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Elegy Written in a Connecticut Senior Living Facility

Pat Dixon

1

    “If you’re going to be seeing your father soon, Marian, kindly take him his mail. The least the old bastard could do is have the consideration to notify those post office people where to forward it.”
    “Wha—? What are you talking about, Mother?”
    “His mail, of course—his mail—your father’s mail. I thought I made that totally plain. Weren’t you listening to me—again?”
    “Mother—I—it can’t be forwarded to Father. Father is dead.”
    “Are you sure? This big envelope, for one thing, is addressed to him in his own handwriting. I should know it after forty-odd years. See?”
    “Yes, Mother. I’m sure Father’s dead. He died two months ago, right there in the bathroom of this apartment. He was sitting on the toilet, and suddenly you heard him groan —or whoop or something. You called the—the front desk yourself, and Mr. Babson came right up and did CPR until the fire medics arrived. They almost revived him—twice. Don’t you remember? And you held Father’s hand to comfort him till Mr. Babson got here.”
    “I did?”
    “Indeed. And just last week we sorted through his clothes and donated them to your new synagogue for their rummage sale next month.”
    “Hunh—I thought the ol’ bastard ran off—with that Becky Meyerson—you know her—that floozy that was flirting with anything in pants. I thought he’d left me. Well, this is news. He died, you say?”
    “Yes, Mother. And we had a lovely funeral for him. Ten people came down from Storrs special for it, and condolences are still coming in from some of his former students. Three of his friends from Yale even attended the service.”
    “Interesting. How could I forget a thing like that, I wonder?”
    “Well, maybe—maybe because it was a very stressful time. It was awfully sudden, too. Father’d been to have a physical just two days before, and they told him his EKG looked great and his heart should be good for another—another fifteen or twenty years.”
    “Hunh. Well, then tell me if you can, Miss Smarty, how he sent this to himself. It’s postmarked just—just three days ago.”
    “Well—it’s—it’s one of these ‘self-addressed stamped envelopes,’ Mother—the sort of thing a person uses when sending out scholarly articles to professional journals—except that after Father retired and you both moved to New Haven, he used this as his address instead UConn’s French Department. Sometimes it takes a scholarly journal six months—or even a year—to go through the process of deciding if they want to publish an article or not. Did you know that he was still sending out research articles, Mother?”
    “When we were living in Storrs, he always had them addressed to ‘Mister.’”
    “What? What do you mean?”
    “‘Mr. David Greenwood.’ Never ‘Dr. David Greenwood.’ All the older professors took pride in using ‘mister.’ I always thought it was reverse snobbism—affected modesty. That was how they asked students to call them.”
    “What does it say on this envelope? Doctor?”
    “He wrote ‘Prof. David Greenwood.’ Maybe he got over his modesty. That Meyerson slut was always calling him Professor—and grabbing his arm or patting his shoulder—and standing too close when she talked to him. I think he liked being called Professor. He seemed to work it into conversations a lot—like ‘when I was professor of French at the university, X and Y and Z were far better than they are nowadays,’ and he never would say ‘at UConn’ or ‘at the University of Connecticut’ but just ‘the university’—as if he taught at Yale or some such place.”
     “Maybe when he was using stationery and envelopes with his academic address preprinted on them he knew that people knew what he was, Mother. After you both moved down here and had to make all new friends from scratch, maybe he felt a little—at loose ends—after thirty-six years of everyone knowing who he was. I think men might be that way sometimes—about their identities—when they retire.”
    “Well—you can have this if you want, Marian. I have no interest in early French poetry—or even in recent—or middle—French poetry—or French prose, for that matter. Or French cooking either.”
    Marian Poggioli leaned forward and took the large manila envelope which her mother extended toward her. She looked at her father’s somewhat shaky handwriting on the outside, addressing the material to himself with his favorite blue-black ink. In the upper left corner he had also written the name of the journal—The Eye Blink Review—and its academic address—some college in Indiana which she had never heard of. On top of these words, with the help of a rubber stamp, some officious person had redundantly printed the same information in smudged black ink.
    Her father’s letters were large and clear, written with his broad-nibbed fountain pen. She smiled slightly, recalling that he had never once permitted himself to use a ballpoint pen, even in restaurants when using a credit card. For a moment she stared at the photograph of her father that was hung on the wall near the kitchenette. He was robust looking, with his large mane of white hair. “Mr. Dandelion-Head” was her nickname for him thirty years ago—invented one morning by himself after showering and blow-drying his hair. The photograph was at least a dozen years old. Marian pictured her father as he had become in the past year—thinner, slower, stiffer, with larger pouches below his eyes, which more and more seemed unfocused or bewildered. Her smile faded, and with a small sigh she slowly tugged open the adhesive flap of the envelope and removed the contents.
    Approximately a dozen pages were secured together with a large paper clip. The top sheet was pale green and looked as if it were a fifth- or sixth-generation photocopy of something that had been typed on an old Underwood or Royal manual typewriter—the machines owned by her parents before they married and conceived her and which she had played with for hundreds of hours when she was a small girl. Below the typed name and address of the journal was an undated, unsigned message:

    Dear Author—we regret that the high volumn of submissions to THE EYE BLINK REVIEW precludes us from responding with a personal reply. Believe us when we say that our Editorial Staff have given your mss. a VERY careful and thorough reading, and have determined that your submission does not suit our needs now at the present time. Be assured that this does not reflect negatively upon your writing ability or upon the merits of this submission. Very likely it will find itself a good home in some other quality journal! We DO invite you at this time to subscribe to THE EYE BLINK REVIEW so that you will have a clearer ieda as to what our editorial preferences are—AND we strongly encourage you to submit other additional writings of yours to TEBR in the future when you have done this. The lower half of this sheet contains a conveinent form for subscribing for one, tow, or even three years.
    With our very best wishes: THE EYE BLINK EDITORIAL STAFF.

    Marian glanced up at her mother, who had fallen asleep on the sofa with some piece of open mail on her lap. Sarah Greenwood’s mouth was half open, and she was snoring softly. Marian glanced at the lower half of the greenish sheet of paper and pursed her lips as she read the amounts listed on the subscription form: $18.00 for one year, $35.00 for two years, and $50.00 for three. This might, she thought, explain partly why, about three years ago, her father had begun subscribing to a fairly large array of small literary magazines and journals. She frowned and recalled that once his articles had been eagerly accepted by four or five of the better journals in his field.
    Marian Poggioli lifted the green sheet and found that her father’s cover letter, dated more than eight months earlier, had been returned with his submission. Its first paragraph identified his work as a “longish poetic elegy, titled ‘Golden Girl,’” its second paragraph summarized in two sentences his academic career and the nature of his previous publications—four books, forty-three articles, “over 150 book reviews,” and seven poems—and its third paragraph offered to make revisions and/or cuts to accommodate the needs of the journal. Below his signature was a list of the poems published—all of them within the past three years, and all of them in periodicals whose names were unknown to her.
    She reflected briefly that her father had never mentioned to her that he had any interest in or talent for writing poems. Further, Marian was fairly certain that he had not mentioned it to her mother, either. She glanced up, saw that her mother was still sleeping with her mouth still open, and turned to the next page. Her father’s full name and home address, phone number, and e-mail address were in the upper left corner of the page, and an estimated word count was in the upper right corner: “Approximately 1800 words.” Halfway down the page was the title, followed by a pair of dates, and then, roughly centered, the poem began.
    Sarah Greenwood snorted suddenly, waking herself, and blinked at Marian.
    “Did you ask me something?” she said, smiling.
    Marian pushed the pages back inside the envelope and wet her upper lip with the tip of her tongue.
    “No, Mother. I think I must have coughed or cleared my throat. But if we’re going to go out for seafood tonight, I supposed we’d better go powder our noses now and get our coats on soon. Our reservation is for 6:15, so it would be a good idea to get the show on the road pretty soon—don’t you agree?”
    Mrs. Greenwood looked at her watch, then glanced up at her living room clock. Together, they told her it was approximately 4:50 p.m. She nodded in agreement and began struggling to her feet, waving off her daughter’s offer of a helping hand.
    While her mother was in the bathroom, Marian tucked the manila envelope down inside her canvas tote bag. “Golden Girl,” she had decided, would get her attention some time after she got back to Willamantic. She took several deep breaths, sucked on her lips, gently bit the lower one from the inside, and then wet them both twice with the tip of her tongue. Rising, she tapped on the bathroom door.
    “Mother—I’ll be out on your balcony—enjoying the fresh air for about five minutes.”
    “All right dear,” came the muffled reply. “Don’t burn down the building.”
    Marian smiled without mirth. She took one of her cigarets and a book of matches from her purse, stepped outside, and shut the door behind her. Five stories below, traffic moved by fits and starts at the intersection. She wondered what her father had thought of this living arrangement after spending most of his life in houses made to hold five or more people. She had never thought to ask him, and he had never commented on it per se, though he had frequently expressed his dismay at the quality of the meals they were served in the dining room and at the annual jumps in the rent he paid. She lighted her cigaret and leaned over the balcony to see if anyone was directly below, where the ashes might fall on this windless afternoon.
    “Is your mom driving you nuts, Marian?”
    Turning to the left, Marian squinted and saw the daughter of the widow next door, seated alone on the next balcony, drinking some sort of pale iced beverage in a tall glass.
    “Tom Collins—Kate?” she asked.
    “I wish. Just lemonade—with a jigger of vodka—well, two jiggers, maybe.”
    “If I didn’t have to drive my mother to a restaurant tonight, I’d probably be doing the same—instead of smoking out here.”
    After slightly more than a minute of silence, Marian spoke again.
    “You teach literature or something, don’t you? I think you said—Witherspoon? Am I remembering right—rightly?”
    “Quitely rightly,” said Kate. “Witherspoon goest, so wilt knife follow. Yes—at Witherspoon ‘Cademy—for the Writing Impaired—and the Right-Wing Impaired.”
    After another silence, Kate spoke: “Why did you ask—Miriam?”
    “Marian. Mmm—no special reason. I happened to see the word ‘Witherspoon’ recently—in a poem of all places—and I guess—oh—literature and Witherspoon both together—and then seeing you out here—it just seemed like a coincidence.”
    “Well—yes. What was the poem? I can’t imagine anyone putting Witherspoon Academy into verse—but I suppose Wordsworth did worse words than that—when he wrote about a stuffed owl in one of his poems. Where did you see it—Mmmarian?”
    “Oh—I’m not sure. I don’t even think it was published. It might be something a friend showed me—recently—like typed up for sending out—to magazines?”
    A loud rapid rapping on the glass of the balcony door startled Marian but gave her an excuse to avoid further questions about the poem. She turned toward the window and waved and then bent down to place her half-finished cigaret into a styrofoam cup of water between the door sill and the sheltered inner corner of the balcony.
    “Well—Kate—Duty calls.”
    “I knew it wasn’t Opportunity—‘cause that only knocks but once. See you next weekend, maybe—Marian.”
    “You, too—Kate.”
    She squinted again at Kate, recalling that she had an Irish-type name of some sort as well as reddish-auburn hair. And yet, she thought, she doesn’t LOOK Irish. Shrugging, she went into her mother’s apartment. She wet her lower lip and sniffed twice, rapidly. I guess we’re all mongrels—of some sort.
    “I’m going to have a quick powder, Mother, and then we’ll head out, okay?”
    “Just leave a quarter on the back of the toilet, dear,” said her mother with a small grin. After forty-seven years, this line still amused her.

2

     At 9:37 the next morning, Sunday, Marian remembered her father’s poem and pulled the manila envelope out of her tote bag and tossed it on her coffee table. Then she refilled her coffee cup, set it on the table too, and plopped down onto her over-stuffed sofa. She had already read the first three pages of her Hartford Courant and had checked her e-mail to see what needed attention today and what could wait.
    After nibbling her upper lip for several seconds, she drew the paper-clipped pages from the envelope and glanced with annoyance at the green sheet with its thinly veiled and probably duplicitous implication that a subscription would ensure future acceptances by the “editorial staff.”
    It’s probably a staff of just one person—operating in his parents’ garage—or basement—despite the academic address, she thought, bitterly. She wondered how many other similar rejection slips her father had received, for this and for other poems, and what his thoughts about them had been. He once had been a rather satirical and witty person—at least as far as the knaves and fools of the world were concerned—but in recent years he seemed to have softened or mellowed—or gotten too tired to care, she knew not which. One of his final jokes had been to refer the senior living facility he was in as The Last Hurrah. He had been her favorite parent since early childhood, and she had sorrowfully watched his decline following her parents’ move to New Haven.
    Marian took the paperclip off the pages and set the green sheet face down on the table.
    “No—let’s do this right, Marian,” she suddenly said, standing. She balled up the green sheet and dropped it into the waste can in her kitchen. Then she took two lemon tarts out of her refrigerator, put them on a dinner plate, and warmed them for twenty seconds in her microwave oven. Back in her living room, she set her father’s poem on the cushion to her right, put her coffee on the end table to her left, placed the plate on her lap, and rested her fuzzy-slippered feet on her coffee table.
    “Okay, Dad—let’s see what you were up to,” she said in a soft voice. She put her right hand on the poem and felt her heart seem to race. Her jaw muscles were tense and a little painful. She swallowed half of the thick saliva in her mouth and took a sip of her coffee. In the darkened gray screen of the television set opposite her, she could see her reflection.
    “How bad can it be?” she whispered, shrugging long and hard to stretch her tense shoulders, then looked far to the left and far to the right to stretch her tense neck muscles. She took a deep breath, pushing it down into her abdomen, held it for seven seconds, and let it slowly out. “We shall see.”
    She took a bite from one lemon tart, set it down, and picked up the poem.
    “Golden Girl,” she said in a soft voice that was not a whisper. Then she read:

Golden Girl
(1965?-2001)

At the eighth ring, one of her co-workers
Picked up: “Witherspoon Library—how may
I help you?”

“Elena, please,” I said, singing her name
Playfully with a continental “A”
In its first syllable—instead of “E”
As she—and all the rest—were wont to do.

For fifteen seconds the woman said nothing, then
“. . . He wants to talk to . . .” was muffled—then a pause
Of half a minute, then a solemn man asked
Who this was—then said:

“Elaine is dead.”

Petite, pretty, witty, bright, and brave. And—gone.

Elaine was a union maid—we’d joked about
That category from the very start
When, ten years before, we’d met at Georgetown U.
Our conference half filled five floors of one
Huge dorm with union delegates, and she
And I, opposite each other for three nights,
Roomed at the top. Long dark hair, long narrow face,
Slender, short, sharp-eyed, sharp-tongued—and fun.

She spoke with ice and fire to groups and spoke
With gentle humor and with wistfulness
During breakfasts, lunches, one dinner, and two walks
With me. “The male ‘members’ of my union
Have,” she said, “one testicle among ‘em,
But never has one ever tried it on.
They keep it under triple lock and speak
Of it in whispered tones with downcast eyes—
When,” she laughed, “they dare to mention it at all.”

One lunch was interrupted by a woman
From Elaine’s own school—brunette, slender, small—
Who loudly greeted her with smiles and a kiss.
Silent, with pursed lips and a neutral face,
A tall, athletic man stood eight feet off,
Gazing past my head, waiting patiently.
Elaine’s bright smile remained in place until
This pair—she leading, with his hand in hers—
Had crossed the room and sat down with their trays.
“Let’s eat outdoors,” she hissed between her teeth.
“I see he still likes women ‘bout my size. . . .
We were—he and . . . .”

“Best actress of the year,”
I broke in, tapping the bridge of her long nose.
“You had me certain she’s your dearest friend.”
Elaine blinked hard, then shook her head and laughed.

Later, during a cocktail hour on the terrace
A short, white-maned man from Yale poked the name badge
Pinned to her halter top. “Golden,” he grinned
Proudly, poking again. “Your name is—Golden.”
And Elaine, sipping her fourth mint julep,
Nodded unsteadily, blinked, and whispered, “Yes.”

That evening she had plans to dine with friends
Who lived nearby. I walked her sixteen blocks
To find a cab and put her in, still ‘faced.
We wished each other well—then I walked back
And climbed the stairs, alone, to read Lao Tsu.
The one a.m. commotion in the hall—
Giggling, stumbling, thumping ‘gainst my door—
Caused me to toss my favorite book aside.
Elaine, with two female friends assisting, was back.
I helped unlock her room, the three went in,
Half an hour’s giggling more, and then her friends
Grinned in my door and said she was asleep.

Eight-twenty-five, a gorgeous, cloudless day—
“I’m up,” she said, responding to my tap.
“‘Tis I—be not afraid,” I joked. “Are ye
Up fer breakfast? They cease serving at nine.”
She unlatched the door and padded barefoot
To her tall, half open sunlit window.
Outside, Japanese cherry petals blew
Gently in the bright sun. The same breeze stirred
Her loose white cotton gown, through which light shone.
I smiled, pleased by her slender silhouette.
Elena slowly smiled back. “Could you,” she asked,
Tossing long dark hair, “bring two buns, one coffee—black,
And one peach to our nine-fifteen meeting?
My hair’s a fright, after last . . . a shower
Is what I really dearly right now need.”

Georgetown in the spring—

behind your sheer white nightgown—

pink cherry blossoms

During lunch, a little picnic on some steps,
Elena told me about unlucky Lucky,
Her elderly toy white poodle whose leg
Was in a cast. “He jumped to my table
From a chair and was eating my supper.
I swept him off—without thinking—and feel
So guilty now. I cook him special steaks—
And I’m, you know, a vegetarian.”
She asked what I’d been reading and showed me
A small book by Kübler-Ross on dying
That she’d brought with her. Then, proud, she opened
The large briefcase she carried and unrolled
A piece of needlepoint—a rural scene
Less than a quarter done. “You see these clouds?
They weren’t pre-printed on the cloth—they’re mine,
Completely. Quite creative of me, huh?”

“Cray-ative, nothin’! It wuh puhfick,” I drawled,
Parodying the union man from Maine,
Whose jokes in bogus Down-East dialect
Had failed to captivate our morning group.

Breakfast next day was farewell time for us.
And while she watched the grinning couple feed
Each other French toast and pineapple chunks,
I tapped her bare shoulder. “Entr’ ourselves, lady,
You are vivacious, witty, smart, pretty, cute,
Young, bright, radiant, and—and, if this weren’t
A cruddy blue time fer you, this ol’ guy
Would’ve made a pass at this neat li’l gal.”
Her eyes slowly filled up. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“And that’s the truth,” I said. “Be very afraid!”

Six and a half months later, in New York
At a teachers’ conference, I phoned her home.
Lucky’s leg had healed, though his heart was weak.
We laughed about the school she worked at—
And mine—for twenty, twenty-five minutes
And agreed, say, once a year, to stay in touch.

Eighteen months thereafter, she saved her job
In court when singled out by management
For staff reduction. “I was,” she said, “alone—
My union, less than useless, granted them
That program, not seniority, should rule.
In fact, they called me ‘too aggressive’—code
For ‘pushy bitch’ or worse—and management
And they, I think, agreed I’d get the ax.
But I had files of memos, theirs and mine,
And judges here think differently from yours
In eastern Kansas—where you once lost a job.”

Next year, we met for lunch to celebrate
Her victory, in part, and luck in landing
A better job near me. “‘Aggressive’ was
The word I fought—with black-rimmed glasses and
A high-neck blouse, a dark blue woman’s suit
That cost a week’s pay, and all this long hair
Put up très guindément in a schoolmarm’s bun
On top. You thought my act was good before—
This victim looked and played the victim’s part,
Meek, respectful—but with her documents.
The judge chewed off their heads for what they’d done
And wished I’d asked for damages as well.
‘Arbitrary’ and ‘capricious’ were used
Several times to beat them up—and down.”
With laughing eyes, she tossed her waist-length hair.

Never would I see “Elena” again, though she
Left Queens to work at nearby Witherspoon.
At intervals by phone she often spoke
Of her plans to change careers. “A Ph.D.
In sociology—or social psych
Would suit me best,” she said, and detailed what
Her night-school courses covered and how great
It felt to study and to learn. “Not like
The first time, when I thought I knew it all.”

Petite, pretty, witty, bright, and brave. And—gone.

I was calling after a five-month gap
To ask Elena out to lunch again.
At the brutal word “dead,” my skull went numb.
I know I did my appointed rounds that day,
Somehow teaching two more classes. Cogently?
Perhaps. And then an hour-long meeting
About curricular revisions—numbing
Topics on the best of days. And then the drive
Home. Somehow my unreal car followed the
Road. Somehow it did not hit the other
Cars. Or the trees. All unreal somehow or
Newly real. Pretty. Witty. Bright. Brave. Gone.

On the third day I met with one of her friends.
Elena had been dead one week when I
Called. A month before a diesel garbage truck
Hit and dragged her, breaking her jaw, tearing
Her throat, putting her into a coma.
After two weeks, I was told, she awoke.
Conscious, able to write but not to speak,
Elena continued her studies in bed.
A tube went down her damaged throat with air,
And, all unknown to me, bright and brave and
Witty Elena continued to improve.
On her final night, it’s said, the night nurse
Was busy reading romance magazines,
Never noticing that a plug of thick
Mucus had closed off her tube’s lower end
Until lack of oxygen had sealed her fate—
Permanent, massive brain damage. If “she”
Had lived (they said), she would not still be she.
A blessing that (they said) she died instead.

Anger? At the unknown truck driver and nurse
And doctors. Anger at myself—who called
Too late to change a tiny part of anything.
With the numbness gone, I wondered bitterly
If her library colleagues and the staff
Of her whole school appreciated what
They’d lost. Did the campus paper publish
Some memoir? Would they plant a tree for her?
Did some secretly—or not so secretly—
Rejoice? And what might I “do” now for her?

And what for me? What buries that anger?
What blunts this grief? Draw back and try to view
Them now as actors in some play seen long
Ago that somehow gives poignant pleasure with
Some subtly hidden counterpoint of justice—
Some balancing, some redress. I might try this:

Nearly two years after her unlucky
Accident, her more unlucky loss of air,
Her death, I feel honored to have known her
Even distantly and briefly. Elena,
Petite at first sight, petite in her gown
In her Georgetown room and her gown in her
Hospital room, petite by choice as “victim”
To her judge, was larger than the couple
Who tried to hurt her, larger than the men
Of her own union, larger than management
And doctors and the nurse, and larger than
The driver and even his truck that struck her down.
Where are they now? Have they forgotten her?
How have they shrunk inside, or grown, since then?
What tests of character have they failed or passed?

No. These serried fancies of her victories
In death cannot serve as sutures—or salves.
They feel bogus. At best they barely half touch
My brain and not at all can reach my heart.
Such words, like pieces on a chequer board,
Share symmetry and game-like logic
Removed from death, life, fear, hate, anger, love,
Flesh, nerves, blood, bone—hunger now, in guts here.

Instead, perhaps, a tête-à-tête. Perhaps, instead.

Elena, barely five feet tall in shoes,
Growing to the end and larger than I am,
Larger than I hope to be—you were my friend,
My brave, bright, golden friend. I used to take
For granted that you were, that you had time
To chat and laugh or talk with me. You taught
Me—as keenly as the Tao te Ching—ways
Of being by how you carried your Self.
I trust you thought I was your friend. I hope
You would think, if you had lived, I am one still.

    For nearly twelve minutes, Marian Greenwood Poggioli sat staring through her side window at distant trees below her apartment, clutching tightly her father’s typescript. Gradually, she became aware that her ears, and chiefly the left one, felt very warm, almost as if she had been blushing. She noted that she needed more oxygen. With conscious determination, she took a deeper breath and slowly let the air out. She repeated this process thrice more, then shrugged her cramped shoulders, stood and shrugged again.
    Her eyes filled, and the room became blurry.
    “Bastard—bastard—bastard! Bastard—bastard—bastard—bastard—bastard! You—old—bastard!”
    She wet both lips with the tip of her tongue and took yet another deep breath.
    “Men,” she whispered, shutting her eyes tightly.
    She blinked rapidly as the first tear ran down her right cheek. Then she tore his typescript in half and scattered it across her living room floor.

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This appears in a pre-2010 issue of cc&d magazine. Saddle-stitched issues are no longer printed, but you can requesting it “re-released” through amazon sale as a 6" x 9" ISBN# book! Email us for re-release to order.

This appears in a pre-2010 issue
of cc&d magazine.
Saddle-stitched issues are no longer
printed, but you can requesting it
“re-released” through amazon sale
as a 6" x 9" ISBN# book!
Email us for re-release to order.