Sally Koslow - The Late, Lamented Molly Marx

A LSO BY S ALLY K OSLOW

Little Pink Slips

To Rob, Jed, and Rory

The true mystery of the world is the visible,
not the invisible.

O SCAR W ILDE

hen I imagined my funeral, this wasnt what I had in mind. First of all, I hoped I would be old, a stately ninetysomething whod earned the right to be called elegant; a woman with an intimate circle of loved ones fanned out in front of her, their tender sorrow connecting them like lace.

I definitely hoped to be in a far more beautiful placea stone chapel by the sea, perhaps, with pounding purple-gray waves drowning out mourners sobs. For no apparent reasonIm not even Scottish-there would be wailing bagpipes, men in Campbell tartan, and charmingly reserved grandchildren, or even great-grandchildren, coaxed into reciting their own sweet poetry. I dont know where the childrens red curls come from, since my hair is chemically enhanced blond and straight as a ruler. The bereavedincredibly, those weepy old souls are my own kidsdab away tears with linen handkerchiefs, though on every other occasion they have used only tissues. The service takes place shortly before sunset in air fragrant with lilacs. Spring. At least where I grew up, in the Chicago suburbs, thats what lilacs signify: the end of a long winter, life beginning anew.

I didnt expect to be here, in a cavernous, dimly lit Manhattan synagogue. I didnt expect to be surrounded by at least four hundred people, a good three hundred of whom I dont recall talking to even once. Most of all, I didnt expect to be young. Well, maybe some people dont think thirty-five is young, but I do. Its far too young to die, because while my story isnt quite at the beginning, it isnt at the end, either. Except that it is.

Shes dead, all those bodies in the pews must be thinking. Depressing. On that last count, they would be wrong. In fact, if the congregation knew my whole storyand I hope they will, eventually, because I need people on my side, not on his, and especially not on hersit would be clear that I, Molly Divine Marx, have not lost my joie de vivre. On that point, I speak the truth.

She would be here if she could, he says. She would be here if she could. Thats Rabbi Strauss Sherman, pontificating over to my right. I wish he were the twinkly junior rabbi whose adult ed classes I kept telling myself I should take, not that I amwaskeen on the music of Jews in Uganda. But the speaker is the senior rabbi, the one who says everything twice, like an echo, though it stopped short of being profound the first time. I suppose I should get off on the fact that hes the big-shot rabbi invited to homes of people who contribute gigabucks and, thus, rate succulent, white-meat honors on holidays. I wonder if Barry, my husband, made sure Rabbi S.S. spoke today just to stick it to me, since whenever he gave a sermon Id squirm and mutter, Kill me now. Id hate to think God decided on payback.

I realize I am not being kind about either Rabbi S.S. or the heartsick husband. Barrys sizable schnozz is chapped from crying, and I caught more than a few people noticing as he discreetly swiped his nose on the sleeve of his black suit, soft worsted in a fine cut. Armani? theyre wondering. Not a chance. It is a close facsimile purchased at an outlet center near Milan, but if they took it for Armani, Barry would be glad. That was the general idea.

Perhaps some women in the pews wonder what Im dressed in. The casket is closedtalk about a bad hair daybut I am being buried in a red dress. Okay, its more of a burgundy, but one thing thats putting a smile on my face (only metaphorically, unfortunately) is that for all eternity I will get to wear this dress, which cost way too much, even 40 percent off at Barneys, where I rarely shop because its generally a rip-off. Im sure if it had been up to my mother-in-law, the enchanting Kitty Katz, today I would have been stuffed into a button-down shirt and pleated pants that made me look like a sumo wrestler, but my sister, Lucy, intervened. Lucy and I have had our moments, but she would understand how psyched I was to be wearing the dress to a Valentines party this coming Saturday.

Wherever it is Im off to, I hope they notice the shoesblack satin, terrifyingly high slingbacks, with excellent toe cleavage. I only wore them once, those shoes, and that night Barry and I barely left the dance floor. When we shimmied and whirled, it was almost like sex: we became the couple people thought we were. The Dr. and Mrs. Marx I, at least, wanted us to be. I loved watching Barry move his runners body in that subtle but provocative way of his, and how he nestled his hand on the small of my back, then cupped my butt for the whole world to see. Its a pity we couldnt have merengued through life as if it were one endless Fred and Ginger movie.

Will there be dancing where Im headed? I digress. I do that. Drove Barry nuts.

Our dear Molly Marx, she would be here if she could, Rabbi S.S. is saying. That makes three. The circumstances of her death may be mysterious, but it is not for us to judge. It is not for us to judge.

As soon as someone tells you not to judge, you do. Everyone in this chilly sanctuary is judgingboth Barry and me. I can hear it all, whats in peoples heads as well as on their lips.

Foul play.

Killed herself.

Jealous boyfriend.

She had a boyfriend? That mouse?

You have it all wrong. He had a girlfriend.

If its suicide, then why the ginormous funeral?

I hear a smug tone. For Jews, with a suicide its the burial place that gets questioned, not the funeral.

He wont be single for six months.

Especially with the little girl.

Yes, there is a child. Annabel Divine Marx, almost four, black velvet dress, patent leather Mary Janes. My Annie-belle is clutching Alfred the bunny, and the look on her face could make Hitler weep. Right now, I will not allow myself the luxury of thinking about my baby, who wonders where her mommy is and when this nasty dream will end. If I could be alive for five more minutes, they would be spent memorizing Annabels heartbeat and synchronizing it with my own, tracing the bones in her birdlike shoulders, stroking the creamy softness of her skin. I will always be Annabels mother. My mantra.

People can call me anything, but in the mommy department, there was never a moment when I wasnt trying to do the right thing. I attempted to live for my childnot through her, for her. I tried. I really did. I never would have abandoned Annabel. Nothing ever mattered more to me than my unconditional love for her, a long, unbroken line that continues even now. The best compliment I ever got was from Barry when he said simply, a few weeks after Annabel was born, Molly, you get motherhood. You really do.

Our dear Molly, our lovely Molly, the rabbi is saying. She was so many things. To our grieving Barrya trustee of this very institution-she was a beloved wife of almost seven years, a woman with her whole life ahead of her. To Annabel, she was Mommy, tender, devoted. To her parents, Claire and Daniel Divine, she was a cherished daughter, and to Lucy Divine, she was an adored twin sister, absolutely adored. To her colleagues, she was a Rabbi S.S. refers to his notes. A decorating editor at a magazine.