Nathan in Spite of Himself

by Bernie Silver

  One of these, the most satisfying of all, was that in two weeks I’d see her again.

  Chapter 13

  I pulled up in front of Mrs. Weinstein’s house, parked next to the curb and retrieved her usual three bags of groceries. Walking up the path I sensed something peculiar going on. Another few steps and I realized what. The grass had been mowed and edged, the hedges clipped, trimmed and all but perfumed. Mrs. Weinstein was, or had been, an anomaly among Jewish homeowners, showing little regard for her property’s maintenance, except for the marigolds along the path, which she watered regularly. Now she was sprucing up the grounds along with her hair. Why suddenly was she taking an interest in yard and coiffure?

  I dismissed the question and surrendered to anticipation, meaning to the prospect of seeing Amanda again.

  After three doorbell rings Mrs. Weinstein appeared, at which point anticipation gave way to frustration. Wearing her usual peevish expression, she leaned on her cane, whose howling-wolf handle perfectly fit her disposition.

  “Uh …” I declared.

  “Well, don’t just stand there, Nathan. Come in, for Pete’s sake.”

  I went in for my sake, since I’d be fired if I didn’t complete this delivery. But I wasn’t in the least bit happy. Not only did I find the greeter disappointing, but the greeting unpalatable. I hated my formal given name, maybe because of the two people who’d given it to me, and the way they used it. My mother called me Nathan when she got all schmaltzy, as in, “An A in English! How wonderful, Nathan. We’re so proud of you!” My father called me Nathan when he was upset, as in, “Nathan, you forgot to take out the garbage again!” which I suppose beat, “Don’t you take that tone of voice with me, young man,” but rankled nonetheless. Even worse, sometimes my parents used my first and last names, as in, “Nathan Rubin, that kind of language is forbidden in this house!” At school, only the dorks and kiss-asses deployed their full given names, like Charles or Robert or Lawrence or Christopher. I was a cool, laid-back Nate, or aspired to be anyway. The point is, hearing my full given name, whether alone or combined with my last name, annoyed me even on a good day, and today was definitely not one of those, since Ethel Weinstein had appeared at the door instead of Amanda Fontaine.

  I followed the short, chunky figure through the living room and into the kitchen, and when I saw no sign of Amanda along the way I grew even more downcast.

  I set the groceries on the counter. “I thought you’d be getting your hair done today.

  “What made you think that?”

  “Er, Amanda told me.”

  “The shvartz? You know her name already? Well, I hope she didn’t tell you all my business.”

  I shook my head. “Only about the hair appointments.”

  “Good, because I don’t want everyone knowing my business.”

  Mrs. Weinstein hooked her cane over the back of a chair and, with a showy grunt, plopped herself down at the kitchen table. “I’ve got a cold. But do you see me announcing my troubles to the world? I should say not.”

  Actually the battleax was forever announcing her troubles to the world, or at least to anyone who’d listen, but I let her have her delusion.

  “Anyway,” she said, “I called the shvartz and told her to stay home so she wouldn’t catch anything, and now I’m telling you. Go before you get sick.”

  She grabbed a Kleenex from the box on the table and sneezed, then took another and blew her nose, throwing both shoulders into it.

  When the show was over I said, “So she’ll be here next week?”

  “Who?”

  “Amanda.”

  “What do you care?”

  “I, uh, I was just wondering.”

  She wrinkled her reddening nose. “Not that it’s any of your beeswax, but no, she can’t make it next Monday. Said she’s helping a friend or something. She was a bit vague. She’ll be here again in two weeks, so I’ll wait until then to have my hair done. I only hope it’s not down to my waist.” She explored her tight white curls with a liver-spotted hand. “But I’ll tell you one thing, that shvartz better be more thorough next time she’s here. I could write my name up there, she left so much dust.” Mrs. Weinstein pointed her cane at the neglected cabinets bracketing the sink. Then she blew her nose again, honking several times for effect. “Now get out of here, so if you catch cold it won’t be on my head.”

  I got out of there, disappointed and dissatisfied but looking forward to two weeks hence.

  Chapter 14

  I managed to survive the wait, though the days moved like heavy traffic in a snowstorm. After two weeks of both eager anticipation and bogus indifference, I filled Mrs. Weinstein’s order midday and placed her three bags in the van, then drove to her house.

  The first thing I noticed upon arrival was a for-sale sign in the middle of the lawn. This baffled me even more than the spruced-up grounds. After Sol Weinstein died of a second stroke three years ago, my parents predicted his wife would remain in the house until she joined her husband in the great beyond, or wherever dead spouses retired to. Granted, my parents’ forecasts were unreliable at best, but this one seemed plausible. Mrs. Weinstein had close ties to the community and owned her home outright. So why sell the place?

  Preoccupied with other matters, I retrieved her groceries and headed up the path.

  Amanda appeared after two rings and gave me a warm “Hi there” and an equally cordial smile. This reception made the wait worthwhile, as did the mere sight of the girl, whose face was now framed by short, straightened hair and whose figure stood out in a thin cotton dress.

  “Good to see you again,” she said.

  “It’s good, um … me too.”

  Amanda smiled again, no doubt in appreciation of my silver tongue.

  “No rush today,” she said, “at least not for me.”

  I couldn’t help but frown.

  “I’m done with my chores,” she explained, “and Mrs. Weinstein is out of town. Come on in and I’ll tell you all about it. If you’ve got the time.”

  I didn’t, but what was more important, holding on to a source of much-needed income or spending time with a smart, sassy, attractive female who was glad to see me? I followed her into the kitchen and parked the bags in their usual spot. Amanda put the milk and butter in the refrigerator and frozen dinners in the freezer. Once finished, she asked, “You want something to drink? We’ve got, coffee, tea, milk and soda pop.”

  I shook my head.

  “Me neither. I drink anything at all, I gotta pee right away.”

  This crude admission coming from a girl brought my schlong to attention, which proved just how excitable it was. I sat at the table.

  “I guess you do have time.” Amanda took the seat across from me.

  I placed my hands on the table, and to my surprise, if not shock, she placed hers on mine. Did I have a chance with this girl? And if so, did I even want it, meaning would I mind being expelled from my family? I searched her eyes for an answer but found none.

  Amanda removed her hands and we remained silent for an hour. Or maybe it was a moment. I was losing track of time.

  “So here’s the scoop,” she said. “Mrs. Weinstein’s getting married.”

  Good thing I was sitting, for more than one reason now. “I don’t believe it” was all I could say.

  “Would I lie to you?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Good answer.”

  One of her hands returned to mine, perched for a second, then flew off again, like a restless bird. I left my hands where they were in case the bird returned.

  “Who’s she marrying, Moses?” I asked.

  This drew a chuckle. “Second cousin from Florida. Tampa, I think. Wherever, she’s there now making wedding arrangements. Left this morning after getting her hair all prettied up.”

  “You’re kidding,” I said involuntarily.

  Amanda raised her right hand. “God’s honest truth. Soon’s I arrived, she told me she’d no longer need my ser
vices after today. Said she’d be gone for two weeks, and left me a check and the key to lock up after I finished. Of course, she told me if anything were missing she’d call my mama. Do you believe that woman?”

  I shook my head.

  “Didn’t say why or where she was going,” Amanda continued. “But later I overheard her talking to a friend over the phone. Fiancé’s a retired lawyer, originally from Boston. Called her last month and proposed, if you can believe it. She said she’d think it over, and when he visited here last week she accepted his proposal. Wedding’s in the fall but she’s eager to move because we coloreds are overrunning the neighborhood and lowering property values. She didn’t say that, but I know it’s the thinking around here.”

  “How?”

  “How what?”

  “How do you know it’s the thinking around here?”

  She laughed without merriment. “You’re either naïve, or … or … I don’t know what.”

  I didn’t know what either, and chose not to speculate. Meanwhile Amanda went on. “Surely you’re aware that whites in this city keep moving north, often into the suburbs, like there was gold there or something.”

  “Sure, I know that.”

  Even my parents had discussed relocating, to the Eight Mile Road area on Detroit’s northern border.

  “They say it’s property values,” Amanda went on, “but then why did whites split from Palmer Park when Negroes moved in? Most blacks there are doctors and lawyers and whatnot. They maintain their homes as well as any white folk, so why’re you all really running for the hills?”

  I knew the reason as well as she, though I couldn’t deny that after a Negro family moved in three doors down from us, the house turned ramshackle and the lawn grew weeds and litter. I was confused on the subject, and wished more than anything to change it.

  Amanda looked apologetic. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to get so worked up. It’s just that …”

  I waited for her to complete the thought, but instead she said, “Anyway, I’m not upset with you. We hardly know each other, which I was hoping to rectify.”

  Rectify? How much education did this girl have? Was she going to college? More important, how could I rectify her impression of white folk?

  She smiled her brightest smile yet and I forgot about rectifying anything.

  “You sure you don’t need to get back?” Amanda asked.

  “I’m sure I do, but I don’t want to.”

  “I was sort of hoping you’d say that.”

  As reward for my staying, she told me a little about herself. Amanda Fontaine was eighteen years old and graduated last year from Cooley High. Her father worked as a janitor at Burroughs, her mother as a maid for a wealthy white family in Bloomfield Hills. Her parents got by, but needed their daughter to keep working full time, so they urged her to read in lieu of going to college. Which she did, a lot (emphasis Amanda’s). Her two younger brothers aspired to music careers, mainly singing doo-wop, perhaps with that new record company, Motown.

  “My brothers are good, but not as good as they think,” Amanda said. “They need to practice more, leave the girls alone and …”

  Her voice trailed off as she stared out the curtained window over the sink. I followed her gaze but all I saw were cumulus clouds. We turned back at the same time and Amanda picked up where she’d left off.

  “… I just wish boys would leave me alone. I swear, they must think I’m there for the taking, that I’ll have sex with them in exchange for a smile. Even some white guys, who don’t mind doing it with a black girl as long as they can hide her in the back seat of their car … even they think that way.”

  The thought of having sex with Amanda anywhere awakened my friend again. But did I believe she was there for the taking? Hell, I didn’t believe any girl was there for the taking or I would have taken one by now. At least I think I would have.

  “I suppose I’m partly to blame for their attitude,” Amanda said. “As you may have noticed, I’m the friendly type.”

  She placed a hand on mine again, this time giving it a squeeze. That triggered a heated argument in my head.

  Hey, what’re you waiting for?

  Whaduhyuh mean, what’m I waiting for?

  I mean you should take advantage of her being the friendly type.

  No I shouldn’t. Then I’d be like all those jerks who think she’s there for the taking.

  Well, isn’t she?

  No, she’s not. Amanda’s a lady.

  Well, ladies like to do it too, you know. You’re just making excuses ’cause you’re chickenshit.

  No I’m not.

  Yes you are.

  No I’m n … well, maybe.

  No maybe about it. Now grow a pair and go to her.

  But …

  Go!

  I went. And pulled Amanda to her feet, which wasn’t hard because she rose willingly. Heartened by this, I put my arms around her and, to my delight, she put hers around me. Then, beyond all my expectations, she offered up her lips. I bent to meet them but before I could she backed away.

  “My God, what’re we doing?” Amanda asked.

  “Almost kissing?”

  She started to smile but thought better of it. “Why? Wouldn’t anything come of it.”

  “Why does something have to come of it?” was my limp reply.

  “Oh please” She glanced at my crotch. “You want the same thing as all the others.”

  I found being lumped with all the others even more troubling than my conspicuous hard-on. In truth, I wanted more than sex from Amanda, though God knows I wanted that too. Exactly what more I wanted I couldn’t say.

  “Look,” she said, “I’m no virgin, and doubtless neither are you.”

  Doubtless.

  “But when I do it with someone,” she said, “I like to think there’s a future in it.”

  “Maybe there could be.”

  I said this mechanically, my mind still on “I’m no virgin.”

  Amanda shook her head. “You and I, nothing ever gonna happen. Ever.”

  That sounded as final as a funeral, but I wasn’t ready to give up just yet. “I thought you liked me.”

  “I do. You’re bright, you’re sensitive and you’re not all full of yourself. Plus you’re cute as hell.”

  “Then why—”

  She placed a hand over my mouth. “In this world, we’re not permitted. You know it and I know it.”

  I knew only one thing: this was a cause I’d do well to abandon. Amanda was set against taking things further, and the more I thought about it, the more I realized I should be too. I had enough problems without breaking a taboo, let alone losing a family. That settled, sort of, I started for the door and Amanda accompanied me. Once there we again stood close. She smiled, kind of sadly, and in a fog I said something heartrending like, “Well, so long.”

  On the drive back to Harry’s dark clouds gathered overhead, and not long after that emptied their contents on the city.

  Which was just as well. The rain suited my mood.

  #

  By the time I returned to the store my morale had plummeted to an all-time low, quite a feat considering the depths to which it had sunk in the past. The thing is, not only had I failed to win over Amanda, not only was I unsure I even wanted to, but I was about to lose my job, which meant I’d have to search for a new one, a process I hated (I may tell you why some other time).

  So much for expectations. Harry didn’t fire me, choosing instead to inform me what a martyr he’d been in my absence. A horde of customers had overrun the store, forcing him to juggle a hundred tasks at once all by himself—thanks to me, he added unnecessarily. When I insisted, to my everlasting shame, that the cleaning lady had talked my ear off, he ignored this excuse and gave me the old time-is-money spiel.

  I started to defend myself again but Harry, otherwise known as Job, interrupted. “Don’t worry, your job is safe. Luckily for you I’m shorthanded.” He jabbed my chest with his unlit cigar. “But don
’t kid yourself, kiddo. Next time you’re this late getting back from a delivery, out you go.”

  I needed the job, notwithstanding my risking it to linger with Amanda, so instead of responding to Harry’s threat, I said yessir, or something equally servile.

  By day’s end I’d gotten over not only the ass-chewing but my ambivalence toward Amanda. I wanted her, plain and not-so-simple, the consequences be damned, which is why her rejection hurt like hell now, especially since I couldn’t refute her reasoning.

  In this world, we’re not permitted.

  True, and pathetic. To me, blacks and whites were like the Montagues and Capulets, Amanda and I like Romeo and Juliet. That might be a stretch, but it’s how I saw things, though I couldn’t picture us killing ourselves over this dilemma.

  To tell the truth, I understood why blacks despised whites more easily than the reverse. Many members of my race had been guilty of enslaving, lynching, castrating and segregating Negroes in the South, while restricting or forbidding their access to public places like hotels, restaurants and nightclubs in the North. Additionally, bias still ran rampant among whites, far too many of whom considered blacks fit to shine their shoes, scrub their floors, drive their limos and kiss their asses but little else. At school, students joked about black classmates behind their backs and called them names to their faces, meaning endearments such as spook, spade, coon, and of course the ever-popular nigger.

  What pissed me off most was the attitude of my landsmen toward Negroes. Throughout history, Jews had been victims of mean, nasty, often lethal intolerance, yet they spoke of another persecuted minority, namely Negroes, either with disdain or condescension. Nor did they treat them any better than other whites did, at least not that I could see. In fact, for someone who befriended a black person, at least some Jews reserved the same ugly epithet as their fellow Caucasians.

  I discovered this the hard way at work one afternoon last month. I was sweeping the floor at the rear of the store shortly after chatting with Wonderman when I heard, “Hey, Rubin.” I looked up to see Jake Baumgartner steering his half-filled shopping cart toward me. He visited Harry’s about once a week, mainly to shop for his widowed mother, but even this dutiful gesture failed to endear him to me. I’d never liked Jake, and I liked him even less after he razzed me over that incident in Hinton’s class.