Oscar is Dead (2010)
Oscar is dead. He is gone. "He" is no more. "He" is not.
Al, his friend of many years, assured us that Oscar is in a better place. I am sitting at the beach, watching pelicans as they swarm overhead, flashing white on this side of their broad aerial circle, then black on that side as if on cue for the tourists' cameras. I am wondering where a better place might be.
Oscar had talked about an afterlife, and when I admitted my skeptical nature --- that "I" hadn't "been" for the eons before 1947 so I figured that "I" wouldn't "be" for the eons to follow my death --- he'd asked how I could ever think my big personality, as he called it, would just disappear. I had no answer.
Looking out over the sand and bright water, I consider that "better place." Oscar appears on a boat and, of course, he has a beer in his hand, and it is not his first. Ismael, his deaf-mute assistant, is with him, and they reel in huge fish, one after another. There is a big cooler of iced beer that, no matter how much Oscar drinks, never empties. He can complain and gripe and fuss as much as he wants, and Ismael, unhearing, will never take offense and will always be his friend.
His blood pressure remains low as does his blood sugar level. His spleen is a normal size. There is no spot on his lung. His white cells do not mysteriously over-produce, and the hemorrhaging blotches have disappeared from his skin. He plans a huge fish-fry at sunset, and all the neighbors will come or, better yet, he will cook at the wharf for the poor local fishermen who wait and wait for customers. Charlotte will have baked sheet cakes, and Oscar will be loved as the generous person that he is.
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When Daddy died, I reverted to the childish notion of heaven, imagining his being welcomed by the friends who'd left before him: Jennings and Ross, brothers Ed and Roger. They sit at a table telling stories and jokes, recalling old times and laughing, laughing until they have to wipe their eyes and then sit in silence a while.
Mother, nearing ninety, is still hearty, but all her years have readied me for her (my) heaven. She will approach the gate slowly, absorbing every detail, how the stone wall is put together and what flowers are blooming in front of it, almost but not quite as glorious as her own earthly gardens. There are some flaws, she'll notice, some pearls needing a polish, and this is what she is thinking so that when Daddy greets her --- so excited, he's been waiting so long, with her sister and brothers close behind him --- the first thing she says is that someone should get busy and make things perfect.
Ray's heaven is easy: there is a slab of concrete, perfectly poured, and an endless supply of building materials. The tools are arranged in a rational way and they are always sharp, in good repair, with batteries fully charged. He builds at a regular pace without sharing his vision, and people are always surprised at the simple beauty and necessity of his structure. When it is finished, another smooth concrete floor miraculously appears so, into infinity, his heaven keeps improving. His body is forever thirty-eight years old, broad and muscular, and his feet don't hurt, and he doesn't wake up each day with a headache. If it is really heaven, I will be waiting for him after a day's work with a single beer and a plate of color-balanced food, salmon and asparagus. He will make the perfect salad since I will have remembered to pick up the feta cheese. In heaven, one's memory is good.
My heaven is a bookstore; no, a library with all the books I've intended to read displayed covers-out on the shelves. There will be comfortable chairs and sofas, desks with papers of all sorts, pens and pencils, typewriters and computers. There will be endless free offerings of hot coffee and cool hibiscus water, and maybe I will be drinking wine again, and and a glass will appear. There will be a soundtrack with Motown hits and songs by the young Bruce, my anthem, Born to Run, and the young Billy Joel --- Go ahead with your own life and leave me alone. Nina Simone will sing I don't want him, and I will, too, and of course, the Beatles are there just for fun. No one will watch as I dance. May I always be thirty-two?
A wall of windows opens up onto a patio that overlooks an empty beach on any sea, the Cortez being fine enough. All other exits take me into a new neighborhood each time I leave. My foot won't hurt as I walk and walk and look and look, exploring, and my camera will never say Batteries Exhausted. Back inside there will be a big screen that shows projected moments from my life: There I am at twenty in a mini-skirted wedding dress, and then holding baby Jen and promising to protect her from all hurt, I was so young and hopeful. Older, I am standing on a windy hilltop overlooking all of Oaxaca; I am dancing with the bare-breasted tribal women along the Amazon; I am happily lost in Venice. And finally I appear with Ray, again and again, always with Ray as we make one house and then another and another. Let me picture this heaven and live in it now.
Oscar is dead.
