A GRAIL STORY
Mel Waldman
The old shriveled-up woman, with azure eyes that seemed to search the heavens, sat on her small terrace and drank a cup of tea perched on a black round table. Nearby, her neighbors waved at her from their terrace. She nodded her head and gave them a weak smile. She had taken her pain pills an hour earlier, but still she was in excruciating pain. She was terminally ill. Most of the time, the pills did not work. She prayed for death. But being a religious woman, she could not commit suicide. So she prayed for a miracle to release her painlessly from an intolerable life.
In the distance, Coney Island was lit up. From her balcony, she saw the Wonder Wheel and Tornado. And farther away, in the postern of her mind, she saw a little girl eating Nathan’s frankfurters and French fries over 75 years ago, flanked by two loving parents. Instantly, her face glowed with joy. Then she returned to the present.
It had been a dog day afternoon and now, a sultry night. At the other end of the terrace, three moribund pigeons were crouched in a corner. Although most folks loathed the pigeons’ apparent invasion of the balconies and even displayed all kinds of gadgets to keep them away, she identified with the unwanted birds and welcomed them. She beckoned the three sickly pigeons to come to her, but initially they were too weak to move. Still, they eventually crawled a few inches toward her. Apparently, some neighbors had left poisoned food for the lost creatures. Yet they had come to die near the old lady who loved them.
When she looked at the birds, her eyes became wet. Then she remembered that not all the pigeons were dead or dying. Like a zephyr, one had gently flown by a little while ago. She wished it had stayed. A familiar friend, it had visited her before. Yet it flew away, after blessing her with its presence.
Momentarily, she gazed at her precious cup of tea. The cup was gold and seemed majestic. It was a gift from her true love Stephen, a.k.a. the Doc. He loved her madly, so he claimed. But he refused to live with her. On the other hand, he lived on the next floor, his terrace right above hers. He often slept in her bed. But he still maintained his own apartment. He was the independent kind, she chuckled. In fact, at this very moment, he was having dinner with his old buddy Walter at the Sheepshead Bay Diner.
Although Stephen walked with a cane and suffered from crippling rheumatoid arthritis, he had agreed to meet Walter at the diner. Before leaving, he briefly visited his beloved Elizabeth whom he called “my beloved,” “my dearest,” “my queen,” and of course, “my Queen Elizabeth.” After calling a car service, he kissed Elizabeth on her forehead, whispered- “I love you,” and sauntered off.
“See you later, Doc,” she cried out. “Love you forever.”
“Yes, my queen. Forever!”
At 7 PM, Stephen and Walter, two retired professionals, sat at a booth in the Sheepshead Bay Diner and talked about old times. Stephen and Walter had known each other since college. Two Brooklynites, they both attended Brooklyn College, the poor man’s Harvard. Walter was a tall, emaciated chemistry whiz who eventually became a professor of chemistry at NYU after earning his doctorate at Yale on full scholarship. He helped Stephen pass chemistry 1 and 2. Stephen, a pre-med student, had planned to become a brain surgeon. With a “C” average, he ultimately attended med school in Europe, taking courses in Vienna, Berlin, and Paris.
At some obscure point in time, Stephen realized he did not want to “get down and dirty” in the operating room, becoming a Janus-faced God of Hope and Angel of Death. He feared the inevitable intimacy with death. So he chose to become an internist who wore the mask of hope.
“I’ll wear a beautiful mask,” he told his buddy Walter.
“I hate to be the dark voice of reason,” Walter had told him years ago. “But you’ll see plenty of death as an internist.”
“Perhaps, you’re right,” Stephen had replied. “But it’s all a matter of statistics my logical friend.
“Statistics?”
“Yes, I’ll be able to smile at many more patients and fill them with a cornucopia of hope. And who knows what the ‘placebo effect’ will do for their immune systems?”
“Stephen. Stephen,” Walter replied. “For your sake, I hope you’re right.”
Unfortunately, Walter’s prediction came true. Stephen saw a lot of death, much more than he had imagined. And although he became an internist, he was quite intimate with Thanatos.
“It’s almost sunset, Stephen.”
“Perhaps, a golden one, Walter.”
“Stephen. Stephen. Always the optimist.”
“You too, old buddy. Remember when we used to stand on the Sheepshead Bay bridge, just a few blocks away, and gaze at the glittering waters of the bay?”
“You bet.”
“Well, you saw a glorious future in the kaleidoscopic bay. Told me one day you’d become a chemist.”
“I did.”
“Yes, and a great one I might add.”
“Thank you, Stephen.”
“It’s the truth, Walter! Nothing more.”
A long silence followed.
“And you also said you’d make a great discovery. Cure incurable diseases! Save lives!”
“Yes, I said all that. I was a grandiose young man.”
“Yet once again, Walter, you spoke the truth. You saved many lives.”
“I supposeÉ”
“Of course, you did. And your last discovery-Sopor 1818-was the purest one. It brought everlasting joy.”
“ButÉ”
“Walter, it’s gonna be a golden sunset!”
Elizabeth sat on the terrace, gazed at the glorious sun, and slowly drank her tea from the gold cup. It was soothing and quite delicious. She took a few more sips again and again until she finished it. Then momentarily, she smiled at her neighbors and announced: “It’s a golden sun! Soon, it will disappear in a magnificent sunset.” They nodded their heads in agreement as she drifted off to a pain-free chimerical universe where Stephen waited for her.
After they made passionate love, she lay in his arms and rested. She was at peace with herself and the universe for the first time in years. Later, Stephen took her on a magical time-tripping journey through the past where she was reunited with all her loved ones who had passed away.
“You’re such a gem, Stephen,” she whispered.
“It’s your birthday, Elizabeth!”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Of course, it is! And I’m giving you the grandest surprise birthday party in the galaxy.”
“Oh, Stephen!” she said softly, as she blew him a soulful kiss.
“You’ve convinced me, Stephen. It’s gonna be a golden sunset!”
“Of course.”
“So tell me, how is Elizabeth?”
“She’s suffering, Walter. The pain is intolerable.”
“Why don’t her doctors give her stronger pain medication?”
“They’re practicing old fashioned medicine. And protecting themselves from possible lawsuits.”
“But she’s dying!”
“Of course, she is! And too moral to die with dignity.”
“She’s a grand woman, Stephen. That’s why you love her.”
“A bit too proud for her own good. And unfortunately, assisted suicide is not her cup of tea.”
“Still doesn’t believe in it?”
“Not now. Never! Yet it seems that part of her wishesÉ”
“Well, of course. It’s simply a matter of chemistry. A single atom is a unity of positive and negative charges. And so is a human being. Opposites attract. She wishes and fears the very same thing. You’ve heard of Freud, haven’t you?”
“Of course, Walter.”
“Well, as much as she loves you, she prays for death. She can’t kill herself butÉ”
“Nonverbally, she has begged me to kill her! It’s her little secret buried in her unconscious.”
“Yes, Stephen. Brutal but very real and very true. And as Freud said, there’s a Death Wish in all of us!”
It is almost sunset. Elizabeth sits in her chair and seems to be asleep. She is far away, with Stephen, at her galaxy surprise birthday party.
“I believe you, Stephen. It’s gonna be a golden sunset!”
“A convert?”
“Yes. And a true believer. Because of you, Stephen.”
“Thank you, Walter.”
A brief silence separates them until Walter asks: “How are her friends?”
“They died suddenly.”
“I see. If I recall, they were terminally ill too.”
“Yes, and in excruciating pain.”
“Of course. Trapped just like Elizabeth.”
“Yes.”
“How many passed away?”
“Six.”
“How far apart in time?”
“Six months, from the first death to the last.”
“What a coincidence!”
“Yes.”
“And they all died naturally?”
“Of course. Still, there was a homicide investigation.”
“Why?”
“They all died in our building.”
“Another coincidence!”
“Oh, yes, Walter. And there are more coincidences. They died under similar circumstances-including place and time. But ultimately, Homicide Detective Endler concluded there was no foul play. They died of natural causes.”
“Perhaps, Stephen. Or perhaps, someone committed the perfect murders.”
Elizabeth dances with Stephen at her galaxy surprise birthday party. After a slow fox trot, she kisses him on his lips and whispers: “How did you remember my birthday?”
“How could I forget?”
“I did!”
“You weren’t supposed to remember, my beloved.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s a surprise, Queen Elizabeth! A glorious surprise!”
“Did I mention, Walter, that your miracle drug-Sopor 1818-brought everlasting joy to those who tried it?”
“I believe you did, Stephen. Did I give you an ample supply?”
“Just enough.”
“Well, let me know when you need more.”
“I will.”
An eerie silence connects them.
“I’m gonna miss her, Walter.”
“Of course. It would be insulting to her if you didn’t.”
“Don’t know if I can go on without her.”
“Your choice, old buddy.”
“What’s left for me?”
“Aside from a lot of self-pity, excruciating physical pain, and the agony of loss, you’ve got your loyal companions at home and your everlasting friend Walter.”
“Thank you, Walter.”
“Oh by the way, Stephen, how’s Mort these days?”
“Well-trained, Walter. And he always delivers the goods on time.”
“Always reliable?”
“Perfectly reliable, Walter on at least six-perhaps seven occasions-just like Sopor 1818.”
“Spoken like a proud father.”
“I supposeÉ”
“And as an asideÉ”
“Yes?”
“In an uncanny way, Stephen, you remind me of Burt Lancaster.”
“Are you nuts, Walter?”
“Well, of course. Madness goes with the creative flow. But let me explain, old buddy.”
“Please do.”
“He’s tall, dark, handsome, muscular, and very macho.”
“Correct. Everything I’m not.”
“No argument, Stephen. You used to be five eight. Now, you’re hunched over and I bet you’re not even five six. You’re dark but certainly not handsome-not in the classical way. You’re flabby-not muscular. And no one would accuse you of being macho. You’re too sensitive. Obviously you’re crippled but distinctive in an enigmatic way, with your goatee and moustache, bald head and penetrating dark brown eyes.”
“Thanks for the compliments.”
“You’re welcome, my dear friend.”
“So what’s your point, Walter?”
“You remind me of Burt Lancaster in a famous role he played. But I can’t recall the name of the movie nor the character he portrayed. Still, it’s on the tip of my tongue.”
“Why don’t you have a Freudian slip and let it out?”
“At the exact time and place, I will. And by the way, you never told me where and when the others died.”
“In plain sight of their neighbors, they died on their terraces. Always at sunset. And always while drinking a cup of tea, coffee, or soda.”
“And Detective Endler ruled out homicide in all six deaths? With so many coincidences?”
“Yes. In each case, the neighbors saw a sick person pass away peacefully. And no poison was found in their cups, indicative of suicide or homicide. If they were victims, they drank a lethal dose of an untraceable substance.”
“Incredible!”
Suddenly, Walter looked out the window and cried out: “A golden sunset!”
Stephen’s dark eyes darted out the window, rushed upward toward the heavens, and gently held and caressed this splendid sun before it vanished forever.
“She’s leaving, Walter! She’s leaving!”
“I know, Stephen. And it’s time to let her go.”
“But she’s my beautiful little bird of paradise. How can I let her fly away?”
“Feel her love and let her be free.”
“ButÉ”
“If you love herÉ”
Now, the silence that stretched between them was like a tight noose around his neck. Hunched over, Stephen looked like a moribund birdman.
Then suddenly, Walter cried out: “I know who you are!”
“Of course, you do. I’m Stephen!”
“No! You’re Burt Lancaster’s character-the Birdman of Alcatraz! But you’ve been relocated to Brooklyn. Yes, I know you! You’re the Birdman of Trump Village! And Mort, your beautiful pigeon, is your sweet, soothing instrument of death, perfectly trained to deliver at the exact time-a few minutes before sunset-my magical dust-Sopor 1818-at the correct dose-to our ladies in distress, sprinkling the almost invisible substance into a gold cup of bliss and delivering these tormented souls from unbearable pain and anguish. Within seconds, it’s untraceable, except for the beatific masks of freedom we see on the faces of the departed, who have already traveled to a splendid place.”
“Are you condemning or praising me?”
“I bestow upon you a crown of courage. Congratulations, Stephen. You’re a true-blue antihero-Dr. Death in modern terms. Yet similar to a brave knight in King Arthur’s court, seated at the round table. And like Moses, you’ve led these lost souls out of a vast desert of despair and into the promised land of Heaven.”
Yet already, Stephen was deaf to this fusillade of fierce cryptic words from the friend who was in complicity with his merciful but ineffable deeds. He traveled to a distant place searching for Queen Elizabeth, praying that love, indeed, conquered all, and hoping that God, or his seven victims, especially his beloved, or the man who killed them-the mirrored-face he could not gaze at-would forgive him for his sins of premeditated murder, a dark euthanasia, Janus-faced with its subtle violence and divine blessing of freedom.
With Walter’s Sopor 1818, he had stepped out of the human domain. Was he guilty of hubris? Much more? Much less? He seemed to exist now-outside the universe of good and evil. Was he a Superman? A god? Had he transcended all human categories? Or had he simply lost his soul?
But looking back and remembering his Queen Elizabeth, he realized a very simple truth: He loved one woman so deeply and passionately that he sacrificed himself for her, saving her soul and the soul of her friends, while butchering his own innocence. And thus, he was forced out of Eden, with a gentle brutal knowledge, transcending good and evil-ineffable and incomprehensible-blessed and cursed by the omnipotence of love, a gold cup not unlike the Holy Grail, possessing the magical secrets of the universe, hypnotizing and subduing gods and kings, coveted and pursued with insatiable hunger and thirst by the beast known as man, and transforming all who drink from it forever.
