January 12, 2021
The Tribute
I received a very nice note from my friend Allisa Foxman. “My mom is loving your books.” Allisa’s mom, Ellinor Foxman, was a widow who lived in London, England. I had signed some copies for her and Allisa had dutifully mailed them off. I was pleased, chuffed as the Brits would say, but a little surprised Ellinor that enjoyed my stories because I viewed her as a very proper, tea at 4:00 on good china, conservative Englishwoman and the writing, in addition to being heavily sprinkled with expletives could, at times, be a little juvenile. The Bubbe Meise, for example, received its share of quite harsh reviews from readers who, I could only assume, were expecting a collection of Jewish grandmother fables and folktales and not vodka and curse word laden exploits and hijinks of men who just never grew up.
Of course, it was also very possible they just thought the writing, much like the one in this piece, was shit.
Be that as it may have been, I was either selling Ellinor Foxman short, or selling myself short or, the most likely of the three, both Ellinor and Allisa Foxman were being kind and generous as English ladies are wont to be. So I took the compliment in good graces and thanked her.
“She especially enjoyed the stories about your family.”
“Thanks!”
Good old Ellinor Foxman was making my day.
“She was really moved by the tributes to your mother and to your brother’s mother-in-law.”
That was nice. It was a view shared by others. I thought those pieces were pretty good but, most of all, they were a welcome respite from stories which made me look like a fool, a dick, or both.
And this would have been a very positive and pleasant exchange were it not for the fact Allisa went on to say:
“She wants you to write her a tribute.”
“OMG,” I said. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know she was sick.”
“She’s not,” replied Allisa.
“She’s not?”
“Fit as a fiddle. Will likely outlive us both.”
“So I don’t understand.”
“Take it as a huge compliment. Although, if you must know, I am taking it as a huge insult.”
“Yes. I would imagine.”
“It’s fine. It is her usual passive aggressive behaviour. I’m just sorry you got caught in the middle of it.”
“Well geez.”
“She says you have a sort of panache.”
“Panache?”
“Yes.”
“Did you know panache is a word the English stole from the French but that the French actually don’t use any more?”
“What?”
“Yes,” I continued. This by the way was a good example of the kind of stuff that infiltrates my stories and makes people think I am a fool, a dick, or both. “Interestingly, the French don’t even use rsvp, Répondez s’il vous plait, any more.”
“What are going on about?”
“Sorry. I just find it interesting.”
“I assure you it’s not,” said Allisa.
“I have one more.”
“For the love of god!”
“It’s a good one.”
It was a good one. Also, I have always wanted to include it in one of my stories but could never quite fit it in and, truth be told, am not entirely sure what it means.
“Ok. Go on then.”
“Legerdemain.”
“It’s a good word,” she agreed “Sleight of hand. Deception. Comes up in crosswords from time to time.”
“Very impressive,” I said.
Allisa did four crosswords a day. It took me the better part of the weekend to finish the Globe and Mail’s Saturday crossword.
“Apparently not impressive enough to write a eulogy.”
“Well, you are clever. You just don’t have any panache. Tell Ellinor I am very flattered but, you know, uh no.”
“No is not an option. I already told her it would be your pleasure.”
“You did?”
“Yes.”
“I barely know your mother. We have met once. We literally,” (Allisa hates people who say literally but mean figuratively but this time literally was the correct English usage), spoke about the weather for twenty minutes.”
“I know. I was there.”
“Ok then.”
“Ok then. It would be your pleasure. She won’t be there. Nobody will be the wiser.”
I thought about it. She was right. It would cost me nothing to say yes. Besides, it was probably my best ever review.
And so I said yes.
It would be my pleasure.
But, it turned out, it would not.
While there is much to like about the efficiency and immediacy of texting as a means of communication, it is generally widely accepted that, despite the plethora of emojis available to use in order to streamline and define thoughts and emotions, or perhaps because of them, it is a little lacking when it comes to nuance.
On the other hand, sometimes it is pretty damn clear.
So when Allisa texted me saying “Please don’t hate me” followed by a chorus line of what I assumed to be apologetic emojis, I knew it could not be good.
“I could not possibly hate you,” I replied, although crossing my fingers in order to keep my options open.
“My mother wants a preview.”
“Your mother wants a preview?”
“Yes.”
“What does your mother want a preview of?”
“The tribute,”
“The tribute?”
“Yes.”
“What tribute?”
“Her tribute.”
With someone else I might have now said ‘who is on first’ but in addition to being from the United Kingdom Alissa also hated sports. So instead I said:
“Oh.”
“Yes.”
“She is still well?”
“She has taken up both yoga and pilates.”
“You explained to her the usual and accepted sequence of events leading up to a tribute?”
“I did.”
“And?”
“She had a long reply. The words ungrateful daughter made numerous appearances.”
“I see.”
“So can you maybe whip something up so I can appease her.”
“Whip something up?”
“Yes.”
“It’s not a meringue,” I said. “I can’t just whip something up.”
I knew Allisa now wanted to say something about the quality of my writing and the time I usually took to come up with a story but she knew I was doing her a favor so she clammed up. Instead she said:
“We all love your meringues.”
“Look,” I said, “I am happy to go along with the charade just to keep your mom off your back but I’m not going to start writing a tribute while she is still alive. It is all a little too macabre for me.”
Macabre. Another word I have been trying to slip into a story. I was now 2 for 2.
“The New York Times has eulogies prepared for hundreds of politicians and celebrities,” argued Alissa. “Treat it as a journalism assignment.”
“Have you lost your mind?”
“It doesn’t need to be long. Just a paragraph. That will stave her off for a while.”
“Just a paragraph.”
“Yes. You would be doing me a huge favor.”
“It’s not going to creep you out?”
“Absolutely not. It will give her some peace of mind. Believe me. She is going to be thrilled.”
“One paragraph?”
“Yes please.”
“I don’t want to be going back and forth with your mother on this. I am going to write it up and I will send it to her and then I am done.”
“Ok.”
“No edits.”
“Ok.”
“No notes.”
“Ok.”
“Macabre,” I said again.
Then I hung up.
Alissa was right about one thing. I whipped it up. Still, I thought it was pretty good.
For many years, I told the story of the time my friend Alissa Foxman invited me to the Windsor Arms for afternoon tea in order to meet her mother Elinor, and was two hours late - leaving me to fend for myself. It is meant to be a disaster story. Laying blame at the feet of Alissa for having put me in such a situation. An awkward, silence-filled situation. But it wasn’t. And every time I told it, I was reminded again that, in truth, the two hours flew by. That Elinor Foxman regaled me with stories of her youth, with gossip from her club, and with salacious tales of her friends and foes. That she displayed the grace, wit, and elegance which proved to be her hallmarks. That when Alissa finally showed up, apologizing profusely, I was actually sorry to see her arrive. So I stopped telling it. After all, what good is a story of a perfectly pleasant afternoon. I am only recounting now because Alissa just told me her mom passed away peacefully in her sleep last night. I only met her that one time. But I don’t think I will ever have afternoon tea again without remembering her and that day. She will be missed.
The End
I emailed it to Alissa. Within minutes, I received an email back thanking me. It was, she said, a beautiful tribute.
Two minutes later she sent me a text.
“Please don’t hate me.”
“What now?”
“I know you said no edits but I had to make a change.”
“Ok. What didn’t you like?”
“I loved it all but I changed the hotel to the Four Seasons.”
I said “Ok. Fine. But why?”
“Because,” replied Alissa, “my mother wouldn’t be caught dead at the Windsor Arms.”
The end.