult initiation ceremony?”

David couldn’t involve his family in this. He didn’t want to see them in Guantanamo Bay, stacked in a naked human pyramid.

“I can’t tell you.”

“What do you mean you can’t tell me? What are you—a battered woman? Do I need to find you a women’s shelter?”

“I was beat up by an agent of the Department of Agriculture because I tried to stop him from destroying rare, tropical plants.”

Max sighed. “Well, I can’t force you to tell me.”

David spat in the sink and rinsed out his mouth. Then he went and lay down on the examination chair. Max pushed the pedal with his foot, lowering the chair, and fastened a paper bib around David’s neck.

“I’m going to read a poem at a funeral,” David said.

“The guy you were in a fight with?”

“No. Someone else.” David explained how Howard had had a heart attack, and Elizabeth asked him to deliver the eulogy at the garden.

“She made you high priest already?” Max asked.

“High priest?”

“Of your cult. You’re giving the eulogy at a funeral.”

David couldn’t respond; Max was pricking his gums with a needle. The swelling pain of Novocain filled his mouth.

“There’s nothing wrong with religion,” Max said. “Sure, it’s a scam to take money from weak-minded people, but if you’re the one getting the money, it’s fine.” Max worked in silence for a little while before speaking again. “You shouldn’t be in a cult. You should pick a more established religion. Maybe Islam. It’s the world’s fastest growing religion, you know. And Muslims are always dying.”

Max turned on the drill and went to work.

***

October 28, 2007

Jerusalem

ט''ז בחשוון תשס''ח

ירושלים