The Widow Waltz by Sally Koslow Read Free Book Online

Tomorrow I will give him a severance check, a gushing reference letter, and a “Oh how we will all miss you!” note that is waiting in my desk drawer, knowing it is insufficient compensation for losing his job.
    “Can I drive?” Luey asks, as I unlock the door.
    I relinquish the keys as a peace offering, though I am always happy getting behind the wheel and becoming a rolling body in a simple right-left-straight-reverse universe of navigation, acceleration, and stops. “Be my guest,” I say and climb into the passenger’s seat. I hand each daughter a bottle of water and put my own in its designated receptacle.
    Nicola reaches forward from the back to nuzzle me around the neck. “Georgia Waltz, always prepared,” she says.
    If only
. And then I say it aloud. Both girls laugh, and Nicola adds, “It’s going to be okay.” I do not want to know if she is referring to today’s excursion or the rest of my life.
    Whoever’s in the driver’s seat chooses the music—our Silver-Waltz rule. If Luey goes with hip-hop, I will tell her that I’ve grown to like the poetry and cadence, not to appease her but because it’s true. She turns, however, to Frank Sinatra, who starts crooning a ballad as mellow as cognac in a sidecar. “Nana’s day,” she says. “Nana’s songs.”
    We drive without conversation, I for one, thanking God for Mr. Sinatra. Maybe this afternoon will be different, which is a wish I make before each visit. The familiar yearning simmers with the hope that my only living parent will feel sufficient and appropriate outrage at the injustice done to her daughter. No husband drops dead and stiffs Camille Waltz’s child! No son-in-law does that to
her
baby! My mother will fold me into her arms and, while smoothing my hair, drop pearls of wisdom I will use to pave my way to a safer place. I allow myself to float on crazy thoughts as I ignore ugly Jersey, with entire stores devoted to laminate kitchen tables and cheesy party goods, until we turn into a residential area zoned for acreage generous enough for polo games. With its circular drive and meticulously raked grounds, you’d expect The Oaks to be studded with lacrosse sticks, not walkers. Daniel refers to the institution as “the finishing school.” Which it is.
    For five years after the death of my father, my mother stayed on in Philadelphia, eventually tended to by a round-the-clock entourage. When it became too hard to manage the moving parts of this puzzle—unannounced journeys, mysterious no-shows, outrage when a previous shift left behind an unwashed dish—Stephan and I, in a rare show of filial togetherness, searched for a “facility,” hoping to find one jauntier than that word suggests.
    Only Daniel wondered aloud why neither of us invited our mother to live in our own home. “Easy for the orphan boy to say,” Stephan responded. Daniel’s parents were killed in a head-on collision when he was fourteen. He was raised by an aunt and uncle.
    “Beast,” Daniel responded.
    “If I’m a beast, I’d happily be a satyr,” Stephan replied.
    “Stay on point,” I said. I could have invited my mother to take over one of the girls’ bedrooms if I had not known that in one month’s time I’d be devoured by Camille’s custom brand of rebuke. It’s no coincidence that on the Monday following every Thanksgiving, where she was always present, I escaped to ski or hike, after which I allowed myself to be pummeled with hot stones and swaddled with herb-scented towels. I felt I had earned the indulgence.
    Camille Waltz’s current residence comes with exorbitant fees because the place doesn’t reek of urine and sadness. The Oaks is a cruise ship docked on dry, well-tended Garden State soil where you can join a choir, study French, prattle on in a book club, paint your portrait, fox-trot, or play eight hours of daily duplicate bridge until the others boot you out of the game. You can do any of these things if your mind isn’t now frayed wires