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Novels by Mary Marcus
New on the Blog
Nia
My mother-in-law, whom my son called Nia, was buried eleven years ago today, on Labor Day, in the family plot in Queens, one I used in the novel I just finished. It’s an older Jewish graveyard, impossible now to get into, one with a fancy wrought iron gate. The best plots are at the top of the hill with the views—why should the real estate of the dead be any different than the real estate of the living? As you ascend the hill, the burial plots have the names of the big department stores in New York: Macy’s, Gimbels, Saks, and indeed the neoclassical grave markers, look like little department stores. Something I noticed when the limo was going up the hill. I used this too in the novel I just finished. Nia died the day the levee burst in New Orleans. While we were making funeral arrangements in Santa Monica before flying to New York, then Secretary Rice was seen buying shoes at Saks in New York, and New Orleans was sinking into the water. It happened very quickly and unexpectedly. Both the drowning of New Orleans and the drowning of my mother-in-law in East Hampton. Nia had houseguests for the long weekend. She had spoken to my husband on a Thursday morning about some business matter, and mentioned she was going to the beach with her guests. Thirty minutes later she swam out, and the coroner guesses had a heart attack, and minutes later, her body was seen floating in the grey green waters of Louse Point: her favorite place to swim. Someone fished her out, someone...
Farewell Dear Masha
My dear furry friend Masha recently died. I loved her dearly and used to babysit her. Farewell Masha, may there be lots of green, shady areas to enjoy where you are....Where There’s A Will…
I have finally, I hope, convinced my husband to make a will. We’ve gotten as far as lawyers conferences and the list. Men, I’ve learned, are far more resistant than women to making wills. Our own lawyer didn’t make one he confessed, until he had a heart attack. I can think of all sorts of reasons why this is true. Women used to die in droves in childbirth not all that long ago. We are usually the caretakers of the ill and the dying. Not to mention the young and the helpless. We are used to the idea of death, vulnerability, and life on the brink– ours and everyone else’s. At least that’s what I’m guessing. I left what money I have and what money I might make in the future should some brilliant person decide to make a movie out of one of my books, to my son. That’s a no brainer. I left my wooden statue of Jesus to my shrink who likes folk art, an angel to another friend who has always wanted it; some jewelry and other things to my niece and her daughter. Henry if he’s still alive and there’s no one to take care of him goes to Lupe, my great friend and his dog nanny who lives around the corner from us in LA. I also left a hunk of cash to take care of him. And EEEK if all of us die, I left my hunk to yet another friend whose name I won’t mention because she’ll be embarrassed. Pull the plug. That’s the main message of my last wishes. Give my son my money and pull the plug. This is also, on inquiring, something women almost always say they...
The New Me
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