37
Aunt Fanny
Filled A Void
BY ROBERTA GRAFF
Special to The Jewish News
W
e adopted Aunt Fanny
when our parents aban-
doned us by retiring to
Florida. That was just
about the time we forgave them for
all their good intentions. They prom-
ised to visit often but winter was
cold, spring was treacherous,
autumn was changeable and in
summer the children were in camp.
So except for, that frantic week be- '
tween Christmas and New Year's
when we made the trip south, we
were parentless. Aunt Fanny, who
could not afford the luxury of a
Miami condo, was their replacement.
The relationship proved mutu-
ally satisfying. We had someone to
worry about us, and she had some-
one to complain to. I would call her
at 9 o'clock every Monday morning
and spend the better part of an hour
listening to tales of a landlord who
wanted a rent increase, a super who
didn't give enough heat and
neighbors who had "some nerve." I,
in turn would ivarantee her that my
husband, children and the folks in
Florida were all well. Only if it were
10 o'clock and I had not yet called
would she call me. After I swore that
no one was ill, she would conclude
the conversation in less than five
minutes, reminding me it was long
distance.
Aunt Fanny joined us for every
holiday. She would take the Long Is-
land Rail Road and we would pick
her up at the station. She always
carried two shopping bags and an
umbrella. In one was extra shoes, a
sweater and a rain bonnet. In the
other, a half-pound box of cookies
and a frying pan or casserole she
had received from the bank as a gift.
They were for us. Whatever the oc-
casion, she secretly slipped the
childred crumpled $5 bills. They pro-
tested; she insisted; they accepted.
• After each visit, Aunt Fanny
would ask, "So when are you coming
by me?" We would argue: It's too
much trouble, we're too many
people, we don't want you to bother.
When in reality the inability to
park, the intense heat in her apart-
ment and the fact that she was a
terrible cook were, the real reasons
CrIF1P
C1IC
•
.or
Befriending this surrogate
mother had implications
beyond mere friendship.
FICTION
we ducked the invitation. Then we
were threatened!
"If you don't come, by me, I'll
never come by you again," she de-
clared one Monday morning. We
were expected at 6 o'clock that Fri-
day night. After circling the block a
dozen or so times we found a park-
ing spot by a trash dumpster.
"If they come for the garbage
we'll be here forever," said my hus-
band as we tracked into the build-
ing. •
Once in the lobby we buzzed the
intercom, identified ourselves and
were beeped in. As we walked down
the hall to Aunt Fanny's apartment,
we heard the clicking of peepholes.
Before we rang the bell, the door
was opened. "What took so long? she
asked. "I was worried." It was only
6:10. "Some nerve," she said, motion-
ing toward her neighbors' raised
peepholes.
"Come eat before it gets cold,"
Aunt Fanny demanded. Nothing
could possibly get cold in that
kitchen. It was easily 90 degrees. We
were served stuffed cabbage, fried
cabbage, boiled cabbage, chicken, pot
roast, meatballs, sour pickles, kasha
and sweet wine in jelly glasses. The
oilcloth-covered table groaned. We
groaned. The doorbell rang. Three
very small women came into the
kitchen. They leaned against the
yellow canaries on the wallpaper
and admired us while we ate. They
heard about us from Aunt Fanny,
they knew we were coming and they
wanted to meet us. They watched us
until tea and cake was served.
"Some nerve," Aunt Fanny mumbled
when they finally left. We never did
get their names.
"How are you today," I asked
one Monday morning at 9 o'clock.
"Not so good," Aunt Fanny an-
swered. "It's my plumbing."
"Call the super," I said.
"No, not the apartment's, mine.
I'm going to the doctor."
It was Tuesday, I called anyway.
"What did the doctor say? I asked.
"I'm going to the hospital tomor-
row. He just wants to take some
tests. I can come home the next
day."
`I'll pick you up and take you
home."
"No," she protested.
"Yes," I insisted.
I arrived at the hospital at noon.
The lady at the reception desk
checked her list and her expression
changed.
• "You'll have to contact the fam-
ily,", she said and turned away.
"But I am the family," I an-
swered.
"One moment," and she disap-
peared.
A starched looking nurse came
toward me. "I'm terribly sorry-she
died this morning.. She had a mas-
sive coronary. Shall I call someone
for you?" I shook my head, stood
there a moment, then left. I drove
from the hospital with only my
thoughts for company.
My husband was home when I
walked in. "Aunt Fanny died," I
whispered. .
"I know," he answered. "I called
the hospital."
"She had some nerve," I said
and burst into tears. ❑
Roberta Graff is a writer in Woodmere,
N.Y.