Split-Level

by Sande Boritz Berger

  “Hi, Mommy, are you better?” I have forgotten Becky—below me, spread out on the floor, drawing a picture on a jumbo pad. She’s drawn us, her family; everyone sucking on thermometers, except Donny.

  “Yes, angel, and you?” I kneel, holding the mattress for support, and touch her forehead with my lips. Her scorching hands are the real giveaway; her fever hasn’t broken.

  “Maybe now,” she says, “because you’re better.”

  I slip on my green sick-robe and move cautiously down the hallway. I try bumping down the steps like the girls often do, but every bone in my body throbs.

  The kitchen is surprisingly neat, except for an array of pastel Tupperware containers that had contained meals sent over from neighbors. News of our dreaded illness has spread faster than a lawn fungus. Mothers all over Wheatley Heights, no doubt, are checking their calendars to see the last time their children were exposed to Lana or Becky Pearl. Even Rona stopped by with a barbecued chicken, though, slave to her germ phobia, she’d left the meal and a get-well note on our doorstep. I imagined her speeding away as if she’d abandoned a baby.

  The doorbell rings and rings but Donny can’t hear a thing. Headphones in place, he’s slumped in the leather recliner, his eyes closed, while my baby girl lies at his feet dozing like a puppy. Donny wiggles his head-phoned head back and forth to a song I can’t hear; in his face there is such apparent joy. He is so much happier away from work.

  Louise and Ben let themselves in with their own set of keys. They’re bringing in half a dozen shopping bags and intruding gusts of frosty air. For an instant I forget this is where I live. They look shocked to see me out of bed, shuffling around in my robe and sweat socks. Hopefully, they’ll quit nagging me to postpone my trip. I need to get away, to bake my bones until my body heals and this Hong Kong flu is just a bad memory.

  Donny’s eyes widen, feeling his father’s not-so-gentle rap on the top of his head. Ben then plops himself down at my kitchen table to finish the Times puzzle in fountain pen. Legs rubbery and weak, I saunter over and sit next to him. My lips curl down like the mask of tragedy. He kisses my forehead and checks for fever.

  “You’re warm, get back in bed. We’re here now.”

  “I’m so much better.”

  Donny joins us at the table and before long the two men are talking business, the buzz of which circling my head like a toy plane. All I hear over and over again are Ben’s words:

  “You will leave when all the orders are finished and shipped.”

  Donny chews the inside of his cheek; he runs his fingers through his hair. He blinks his eyes and starts to stutter. Ben slips into his ski jacket and motions Donny to go outside. When Louise returns from visiting Becky, I ask if there’s anything’s wrong.

  “When it comes to business, darling, I’m Switzerland.”

  A minute later, I hear Donny’s voice booming from the backyard. “Stop blaming me for everything that goes wrong! I suppose I’m the reason you’re always playing catch up, why half your loyal customers quit wearing bras.”

  I brush my hands across my pajama top and pat my very over-heated bare breasts. There was a time, after Becky was born, when I joined the thousands of women, in protest, and went braless. Business took a real nosedive then, but I never once felt guilty.

  “Why is Daddy screaming?” Lana asks, waking from her nap. She scampers across the room and presses her face against the cold glass.

  Louise bends her head down and lights a cigarette using the gas burner. I hear a loud pop, and I’m glad Lana didn’t get to see her grandmother’s neatly coifed hair just inches from flames. She scoops up Lana, her cigarette dangling, and flips on the outside lights to reveal Donny and Ben standing on opposite sides of the plastic-covered barbecue, their necks cranked up above their shoulders.

  “Ben, come inside! What’s wrong with you?” Louise shouts.

  “I’ll tell you what’s wrong with him,” Donny answers. “He cares more about his imported, lying manager than the workers who have been with you for years … including me!”

  Donny rushes in past his mother and plops down at the kitchen table where I sit sipping my soup. He blows out air as if inflating a flaccid pool float. His father follows next, rubbing together crimson hands. Louise scurries to bring bowls of steaming chicken soup, and maybe because Lana climbs into Donny’s lap, the men suddenly cease arguing. A deliberate silence fills the kitchen. All that’s audible is the slurping of broth, a noise which Lana brings to our attention by mimicking. It’s an effort to cut my food, but I might feel better if I eat something. They think I don’t know, but everyone is watching me out of the corners of their eyes.

  “Hold your compliments, people. I know I’m utterly breathtaking.”

  Stifling laughter, Louise chokes and takes a sip of her ice water.

  “Do you really think you can get on a plane with Becky and Lana next week?” she asks.

  “They’ll be fine,” Donny answers, scooping mashed potatoes onto my plate.

  “Thank you,” I say, “for the comment and the potatoes.” I feel a surge of affection for Donny and the familiar urgency to muster up forgiveness, to once again wipe the slate clean. “I need to get back to bed.” I struggle to stand, pushing my chair back. I turn once before I climb the stairs, and notice Ben and Donny, stone-faced, scooping second helpings onto their plates.

  With all my strength, I grasp the railing leading up the stairs to sweet Becky, and the shelter of the electric blanket I bought on sale at Sears.

  Only after his parents leave, and he calms down, does Donny give me bits and pieces of what occurred. Beside me in bed, he attacks a one-pound bag of pistachios, his fingers turning purplish from cracking them open. I’ve never seen his mouth move so fast with such unleashed fury. Between sucks and chews, he mentions that a highly skilled, well-paid machine operator and assistant plant manager, Karl, has a real problem with him.

  Whenever there’s a faux pas—like the one that occurred Friday, whereby hundreds of underwires were never inserted into style #007, Luverly Lace, a best-selling bustier, sold exclusively in the Frederick’s of Hollywood’s catalogue—Karl blames it on Donny, who, as plant manager, is in charge of production and quality control.

  “So, you’re saying there was no boost in the bustier?”

  “I’m not kidding, Alex. He’s out to destroy me. Karl knows he is supposed to check all finished garments and report all defects and mistakes directly to me before they are shipped to customers.”

  “I’m really sorry, Don. It sounds like Ben went too far, but maybe he was trying to be fair and, afraid of favoring you, he made a point by chewing you out in front of Karl, which was terribly wrong. Damage to so many garments is quite a deficit, but it pales in comparison to the humiliation you must feel.”

  “Hey, how’d you think he’d like it if we were up in God’s country, growing vegetables and chopping wood?” Donny says, while he stares ahead at a blank wall.

  “Who knows,” I answer, at the start of a coughing spasm, “we might … all be … a lot happier.” I wish I were more honest, but I’m telling Donny what he thinks he wants to hear, instead of the truth.

  SIX

  On a frosty December morning, Donny drops us at the airport on his way to work. I watch him pull away with the speed of a downhill skier. My eyes are fixed to the back of his head as our car disappears down the curvy ramp. I imagine him chanting the words of the late, great Martin Luther King: Free at last! The girls continue to shout, “Bye, Daddy!” They are excited about flying, not focusing on the fact that Daddy’s already gone. My heart jitterbugs in my chest, and I’m aware of a weird, momentary pull, like wanting to be in two places at the same time. Donny and I have been apart like this before, but this time I am wary of our physical separation, as if it might do us harm instead of good.

  Seconds before the departure of National’s flight 509 to Miami, I give Lana and Becky each a tiny dose of children’s Dimetapp, hoping to clear their nasal passages and
make them just a tad drowsy. I make a mental note to tell my father he can no longer save money by not buying Lana her own ticket. This is the absolute last time I will pass her off as under two, dressing her in a pastel knitted cap and cradling her against my breasts while we board. A young stewardess, sugary as a Georgia peach, asks, “Can I fill a bottle for your sweet baby?” And I can’t help but interpret sarcasm.

  “No, thanks, we’re fine.” I try not to make unnecessary eye contact and pray Lana doesn’t awaken and open her precocious, close-to-adolescent mouth. Becky spends the flight reading Highlights magazine, chewing a wad of bubble gum to reduce the pressure in her ears. She suffers quietly and pushes her head into my ribs whenever it hurts.

  Precisely three hours later, while dozing, I feel a loud, terrifying bump—a sensation of speed followed by a round of applause signaling our plane has landed. The girls look puzzled by this outburst but join in with giggles and clapping. I remind Lana she must keep her hat on, even though the temperature outside the cabin has reached the high seventies.

  Along with several other sets of transplanted Floridian grandparents, a montage of white duck-cloth and pastels, Miriam and Nathan have been staked out at the gate since our flight left Newark. They wave wildly the moment they spot us, longing springing to their eyes. They are usually reserved in public; it’s rare to see them unable to contain their pride. With this distance between us, during the long walk down the narrow corridor, I have the time to take them in without feeling smothered.

  They grasp each other’s arms—pinching, as if they can’t believe we’re here. I move in slow motion toward them, clutching what they’ve awaited—the tiny hands of two gems, named for each of their deceased mothers. As the gap between us closes, Becky and Lana dash into their open arms. I weep, secretly, behind my big round sunglasses, from observing the purity of my parents’ emotions, and how rapidly they’ve aged since moving away. It’s true. They’ve missed a great deal living so far from us.

  Looking around, I notice scenes of sleepy grandchildren being hoisted and squeezed while leathery, sun-bleached women warn their husbands, “Don’t lift, your back!” A chorus of cooing surrounds us like rooftop pigeons, gray feathers shedding everywhere.

  “Hi, darlings, let me have a look at you. Nate, look, aren’t they something? Pale, a little thin, but we’ll fix that, right? My, my, and look at your mommy.”

  Yes, Mommy, look at me. I push back my hair and lift my chin, instantly conscious of my less than perfect nose.

  My father glues his chest to mine, and I peel away, always uncomfortable hugging him in front of my mother. She and I move toward each other to kiss—tiny, cheeky pecks, weightless as down. When she smiles, I see myself in twenty years: the crow’s-feet etched deep in the corners of her eyes, the vertical folds of flesh jiggling under her neck. Today she is radiant, healthier looking than last year. She’s gained back some weight after “that lousy bout with the doldrums.” That’s how she refers to the condition that caused her to show up on my doorstep three days after her fiftieth birthday. Twice weekly, with the girls in tow, I chauffeured Miriam to her psychiatrist an hour away, and on the ride home, she’d deliver an encapsulated version of the session—a one-sided view, which blamed her misery solely on my father. How he’d dragged her away from everyone and everything dear. When I asked if she ever put up a fight, or thought about saying no, she looked blankly out the window. But I knew, by the tightness in her jaw, there was something else she was revisiting, my guess, for the zillionth time.

  Since our arrival in sunny Florida, my mother, Miriam, has become a woman of purpose. She rises early and adorns herself in Tropicana colors before preparing a sumptuous breakfast of scrambled eggs and kosher bacon, which tastes like salty cardboard. While I relax at the pool, scanning her collection of House Beautiful magazines, my mother parades Becky and Lana, door to door, to neighbors who will be “aghast, simply aghast” that such a young, stunning woman could possibly be a grandmother. When she tells us this, later in the day, I bet my father will roll his eyes. And, as always, I hope she doesn’t notice.

  Dad, with at least five Phillips screwdrivers spread out before him, spends hours assembling the Fisher Price miniature kitchen they bought the girls for Christmas—because, even though we are Jews, my mother has always adored Christmas. She doesn’t consider it a religious holiday, only an opportunity for giving. And parked in front of the heavy brocade drapes that always remain closed is a shiny silver tree decorated with miniature candy canes. On top of the marble sideboard is an ornate brass menorah of eight monkeys. All routes to heaven are covered.

  By the second night of my visit, I’m convinced that the stale, humid air of this condo may choke me. Though I plead, Dad refuses to turn on the air-conditioning until June. Looking disheveled, Miriam and Nathan are propped up in bed, exhausted from a day at Parrot Jungle, where it took ten minutes to untangle a macaw’s claws from my mother’s shellacked hair. They are laughing in sync with the dubbed-in laughter of All in the Family. Because the volume is deafening, I must shout in order to be heard.

  “I’m going out for a while. I think I’ll see if Sophie is home, so don’t wait up, okay? I’ve got my key.”

  “What?” they yell back, eyes glued to the tube.

  “Never mind. I’ll be back soon.”

  “You’ve got great color, honey,” my father shouts after me. “Tomorrow’s going to be another sunny day.” Since moving south, Dad’s added meteorology to his many skills. His imaginary weather wand points to high and low pressure areas across the entire country. Whenever I visit, there are rarely storms in his forecasts—his love for me magically puffs away the clouds.

  Alone finally, I take the glass elevator to the penthouse floor. High-pitched children’s voices ricochet down the hallway. A variety of crayoned menorahs and snowmen are taped on the door, the latter, perhaps memories of past Chicago winters. Since moving from their windy city, Sophie and Rob have invested in huge sectors of Florida real estate. Most of their properties are low-income residence buildings, with a few luxury high-rise condominiums that stand majestically on the coastline of Biscayne Bay. One of the latter is this building, Pelican Plaza. They’ve moved temporarily into this penthouse while renovating their sprawling Spanish-style home a few blocks away.

  It was last winter, while I was teaching Lana to swim, when Sophie strolled over, and using her son as a prop, suggested I hold Lana by her feet and dip her headfirst into the deep end. The boy surfaced, gasping for air, but Sophie didn’t blink.

  “Nah, don’t think so,” I said, choosing a more conventional method.

  “Believe you me, she’ll learn how to swim.” Sophie laughed.

  I am about to leave when Rob Woodman, bare-chested and beaming, opens the door.

  “Hey, hi honeybun, come on in.” Rob hugs me, and I smell his English Leather mingling with minty toothpaste. The heat from my sunburn intensifies as Rob’s eyes move directly to my chest. I guess I’ve missed a button and try to act nonchalant while using one hand to conceal my cleavage. More than a little saggy since giving birth to Lana, my breasts appear perkier than usual, thanks to the magical plumping power of H. Pearl’s newest entry in ladies’ foundations—The Bubble Bra, which is quilted with multilayers of soft nylon promising a lot more lift for the flaccid.

  “I’m on my way out, but I’m sure Sophie will love the company—hey, when’s Donny due in?”

  “By the weekend, hopefully,” I say, thinking how Ben warned Donny he couldn’t leave New York until every last order was filled.

  “Super, we’re counting on you to show for my big birthday bash.”

  “I … we’ve been looking forward to it.”

  “Cool. There’s another couple from Jersey we want you to meet, our friend Peter’s brother and wife. Sophie thinks they may actually live near you.”

  “Sure, I’ll be happy to meet them.” I become super polite around people like Rob, hoping they’ll respect my desire to maintain some phys
ical distance, but Rob is now inches from my face. So close, I notice the beads of perspiration rising from his huge pores.

  On a few occasions, we’d gone to dinner with Sophie and Rob, and even though Rob flirted openly with me, Sophie seemed amused. I got the feeling she was analyzing me, watching my maneuvering so not to piss anyone off. Donny? He didn’t seem to care.

  “Well, I know he’d like to meet you, who wouldn’t?” Rob’s sweaty hand moves sneakily up my arm. I take a step back and hit my head on a closet door. “Whoops, you okay?”

  “Yes, fine.” I rub the back of my skull and check my fingers for blood.

  “Sophie, Alex Pearl’s here!” Rob yells down the hallway. “Saturday night, be there,” he says, slipping into a palm tree printed shirt while rushing out the door.

  “Alex, I’m in here!”

  I follow Sophie’s voice and find her on her knees, rummaging through a black camp trunk. Her children, clad in underpants only, bounce on the bed as if it were a trampoline. Sophie, whose tranquil demeanor I usually envy, seems a bit harried.

  “They have a Coppertone audition tomorrow, and I don’t know if I packed their bathing suits. Unlike her two striking children, Sophie is petite and plain, yet there’s something quietly exotic deep within her green eyes. I have surmised this means she has a fantastic sex life—something I automatically ponder when meeting any new couple, making me certain I’m missing out.

  “God, I can’t wait to get back to my own house,” she says, her voice muffled—her torso half buried in the trunk.

  “I can give you one of Becky’s suits for Wendy, but Jake’s another story.”

  “You know what?” Sophie says, standing up and pecking me on the cheek. “Fuck it, the kid’s going naked! I’ll bring our dog, Jasper—it’ll look like the original Coppertone ad, except the dog will have to bite his little un-sunburned ass!”