MY BROTHER GARY MADE A MOVIE & THIS IS WHAT HAPPENED
Although he is wearing a paper bag over his head, I instantly recognize Gary. Gary is my brother, and he is making a movie. Don’t get me wrong, the eyes were cut out. I mean, Gary could see. “What’s the name of the movie, Gary?” “The name of the moobie,” said Gary, “is My Family.” “You said moobie, Gary.” “No, I didn’t. I said, moobie.” “You did it again, Gary.”
Gary’s eyes moved very quickly back and forth. Gary was miffed. “I’m going to flip out!” shouted Gary. “I’m sorry, Gary.” Gary had trouble with words. It was his sorest spot. Sometimes he was so tragically far off I wanted to gather him up in my arms, climb a tree, and leave him in the largest nest I could find. He’d mean to say “human” and it would come out “cantaloupe.” He’d mean to say “dad” and it would come out “sock.” Even my name he malapropped. He called me Mouse.
“Did you build that camera yourself, Gary?” The camera was an old tin can with a bunch of leaves pasted to it. Gary held the tin can up in the air. A few leaves fluttered off. “Action?” he whispered. And then, even softer, he whispered, “Cut?” “May I make a suggestion, Gary?” “What is it, Mouse?” “Maybe you want to point the camera at something.” “Like what?” “Maybe like an actor, Gary. Like an actor who is saying words.” “Like these actors?” asked Gary. I was proud of his pronunciation. He led me behind the couch.
The actors groaned in a heap. “Is that Grandpa, Gary?” It was unquestionably Grandpa. He was on the very, very tippy top. “Hi, Grandpa,” I said. “Hello,” said Grandpa. He was not excited to see me. I had married a black man, and he was still ticked off. “This is not about you,” said Grandpa. “This is about Gary and his burden of dreams.”
“Look!” said Gary. “There’s sock.” Gary meant our dad. “Hi, Dad.” My father gave a little wave. He was about four actors from the bottom. My eleven other brothers also were there: Eugene, Jack, Sid, Benjamin, Daniel, Saul, Eli, Walter, Adam, Richard, and Gus. They groaned. Aunt Rosa was shoved between my mother and grandmother. A bunch of cousins were balled up at the bottom.
“Hand me that shovel,” said Gary. “What shovel?” I asked. But Gary already was pointing his tin can straight at the heap. “Lights,” said Gary. “Turn off the lights!” I turned off the lights. “Camera,” said Gary. “Action,” said Gary. “Cut,” said Gary.
“May I ask a question, Gary?” “What is it, Mouse?” “Why are you shooting in the dark, Gary?”
“I’ve had it,” yelled my mother. “We’ve been here for six goddamn years.” Aunt Rosa made little clucking sounds. I turned on the lights. Gary went into the kitchen and returned with a large tray filled with tiny cups of water.
“I can’t live in a heap this close to your father,” yelled my mother.
I began to wonder about footage.
“I need a mani/pedi,” yelled my mother. “I need a goddamn blowout.” “You look beautiful,” I said. “This is not about you,” yelled my mother. “This is about Gary and his burden of dreams.” I handed her a cup of water. “This water tastes fake,” yelled my mother. “It is fake,” said Gary.
My father’s beeper went off. His patients were dying.
“Did you know,” asked Grandma, “that the fear of being touched is called aphenphosmphobia?” My mother rolled her eyes.
“What’s the movie about, Gary?” “The moobie’s about the Holocaust,” said Gary.
“Is there a script, Gary?” “Bring me that ladder,” said Gary. I brought him the ladder. He leaned it against the heap, climbed all the way up, and stood on top of Grandpa. Grandpa smiled.
Gary pulled the paper bag off his head. His silver hair tumbled out. The actors oohed and aahed. Gary blushed. He turned the paper bag inside out, and off of it he read the script: Thou shalt have no other gods; Thou shalt not make any graven images; Thou shalt not take the Lord’s name in vain; Remember the Sabbath day; Honor thy father and mother; Thou shalt not kill; Thou shalt not commit adultery; Thou shalt not steal; Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor; Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor’s house … nor anything that is his.
“Such a good boy,” said Aunt Rosa. “Such a good boy,” said Grandpa. “Such a good boy,” said my father. “Go to hell,” said my mother. My eleven other brothers groaned.
“Did you know,” said Grandma, “that the fear of the skins of animals is called doraphobia?”
I began to wonder whose heart was a doomed spoon. Mine or Gary’s.
The best I could do for Gary at this point was hold him and ask him what he was going to do after.
“After what?” asked Gary. “After shooting,” I said. “I’m going to Barcelona,” said Gary. Now that really ceiled me. I would’ve said “that really threw me off the heap,” but I wasn’t invited to be on the heap. Wasn’t really sure I ever wanted to be on the heap. “There are these scrambled eggs in Barcelona,” said Gary, “I really need to try.” “Oh come on, Gary. You know you’ll scream the whole way.” In the States, Gary was just fussy. Overseas he screamed.
And then I remembered Gary’s problem with malapropping. “Barcelona?” I asked. “Barcelona,” said Gary. “Scrambled eggs?” I asked. “Scrambled eggs,” said Gary. I looked over at the heap. My mother was halfway out of there. “Six more years,” she yelled, “and then I quit.” My father gave Gary an idealistic thumbs up. “Did you know,” said Grandma, “that the fear of puppets is called pupaphobia?” “Well,” said Grandpa, “bye.” “I’m not going yet,” I said. I was still holding Gary. I held him as tightly as I hold my breath when I pass the cemetery. “Why do you do that?” asked Gary. “Do what?” “Hold your breath when you pass the cemetery?” I looked over at the heap. Aunt Rosa smacked her hand over her mouth to muffle her laughter, but she wasn’t even laughing. She wasn’t even smiling. “Because I don’t,” I whispered, “want to make the ghosts jealous.” “This isn’t about you,” said Gary. “This is about me and my burden of dreams.” “I know, Gary.” “I know you know,” said Gary. He picked a few leaves off the tin can and handed them to me. I put them in my mouth, chewed, and swallowed. A month later I was pregnant.
I stayed on the set until my husband, the black man, came to pick me up.
EVERYTHING WAS BEAUTIFUL AND NOTHING HURT
“If you love Poems so much,” says the bully, “why don’t you marry Poems?” I have wandered onto a playground, accidentally. I am a sixty-seven-year-old woman standing on the 3 of a hopscotch game blurred by last night’s rain. It is September. The swings smile their black rubberish smiles. I smile back, politely. “What’s your name, Bully?” Bully puffs out his chest. “Beadlebaum,” he says. “Listen, Beadlebaum, I did marry Poems. We’ve been married for years.”
There is a space between Beadlebaum’s front teeth that reminds me of Poems.
My cell rings. It’s Ma. I tell her about the bully. I tell her his name is Beadlebaum and that the space between his front teeth reminds me of Poems. “Describe,” says Ma. “Like wild shade,” I say. “More,” says Ma. “Like an empty Bible,” I say. “How’s that?” asks Ma. “Like if the Bible was a room you could walk inside and there was nothing. No Genesis, no Exodus, no Numbers, no god. No light, no darkness.” Ma is silent. Beadlebaum coughs. “I don’t really know,” I say. “Stick with the shade,” says Ma.
Beadlebaum’s fists are clenched. He jumps and sways around me. He is shouting. “If you love Poems so much, why don’t you marry Poems?” Beadlebaum is a bad listener. I crouch down and look Beadlebaum straight in the eye. I do not like repeating myself, but this time I do. I must. “I did marry Poems.” For proof, I flash my band. Beadlebaum squints. “And not only did I marry Poems, but at the time we married it was only legal to do so in six states. We married in Iowa, Beadlebaum. Iowa. Have you ever believed, Beadlebaum, in something much, much bigger than you?” Beadlebaum is sweating. “Liar!” shouts Beadlebaum.
“Listen, Beadlebaum. It’s a bad economy. You are trying to spen
d me when I’ve already been spent.” I sit him on a bench and tie his shoelaces. “Some would say we’re in a depression, Beadlebaum. Over the years I applied for dozens and dozens of jobs. I killed many interviews. Slaughtered them, in fact. I held those who may be concerned to my bosom and answered their questions so expertly I left them weeping. Weeping into my skin, Beadlebaum. Was I sloppy at times? Perhaps. Was my perfume magnificent? It was. Was I overly prepared? Never. Did they call me back, Beadlebaum? No, they did not. No one was really hiring. And if they were hiring they weren’t paying. And if they were paying they were only paying Donald. Do you know Donald, Beadlebaum?” Beadlebaum shakes his head no. “Do you know why you don’t know Donald? You don’t know Donald because nobody knows Donald. Donald doesn’t exist. Donald is the man none of us will ever be.”
I peel Beadlebaum a hard-boiled egg and offer it to him. He turns his face away.
“I took courses on miracles, Beadlebaum. Honest to god miracles. And where did that leave me? Where did that leave me, Beadlebaum? I am asking you, Beadlebaum.” Beadlebaum looks at me and blinks. “Where did taking courses on miracles leave me?”
“It left you on the playground with me?” “That’s right, Beadlebaum. It left me on the playground with you.”
Ma calls. “Do you need milk?” She is shouting. She thinks I am always in need of milk. “Not now, Ma,” I say. “I am getting somewhere.”
“The job market is an empty mouse. You know what that means, Beadlebaum?” Beadlebaum shakes his head no. “It means no blood. No bones. Not even a liver, Beadlebaum. Not even a couple of guts. It means just a sad pile of fur you couldn’t, no matter how hard you tried, ever turn into a coat. Not even a lousy scarf, Beadlebaum. Nothing holds it together, Beadlebaum. Nothing holds it together.” Beadlebaum looks like he’s about to cry. I muss his hair, as Ma once mussed mine.
Up and down the seesaw we go.
“Have you ever put on a suit, Beadlebaum? Have you ever showed up exactly on time with hope in your heart? Have you ever been the most qualified candidate, by far?” Beadlebaum looks down at his skinny hands. Beadlebaum tries to run away, but I catch him by the collar.
Poems is looking for me. Sometimes I get lost, like today.
Ma calls. She tells me she is reading Slaughterhouse-Five. “It says here,” says Ma, “EVERYTHING WAS BEAUTIFUL AND NOTHING HURT.” She says this to reassure me. As if she’s reading the newspaper, and not a drawing of a gravestone in a book. Ma’s sharp, but lousy with fiction. Beadlebaum holds my hand. We watch the toads hop across the damp ground. “They know something we don’t know,” says Beadlebaum. And they do. The toads do.
Just when I begin to wonder if Beadlebaum is a real child, Poems shows up. Beautiful Poems, the color of upturned soil.
Poems walks straight up to Beadlebaum. “There’s a new sheriff in town,” he says. But Poems doesn’t say this like a sheriff. He doesn’t say this like he’s protecting me. He says this like he’s missing. In a whisper.
He feels for the badge on his chest but there is no badge. “Maybe it dropped,” says Beadlebaum. They are on their hands and knees. They are looking for the badge so Poems can show Beadlebaum he’s the new sheriff in town. They crawl under the monkey bars. “It’s gold and star shaped,” says Poems. “I know,” says Beadlebaum.
“Everybody knows that,” says Beadlebaum. “Even babies. Even,” Beadlebaum says pointing at me, “her.” Then he picks up a rock and throws it at my head. There is blood. “If you love Poems so much why don’t you marry Poems?” Poems looks distraught.
“Do the thing,” says Beadlebaum, “where you cry.” And Poems cries.
Poems cries so hard a cloud bursts, and children spill out. They fall through the air. Their legs and arms go in every direction like sunshine. They land softly. They flood the playground in brightly colored pajamas.
They are carrying books, keys, bones, the bareness of my being. Some are carrying each other. They march up to Beadlebaum and surround him. Of all the children, Beadlebaum seems the most elderly. Pale Beadlebaum. In his fake-corduroy shorts.
Ma calls. “There is no such thing as fake corduroy,” says Ma. “Only corduroy, regular. It’s like skin,” says Ma. “It’s either skin or if it’s fake it’s something else.”
Now Beadlebaum is in the middle of a thick circle of children who have fallen from the clouds. They do not taunt him or throw bones. They just stare and hum and ask Beadlebaum who he loves. “Who do you love, Beadlebaum?”
Ma calls. “It’s impolite to love no one,” she says. And Ma would know. I tell Ma my head is bleeding. “Of course it is,” says Ma.
Poems is on the swings crying and crying. Clouds are bursting with more and more children. “Beadlebaum, Beadlebaum, who do you love?” The children are singing. The children are swaying. And then Beadlebaum’s voice. Muffled by all the children, but I know it’s Beadlebaum in there. “Beadlebaum, Beadlebaum, who do you love?” I hear it, and just when I hear it, just when I hear Beadlebaum say my name, Poems is beside me. Poems has collected some leaves to wipe the blood from my head. I tell Poems it’s me. I tell Poems Beadlebaum loves me. But then I hear Beadlebaum say “Poland.” Then I hear Beadlebaum say “fish.” Then Beadlebaum says “nose.” Poems is wiping away all the blood. I close my eyes. I tell Poems Beadlebaum said my name. Poems says, “Shhhh.” Ma is calling. I hear Beadlebaum say, “forgive.” There is so much blood. This is how Poems saves me.
MOTHER AT THE DENTIST
Every day, for the past ten years, my mother calls me from the dentist. “Can you believe I am here?” she asks. “Again!” And I can. There are so many teeth. There is a lot of work on my mother’s mouth to do, and Dr. Fishman is the best. My father has moved on. A man can only wait for his wife at the dentist for so long until he wanders outside to buy a newspaper and never returns. “Barbara!” She is yelling. “Are you there?” And I am. I am there. “I really wish you’d get married already,” she sighs. She sounds like her mouth is slowly filling up with mice. “Maybe it would help if you cut out the sugar.” I look around. There is no sugar. Whether there had ever been any sugar, I can barely remember. In the distance, there is drilling, but I can’t tell if it’s coming from my mother’s end or mine. “Barbara! Are you listening? Just between you and me this Dr. Fishman is a nudnick! He’s a louse! A thief!” She says this romantically. “I am never coming back.” But she will come back. She will come back every day. She loves Dr. Fishman almost as much as he loves her. “If I die here, Barbara, you can have all my jewelry.” I look around my bare apartment. My mother still has all her baby teeth. She refuses to let them fall out. She calls them Mindy, and I suspect Dr. Fishman has no choice but to call them Mindy too. I have watched her pet them with her tongue, and grown jealous.
The next day, my mother calls me from the dentist. “Can you believe I am here?” she asks. “Again!” And I can. There are so many teeth. “He wants to give me a crown,” she giggles. “Like a princess.” There is the fuzzy sound of what may be Dr. Fishman’s beard brushing up against the phone. “He promises to build me a bridge,” she coos. “Like in the movies.” I don’t know what to say so I ask my mother what her favorite color is. But my mother can’t hear me, or can’t answer, or doesn’t want to. She puts Dr. Fishman on the phone. “Of course your mother loves you, Barbara. Don’t be ridiculous. It’s your choices she doesn’t love. I am handing you back to your mother.” I can hear my mother ask who it is. “It’s Barbara.” There’s a long silence. Then scraping. Then I hear kissing noises. Then more silence. Then “Barbara!” She is yelling. “Are you there?” And I am. I am there. “It’s moss,” she says. “My favorite color is moss.” She is not being serious. No one’s favorite color is moss, least of all my mother’s.
At night, as I try to fall asleep, I wonder about Dr. Fishman’s other patients. All dusty and still in the waiting room.
The next day, my mother calls me from the dentist. “Can you believe I am here?” she asks. “Again!” And I can. There
are so many teeth. “Remember, Barbara, when you were ten and I took you to the swamp?” My mother never took me to a swamp. “Remember the boats, Barbara? Remember the mosquitoes?” My mother is laughing. I can hear Dr. Fishman laughing too. My mother covers the phone, but I can still hear everything. “I took her to the swamp, and she tried to drink the water.” My mother gargles, then spits. “Talk about your swamp faux pas!” Now my mother and Dr. Fishman are growling with laughter. “Why were you so thirsty, Barbara?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer. She covers the phone again, but I can still hear her. “She made tiny paper hats for the frogs, and taped balloons to the trees. Can you imagine!” More laughter. “Why can’t you ever just let a swamp be a swamp, Barbara? Why do you always have to fight against nature?” My mother never took me to a swamp. I have never, not once in my life, fought against nature. I am beginning to wonder if she’s thinking not of a swamp, but of my tenth birthday. “Barbara, Barbara, are you there?” Now it’s Dr. Fishman on the phone. “Your mother, you should know, has gorgeous breath.” Dr. Fishman says this as if he’s disappointed in me.
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