Chapter 6 Wendybird
Wendybird
“Just call and ask,” said Wendy’s wife, Jill.
But Wendy could not bring herself to do it.
She woke up in the night, instead. Possibly Pam thought the hat was dumb, or, more likely, she was bitter, because Wendy had worked so hard for Bernie Sanders, and Bernie was her first choice, even now—especially now.
Hillary Clinton had never moved Wendy, but, obviously, Pam felt differently.
Wendy’s sister took after their mother, Helen.
Stoic, solvent, and somewhat grim. At the best of times, she looked askance.
A week went by, and Wendy pictured her offering consumed by squirrels. Fragments of pink yarn would appear in birds’ nests in the spring.
“Message her,” Jill said, square-shouldered, forthright.
“Now? After all this time has passed?”
“That’s your own fault. You let the time pass.”
“What would I say?”
“Just WTF? I’ll do it for you.”
“No!”
“Then you’ll never know what happened.”
This was rational, but untrue. Wendy knew exactly what was going on.
Pam was an attorney and pro bono tax advisor, turning the wheels of justice, righting, or at least recalibrating, wrongs.
She had opened her mail and oh God, there was Wendy, all crafts and fiber, a fuzzy artist and song leader—nothing but lint. “I sent my message.”
“So, you’re suffering in silence when you could just say, You piss me off.”
“My family…” Wendy began.
“Uh-huh.” Jill knew all about Wendy’s strange and estranged family—their unspoken expectations, silent feuds, exhausting birthdays. And yet Wendy was always rushing to their deathbeds and sending hats and letters, even cardigans.
In all her life, apart from sleepaway camp, Jill had sent one letter to her family.
She had opened her heart, coming out at the end of college, and when her parents answered that no, they were not happy, no, in fact, they were not proud, Jill had done what any self-respecting person would.
She had shut her heart again to carry elsewhere.
For whatever reason, even at fifty-three, Wendy could not manage this.
Family was her addiction. She could not stop loving them.
Wendy told Jill, “It’s just when you make something with your hands.”
“Wendy.” Jill knelt in front of the couch. “You are an amazing knitter. You did that hat in like two hours.”
“Two nights.”
“Whatever.” Jill fingered the fringe of Wendy’s wool throw. “For you, a pussy hat is not a stretch.”
“This is symbolic of my relationship with her.”
“So, tell her it’s over. Bingo.”
Then Wendy laughed a little because Jill was so tough; she was a police officer—yet she threw in bingo, which changed the whole tone, somehow. She had a funny way with words.
Jill tried to cheer her up, but Wendy was sad about her sister—and sad that she was sad, because her own job required uplift—peace at the bare minimum.
Saturday morning, Wendy tried to meditate on the subway with her guitar in her lap.
As the train swayed and rocked, she imagined her soul shooting through the darkness into light.
When Wendy emerged, the city was gray with garbage cans strewn everywhere.
Even so, she made her way to Sunrise Jewish Senior Living, scanned her ID card, greeted people in the multipurpose room—part social hall, part sanctuary—brushed back her long curly hair, and lifted her voice to sing, supporting Rabbi Hannah with Modeh Ani in the Debbie Friedman melody.
Modeh ani lefanecha, melekh chai v’kayam, shehechazarta bi nishmati…I give thanks to You, eternal and living King, for You have restored my soul…
Wendy looked out at her congregants. There was Mr. Batkin, snoring lightly in his wheelchair, and Mrs. Kantrowitz fast asleep with family visiting, her daughter whispering furiously.
Why was she medicated before services? And Wendy thought, By definition, a gift requires nothing in return.
B’chemlah…b’chemlah…rabah emunatekha. With mercy… with mercy…Your great faithfulness…
At this moment, tiny Mrs. Guttman decided she was done.
“Mrs. Guttman?” Rabbi Hannah called out above Wendy’s guitar. “We’re just getting started!” But Mrs. Guttman was one hundred and one. She gave the signal, and her aide wheeled her away.
Such was art and prayer and senior life. Wendy didn’t take offense, and she wouldn’t take offense at her own sister either. She would forget the whole thing. Soon!
—
Of course, there was another possibility. What if Pam’s silence signaled something terrible? A diagnosis. A break-in—or breakdown!
“It’s like your superpower,” Jill said that night, as Wendy picked up the phone to call her mother. “Imagining disasters.”
“I have other powers,” Wendy protested, fishing a little.
“It’s your Jewish superpower,” said Jill, who identified as small c catholic.
“Shh. Hi, Mom? It’s Wendy.”
“Yes, I know,” Helen said. “How are you?”
“Okay. How are you?”
“Concerned.”
“About what?” Wendy asked—not really defensive, just a little bit on edge.
“Take your pick.”
Wendy felt a rush of gratitude that her mother meant the new president, the country, the environment, the status of women, the entire world—not her. “Yeah, I know. I can hardly sleep at night.”
Helen said, “Well, that doesn’t do anybody any good.”
“Is Pam okay?”
“No.”
“No?” Wendy’s eyes locked with Jill’s, and for a weird moment she wasn’t sure whether she felt fear or vindication.
“Shadow passed away.”
The cat! Wendy mouthed to Jill.
“She had kidney disease,” said Helen.
“Oh, I’m sorry!”
“The dog walks around the house looking for her.” Pam’s Irish setter had a name, Rosie, but Helen called her the dog, because she didn’t like her.
“When did this happen?”
“A week ago, Wednesday.”
“I wish I’d known!”
“Well,” said Helen, dry as toast.
“You were right. It wasn’t me,” Wendy told Jill after she put down the phone.
“But you were right too; something happened.” Jill gave Wendy her due.
“I’ll call her,” Wendy decided, but when she did, all she got was her sister’s voicemail. “I think Pam’s avoiding me,” Wendy said.
“Her loss!” Jill said.
In the morning, Wendy went to her Sunday gig, teaching nine middle schoolers to sing “U’macha” in something like harmony. U’macha Hashem dima me’al kol panim. And God will wipe the tears from all faces…and the whole time, she thought about her sister.
As soon as she got home, she took her deckle-edged blank cards and India ink pen and drew Shadow curled up in a basket. Then she wrote in beautiful block print.
Dear Pam,
I am so sorry for your loss. It is hard to lose the ones we love, but please know you are not alone! You have my whole heart.
Love,
Wendybird
P.S. Did you get the hat I sent you?
Jill photographed the picture, because Wendy didn’t even keep a record when she gave away her art.
“Do you think it’s good?” Wendy asked.
“The picture? It’s amazing.”
“I meant the note,” Wendy said.
“It’s what you feel, right?”
“Right!”
The second she mailed her condolence card, Wendy felt lighter, happier.
How had she forgotten? It was so much better to do, to make, to give, than to sit in silence.
Simmering resentment—that wasn’t Wendy. That was her mother.
Helen had a gift for grudges. Wendy’s whole family did, but she would not live like that, even if Pam shunned her.
Three days after she decided this, she heard back from her sister.
Wendy! Sorry I’ve been out of touch—it’s been insane. Thank you for the beautiful card and hat. You are so thoughtful I really appreciate it.
Sent from my iPhone
“What do you think?” Wendy said.
“I think it’s…” Jill was about to say pretty cold but stopped herself. “She seems rushed.”
“She seems overwhelmed. Maybe I should go up and see her.”
“Sweetie, no,” said Jill, because this would not end well—Wendy’s warmth and love versus Pam’s dark places.
But Wendy was feeling guilty in her good fortune. There she sat with Jill in their apartment with hooked rugs and crocheted pillows, a gallery of instruments hanging on the walls. Guitar, lute, melon-backed mandolin. “Pammy’s all alone.”
Jill said, “There’s Rosie.”
“Yes, but a dog can’t really understand how bad it is right now.”
“Dogs know a lot.”
“I mean politically.”
Jill sat back on the couch. How could she put this? Wendy’s sister was a black hole at the best of times. “I don’t think you should go up there right this second.”
“Why not?”
“She just said that quote it’s been insane.
And you’re gonna see her in January—unless you decide to skip it.
” Every year, Wendy took the train to Boston for her mom’s birthday.
Everybody went, except for Jill and people disinvited like Sylvia, Helen’s only remaining sister, who had done something unforgivable, involving a cake.
Of course, Helen was crazy. That went without saying.
“I can’t skip,” Wendy said.
“Okay, then I’ll go with you,” said Jill.
“Really? You hate visiting them.” Jill had not come up to Boston in years.
“Yeah, but I’ll go anyway.” Jill had one thought only—to protect her wife.
For this purpose, Jill spent a week in Helen’s overdecorated Tudor and slept in Wendy’s childhood room with its ivy-patterned wallpaper, stuffed rabbit, and limp teddy bear. Wendy had the bed, and Jill the trundle, like a child sleeping over.
For Wendy’s sake, Jill ate breakfast with Helen, while Wendy’s tall, slightly stooped dad, Charles, watched the Inauguration in his paneled den. America will start winning again, the new president said. Winning like never before.
All week, Wendy’s parents speculated about Pam’s arrival, postponed to Sunday morning because of dog sitters and filing deadlines. Pam worked Very Hard. Helen said this in grim tones, as though no one else held down a job.
Jill had to get out. She had to escape. She wanted to go running, and at the same time, she couldn’t leave Wendy to her mother. Fierce and watchful, Jill stayed close in that close house, but by Saturday afternoon, she was desperate for air.
“Go,” said Wendy.