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Bagels

E.P. Lande

    Cynthia and I are part of a group. We call ourselves the Recent Widows Alliance, but while I am a recent widow, Cynthia’s husband is still alive, making her a recent-widow-in-training. Our members have various religious beliefs; Cynthia is Jewish, whereas I lost mine somewhat along the path of life. Her husband is presently about to be admitted into palliative care, so she wanted to discuss this with me. I invited her to have dinner at my home.
    Cynthia arrived promptly—at 5:00—my having told her that I’m an early bird, not that I’m all that special—to anyone anymore—but I like to get things over with quickly ... and get on with whatever else falls my way, which, in the evening, isn’t very much. She began telling me all about the wonderful life she’d had with Herbert, her now terminally-ill husband, and I had to listen—because that’s what we recent widows do for each other. How could I tell her what a shit my husband had been during the last 52 years of our 53-year marriage? And, for 52 years I’d asked myself why I hadn’t dumped his ass ... and moved on? Even my mother-in-law had asked me, why? I couldn’t answer, neither myself, nor my mother-in-law, except to say that Timothy was really good in bed. Is that justification for enduring his belching, his farting, his bad breath, his disgusting body odors, and his playing around with any vagina—mine included?
    No ... but I never could say No. Instead of going to Europe and staying at 3-star hotel/spas, I should have seen the best shrink and worked on my issues—as if being married to a complete slob with an IQ of 75, but with a bank account that paid for all my indulgences—were issues.
    As a respectable hostess, I ushered Cynthia into my living room and offered her an apèritif.
    “Thank you, Martha, but I don’t drink.”
    Perhaps I should have suggested she take up the habit; it might help her get through until the son-of-a-bitch dies. That’s what I did, all those nights my husband was whoring around. Scotch—Ballantine, only the best.
    “A glass of water, then?” I suggested, water being promoted as the cure-all for every ailment—real or imagined.
    “Why yes, thank you,” and I walked into the kitchen and brought back a glass of water for Cynthia ... and a tumbler of Scotch for myself.
    With her glass of water held tightly in her hand, Cynthia started her tale of woe, and I sat back with my Scotch—and listened. She told me how her life with Herbert had been like a dream, while in my thoughts I was picturing Timothy returning home—blastered—four nights out of seven, stripping in the living room and masturbating on the rug, then hauling me off to the bedroom to fuck. Timothy was a two-orgasm-a-night guy, one of the reasons I stayed in the marriage, come to think about it.
    After Cynthia’s dream sequence, she spoke about Herbert’s consideration, not only for her but for humanity in its entirety. Cynthia being a Jewess, I understood what she was telling me, but I wasn’t Jewish, and all I could conjure up was Timothy sitting in front of the TV watching CNN and commenting on how the Uyghurs deserved every restriction and infliction imposed on them by the Chinese, and if they didn’t like the Chinese treatment of them, they should just pack up and leave.
    It was getting on 6:00 when I suggested we have the dinner I had prepared—minestrone I had picked up at the Italian market that afternoon, spaghetti and meatballs my neighbor had given me last Christmas and had been in my freezer since—best use it up, I thought—a salad of beets and diced squash that I love and get it from the deli, and a kirsch tort from the bakery—not because I like kirsch, actually I dislike kirsch, but it was on sale, so I figured, why not?
    “This was ... is Herbert’s favorite,” Cynthia said when she dipped her spoon into the minestrone, which brought back a flood of memories reminiscent of Proust’s madeleines. I was glad to have provided her with a means of conjuring up a pleasant past, but soon regretted I had as I had to listen to a good twenty minutes of the pleasures Herbert had had over the many bowls of minestrone he’d been served over the years.
    While the spaghetti and meat balls were eaten in relative silence, Cynthia did interrupt each mouthful with a rehash of the times she and Herbert had spent in the Italian countryside during the summers they’d hiked in the Apennines, while my thoughts reverted to the camping trips Timothy had taken me on, sleeping in mosquito-infested tents next to swamps, eating out of rusted canteens, and being soaked by torrential rains that seemed to follow us year after year.
    “I’m sorry, Martha, but I don’t eat beets or squash,” Cynthia confessed when I served the salad. Oh well, I thought, more for me, and I removed our plates and repacked the salad to be eaten—by me—another day.
    When I brought out the kirsch tort, I knew it was a mistake, —remembering that Cynthia had told me she didn’t drink alcoholic beverages earlier. At this point, I’d be damned if I didn’t at least taste it—and I served myself a good slice while Cynthia watched ... and talked about her marriage. I was beginning to ask myself why on earth I had even volunteered to invite her for dinner; why not for tea?
    “You know, Mary ... I mean Martha, like you I have dietary restrictions ....” No, frankly, I didn’t know. I haven’t any dietary restrictions. I can—and do—eat anything and everything. So, what was this bitch talking about? “... and Herbert understood and respected them.” I was beginning to imagine Herbert sitting to the right of our Lord ... soon. “For instance, for breakfast I always eat a bagel with cream cheese ....”
    This was getting to be too much. I couldn’t take one more minute of this stupid recent-widow-in-training’s bullshit. I had thought of giving her advice on the disposal of her beloved Herbert’s remains—like putting them in the dump like I had. But, now telling me of her breakfast choices? Bagels? Awful! I believe the Jews invented the bagel because they were accustomed to suffering. But why inflict such punishment on the rest of us heathens?
    Why?
    To get even?

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