Sewing Can Be Dangerous and Other Small Threads

by S. R. Mallery

  “Why don’t you come around to our apartment this week, say two p.m. on Wednesday, and we can discuss this. All right?” In spite of herself, Ruth found Lucille’s conspiratorial inflections enticing.

  “I’ll be there. Yes, I can find it, don’t worry about me.”

  At the Van der Hooten’s front doorjamb, the two women stared at each other. They had both aged gracefully—one short, dark and round, the other tall, thin and gray, and as they sat on opposite sofas, soaking up each other and transporting themselves back to a time when they could never have had any common goals, they discovered within the first half hour, that the one thing they both did have in common, was that they wanted the best for their children. By the end of two hours, not only were the matriarchs satisfied they could possibly help shape the course of events, they were rather surprised at the mutual respect they ended up feeling towards one another. As they said their good-byes, there were no hugs, but their grins spoke volumes as they separated.

  When Mark returned from Europe, there were six messages on his phone, four of which were from old dates or girlfriends, and when Lizzy finished her show on the last night, an old flame suddenly appeared at the gallery from out of nowhere.

  The Mother Campaign had been activated. Whenever Mark called up, if Lizzy was in another room, out of earshot, according to her mom, she ‘wasn’t in.’ If she really wasn’t in, she never got his messages.

  “Mommy, when are we going to see Mark again?” Natalie asked one morning, as she snuggled up close.

  Lizzy hesitated. “I don’t know, honey, I just don’t know…” How could she explain the makings of a relationship and how she had never heard from Mark again?

  Out with friends at a local club one night, after his third Manhattan, Mark waxed philosophical. “Maybe the problem with new relationships is that both sides are so damned insecure. Do you think by the time couples celebrate their twentieth wedding anniversary they get it right and are finally at peace?” His words were beginning to slur.

  “Maybe she wasn’t for you. She was different from us, you know,” his friends told him.

  Mark smiled sadly, and nodded. He had loved her differences.

  Summer came to a lazy end and with it, a free Shakespearean Festival in Central Park, featuring Romeo and Juliet. As hundreds of New Yorkers toted their blankets, coolers, and low-backed lawn chairs over roughly-mowed grass, the smell of MacDonald’s happy meals along with gourmet deli meats and cheese layered on top of crackling Italian bread wafted leisurely through the balmy air.

  Spreading an old, patchwork quilt out beneath her, Lizzy settled in for an evening of fine, distracting entertainment. Anything to take her mind off Mark. Another night of being at home with her mother’s smirking was more than she could handle.

  Twenty yards away, hidden behind a tree, an unshaven Mark sat alone on his Abercrombie & Fitch blanket, a high-priced bottle of chilled French chardonnay by his side, two thirds empty.

  The play began with well-trained, top-notch actors, their interpretation of the language impeccable. Yet during its first few lines, you could still hear the crinkle of hamburger papers being crushed into throw-away balls, the psshhtt of the pop-top soda cans expelling fizz up into the air, and people shifting on their blankets as they hunkered down for the duration.

  As the play wound its way towards the moment when Mercutio, who had just been mortally wounded by Juliet’s brother, spoke his classic lines, “I am hurt/A plague on both your houses, I am sped…” the audience stilled, so silent a single cough sounded like a shotgun blast.

  Then suddenly, a little boy, standing up in front of Lizzy, made an announcement. “Hey, why are you and that man crying?”

  She looked up at him, dazed, her cheeks slippery from tears.

  “Why are you and that man the only ones crying?” he repeated, hopping from one foot to the other and pointing to a nearby tree.

  Lizzy looked down, annoyed and embarrassed. Who was this kid and why was he singling her out? Then she remembered his words and glanced over at the tree. A man had emerged from behind its wide trunk, dabbing at his eyes with his sleeves and staring at her.

  As the play headed towards its final scene, and four hundred and ninety-eight pairs of eyes were centered on the makeshift stage built down on the south side of the 79th Street meadow, two pairs of eyes were focused elsewhere. Wrapped up together in the old comforter, Lizzy and Mark mouthed the words, “a plague on both our houses—a plague on both our houses,” as they burrowed deeper under its folds and kissed.

  Twelve years later, when their parents decided to renew their marriage vows in front of all their friends in their backyard in Sneden’s Landing along the Hudson River, Natalie and her two half-sisters were surprised to see a couple of actors there, performing only a single scene out of Romeo and Juliet.

  “Just what are our parents thinking?” Natalie looked at her siblings and shrugged as an actor playing Mercutio was mock-stabbed.

  Ruth leaned in and put her arms around Natalie’s teenage shoulders. “Ah, well, what can you expect from a crazy art dealer for a father and a business tycoon for a mom?” she quipped, hurrying back into the kitchen for another round of hors d’oeuvres.

  BORDER WINDFALLS

  Surrounding the main quad at Sunford College stood brick buildings coated with ivy so thick the windows looked more like square holes chiseled into a Chia Pet than double-hung windows. From there, bored students could gaze outside, daydreaming, while frittering away precious classroom time. Below them, narrow pathways gently twisted and turned through a staid campus, reminding one of an English university rather than a small United States college, and indeed, in 1968, Sunford might as well have been nestled in another country. No anti-Vietnam demonstrations or Civil Rights movements here; only conservative children of even more conservative business families, pretending to get a “well-rounded” education and simultaneously, spending their parents’ money as fast as they could.

  Peter Rosen’s view on education, however, contrasted sharply from his colleagues and in particular, his roommate Jack Reinhold. No two people could have been more different. Jack descended from a Texas oil-rich family, while Peter’s parents were hard-working, lower middle-class, and being Jewish, slightly insecure about their son’s enrollment in so Waspy an institution. But Peter had won a full scholarship, and that was that.

  “Jesus Christ, Peter, why do you have to pound the books all day, huh?” Jack’s boisterous voice always broke Peter’s concentration.

  “Listen, I’ve got a chemistry test tomorrow, if you don’t mind! Some people have to work hard to get good grades…” Peter, teetering on the verge of another rant about not having a rich daddy to bail him out, thought better of it, and stopped.

  “Peter, someday you’re gonna regret not playing with me and my pals. Life’s too short, you know?” Changing into his tennis outfit, Jack warbled a low whistle, then bounded out of the room, slamming the door shut and sending several of Peter’s papers flying.

  “He really thinks he’s God’s gift…” Peter grumbled, snatching up the strewn papers littering the floor of their small dorm room.

  As much as he tried, he couldn’t contain himself—he was bitter. Why not? Everything always came so easily for people like Jack. Was it because he was from a wealthy family? No, not just that. After all, there was Leonard Quigley down the hall; his father was fabulously rich, yet he was a complete nerd. Nothing ever went right for him. Peter chuckled at the thought of Leonard trying to be social in the college cafeteria. It was not a pretty sight. Then, looking down at Jack on the quad talking to a co-ed, he drew a slow sigh before settling down to a long study session.

  Four years later in medical school, he was still studying hard, still far too serious, and still a far cry from Jack. “Come off it, Rosen, you’ll never save the world, you know,” everyone laughed. But Peter was not just going to be a good surgeon; he was really going to contribute something to society.

  However, picking
out a specialty proved difficult. Too many things competed for his attention and indeed, if his aunt Sophie hadn’t been sent to the hospital for extreme dehydration on the heels of a bout of influenza, he might never have decided at all.

  “Dahlink, I expect you to come visit me here at the hospital. Now, come tomorrow, that’d be nice,” she commanded over the phone, obviously puffing on a pilfered cigarette. Click.

  The next day, as the elderly woman nodded off on her bed, Peter was itching to go, but just knowing that leaving without a goodbye would cause Hell-To-Pay, he picked up a copy of National Geographic and started thumbing through it, flipping the pages in time to Aunt Sophie’s rhythmic snores.

  God, these articles could be so much more interesting, he sighed, alternating between glancing at the pictures and checking on his aunt’s progress toward waking up. The photos were really spectacular, he thought, if only the articles gave you more detail. If only…

  On the spreadsheet in front of him was a little boy, displaying a horrendously disfiguring harelip and cleft palate. Staring forlornly into the camera, his tears had been caught mid-slide on his cheeks, frozen forever in the photograph. Behind him, several townspeople had been captured as well, but instead of sadness, their faces were suspended in sneers and taunts.

  Children born with this condition, the article stated, not only had to contend with a real physical deformity, they had to deal with people who were convinced their malady was the sign of the Devil himself. According to local custom, they weren’t allowed to live a normal life. Indeed, they were to be punished, or at the very least, not permitted to go to school for fear of contaminating the other students.

  Peter could feel the energy being drawn out of his body and siphoned onto the page. This was his Eureka moment. He would specialize in plastic surgery and try to set up a small clinic to repair some of nature’s damage to these poor unfortunates.

  But nobody took him seriously. Sure, sure, they all snickered. You’re doing this not for the tremendous-amounts-of-money-you-could-get-doing liposuction, but rather for the good of small children. Yeah, sure. Tell us another one, Rosen. His parents were no help, either. They were more than ecstatic—their son, the Beverly Hills millionaire plastic surgeon. What a godsend, our Petela!

  But in his first year as a doctor, Peter chose a research position at a plastic surgery clinic in El Paso, Texas, where the job description included some hands-on experience as a craniofacial surgeon, dealing mostly with harelips and cleft palates. His salary was much lower than expected, and he didn’t seem to even care about liposuction or face-lifts where the real money was. His parents were stunned.

  The head surgeon at Peter’s clinic was succinct. “Listen, Rosen, I know you are hoping for extra funding for your harelip projects in Latin America, but just forget it. This is 1981 with a Republican president. The new administration is not going to be receptive to your convictions.”

  He studied Peter for a second then continued. “If you have to pick an unpopular cause, why don’t you spend your time researching this new virus that seems to be killing homosexuals? Nobody cares about your kids from other countries. Take my advice on this, I know what I’m talking about.”

  Devastated, Peter slunk home. It must be my karma, my touch, the non-Jack-Reinhold-touch, he ruminated. Suddenly he wondered what the rogue was up to. How was his life turning out? He switched on his television for the evening news and walked over to his refrigerator to pull out a frozen turkey T.V. dinner. He was examining the back of the package when he heard a voice that propelled him 180 degrees back towards his set.

  “…Tell me, Mr. Reinhold, how can you account for this remarkable turn-around in your newly acquired cable station in El Paso? Ever since you took over three years ago, the rating charts have skyrocketed, with everyone buzzing about record sales. Isn’t it true your “Give-A-Kid-A-Wallet campaign has been the main reason for this?”

  There was a deft smile on Jack’s face as he leaned into the microphone. “Well, yes, the program has been a success. Give a child a wallet and they’ll try to put something into it, I always say. Makes them get out there and work hard. Thanks much, and have a great day.” Slipping into his brand new Porsche 911, he was off and running.

  All the years of hard work and frustration finally caught up with Peter. “Goddamit!” he blared as he hurled a slipper at the TV. “It’s time I had some of my goals realized! I’m a good person; I work hard. Why the hell can’t I get successful? Give a Kid a Wallet! Give a Kid A Wallet! What about my kids? How about their lives?” Flinging his dinner against the kitchen counter, he watched turkey, gravied mashed potatoes, and peas catapult across the room.

  That night in bed, images of Jack standing over him, laughing, made sleep impossible, but eventually, as the night shifted from pitch black to a soft, milky gray, he drifted off, his mind made up.

  “WBBQ Cable network, Jack Reinhold, Managing Director,” a receptionist’s reedy voice warbled over the phone.

  “Yes, I’d like to talk to Jack Reinhold, please.” Suddenly, Peter was very nervous.

  “I’m afraid he’s in a meeting. Whom shall I say is calling?” Her pinched tone was beginning to lodge itself an eighth of an inch beneath his skin.

  “Just tell him a very old friend from college is on the phone.”

  “What is your name, sir?” The tone chilled slightly. The hell with her.

  “Look, just tell Jack, Peter Rosen called, and have him call me back.” He hung up, sorry he had called.

  He only half-expected an answer back. People like him never commanded one. Instead, he spent his nights at a nearby library, studying South American cultures, with their remarkable herbal medicines, and their abhorrence for harelips and cleft palates. The more articles he read, the stronger the gravitational pull towards these abused and abandoned children.

  Two weeks later, an invitation arrived in the mail. “WBBQ Station cordially invites you to a cocktail party honoring Jack Reinhold, Managing Director. Please RSVP by February 20, 1981.” Annoyed that there was no personal note to him, he was about to flip it into the waste paper basket when he caught sight of a few scribbled words on the back, “Hey, buddy, great to hear from you. Please come, OK? Best, Jack.”

  He felt curiously reaffirmed, as if his own father had placed a loving arm around his shoulders, telling him what a good boy he had been and how much he was admired.

  The Maitre D’ Restaurant was old-world, elegant, and undoubtedly expensive. Silver trays of champagne-filled fluted crystal glasses floated throughout the “Chateau Room” on the finger tips of well-dressed waiters, while caviar canapés made their way into executives’ mouths, and plush carpeting muted the sounds of business deals being solidified.

  Trying to juggle a canapé-filled plate and napkin along with his second glass of champagne, Peter scoured the room for his old roommate. When he spotted him from across the buffet tables, he chuckled ruefully—same old Jack, handsome, albeit with a slight receding hairline, but still vital as he extended his hearty handshake out to everyone in passing.

  This man really had it all, the surgeon smiled in spite of himself. Then Jack caught sight of him. Waving his right arm wildly, he shouted, “Hey Peter! Wait there, I’m comin’ over!” By the time he had reached the doctor, his simple bear hug made Peter feel truly welcomed.

  “What a surprise to hear from you! Frankly, Rosen, I thought you hated my guts. I’m so glad! When this is all over, I want you to come to my apartment to catch up on old times, OK?”

  Peter nodded, excited at finally being accepted. But after the party, as he entered Jack’s apartment, his insecurities instantly surfaced. A glass and chrome coffee table lay on top of the plushest cream-colored textured carpeting he had ever seen. Light tan leather sofas, accessorized by woven Guatemalan throw pillows and a collection of antique sailboat models on various Stickley side tables, completed the perfect picture of confirmed bachelorhood and good taste. Peter was totally intimidated.

  “He
y, buddy. Have a drink and let’s catch up.” Jack handed his ex-collegiate roomie a thick-walled tumbler of Jack Daniels-over-ice and motioned for them both to sit down.

  “So what in the world have you been up to these last few years, huh? Still in medicine? Still so serious? Talk.”

  Not inclined to spill his guts, Peter hesitated. But a second later he couldn’t resist. “You’re the one who’s gone on to fame and fortune, Jack, not me.” The envy and bitterness were unmistakable.

  Jack sat back for a couple of seconds before answering, his head cocked at a forty-five degree angle. “Man, I’m so tired of you always thinking everything’s been handed to me on a silver platter. I mean, I created this whole cable situation on my own, without any help from my dad or the rest of my family. It’s all me, kiddo, so why don’t you get off your high horse for a second, OK?”

  Peter could feel the blood rushing up into his brain and quickly gulped down the rest of his drink. Suddenly the room started to sway, and with it, an outpouring of his goals and dreams in a torrent of words that had been repressed for years. When he started talking about the children, he became quite emotional. Suddenly embarrassed, he asked where the bathroom was so he could compose himself.

  Returning to the living room, he sat down to face a surprisingly somber Jack. “Listen, buddy, if you are serious about this business with the harelips and the kids, maybe I can work something out for you.” Jack leaned in, squinting his eyes as he continued to think out loud.

  “I don’t know if I can swing anything, mind you, but why don’t you make a list of what you would need in order to start operating. Then send it to me, let me think about it, and I’ll get back to you on this in a couple of weeks. All right?”

  Numbed by alcohol, Peter nodded, accompanied by a surrealistic feeling that all this couldn’t possibly be happening.

  But by the following day his list was preliminarily sketched out: a clinic that could hold up to five beds at a time, an operating room, x-ray equipment, surgery utensils, scopes, at least one nurse—he recognized sometimes nurses were required to help in the suturing of the nose and mouth if one side was to be symmetrical with the other. Sometimes there might be poor healing from cleft palate surgery, and that, too, might require a second operation. In addition, he knew ear infections often resulted from cleft palate surgery due to the cleft interfering with middle ear functioning. To allow proper drainage and air circulation, often a plastic ventilation tube was inserted during smaller procedures.