Happy Family

by Tracy Barone

  If Sol was shy, Cici was encouraging. She told him she loved his feet and that his red pubic hair was like the Olympic flame over his big “generals.” She laughed when anything struck her as funny, often something he said or did. When they were again in the thrall of geography instead of each other, Sol worried that the novelty would wear off and she’d wake up one morning and say, “What was I thinking?” When she didn’t, when distance only intensified their yearning, Sol saw Fortunella and La Dolce Vita six times each and developed intense cravings for risotto. During their long separations they wrote near incoherent letters back and forth, and on occasion he could telephone Cici at her cousin Paulo’s for a few expensive but tender minutes.

  Sol didn’t tell his colleagues at work about Cici but had every intention of marrying her as soon as possible. His time frame accelerated because it became harder and harder for him to leave Italy, and he spent more and more time when he was apart from her thinking about how he could lose her. Sol had made Cici tell him about her other boyfriends: the altar boy, the Moto Guzzi guy in high school who felt her up; an artist friend of cousin Paulo’s who took her to see Piero Manzoni’s work and showed her how to give a hand job. Sol couldn’t bear the thought of another man going where he’d gone or, worse, where he’d yet to go. Sol wanted to wake up in the morning and smell her hair on his pillow. He was tired of waiting. He had to do something to placate her parents.

  Both Sol and Cici were certain that her stepfather would never allow them to marry. And Cici couldn’t bear the thought of causing her mother pain. Catholicism was a borrowed dress Cici had worn for so long, it conformed to her curves. It was what she knew, thrust upon her by Marco D’Ameri. He would lecture the girls on the value of developing the habit of worship. By participating in the external rituals, he said, they would foster internal belief, which was but a step away from the carrot of all carrots: faith. Regardless of the depth of her faith, one thing was certain: she had to be married in a Roman Catholic church.

  Sol had converted without telling her, sure that Cici’s family would accept him as a Catholic. If he’d stayed a Jew, Sol wonders now, would she still have married him? Would she have said, To hell with my anti-Semitic fascist family, I’m taking the radiologist? Then he would have been able to call his parents. Or not. They might have reacted the same way because he’d married a shiksa. Regardless, his conversion was the ultimate expression of his love, the sign that Cici needed in order to leave her mother, her sisters, and her country for him.

  It took eight months for Sol to become immersed in Catholicism, which required believers to embrace strange, mystical views such as resurrection, virgin birth, and accepting Jesus Christ as the Son of God. Sol was trained to think rationally, and these notions defied reason. Sol had long felt that, great writers and thinkers aside, believers were, in general, stupider than nonbelievers. It followed that Jewish intellectuals were superior to non-Jewish intellectuals. But Christian writers had a profound understanding of human behavior, much better than the nihilism that was popular when Sol was in college; Nietzsche and Marx were depressing. But there was something about the Roman Catholic Church that appealed to the last bastion of his nonpracticing Jewishness—his liberalism. It strove to rise above ethnic differences, attempted egalitarianism.

  If Sol had told his parents he was converting, at best they’d have seen it as a complete betrayal of them. At worst, it would have sent his mother into the hospital with a nervous collapse—something that hadn’t happened since after Sol was born, precipitated by the constant criticism of her live-in mother-in-law and her belief that her baby was ugly and needed to be taken out facedown in the baby carriage. She reminded anyone who’d listen that she was too young to be a mother and how having Solomon (“Red hair’s not from my side of the family”) had almost killed her. If he ever showed anger toward his mother she would lash out at him and then dissolve into tears, precipitating an apology and reinforcing his fear that his actions could cause her to break down again. From an early age, Sol was taught to proceed with caution in matters of bad news. He hadn’t discussed his personal life with his mother since he was stood up for the prom; he was waiting for the right time. Of course there was never a right time, and the longer he waited, the easier it was to put off.

  Sol was aware that he fit the stereotype of the self-hating Jew. He would never deny that he was Jewish, but he didn’t offer up the information either. Why should he? He considered himself an American first and foremost. He liked cultural aspects of being a Jew, things like rugelach and Lenny Bruce. But he cringed at his family’s brand of Judaism; his mother treated going to temple like a competitive sport, Grandma Minnie kept the Passover carp in the bathtub, and the family’s favorite game was Who’s Jewish, as in “Did you know that Abraham Lincoln was one-quarter Jewish?” He loathed how his father made him glue down their Pontiac’s hubcaps so they couldn’t be stolen and guess how much his steak would have cost in a restaurant. The Judaism Sol learned in Hebrew school wasn’t any better. His teacher, a bald man who wore a Moshe Dayan eye patch, steered all lessons to the Holocaust, and constantly discussed how the Nazis had made lampshades and soap out of Jews.

  In Bridgeport, Connecticut, Sol’s father, Bernard Matzner, was considered a natty dresser; he wore rum getups, and people in the neighborhood called him Flash. He had an abiding faith in DMSO ointment—a remedy for joint ailments of horses—proclaiming it a wonder drug. Sol had to rub the stinky stuff on his chest for colds, slather it on cuts and bruises, even gargle with it for a sore throat. In sixth grade, Sol broke down the chemicals in DMSO and proved that it had no effect on humans. The project won the state science fair but did nothing to convince Bernard Matzner, even when his son brought home a blue ribbon and a check for twenty-five dollars. Sol’s father believed the Chosen Son should lay off the science experiments and spend time in his women’s-wear shop learning the physics of how to fold a sweater so it didn’t crease.

  At least Sol’s mother believed in higher education. She knew her son was smart, and just because she’d settled for a man in the schmatta business it didn’t mean her son had to follow in his footsteps. “You don’t have my Buxbaum looks,” she’d say, “but women will want you for your brains.” She stood up to his father for him, but her support had its price. Sol had to listen to her complaints: Flash’s breath stank from his false teeth; she had to put bed pillows between them because his constant erections bothered her; how did she, the star of the Derby community theater, end up like this? In making Sol her confidant, she cemented him as her ally against his father, a position that made Sol uncomfortable. She also tried to beat into him a sense of obligation not just to his parents but to the Holocaust, to the redemption of debt. If a Jew raised his children out of the faith in the middle of the forest, she heard it and declared it a posthumous victory for Hitler. “If every Jew goes off and raises gentile babies, pretty soon there’ll be no Jews left,” his mother would say.

  For all Sol knows, one or both of his parents could be dead now. This is the thought that crosses his mind as he’s standing in front of the closet in his bedroom looking for a clean shirt. He sniffs the armpit of a shirt he pulled from the laundry basket and puts it on. It’s been over a year since he’s spoken to his parents. He’d written, but the letters came back marked Return to sender in his mother’s handwriting. His mother had been devastated that he’d married a shiksa—his converting meant he’d renounced his birthright. He told himself he didn’t care, but in truth, he cared, although he loved Cici more.

  On impulse, Sol picks up the phone.

  “Halloo…”

  Sol is oddly comforted by her familiar vibrato. “Mom…” There’s no answer. “Mother, don’t hang up. Mom?” He listens until he hears her faint breathing. “I just wanted to tell you…” Here his voice catches; he’s a six-year-old boy with a bloodied knee. “The thing is…we…lost the baby. There were complications. Cici’s going to be fine, but…Are you there? For God’s sake, just say som
ething so I know you’re listening.” There’s an exhalation on the other line. “You knew Cici was pregnant—you sent back my letter with tape on it. You didn’t seal it very well; the paper was folded differently. Mom?” He swallows. “The funeral is today at three o’clock. St. Clare’s in Montclair, right off the New Jersey Turnpike, the Cedar Grove exit takes you straight there. Dad can figure it out on the map if…Mom…Mom?”

  “I’m sorry.” The voice comes out like strained soup. “You must have the wrong number.”

  “Would you like to go for a walk?” Sol asks. It’s crisp outside, a perfect Sunday for apple picking or taking a drive to see the changing leaves. Cici sits in an armchair by their bedroom window—he has no idea if she’s looking at something outside or lost in her thoughts. He’s grown used to seeing her in this position, like nonsensical modern art. When he awoke at five this morning, she was already in the chair. Cici’s been home for six weeks and her sorrow doesn’t seem to have diminished. Sol thought that she would eventually reach for him to pull herself up and out of grief. Instead, she’s gone deeper within the shell of her suffering and Sol’s starting to fear she may never come out. One night he’d found her in the middle of the backyard standing like a lost statue, her arms torn and scratched. He hasn’t been going out on the weekends, even to run errands, so he could be near Cici “just in case.” He retreats into the steam of a hot shower and focuses on the day ahead. At least at work he can be productive.

  Cici stares out the window but doesn’t notice the tree branches bowing from the wind. She doesn’t register that the leaves on the circle of oaks have turned the color of marmalade and are starting to crisp on the lawn. For a moment she thinks of bathing but the sight of the scars on her abdomen, raised like train tracks, are too great a reminder. She closes her eyes and drifts back into memories of being pregnant. There, Sol brings her lilacs and espresso and nothing bad happens. “The world is your oyster,” Sol had said when he’d carried her over the threshold into his Gramercy Park apartment. She laughed because she ate oysters with one gulp. She’d asked him what would happen if you swallowed the world and there was no more left.

  But now, it was too horrible to think about what was no longer possible. With the truth came hatchling thoughts, scary, desperate feelings that made her want to hurt herself. She ran into the woods behind their house one night, letting the trees scrape her until she bled. The pain felt good and she could prolong it for days by picking at the scabs as they formed. This was what the monks had done with their flagellating sticks, this was what was meant by atonement through pain. She needed to atone. For her desire, so desperate that she had insisted on sex the whole time her baby was growing inside of her. Surely this is what the priests had always warned them about. God even showed her how to atone further by making fresh cuts on the inside of her thighs with Solomon’s razor blade. She goes to the bathroom and crouches, blade poised in that exquisite moment of hesitation. The first drop of blood cleanses, the sting of pain follows, sharp and sweet like absinthe. It stops her from thinking of her punishment—never being able to have children—and the certainty that she will be abandoned by Solomon because of it. What man would want her like this? She pulls her nightgown down over her legs when she hears her husband coming and gets back in bed.

  “I’m going into the hospital for a while,” Sol says, stroking her cheek. Cici knows her hair, which hasn’t been washed in weeks, must feel like dead hay. He thinks about putting on one of her favorite records—La Cenerentola or maybe something by Massenet—but he doubts she’d get up to turn it over and it would scratch and scratch until Cookie came in this afternoon. He stares at Cici’s ankles, the curve of her bone so white and exposed, and he wonders where she got the slippers she’s wearing. He hadn’t noticed them before; they’re dingy and flat, so unlike anything he’s ever seen her wear.

  Sol is hovering. Cici wishes he’d leave. She’s relieved when he says, “Get some sleep, chérie,” and gently closes the bedroom door.

  It’s not until Sol comes home late that night that he discovers the strange object that will propel him into an action that’s so drastic, it changes the course of three lives. He undresses in the bathroom because he doesn’t want the light to disturb Cici. When he fumbles his way to the bed, he notices something odd sticking out from underneath her pillow. It’s round, like a bicycle horn. He can’t see more without moving her head. She can be restless at night, but her breathing is regular and even—which makes him think she’s taken a sleeping pill. He slowly pulls the object out from under her pillow. She sighs and rolls away from him.

  Sol sits on the closed toilet, examining the object. He hasn’t a clue what the hell this thing is. It has a cone that’s taped to a handle that splits into a black bulb on one end and a tube on the other end. Could it be used to administer a drug by squeezing the bulb? If it were for that, he’d know about it, because he filled all of Cici’s prescriptions. It looks handmade. Where did Cici get it? He could ask her about it, but if she wanted him to know she wouldn’t have hidden it in the first place. What the hell? At least it doesn’t look dangerous. He’ll have to do some research at the hospital library. Sol goes back into the bedroom, puts the bicycle horn–thing under Cici’s pillow, and tries to sleep.

  The next day is a Monday and the radiology department at St. Vincent’s is swamped with patients. When Sol looks up, it’s dark outside. Cookie will be long gone and he hates leaving Cici alone late into the evening. He’s racing to pack up and get to the train station when an intern runs past him. “You coming? It’s about to start.” Everyone on his floor is gathered around the small TV in back of the nurses’ station. “This government, as promised, has maintained the closest surveillance of the Soviet military buildup on the island of Cuba. Within the past week, unmistakable evidence has established the fact that a series of offensive missile sites is now in preparation on the imprisoned island.” President Kennedy speaks slowly and deliberately. “The purpose of these bases can be none other than to provide a nuclear strike capability against the Western Hemisphere.” Sol is as paralyzed by the dire news as his colleagues. For the next seventeen minutes, no one moves, no one speaks. Sol watches as President Kennedy tells Americans that they are in the Soviets’ crosshairs.

  When the speech is over, everyone stands frozen around the television, as if there will be further instructions. “This is America,” the doctor standing next to Sol says, “nobody can bomb us!” Sol nods noncommittally, but suddenly his companion seems to forget his anger at the Soviets and snaps his finger in recognition. “Wait a minute—Sol Matzner? I’m Don Tremont, Mo Lubitch’s partner. I remember when Mo was recommending potential OBs for your wife. You must be a father by now. Congratulations.” Tremont offers Sol his hand. Sol stares at it, not knowing what to do. Words like ballistic missiles and nuclear warhead from Kennedy’s statement reverberate in his mind before he realizes what Tremont just said.

  “We lost the baby,” Sol says before he can censor himself. Later, he will wonder what prompted him to confess so blatantly. In the moment he is rattled by news so unexpected, so large, that instead of shaking Tremont’s hand and going home, Sol finds himself in Tremont’s office spilling the whole, sad story. The baby, Cici’s hysterectomy, his fear for her mental health, and, finally, the strange round object under her pillow.

  “What do you think it is?” Sol asks.

  Don Tremont considers, then says, “When your wife was in the hospital, did they give her the shot to suppress her breast milk?”

  “She didn’t want that.”

  “With no baby to stimulate production, her milk should have dried up within two weeks. But the only thing that comes to mind is that it might be an old-fashioned form of breast pump.”

  “A breast pump? For breast-feeding?”

  “Well, of course you know physicians don’t recommend that women breast-feed, but in some ethnic communities it’s still done. And if, say, the mother has to be away from her baby, or if the woman
is a wet nurse, there are devices that can be used to express the milk.”

  “But the baby died. Why would she be…” Sol’s voice trails off.

  Tremont gives Sol a pat on the shoulder. “I wish there was more I could offer. My sister lost a baby and I know she had a very hard time of it. Your best bet might be to consult someone in psychiatry.”

  Sol feels like he’s been sucker-punched. He gets himself to the train station and on the train home, but he can’t recall exactly how. He’s alone in the compartment, staring off without really seeing anything. Tremont had to be right; it was a breast pump. The only person who could have given it to Cici was Cookie. That much made sense. But why was Cici using it? Expressing milk to give to her dead baby? Pretending that he’s still alive and giving Cookie the milk to, what—take to some other baby? It was all too bizarre; he didn’t need to consult a psychiatrist to know his wife was wading into some very dark, uncharted waters.

  Unbidden, he thinks of his wife’s breasts. He hasn’t touched them since Cici came home from the hospital, hasn’t dared, it isn’t right. He’s wanted to. He’s thought about it, desired her, ached for her to touch him. At first he was ashamed. He would get hard in the mornings and want to roll over and press himself into the seam of her ass. He didn’t want to masturbate, thinking eventually she’d respond to his tickling her foot or caressing her back. But she didn’t, and weeks passed. He focused on work; he masturbated.