Collected Short Stories: Volume III

by Barry Rachin

  und nichter ist a Yid.

  Geht a Yid

  in Bet Hamikdash arein,

  und habt er dort a kaddusha...

  The Christians are all drunkards

  and the Jews are all sober.

  The Jews go to the Synagogue

  and say their prayers,

  while the Christians …

  As he grew older, Elliot could not remember the final verse. It was lost to him along with his grandmother's cock-eyed, superstitious logic and secret recipe for strudel. But he imagined that the Christians acted much like the Cossacks who had terrorized his not-so-distant relatives - running amok, raping, pillaging, and murdering righteous Jews.

  If Grandma Esther were alive and knew Elliot was attending a poetry reading with the chiropractor’s assistant, an idol-worshipping shiksa and veritable heathen, she would have recited the Prayer for the Dead and sent the Golem, medieval Jewry's version of the Frankenstein monster, to hunt Elliot Slotnick down and tear him limb from repulsive limb.

  Marilyn Moneghan. That was the woman’s name. She reminded Elliot of another Marilyn - the one who, in the early 60's, was romantically linked with President Kennedy - not so much in face but in her generous bosom and milk-white, translucent skin. The jutting breasts and immaculate, baby-soft skin were right up there with those of her glamorous, Hollywood namesake.

  On the night of the poetry reading, Elliot drove cross town to a tidy, two story tenement in the working-class, Silver Lake district. When he arrived at the apartment, Marilyn opened the door and stepped out onto the landing. "There's a problem," she said in a pinched tone.

  She wore a fashionable, print dress with low heels and a pair of teardrop, pearl earrings. The effect was stunning. "My daughter is giving me fits. She doesn't want to stay home alone."

  "Bring her along, then."

  "You're sure it's all right?"

  "It's not unusual for people to bring children."

  "I'll be just a minute." Marilyn disappeared back into the apartment. A moment later, she reemerged with a young girl, a physically underdeveloped version of the mother but with a taciturn expression. "Chrissy, this is Mr. Slotnick." The girl, who pushed her lips out in a petulant scowl, glanced vaguely in Elliot's direction while taking special precaution not to make direct eye contact or alter her expression. She was wearing a Black Sabbath T-shirt and jeans with a tear in one knee. "Should I have her change into something more formal?"

  "No, she looks just fine."

  "About tonight’s reading," Elliot said. "Gregory Stiles is something of a legendary figure among the West Coast, beat poets." Marilyn was sitting next to him in the front seat with her hands folded neatly in her lap. Chrissy was slouched down in the back at such an angle that Elliot could not locate her in the rear view mirror. "In the mid-sixties he bummed around the Bay Area, working odd jobs and writing some amazingly good poetry - mostly about his childhood." Elliot turned onto Broadway heading east toward the downtown area. It was already quite dark out. They passed a number of tall buildings with intricately carved, gingerbread trim in Victorian style.

  Gregory Stiles was considered one of the young lions, a literary prodigy, whose first book of poems, a small collection of no more than sixty pages, was noteworthy for, among other things, its simple, uncluttered language. There was at least a dozen new books over the next ten years, and the author became a fixture at writing seminars and college workshops throughout the country. Unfortunately, somewhere along the way from journeyman poet to literary lion, the wellspring of Gregory Stiles' creative juices ran dry; his writing lost much of its crispness and verve. In his prime, the man had written some first rate poetry; if the material which followed didn't quite measure up, Elliot saw no reason to share this unpleasant detail with the woman sitting next to him.

  The poetry reading was billed as a retrospective, but for some reason Gregory - a thinly elegant man with bifocals and a thick head of unkempt, silver hair - chose to open with ten poems from his most recent publication. He read with a renewed passion and sincerity that caught many of the listeners off guard and left the audience hanging on every poignant image and jaggedly sculpted verse. A half hour into the reading, the author shifted to a work-in-progress, a series of haiku-style, shorter poems which, while not as interesting as the earlier material, was still quite remarkable.

  On the ride home, Elliot glanced at Marilyn. Again, her hands were folded demurely in her lap, a contented smile coloring her lips. Chrissy had moved to the front seat wedged between her mother and the window. The scowl was gone, replaced by an expressionless, neutral mask

  When they reached the apartment, Chrissy nodded, almost but not quite cordially, and vanished into the apartment. "Thank you so much, Elliot," Marilyn said. "I can't remember when I've had such a wonderful time." She leaned forward, cocked her head to one side and kissed Elliot full on the lips. The kiss was generous and lingering; she was in no hurry to give it up. And yet, the gesture was perfectly discrete.

  Elliot's first wife, Nadine, had been an effusively wet and sloppy kisser, one might even say an hysterical kisser. Even before their marriage, her emotions careened haphazardly all over the place. She favored the shotgun approach to sexual bonding, spraying her affection (and her rage) like buckshot pellets. Marilyn Moneghan’s approach was totally focused and deliberate - like a hunter with a single-shot, high-powered rifle. There was nothing random or arbitrary about the woman.

  The following Saturday, Elliot took Marilyn on an outing to Horseneck Beach. Before they left, she asked Elliot to stop at her church. The request caught Elliot off guard. But then, so many unusual things had happened in recent days that he simply shrugged and replied, "Yes, of course," as though it was the most ordinary thing to do.

  At Saint Mary's, Elliot followed her up the stone stairs and waited in the foyer as Marilyn lit a candle and knelt

  briefly in prayer. The church smelled of incense and musty hymnals. In an alcove was a statue of the Virgin Mary, one hand poised gracefully over her heart, the other extended in a supplicating gesture. Elliot, who associated statues of any kind - even plastic lawn ornaments - with idol worship, moved several feet to the right so that he was no longer directly in front of the Holy Mother. When Marilyn finished her petition, she crossed herself and came out to join him.

  "You pray to the statues?" Elliot indicated a row of decorative, plaster images - apostles, angels and saints - that lined the far wall of the church.

  "I pray through, not to them," she corrected. Standing there in the entry of the church with her thin, chiseled lips and high cheek bones, there was a pristine, almost spiritual elegance about her. "I ask the Holy Mother to intercede for me and grant my prayers."

  Elliot had studied Jewish law: the Talmud, Shulchan Aruch, Maimonides' Guide for the Perplexed, the Torah and its various commentaries - even some of the esoteric, otherworldly works of the Hassidim - but his approach to God was more pragmatic than devotional.

  Marilyn dipped her fingers in a porcelain bowl of holy water and touched her hand to her forehead. "Do you believe in prayer?"

  "Half-heartedly," Elliot replied. "I’ve never been terribly sure that God hears my prayers or cares enough to act on them."

  "Sounds more like a politician than a supreme being."

  In lieu of a formal response, Elliot shrugged.

  "I’ve been having some pain in my hip," Marilyn said, turning the waistband of her skirt inside out to reveal a small patch of red velvet no bigger than a postage stamp, which had been attached to the fabric with a small safety pin. "My mother gave me this piece of cloth. She brought it back from a pilgrimage to a shrine in Southern France." She let go of the waistband and the cloth disappeared back under her skirt.

  "It’s going to cure your hip?"

  "Certainly can’t hurt."

  "And if the pain doesn’t go away?"

  "I’ll let Dr. Edwards have a crack at it."

  Elliot scratched his ear and stared at the s
tatue of the Madonna. The benevolent, enlightened eyes and outstretched hand seemed less imposing. "You believe that silly little piece of cloth can heal your hip?"

  "It doesn’t matter what I think," she replied, ignoring his sarcasm. "My mother believes in the miraculous powers of the cloth." She showed him the red velvet patch again. "It was cut from a much larger piece of material that was blessed and touched to the base of the shrine. The cloth has special, healing powers." Though she said this with childlike innocence, there was nothing frivolous or naive in her demeanor.

  He reached out and grabbed her right hand and studied the long, slender fingers with the pale red nails. "When you crossed yourself after saying your prayers, your hands were so lovely." He released his grip, and they headed back in the direction of the car. Elliot picked up Route 195 East a short distance outside of the city and, a half hour later, crossed over the Mount Hope Bay. When they reached Fall River, they turned south on Route 88 and rode the highway straight to the ocean.

  They had been dating a month and Elliot told Marilyn he wanted to make love to her. They were driving home from the movies. She edged closer to him on the seat. "I can't sleep over," she cautioned. "We have to be discrete." It was a dry, clear summer night with a multitude of stars. "On Saturdays, Chrissy takes flute lessons at the Conservatory. If I'm not home when she gets back, she won't think anything unusual."

  For the sake of modesty, Elliot went about the apartment drawing the shades, but for some crazy reason, all the lights - even his 200-watt reading lamp - were burning when Marilyn arrived and began peeling her clothes off. First the blouse, then the bra. Wriggling out of her panties, she dropped them near the night table and stretched out on the bed sheets. Elliot was more shock by her nonchalance than seeing her in the buff. He quickly undressed and lay down beside her. "Aren't you going to turn the lights off?" she asked in her gravelly monotone. He threw the switch and, as he turned back to face her, was met with a kiss and tangle of arms and hair.

  Afterwards, Elliot had to admit that it wasn't what he had expected. Despite her libidinous good looks, Marilyn was basically a meat-and-potatoes romantic, a sedate and comfortable lover. There were no animalistic excesses, no kinky eccentricities. The sex was far more perfunctory than funky. "I'm going to take a shower now," she said when the lovemaking was finished. With her flawless, ivory-colored breasts swinging gloriously from side to side, Marilyn Moneghan sashayed out of the room.

 

  Around the middle of the following week, Elliot called. "There’s an art exhibit on the East Side Friday night."

  "It's no good. I'm spending some time with my parents."

  "Well, what about Saturday?"

  "Sorry, that's out, too. I've already made plans."

  There was a short, uncomfortable pause. "What sort of plans?"

  "I've got a date."

  "With who?" Elliot felt a tightening in his throat.

  "Just someone I met, that's all."

  "I see." Elliot didn't really see anything at all. He was blinded by resentment. "Have a nice time," he said and hung up. Why was he wishing her a nice time? He didn't want her to enjoy herself with some sex-starved lothario. Short of sodomy and food poisoning, he wanted Marilyn Moneghan to have every woman's worse nightmare of a date - the quintessential date from hell.

  Over the remainder of the week, Elliot slipped into a disagreeable funk. On Sunday morning rather than call, he drove over to Marilyn's apartment with a dozen warm bagels and a small container of whipped cream cheese with chives. Chrissy showed him into the living room.

  "I didn't know you were stopping by," Marilyn said.

  "Thought I'd surprise you," He said, affecting a flippant tone and handed her the bag.

  "Truth is, I don't much like surprises." They went into the kitchen and Marilyn began slicing the bagels.

  "So, how was your date?"

  "We went out to eat, that's all."

  Chrissy wandered into the room and sniffed at the food. The word 'Hootie' was etched on the back of her neck in two-inch high red and black letters. "I hope that isn’t permanent," Elliot said.

  "It's just a rub-on," Chrissy replied. "I got it at a novelty shop."

  "What's it mean?"

  "Hootie and the Blowfish. They're the hottest group in rock." She tore a sesame bagel in half and smeared it with a thick glob of cream cheese. "Their debut album, Cracked Rear View, sold 13 million."

  "I don't know," Elliot countered testily, "that it justifies using the back of your head as a billboard for some obscure rock group."

  "When you sell 13 million albums, there's a certain amount of name recognition," Chrissy said drolly and left the room.

  "You know what I mean," Elliot said turning to Marilyn.

  "It's not the sort of thing you or I would do, but so what?" Elliot made an unintelligible sound by way of protest. "She's 13 years old. Can't you remember what it was like to be that age?"

  Unfortunately, Elliot did remember. At 13 he was barmitzvahed. His face was covered with pimples and he was obsessed with the female genitalia - a subject about which he possessed absolutely no first-hand knowledge.

  "Hootie and the Blowfish. I'll have to remember that name." His thoughts reverted back to Chrissy but for a different reason. He wondered if the girl knew that her mother had been out with another man. He felt foolish, humiliated.

  Marilyn set the toaster oven on top brown and placed several bagels on the metal rack. When the bagels were done, she arranged them on a small serving tray. "Coffee or tea?"

  "Tea's fine." Elliot took a tentative bite. "So are you going to see this fellow again?"

  She put the kettle aside and stared at Elliot with a fixed expression. "I appreciate your driving over here with the bagels. That was a sweet gesture. But I don't like being put on the spot because I did something you don't approve of." She wet her lips with the tip of her tongue and scowled at the floor. "If you get bent out of shape because I have a date, it's your problem, not mine."

  Elliot, who thought he had hit rock bottom when he discovered Marilyn's quasi-infidelity, slid another few notches down into crushing worthlessness. They ate in silence. "I don't think we should see each other for a couple of weeks," she said as she was walking him to the door.

  Elliot heard the words filtered through the numbness of his gloom. "Are you breaking up with me?"

  "No. That’s not it." Marilyn placed a hand on his shoulder and kissed him with a casualness, an unassuming briskness, that only added to his misery and confusion. "Things are getting a bit too intense."

  Everything was falling to pieces. His self-serving ploy with the bagels had been exposed for what it was - a transparent sham - and blown up in his face. "All right," Elliot mumbled. He turned to go but lingered uncertainly in the doorway. "What should I do, then?" he asked like a contrite child.

  "Call me in a couple of weeks."

  "Fourteen days?"

  "And we'll pick up where we left off."

  "That sounds fair enough." Actually, it didn't sound fair at all. She might as well have chained Elliot to the wall in the basement and beat him nightly with a pressure-treated 2 by 4. That would have been preferable to the Chinese water torture of a two-week wait.

  Elliot called the following Sunday.

  "I thought I said two weeks."

  "Yes, but I wanted to hear your voice. What's the harm in that?"

  "The harm is you didn't fulfill your end of the bargain."

  "What bargain?"

  "You agreed to wait until the second Sunday. I was quite clear about the length of time."

  "So I'll hang up and call back in seven days." Elliot could feel the insane panic gurgling up from his bowels into his chest. Or was it flowing in the opposite direction? He couldn’t be sure about much of anything these days.

  "Two weeks is two weeks," Marilyn said evenly. "We’ll start from scratch. Call back two weeks from today."

  "Two weeks from today," he could just barely manage to
keep the hysteria in his voice under control, "will be three weeks if you count the time that's already passed."

  "We had an agreement. Don't you dare call me for another 14 days."

  She hung up and that's when Elliot began to cry. He stormed about the apartment kicking at things, throwing books and magazines, banging his fists against the hardwood table until the knuckles ached and his hatred of Marilyn Moneghan and the entire Christian community became slightly more manageable.

  Two weeks. A British fortnight. Elliot had to survive the next 336 hours - 21,160 minutes - and hope that, between now and then, which would put him into the middle of June, Marilyn Moneghan would not become formally engaged and with-child. Elliot was crushed, demoralized; the idea of anyone else putting their grubby hands on her body made him physically sick.

  Shiker ist a Goy, und nichter ist a Yid. Drunken Cossacks rioting in the streets. That had been his grandmother Esther’s reality. Here Elliot was, less than a century later, fawning over a devout Catholic with breasts the size of melons, a woman who dated other men, humiliated and degraded him with her unwavering edicts.

  At the end of the two-week hiatus, Elliot and Marilyn picked up where they left off with no apparent damage to the relationship. There was no further mention of the other man, and Elliot had the good sense not to bring the matter up again. In the bedroom, he might have wished for more variety, but there was something comfortably engaging in Marilyn’s blunt, no-nonsense approach to sex. When the lovemaking was over, Elliot would stare at her lovely body, the ivory skin lathered in a thin film of sweat, and count his blessings. The sight of her with her wide shoulders thrown back and hips rocking gloriously from side to side as she glided naked about the room, took his breath away.

  "How can you stomach that awful nonsense!" Friday night they were sitting on the sofa at her Silver Lake apartment. Marilyn was watching The Wheel of Fortune.

  She turned and stared at him with mock indignation. "It's just something to pass the time."

  Vanna White had just revealed another letter. Marilyn, her lips moving silently, was cycling through a series of words that might unravel the phrase on the game board. She leaned forward, momentarily tuning Elliot out. "I hate these shows. They drive me nuts!"