For Helene

If Helene and Leo did not arrive at our doorstep for one of our lunches at least fifteen minutes before the appointed hour, Gil and I would admonish her for being “late.” This became our communal shared joke because she was so punctual, so exact, and she did not disappoint. Moreover, nothing got by her.  I cannot imagine a world without Helene taking off her coat in my living room while handing me a book and inquiring if the new doorman actually learned our names yet as he seemed to have waved them on without ringing up. . . .

We met almost forty years ago as new English teachers at Bronx Science, two perfect alter egos awash in a sea of intellectual arrogance; for that first semester we both hid out in the teacher’s lounge talking books, philosophy, relationships, people, our own kids, life, books. As punctual as she was, so unfashionably late I remained; her Delaney book held orderly pages that lay flat and clear and calm, unimpeded with notices and loose cards- she could find things if she needed to; mine displayed the remnants of a tornado, wisps if not  entire sheaves of paper sticking out from every end of a battered, red plastic cover; her grading book was concise, neat, readable, mine a series of smudges and crossings out. She favored Burberry raincoats in solid, primary colors and had a propensity for logic while I occasionally experimented with things fuchsia if not speckled altogether, only to regret it later. And in fact it is due to these very differences I cannot state the exact year or date we met, though I know it was around 1978 but will not swear to it, lest she hear me.

Helene’s union with Leo was a long and happy one; he was my beloved teacher as a child; now I had the marvelous Helene as newfound sister. These two were in sync in so many ways, and they lasted, through time; together the two of them fielded me through two marriages and the occasional disaster in between. You might say Helene appeared somewhat traditional in lifestyle and demeanor, and yet she knew more about real life than many self-styled worldly friends; she had a most unconventional mind and unique sensibility,  a sharp sense of humor and a wicked wit. I once asked her how she managed to get to the heart of things so perceptively and still lead such a time-honored, seemingly conventional and decorous existence (you see, she had this amazing ability to cut through the crap); without skipping a beat; she quickly replied, I read a lot.

And so she did. She was the archetypal avid reader and book swallower, a published critic and fast thinker. A true aficionado of all things literary. She also was the most ardent fan, astute analyst, and devoted grammar checker of my own weekly fiction blog, and if I did not have that installment posted each Friday by 9:00 a.m. there was sure to be an email in my inbox; if this laxity dared stretch into the 10:00 a.m. realm, a phone call was in order, asking if all was OK.

And no, all is not OK, because I cannot picture a world without her. She adored her family. She especially abhorred academic pedantry and phoniness of every stripe and loved the metaphysical beauty and truthful simplicity of Emily Dickinson’s poetry. And so some years ago when grappling with a particularly annoying grad course in textual criticism- led by a particularly annoying, pedantic prof- as a means of surviving it I composed the following sonnet, with Helene very much in mind and her voice in my ear; because to a great extent, she lived what she believed, not what she was supposed to believe, and that is inspiring. So I will post this on time Helene, and we will miss you.

Final Edition

For Helene Benardo

By M. Reinhardt

I took a course in textual critique-

the prof? He put me in a state of pique.

A Harvard lad with pencil very thin,

He tossed my hopes into the rubbish bin.

My topic was the Venerable Emily,

just 16 lines of simple poetry.

The task? As sublime as a flock of birds,

a mere 38,000 succinct words.

Was she a metaphysic or a loon?

A seer or a feministic goon?

But why was her behavior so damn odd?

And what about ol’ Mabel Loomis Todd?

On so many levels did I perceive her,

It finally seemed much easi’r just to be her.