‘What did you just say?’
‘I said, Celeste is a fucking loser.’ He waited for his mother to hit the brakes and scream him out of the car. But she only looked ahead at the road and followed it home.
Once there, she locked herself into the bathroom. Trevor could hear her crying from his room, where he found the missing bank card under his bed. He thought of his sister flicking the beer cap at him. He could not stay there any more. He biked to his friend Tim’s house.
Early the next morning, Tim’s dad took the boys fishing on the ocean with a lot of other men. Trevor caught a fifteen-inch flounder, and when the fish flapped out of the water, a good catch, all the men cheered. Someone passed him a can of beer. Someone else slapped him heartily on the back.
When school let out on Monday, Trevor biked to the gift shop where his mother worked. He had texted her on Saturday evening to say where he would be then switched off his phone. They had not spoken all weekend, nor had he wanted to. After Celeste moved in, his mother had been treating him differently, like someone who must fit a certain mould or go unloved. If his few needs now irked her, if he had become such a burden, couldn’t he move out west to live with Dad? Couldn’t he be the one to decide whose expectations made any sense?
She was flattening boxes in the back room of the shop when he arrived. He watched her for a minute, waiting for her to stop working so he wouldn’t have to shout. He didn’t want to cry. Then she looked up, and he realised by her surprise that she hadn’t heard him come in, and now she did all the talking.
‘I’m sorry, Trev. Your sister’s made so many bad choices. It’s like she’s determined to ruin her own life. But I’ve still got you, right? I know your head’s on straight. So at least I’ve still got one good kid.’ Her eyes filled with tears, and Trevor felt himself drift towards her, wrap his arms around her soft waist. He began to mumble, ‘Everything’s okay, Mom. Everything’s fine,’ a wide surface opening inside him, a type of numbness that unfurled and held his whole world at a distance, like a canopy of good, strong cloth. When his mother had stopped shaking, he went to find a box of tissues while she closed up the shop.
‘Anyway, I’ve had it with Gretchen,’ she said, somewhat cheered. Gretchen was her boss. ‘She won’t let me put any of your sister’s paintings on display. Says they’re too disturbing. On the way home, maybe we can stop by some other places, see if they’ll hang one or two? It would be so good for Celeste’s self-esteem.’
Trevor put the tissues down beside his mother’s purse and stared at the stack of paintings leaned behind the counter. On the outermost, a pair of dentures clenched a blue apple. Around the apple and from within, a set of smoke-grey rings gaped moons of terrified eyes. As his mother finished counting the cash in the register, he picked up the canvases and carried them out to the car.
Yehudit
Paula McGrath
Judy shifts and swallows her way out of sleep, brushes at the damp patch where she drooled on her cheek with the back of her hand. Her ankles come into focus where she has them raised on a footstool. Swollen. Around her, the dogs are yelping, wanting out. One of them might have done something already in the house, there’s that smell again. Frank will go nuts. He hates the dogs, and he’d as soon lift one of them with his foot when he’s passing as not. She’d better straighten the place out, not go giving him reasons.
Besides, it’s Tuesday.
She hauls herself out of the chair, scattering the coupons and newspapers she forgot were in her lap. Frank hates her coupons. Says he doesn’t need food stamps, thank you very much. She gave up explaining the difference long since. Besides, he already knows the difference; he’s just being contrary. She keeps cutting the coupons because she can save five or ten dollars a shop, but since Frank drives her to the store, she never gets to use them. She must have ten cookie tins full by now, most all of them out of date. She plans to sort them out one of these days.
She puts the dogs out, but she’s wheezing hard from the exertion. It’s the weight that slows her down. She didn’t always used to be this heavy. She really should try and reduce – Now where did she put that darn … She finds her inhaler, in the pocket of her muumuu where it should be, takes three short puffs. This darn heat. Tugging the synthetic fabric free where her dress has stuck to her thighs, she shuffles to turn the AC up a notch. That ought to do it. Should be nice and cool in time for the kids’ lessons. The kids. A whoosh of well-being washes over her, and the heat isn’t bothering her nearly as much.
Tuesdays are good. After Paulie Walsh – bless the child, music is for everyone, and he has just so much energy, but he is completely without talent – after Paulie’s lesson, it’s Kane. And after Kane … As usual, Judy has no one coming after Kane. She likes to let his time run on as long as possible, whenever his mother will allow it. Every lesson culminates in a tiny struggle, because both of them want Kane to keep playing, but Judy knows the mother can’t afford more time but is too proud to let his time run without paying. So much potential. And only six. She will have to give him up soon, pass him on to the Music Institute. She worries that the mother won’t be able to afford their enormous fees. She will tell her today that they must work hard, stay late, to make sure he wins one of the scholarship places. She’s feeling pleased with this plan, but it saddens her too.
There’s that prickle behind her eyes again, but she can hardly help it. Kane is so much like her Joseph at the same age. Such talent. It was her mother all over again, playing through his fingers. His gift, his wonderful, wonderful gift. At least he never followed his father into the used-car business, at least she can be thankful for that.
Judy moves around slowly, straightening things out. Tuesdays are good. Joseph is in the city Tuesdays. She knows, because she saw him drive by the house. She was standing by the window, just looking out at nothing, when she saw his van go straight by, without even slowing down. She could not believe it.
– I could not believe it, she exclaimed to Frank that evening. Straight by, without even slowing down. Without even looking at the house. His own home.
– What’s not to believe, Frank said from behind the sports page.
– That he could—
– I know what you mean, Frank said levelly. I just don’t know why you are surprised, is all.
– Well … Judy was flustered. Frank was right. Joseph never called by. Not unless he really had to. Thanksgiving, Christmas. That was about it.
– Well, I’m going to pick up the phone right now and find out why a son would not call in to his own mother when he’s passing by.
But Frank had raised his paper with that slow deliberateness of his and was no longer listening. No reasonable conclusions could be reached by discussing their son, she ought to know that by now. They each lived with their own private version of disappointment where Joseph was concerned, and there was no overlap. There was nothing left to say on the subject.
She moved to the counter and picked up the phone.
– Um … Joseph said.
– You know, busy … Joseph said.
– Next time … Joseph said.
Judy picked him up on it in a flash.
– Next time you’re—
– You know, next time – the wholesaler’s …
– So you go to the wholesaler’s, every Tuesday.
She could imagine Frank’s bushy eyebrows lifting behind his newspaper. And Joseph had conceded that, yes, every Tuesday. Then he modified it to most Tuesdays. Most Tuesdays he was in Chicago at the wholesaler’s, and yes, he would, one of the days when he wasn’t so busy, stop by to see his mother.
– There, Judy put the phone down with a flourish.
– He’s not gonna come over, Frank said, without looking up.
But you never knew, he just might. She doesn’t know when she saw him last. He’s just so darn busy. Frank drives out there sometimes. He doesn’t go to see his son. He goes to keep an eye on his investment. Well, maybe next time she will surprise the
m both, take a drive out with him. Soon as the weather cools down a bit. The fall, maybe. It’s nice, being in the nature when the leaves are turning. Yes, that’s what she’s going to do.
She lowers her bulk onto the piano stool, smiling as she imagines herself in the passenger seat of Frank’s Cadillac, leaving Chicago behind, heading out on the open road into the heart of mid-western America. She will take that tour of Joseph’s farm, try out some of his vegetables. She wonders what might be in season in the fall. Corn? Pumpkin? She will make Mother’s pumpkin challah. She can already see herself, taking the hot yeasty loaves out of Joseph’s oven. But then she remembers. No challah. Mother is long gone, but Frank is of the same mind as her mother. No Jewish cooking. No Jewish anything. Funny how she can’t seem to get it into her head, even after all these years.
She glances at the clock. If Joseph is coming, he’d better hurry, because the children will be here soon. He’d never come after, not if there’s any chance Frank might be there. Poor Joseph, having to take a loan from Frank that time. It must have killed him. No, they do not get on. She does not want to think about them, toe to toe, not getting on.
Maybe she will make him pumpkin pie instead when she takes that drive out. They’ll sit in Joseph’s kitchen, filled with cinnamon smells, and talk. In her mind’s ear they are talking in German. But that would never happen, not with Frank around. She wonders if Joseph remembers, when he was little, chatting away to her in the language she was not able to forget, even when Mother insisted. That was when he was still playing piano. When he still chatted to her. The happiest time of her life.
Her fingers have crept onto the keyboard, remembering a jolly little song, one of the very first Joseph learned. He played it by ear when he was hardly more than three. Straight in, starting at an F. But then she plays A-flat, not the A that belongs to the tune. With B, C, dissonant, melancholic, unfinished.
Yehudit is six. They have been walking for a long time. She is tired, but Mother is even more tired so she carries her own small bag. In it is a piece of hard bread, and the photograph. Then there is a train, then more walking. It seems to be night for a long time, and it is still dark when they reach the end of the road. A wooden bridge is slung across black water to a boat. Mother flinches when the man there puts out his hand to help her across. He pulls his hand back, says something in a language Yehudit does not understand, steps a little away. Mother seems very tall and all alone as she walks across. She does not hold the ropes, even though the bridge rocks and sways.
The boat takes a long time. She plays with the other children, Adam, Solomon. She can’t remember the other girl’s name. They hide all over, even in the Captain’s quarters. He is nice to them and smiles a lot, but still he seems sad.
She is American now, Mother tells her, with one of those same, sad smiles. This will be their home, this small apartment with one bedroom, a toilet on the landing. She does not know why Mother cries the day the knock comes on the door and the two American men bring in a piano.
– There ya go, missy, one of them says, mussing Yehudit’s hair.
But the piano is not for her, it is for Mother, and she cries when she plays it, probably because she is remembering the pretty dress, the tall handsome man leaning on another, big, shiny piano, smiling down at her while she played: the people in the photograph.
Mother was sad the day Yehudit came home from school crying because everyone was speaking in English and she did not understand what they were saying.
– You will, Yehudit. In time you will understand.
She said it like You-dith. Except at school they said Ju-dith. The teacher even spelled it wrong in the roll book.
She made some friends after a while. Wait up, Jude, they called, rushing to link arms on the way to school, the way girls do. Only, Mother heard Wait up, Jew. Judith tried to explain, but it didn’t matter. From then on, Mother stopped observing the holiday and reading the Torah, and Yehudit became Judy. Mother looked sad again when she heard Judy’s friends call her. It was impossible to make Mother happy.
Later, when Judy got in from school, Mother was tired as well as sad. She had to cut back her hours at the store where she worked, but before long she was too tired even for that. When she was too ill to work any more, Judy said goodbye to high school and her friends and stayed home to look after her. Even when she had done everything, helped her to take sips, to swallow her pills, cleaned her up, fixed her pillows, she could tell that Mother was still in pain. She didn’t say anything, but Judy could see it in her eyes. Then, when she could not take the pain away with pills or comfortable pillows, Judy played piano. Mother had been a patient teacher, and Judy a good, though not gifted, pupil, and as she stroked the keys into melodies from her mother’s past, a temporary peace crept into the apartment, enveloping them both.
When there was no more money, sixteen-year-old Judy did not know where to turn. The neighbour across the hall was good to them, but she had not much herself. Go to Maxwell Street, she told Judy. There, old man Rosenberg would give her cash for anything she had to sell. Judy went. She put her head down and wove her way through the pandemonium of upturned boxes and crates heaving with their wares, the cacophony of accents, German, Irish, Italian, and plenty more she did not recognise, peddling lamps, television sets, bikes, strange-smelling clothes, all competing with the sliding blue notes of harmonicas and guitars. The pullers called to her, tugged on her sleeve, tried to entice her in to the stores. She drew her coat more tightly around her and hurried on until she found it: Rosenberg’s Jewellery.
He was about a hundred, but he was the one sitting her down and getting her water to drink.
– There, he said in Hebrew. You feel better, eh?
Judy nodded, still feeling weak, not trusting herself to speak, in any language.
– You are Laila’s girl? he asked gently.
Judy nodded again.
– She is not well, I hear.
She shook her head.
– Laila, Laila, it took all her strength from her.
Judy did not know what he meant, but the old man was talking more to himself than to her.
– Terrible, terrible, he was saying. Terrible times. All the poor little children. Poor Laila. Poor Jacob.
Then he seemed to remember again that she was there.
– I knew your grandfather, he said softly, and he counted out far too many dollars in exchange for her mother’s watch.
When there was nothing else, Judy sold the piano, and when her mother begged with her eyes for some music, Judy could only stare at her hands where they sat palm up in her lap, her fingers as useless as the flailing legs of an upturned beetle.
When her mother died, Mr Grube, the store-owner, took pity on her and gave Mother’s old job to Judy, though she knew nothing at all about counting and measuring, and she was too quiet to be any good with the customers. But she turned up in good time every day with her face well scrubbed and hair in a tidy braid, ready and willing to do her best. When a certain Frank Martello started coming often, the owner winked and told her she’d want to look out for those Italians. After that, Judy blushed every time he came in. She fumbled his change and stammered answers to his questions, so it came as a complete surprise when he leaned his elbow on the counter and asked her how she’d like to come work for him, in a nice office job. Mr Grube joined in from the storeroom.
– You going to pay her well, eh?
– I’ll double her wages, Frank replied, quick as a shot, with a wink to Judy, who blushed to the soles of her feet.
– Then get outta here fast as your feet can carry you, Judy, Mr Grube said.
Frank was as good as his word. He gave her such an easy job that she wondered if he thought she was an idiot, but she was happy to hide away in the quiet office behind his own at the back of the lot. Every day he came in for a chat, to put her at her ease. He was such a talker. That was why he was so good at selling cars. He talked her into filling in at reception before long, and when sh
e protested that she couldn’t possibly, looking down at her faded skirt and well-washed sweater, he took her by the two hands and danced her out of the office and into one of the fancy sporty cars, the best in the showroom.
– Then we’re going down town, pretty lady.
He brought her to State Street, to the famous Marshall Field’s.
– Pick out whatever you want, Frank said grandly.
Judy had never set foot inside the door of Marshall Field’s before. The doorman intimidated her, the perfumes overwhelmed her, and she hardly dared to lift her eyes.
When Frank noticed, he grabbed a saleswoman by the arm.
– My girl here could use a little help finding something nice.
That was the first day he called her his girl. Frank could be kind back then. He bought her a caramel twinset and a mustard dirndl skirt and a box of Frango mints.
After they got married, Frank didn’t like her working in the lot any more.
– What do you want, hanging around those guys all day? he asked, and she didn’t have an answer to that. She didn’t have answers to many of the questions husbands ask because she had never heard them answered; she did not remember her father and mother together, only in the photograph. She spent her days in their new home on the South Side. She was lonesome, but she told herself they would soon fill those empty bedrooms.
The bedrooms stayed empty, and Judy found it harder to count her blessings every day. Living with Mother had been like living with a shadow, moving silently about, getting everything done with the least amount of fuss. Frank was the opposite. He never talked when he could shout, he left doors open, and the television was on from the time he got up in the morning and again from the moment he got home, with the volume up high. It took some getting used to.
Sometimes she didn’t know she was crying, and when he’d ask her what in tarnation was the matter she’d have to put a hand to her cheek and feel it wet to realise. When he looked into her dark eyes she could see his incomprehension, but she also knew that he did not want to understand what he saw in there; he did not want to know what her dark eyes had seen. He covered his fear with impatience, then with anger, so the house swung between oppressive silences and frustrated outbursts, frequently followed by a slamming door, then silence again.
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