Penthos and Me

           Penthos and Me

 

          Last night I dreamed that I stood on the steps of the Supreme Court, looking down at a flag-covered casket. I was paying my respects.

          From my left shoulder a voice said, “A Tzaddik.”

          I looked to my left, and there stood Penthos. “You again.”

          “I haven’t left.”

          I nodded. She has been my constant companion for years. Penthos, the daughter of Love and Loss, is goddess of Depressive Realism. She came to me when Sherri died. Since then she’s never been far away.

          “A Tzaddik,” Penthos repeated. “A just and righteous person.”

          I said, “It’s a pity to lose her now.”

          “What better time than now for a Tzaddik? She died on Rosh Hashana, the Jewish New Year. God granted her life for the whole of her last year.”

          “But Mourning,” I said, for that is what her name means, “I do not take religious poetry literally.”

          “But Gift-Of-God,” she replied, for that is what my first name means, “would you deny the reality of the gods, to a goddess?” The corners of her eyes crinkled in a gentle smile.

          “I am a skeptic. I demand proof of such speculations. Gods and spirits are metaphors, they’re poetry. And Grief,” I said, for that too is what her name means, “who are you to tell comforting fantasies?”

          “So you would be a philosopher? A lover of wisdom? But Bright-Stone,” she said, for that is what my last name means, “to love is not the same thing as to possess.”

The corners of my eyes crinkled in a return smile.

Penthos said, “Besides, you love poetic fantasy as much as you love wisdom. Would you deny the power of poetry?”

          I looked her up and down. Penthos was clad in grey. Sensible grey shoes, grey dress, grey blouse, grey gloves, grey face-mask. Her hair was grey, and so were the pupils of her eyes. All were as grey as ashes. Her face was lined and streaked with tears.

But her irises… they were wide, and black, and clear. I looked into those inky eyes… I looked aside.

          “No, I do not deny the power of poetry.”

          Clear-eyed Penthos said, “Would you see as I must see?” I nodded. “Then come with me.”

          She took my gloved hand in hers. We left the Tzaddik’s coffin. The next mourners stepped up to pay their respects.

          We walked together, hand in hand, grey-clad Grief and I. Her grasp was gentle, her voice was soft. We chatted about family; she, about her half-brothers Phobos and Deimos; I, about my wife Sherri.

          Penthos said, “Phobos and Deimos hide him from me.”

          “Him?”

          “The lord of loss and chaos. The hater and destroyer. That dangerous maniac. His own worst enemy.”

“Who’s that?”

“The thug with the rust-colored face.”

          “You mean…”

          “Yes, I mean Mars, god of imperial warfare.”

          “Oh, him! I thought you meant somebody else. But do go on.”

          “The god of armed aggression keeps Phobos and Deimos between himself and me. He fears me more than Phobos.”

          “Then he is a fool.”

“Like Phobos. He hates me more than Deimos.”

          “Then he is a scoundrel.”

“Like Deimos. They both give him bad advice. I give good advice, and sometimes he listens to me, but always too late.”

I asked, “Are you in time for me?”

          “That depends,” said Penthos. “Are you working? And I don’t mean are you laboring, I mean are you functioning?”

          “You’re never far from my thoughts, but I put on a brave face. I work, I spend, I play, I read, I write, I laugh. It helps.”  

          “What else helps?”

          I said, “When our daughter and I sorted through Sherri’s effects, we found an envelope, holding two thousand and sixty-nine dollars. I wondered why. Hannah explained that it was her mad money.”

          Penthos said, “Her emergency-escape cash?”

“Yes, a little bit to tide her over, and get her far away, in case I did her wrong. I’d never heard about mad money before.”

          Penthos said, “I have.”

          “So did my sister, when I asked her about it. But I’m a man.”

          “What do you think of this secret women’s custom?”

          “I don’t mind. I think it’s a sensible precaution. How wise of women to think of it! And there’s this: for twenty years she could have left me at any time. But she didn’t.”

          Clear-eyed Penthos said, “Then she must have loved you.”

          I nodded. “And that’s what helps. A year before she died, she told me that if she died first, then I must find love again.”

          “Have you obeyed her order?”

          “Not yet. I am not ready. The heart heals slowly.”

          We walked past a parking lot. People were lining up, six feet apart.

I said, “Look, they’re getting flu shots.”

Penthos said, “They guard themselves against the lesser plague.”

I said, “Look, they’re all wearing masks.”

Grey-clad Penthos said, “Now we are all superheros, now we are all spies, now we are all supervillains, guilty of the crime of life.”

          “I practice gratitude,” I said. “I am grateful that nobody denies the reality of influenza, and that today the sky is blue, rather than orange.”

“It’s the little things.”

“That’s what I’m reduced to.”

          Next to the parking lot was a playground. In it, masked children ran and shouted and played.

Ashen-eyed Penthos said, “There is so much that I do not want to understand; but this I do want to understand.”

          I said, “Life is nothing but trouble, yet people are for it.”

          There was a flagpole next to the playground. Penthos pointed to the flag and said, “I am coming to your country, you know. Big time.”

          “A Great Grief?”

          “In five stages. Denial, anger, bargaining, depression –”

          “- and acceptance?”

          Clear-eyed Penthos said, “And not just to your country. There’s Israel! Palestine! My people! I foresee that –”

          “Stop!” I cried. “Before you utter another word, first riddle me this! How do you make God guffaw?”

          Penthos raised an eyebrow.

          I said, “Prophesize!”

          The corners of her eyes crinkled in a smile. She squeezed my hand and said softly, “Point taken.”

          We walked on.

Grey-clad Penthos said, “How’s the wife?”

          I said, “Still dead. I wish she weren’t. How are you?”

          “Still immortal. I wish I weren’t.”

          “Would you be gone?

          “Would you be rid of me?”

          “Well…”

          We reached the end of the road. We turned to face each other.

          Clear-eyed Penthos said, “I have just one power. I can heal hearts. Here’s how.” She closed her eyes, sighed, then opened her disturbingly-clear eyes, and gazed into mine. “I dismiss you.”

          I said, “Huh? What d’you mean?”

          Penthos said, “I am ordering you to leave!”

          “W-what’s the matter?”

          “Don’t you get it? I’m dumping you!”

          “But, but why? Wha’d I do?”

          “It’s not you, it’s me!”

“But – ”

Penthos yelled, “You must not love me! Eventually I’m bad for you! For your own selfish good, you must go!”

“But then you’ll be miserable!”

“That’s who I am! I am not the girl for you. Another one is!”

“But – who?”

“O you wise fool, I pity and envy the Lady I’m sending you to! What you need is another goddess, with eyes as grey and clear as mine!”

“You know her?”

“We see eye to eye, but she never has much time for me. She’s stronger than I am, and crueler. I can’t help you, but she can, for she wins her fights. Her eyes are like ashes, but her heart is like fire. She goes everywhere clad in armor.”

“You mean… Athena?”

“Goddess of wisdom! Mistress of strategy! Defender of civilization! Seek her, you would-be wisdom-lover! Love her!”

          “But will she love me back?”

          “Love her either way! So go! Now! You still have a choice!”

“What choice?”

“Wisdom,” said Grief, “or Me!”

          That was when I woke up.