he’s terrific. What do you think of him?’
‘You remember what you said when I was considering divorcing Danny and I asked you, long distance, what love was?’
‘I’ll never forget it. I was very upset. I didn’t want you to divorce. Now it seems to have worked out, but I still feel sorry for Danny.’
‘Don’t worry about Danny. He’s living a yuppie life in Venice, California. But that isn’t what I want to talk about.
‘You said love was admiration, respect, and passion. I thought you weren’t being helpful, but you were. Do you remember what you said about having all three?’
‘Yup.’
‘Well, now I know I don’t have to die to go to heaven.’
But I did.
3
By now, Bert’s moved into my place with most of his junk, and we need more privacy. We need a bedroom to ourselves.
One of the teachers tells us about an apartment up on the hill overlooking town. We go see it. Although it isn’t perfect, it’s the right price and gives us just about what we want. It’s second floor again with an outside metal spiral staircase. We can also enter through the front door, up a real marble staircase on the inside, but then we need to pass through Frau Zeidelman’s part; she’s the owner of the place. We decide to use the outside staircase, unless we’re desperate – ice, or snow, or something like that.
The apartment’s basically a corridor, with rooms on each side. The rooms on one side open onto a terrace looking out over the town to the lake. It’s a beautiful view. On that side we decide to put the living-room, our bedroom and Wills’ bedroom. On the other side is the toilet-room with one of those crazy German toilets where the shit sits on a platform so you can inspect it while it smells up the entire room before you flush.
But it’s clean, everything is ungodly clean, and well-built in the German style, with double windows that swing open in all kinds of weird ways with levers and locks. The doors are so big and heavy, fitted so tightly, you could cut your fingers off without trying.
Because we’re the school romance, everybody on the faculty pitches in with furniture, even some of the parents, so that in no time, we have the place nicely furnished. I haven’t felt so part of a place since we lived in Idylwild.
Bert hates to sleep in a bed. There’s more than a little hippy in him. He wants a mattress on the floor. He usually gives in to me but not on this one.
I’ve got to admit it’s comfortable, and it helps my back, but getting up and out of this ‘floor bed’ in the morning is almost more than I can manage. Unless he gives me a push or a pull, I have to spin around on my knees and crawl out backwards. Also, it’s hard to make. I honestly don’t think Bert ever made a bed in his life. I need to show him how to make hospital-type corners that won’t come out, and then how to fold the top sheet over the covers. He thinks it’s all very amusing.
Because he stretches out in the evenings on the bed to read – says he can’t read or think in a chair – it’s usually a mess again before I climb in anyway. His idea of a great evening is slipping into his gray sweatsuit, then flopping on the bed with a copy of Stars and Stripes or the Herald Tribune and nibbling on some of those big, fat German pretzels while slugging down a beer or two.
Lots of times, Wills snuggles in beside him, and I have the house to myself. I’ll sit in the living-room and read something and pretend I’m Mom. Later, after Wills has fallen asleep, I’ll take him down the hall to the toilet, then to his own bedroom.
After I’ve tucked him in, most times I go back to our bed. Bert half wakes and softly explores all over me, mumbling and singing in his half-sleep. If I want to, I only need to show some interest and we’re off. If I’m tired or just not interested, it doesn’t take much, and his consciousness, or whatever it is, will slowly recede, and he’ll roll on his back and snore quietly.
When summer comes, Bert’s crazy about going to Greece. Danny and I’ve made a deal: I can take Wills with me to Europe, provided he stays with Danny through the summer. Actually, by the terms of the divorce, Danny could have stopped me from taking Wills out of the country at all.
Danny has a new job, a good one, selling stainless steel, and has married a very nice woman. I feel reasonably comfortable about Wills going off to California. The only thing that worries me is he’ll probably find himself all wrapped up in TV and TV dinners while he’s there. But as Bert says, ‘He’s Danny’s child as much as he’s yours. You just have to let go.’
It’s a teary goodbye at the airport. As soon as I put Wills on the plane, I telephone Danny to verify that he’ll be there at the airport in Los Angeles to pick him up. Danny can sometimes forget even the most important things. We split the cost of the fare.
So Bert and I take off for Greece, camping. I’ve always hated camping. We didn’t do much of it in our family. Dad said that during World War II he’d had all the camping he’ll ever need for the rest of his life. The idea of sleeping out on the ground in what he calls a ‘fart sack’ has no appeal to him.
I’d been camping with other kids in high school. They all lived in big houses with maids, and roughing it was fun for them. But in Paris, we lived in a small apartment, only 300 square feet, all five of us, which was already halfway to camping. Then, when we went to the mill, we had no electricity and needed to haul water from the well; it was freezing cold at Christmas and there was no way to wash your hair. I don’t look forward to camping at all. But Bert’s so excited by the idea I agree to go.
We drive all over Greece, camping in campgrounds, and it’s as bad as I expected. Then Bert sprouts the idea we must climb Mount Olympus.
‘Why do a crazy thing like that? It looks awfully high to me. We could get lost and never be found again.’
‘But, Kate, it’s the home of the gods. There are paths and trails all the way up. We could never be lost. If you get tired, I’ll carry you.’
I give in. Bert’s always so easy to live with except when he has one of his fixations, these goofball notions. Then he’s like someone possessed.
He carefully makes tight knapsacks for each of us, his about twice as big as mine. He checks my hiking boots and socks. I’d forgotten Bert’s a farm boy who knows how to handle himself in rough country. Maybe he wants me to go with him so he can show off.
At first, it isn’t so bad, and we sing as we walk along. Then it starts getting steeper. I want to turn back. The top is still far off. Also it’s beginning to feel cold, in the middle of July!
‘Come on, Kate, we’re more than halfway. Think of it. We might meet some of the gods; it’s the chance of a lifetime.’
‘You go ahead, Bert. I’ll wait here.’
‘Give me your hand, Kate. I’ll pull with each step.’
I give him my hand. We slug along for another half hour. Then I sit down on a rock. I look up to the top. We don’t seem to be any closer.
‘Honestly, Bert. I can’t make it. I’m not the athletic type. You go on and I’ll start back.’
‘Let’s
