Split-Level

by Sande Boritz Berger

  “Whoa! Take it easy, you two,” Charlie scolds. “Here, let me help you up.” He had flung one arm in front of me—abrupt and strong, but too late. I stand up, Lana still clinging, and assure Charlie we’re fine.

  “Dad, she cheated,” Ross whines, complaining about his sister again. “She started before I said go.”

  “No, I didn’t, you baby!” Ricki jabs at Ross’s arm.

  “Enough!” Charlie grabs them by the collars of their parkas and marches them to the shade of a hunched oak. I notice the wide expanse of his shoulders stretching through his jacket when he crouches down to talk to them. Though he looks to be speaking gently to his feisty daughter and whiny son, there is firmness in his expression. Within seconds both children burst into tears. They hug Charlie, reluctantly each other, and walk crestfallen back to my bench.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Pearl,” they each recite, a beat apart, looking down at their dusty sneakers.

  “Thank you. It’s okay.”

  “Thank you!” Lana mimics, making Charlie stifle a laugh.

  “Not funny, Dad,” Ross glares at Lana.

  “You’re right, Ross. Lana’s my little parrot sometimes.”

  In the distance, I see Donny and Paula walking back over the hill toward us. Their arms are bountiful, carrying our lunch and dessert. With the orangey sun as their backdrop, they look as mystical as flower children returning from Woodstock. Donny’s hair falls below his eyes, but hands full, he’s unable to brush it back. Paula laughs, heartily, at whatever Donny has said, her head flinging back in the breeze. A velvety smile transforms her into someone new and vivacious. An old feeling of possessiveness clutches me, and I brace to pounce.

  “Donny, did you forget the blanket?”

  He stops dead in his tracks, starts to do an about-face.

  “I’ll run back,” he says. I am surprised to see someone has stuck a large candle into the batch of brownies.

  “Oh, so thoughtful, but I don’t remember mentioning my birthday. Never mind about the blanket,” I say, “the kids are starved.”

  “So, has everyone been behaving?” Paula poses to Ricki and Ross. Her mood has elevated several notches, causing an irritating thought to cross my mind: I wonder if she and Donny shared a joint.

  “All is super, duper,” I answer, emptying the tote bag of sandwiches and cans of Tab and Fresca. “Charlie and I have everything under control.”

  Ricki and Ross sit on a mound of pebbles they have claimed as their own private picnic area.

  “Stay far away,” Ross squawks at Becky when she saunters over to sit near them. Obviously, these children have short memory spans. Becky looks like she wants to cry but fights it hard, not wanting them to see. For a moment, I think of her all grown up, in love with some idiot who loses his patience with her and flies off the handle—someone who might break her precious heart a hundred times.

  “Come here, Becky girl.” I hug her close, letting her hide her humiliation against my chest. “Don’t show them it hurts, baby.” Please don’t show them.

  The next day, Rona stops by on her way to the dentist for her quarterly cleaning. She sits at my kitchen table slurping coffee, a safe distance from my work area, but she’s been up and down three times, making me crazy and distracting me from getting my work done. Cleo, my favorite shop owner, called a few days ago, her voice resembling a croaking frog. She said she had some early spring orders she wanted immediately! And now watching Rona, I can’t help but picture her, twenty years from now, working at her own chic fashion boutique: hair and makeup flawless, rhinestone bifocals worn on a long gold chain, her style the magnet for some young insecure woman filling her loneliness and walk-in closet with glitzy, overpriced apparel. She’s been tossing me a glacial shoulder, lately, and talking to her is like shucking corn—it takes forever to uncover what might be irking her.

  “Rona, what the hell are you looking for?” I ask, watching her slam the doors of my pantry for the third time.

  “Don’t you have any goddamn cookies in this house?”

  “Nope, I haven’t had time to shop since I started this T-shirt order—sorry. Do you want some saltines?”

  “No! I must have something sweet or I’ll die.”

  “How about preserves? I’ve got apricot and raspberry.”

  “Forget it,” she says, pouting, reminding me of Lana. Could a part of Rona be rubbing off on my own child? She does spend many afternoons there when Agnes can’t babysit, or Lana and Ethan want to play together.

  Silence for a few seconds, but I feel her eyes slicing through me while I shade the petals of a red rose on a powder blue shirt. I can end this or just let her stew. I put down the marker and stare at Rona across the table. The stare down lasts until I stick my tongue out, and we share a strained laugh. Truth is I would get more pleasure out of smacking her skinny little ass.

  “I just don’t get the attraction,” she says, referring to Paula. “Does the woman even speak?”

  “Rona, come on. You don’t even know her. You’ve spoken for what, five minutes? She’s actually very nice, just shy.” And at least she doesn’t look at me like I’m speaking Arabic when I say something intelligent. I don’t understand why Rona is so possessive. It’s always been fine for her to have other friends, women she’s known since grade school, a slew of neighbors, but as soon as I introduce her to anyone who I’ve met on my own, without her involvement, she has something negative to say. A trait, most likely, carried over from adolescence and what occurred in every girl’s locker room during gym period.

  “So, tell me,” Rona says, moving in closer, her lips pursed in a perfect bow. “Has he made a pass at you yet?”

  “Who?”

  “You know who. Sexy, smoky, Charlie.” Rona shimmies her shoulders right above my face.

  I look down at the shirt I’m decorating with petite roses and feel my neck redden. “Are you crazy? When would that have happened?”

  “Well, you’ve certainly gone out with them enough times in the last few weeks. And for sure he has a roving eye. I’ll admit he’s even given me the once-over,” Rona says, leaning back, smug.

  “When was that?” I ask a little too quickly. How could Charlie be attracted to Rona, if he’s attracted to me?

  “Oh, last Sunday, when you finally decided to have us over. I was beginning to think you were embarrassed by us, keeping your new little pals all to yourself.” A gong resounds inside my head; embarrassed is the magic word.

  “Here we go again.” I stand and roll my stiff shoulders.

  “Anyway,” she says, scooping up her car keys, “first, I saw him studying you as you were carrying a tray of coffee. He was sitting all comfy on your couch and smoking that weird pipe—next thing I know, he’s checking me out, too.”

  “Well, let’s just say the guy’s got great taste.” I taste a drop of blood on the inside of my lower lip. Turns out, inviting Rona and Hy over was truly an asinine mistake.

  “Yes, but what about Pamela?” Rona asks.

  “For the tenth time, her name is Paula.”

  “Right, what about her?”

  “I imagine he finds his wife appealing. What’s the big deal if she’s not terribly cool or stylish like you? Actually, Donny thinks she’s very nice.”

  “Donny, oh right.” I watch as Rona’s nostrils flair, making her ugly. Seeing her transform like this, even temporarily, is more than pleasurable.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I turn on the faucet and let cold water gush.

  “Not a thing.” Rona turns from me and heads toward the front door. She’s wearing her superior look, one I’ve noticed many times before. If only I had the guts to grab her arm and yank her toward me, to blast her for scattering little snippets of crap she knows will hurt me. But I don’t, mostly because I can’t. Because, even though I’m older and wiser now, less than a week past thirty, like Rona, I, too, am a terrific coward.

  ELEVEN

  There’s a sudden break from the monotony of April’
s showers just in time for Passover—Becky and Lana’s favorite holiday. They love haggling over the price of the afikomen, the hidden matzah for the children to find after the meal. And they always do, because friends and relatives, bloated to their gills and thrilled to be finally standing, give away the most obvious hints. The highlight of the evening is hearing the girls try to top last year’s price when selling the crumbled piece of unleavened bread back to Ben, who sits at the table, stone-faced and official, trying to conceal his laughter. I am always impressed by Louise’s enthusiasm and dedication in making her home a traditional Jewish home. No one would ever figure my mother-in-law a convert, and yet I’ve heard it said that women who convert to their husband’s religion work especially hard to be taken seriously in all aspects of that new life.

  Yesterday, for the first of the two seders traditionally held in the Pearls’ rotunda-style dining room, I’d dressed the girls in matching navy jumpers, which they wore with white lace peasant blouses underneath. Even I was grateful for an opportunity to dress up for a change, although I had to paint and deliver a dozen T-shirts in order to splurge on my own new outfit: a creamy doeskin shirt, and a calf-length denim skirt, which I wore with faux lizard boots. On sale, on sale at Macy’s. I could actually hear myself explaining, my father’s frugality attached, like a price tag, to whatever garment I was wearing. I also imagined Louise with thoughts of her ancestors during the great potato famine saying: “Boots? Who would ever dream of leather boots?”

  But tonight, the second night of the holiday, we are already an hour late for dinner. Donny, who said he’d be back in no time, is still at the Bells’. We were getting dressed when Paula called saying she found one of the four kissing garomis dead—the big orange fish we had jokingly given our first names. Charlie had flown to DC for an emergency conference and might have set the thermostat too low. I envisioned the poor fish floating at the top of the tank, its mouth pursed and frozen in one final smooch. I wondered which of our namesakes had kicked the bucket.

  Donny, who’d professed to be an expert (he had one goldfish in college), helped the Bells set up their aquarium, and now he was out the door in seconds. I had never seen him move so fast. I thought, Hey, where’s the fire? We’re talking about a goddamn fish.

  “It’s Passover, Donny, and we’re supposed to be at your folks in an hour.” I shouted after him, but he’d already pulled out of our driveway, tires screeching around the Belgian block curb of Daisy Lane and headed to the Bells’.

  Another half hour goes by, and I’m slumped on the den couch, still waiting. Warned not to mess their matching navy velour pants sets, Becky and Lana march like majorettes around the patio, twirling toy batons. As soon as the sun exits behind the clouds, they clutch their upper arms, trying to keep themselves warm. I should probably get up to bring sweaters, but I can’t move. There is a gnawing in my stomach that isn’t hunger—hunger subsides with nourishment. This feels like a permanent void.

  Although the girls are just yards away, completely visible through the mesh of the sliding screen, I can’t see them. My eyes begin to sting, and I touch the corners of my lashes, pressing my fingers against my lids. “Not today,” I say out loud. I do not want to cry. This is a joyous holiday. The children are wonderful and healthy. I have a roof over my head. But loneliness has crept in and taken me by surprise, most likely, the only way it could. I look over at the built-in log bin, where just a few pieces of kindling remain. Before it became the log bin, it was a small aquarium with beautiful, exotic fish of our own. Fish, that Donny had sworn he would never, ever neglect.

  The phone startles me when it rings. I jump from the couch. It’s Louise checking on our whereabouts.

  “He’s where?!” she practically screams into the phone. I answer in a slow staccato rhythm.

  “He’s helping our friend, Paula, with their new aquarium.”

  “Why can’t her husband take care of this? Don’t they know today’s a holiday?”

  “The husband was needed in Washington—the wife, Paula, called asking for Donny’s help.”

  There is an abrupt pause on Louise’s end. Then quickly, as if she’d discovered some grave error while balancing the books at H. Pearl and Sons, she changes her tone.

  “Oh, I see, well I’m sure he’ll be home any minute. Why don’t you call over there?”

  “No, I don’t want to! He should know better than to keep us waiting like this.”

  “You’re right, dear. I’ll tell everyone we’ll be starting a little later. When you get here, you get here.”

  An hour later, Donny honks for us in the driveway. Getting in the front seat, I avoid his face and his look of pure, unadulterated innocence. I don’t want to hear, to know, to see. I am a puppet. Just drive me to the goddamn holiday dinner, I would like to say, but I can’t find my voice.

  We are finally gathered, all together, under the glittering lights of the Pearls’ crystal chandelier. Ben is conducting the service and, trying to make up for our lateness, he is inventing an abbreviated version. I look across the table and study Donny as if he were a specimen pressed between thin glass slides in a bio lab. Remembering the dissection of the earthworm, I stifle a gag when the ceremonial plate of bitter herbs is passed around for me to taste. Donny’s brother, Bobby, wearing a black yarmulke pinned to his ponytail, reads from a portion of the prayer book—the Haggadah. He is up to the part where he dips his pinky onto the red wine while shouting out the names of the plagues. Locusts are one, but he forgets sly husbands who habitually show up late.

  For each plague he dips, then drops the wine onto his dinner plate. But with the zest of someone who has spoken at too many anti-war rallies, Bobby keeps missing the plate, dousing my mother-in-law’s ivory embroidered tablecloth from Budapest, and the sleeve of my doeskin shirt. Not wanting to make a scene, I slip into the kitchen for some seltzer. Gussie, in her holiday whites, waits for the signal that food can be served. The counter is covered with shimmering platters filled with my most favorite foods, potato kugel and brisket, but I’ve lost my appetite. She notices me dabbing my shirt and shakes her head. “That won’t do no good, child. Might as well cut it up into rags.”

  “All right, Gussie, just tell me where Pop keeps the Pepto?”

  “What, you carrying again?” Gussie asks, her large palms lifting a bowl, moving it out of the way to reach into a cabinet for the bottle. I chug the thick pink liquid right from the bottle, pretending it’s a Bud.

  “Don’t think so,” I answer, patting my flat belly and thinking of my nearly nonexistent sex life.

  “Well, that’s good since you already got your hands full.”

  “The girls are wonderful, Gussie, what are you talking about?”

  “I’m not talkin’ about your girls. I’m talkin’ about your boy in there tryin’ to be a man.”

  Just then, the saloon doors swing into the kitchen. In marches Louise followed by Bobby’s common-law wife, Melody, and Donny’s sister, Ivy, a college freshman, who appears a bit wobbly on her feet. She bangs into me, sending a heap of tzimmes into the bodice of my blouse. I instantly recall what the buttered carrot and prunes dish symbolizes: a bother, a muddle—just like me.

  “Now look.”

  “Sorry, sis,” Ivy slurs. She loves thinking of me as her older sister. I wish I could return the favor at this very moment, give her a strong dose of older sister, but I control myself. Louise and Melody have food on their minds; they don’t notice me pressed against the butcher block rubbing seltzer all over my shirt, swigging it from the bottle while contemplating one of Gussie’s salient zingers. I slink back to the dining room more apprehensive than ever.

  Ben gives us the green light to eat, and the prayer books are laid aside. I help serve the string beans almondine and cut up some brisket in tiny manageable pieces for Becky and Lana. Too much goes on for anyone to notice the topography of my plate. As usual, I use it to serve up the girls’ food so it appears full.

  Through the flickering flames of t
he Sabbath candles, Donny’s eyes find mine. I am surprised by my glare, telegraphing the message I’m still furious he left us waiting today, nearly two hours—because of some stupid dead fish. Then a fierce pain presses against my lids, forcing me to widen my eyes, to really look at Donny. He grins at me—a taunting grin, which in the past might have eased my discontent, even softened me. This time though, I don’t give in. Just as Gussie said: I see a child sitting across from me. I already have two children.

  “Alex?”

  “What?” I answer, startled.

  “Don’t think I didn’t notice,” Louise whispers, her chin grazing my shoulder. “Darling, you hardly ate a thing.” She ladles a mound of sweet potato mousse onto my plate, just missing my fist that jerks up and nearly punches her jaw. I smear the glob over muddy beef gravy, watching it congeal and harden, like the paint on one of my many abandoned palettes.

  Donny and I drive home in our own exodus of traffic, while I conjure up images of hordes of Jews fleeing Egypt. Neither of us has uttered one word since we got in the car. Louise said she’d be taking the week off and offered to have the girls sleep over. Hesitant at first, I said yes. Donny reaches over to take my hand, but I pull away. His exasperated exhale inflates more anger. He puts the car in park and stares at me. It hardly matters; we’re at a complete standstill on the turnpike.

  “Come on, Al. I don’t want to fight with you.”

  “Fight? We don’t fight. You just go your merry own way, doing sneaky things while I just, just …”

  “Get really pissed off?” Donny says.

  “You bet. I do have a thimble of self-respect left, believe it or not.” My voice cracks and tears drip onto my, no longer special, doeskin shirt.

  “Tell me what you mean,” Donny says, jolting the car into drive.

  “Never mind, I’m so damn tired,” I say, wiping my nose on my sleeve.

  “And … I’m more than a bit confused.” He uses a tone wholly unsympathetic that cuts deeper.