At the end of class Mrs. Lee says we should start thinking about poetry and reading the poems she’s assigned for the course. She says maybe we’ll get a poem out of our free-write today. When I glance back through my writing, I don’t see how.
While walking to Mandarin class, I get a text from Paul. He’s sent another picture, this time of a white fleshy mushroom with a pointed head and dirt and water droplets clinging to it. It’s a great picture but a really ugly mushroom. And it’s…a mushroom.
Great pic, I write back. I’m not sure what else to say.
Thanks. Your turn.
I’ll think about it. But when I do, I’m not even sure where to start.
After school I decide to visit Zeyda again, to surprise him and maybe convince him to go to the JCC with Crystal. Also, the weather has improved. It’s not exactly beautiful, but the sky has cleared, and you can see patches of blue. It’s a relief to ride in dry weather.
When I arrive at Zeyda’s, he barely turns to look at me.
“Your zeyda is in a bad mood because he had a fight with your mother,” Crystal explains.
I plunk down beside Zeyda and give his hand a squeeze. “What else is new?”
Zeyda doesn’t even look up.
Crystal hovers in front of us. “She wants him to go to your house for some special meal?”
“Oh, Passover,” I say.
“It should be here,” Zeyda grumbles.
“You’re going to lose this one, Zeyda. She has it all planned out.”
Zeyda looks up. “I always lead the Seder.”
“Well, Mom’s got a different vision.”
Zeyda crosses his arms against his chest. “I might not come.”
“Your loss,” I say. “But we’ll miss you. Anyway, it’s more than a month away. Maybe she’ll decide it’s too much work and change her mind.” I know this isn’t going to happen.
Zeyda glares at me. “Once your mother gets something in her mind, it doesn’t go away. It buzzes there like a bee until she makes a big mess of things.”
Or she gets her MBA or organizes a spectacular fundraiser for the hospital or plans an amazing but touchy-feely Seder. I squeeze Zeyda’s hand. “I brought you something.”
“What’s that?”
I pull the JCC catalog out of my backpack and flip to the page I marked. “Look, there’s a seniors’ drop-in group on Wednesdays.”
“So?” Zeyda’s eyebrows rise so far up his wrinkled forehead they almost reach his receding hairline.
“So I was thinking maybe you and Crystal could go together. Make it a date.” I wink at Crystal.
“I like a date,” Crystal says. “What do they do there?”
“Some games, sometimes dancing.”
Crystal twirls. “Ooh, sounds nice, Morris. Take me dancing.”
Zeyda scrunches up his face. “It doesn’t sound nice. It sounds awful.”
“Oh, Zeyda, don’t be such a grouch,” I say.
“That’s my job now.”
Crystal throws up her hands. “Maybe they have cards. Maybe you could play poker with friends instead of strangers, like at the casino.”
I chime in. “Mom says her friend Carol Sandler’s father, Abe, goes. You know him from shul, don’t you?”
“Ach, then I’d have to listen to him talk about his big lawyer days.”
“So,” I shoot back, “you can brag about being a hotshot day trader.”
“Abe Sandler can’t even walk. He’s a cripple! Why would I want to talk to him?”
“Morris,” Crystal says, sounding disapproving. “That’s not a nice thing to say.”
“You don’t walk very fast yourself,” I point out. Crystal giggles, and Zeyda harrumphs.
Crystal goes to make Zeyda’s dinner, and I distract him from his gloom by pulling up the TSX site on his tablet so he can show me his trades. He gets a little excited when he sees Exxon is up twenty points. When I ask about the moral implications of investing in oil when we’re fighting global warming, Zeyda stares at me. “Do you want to make money or save the world?” Then he launches into a long lecture about mining sites in Canada and the possibility of 6 percent interest. I try to follow as best I can.
After Zeyda goes over my list of investments for the contest, he taps my phone. “How is your boyfriend? Still sending you pictures?”
“He’s just a friend.”
“In my day you didn’t send a girl pictures on her cell phone unless you had something in mind.”
I fight a blush, imagining Zeyda thinking of something romantic. “In your day there were no cell phones.”
“True. Fine. The equivalent then.”
“Which was what?”
“Well…” Zeyda thinks about it. “Talking on the phone. Your mother used to talk on the telephone all the time. And she still does. Yak, yak, yak, all day. And your bubbie, I took her to the movies.”
“That’s called dating, right?”
Zeyda lifts one eyebrow. “Young people don’t do that anymore?”
I think about Sofia’s comment about people hooking up. “Not so much. There’s just this, I think.” I hold up my phone.
“Is he still sending you clouds?”
“No,” I say. “I got a mushroom.”
Zeyda shakes his head. “What kind of guy is this?”
I grin. “I don’t know.”
“You know, if you had a nice Jewish boyfriend, he probably wouldn’t be sending you clouds and weird mushrooms on your phone.”
I ignore the part about the boyfriend being Jewish. “Oh? What would he send?”
Zeyda thinks about this for a couple of seconds. “A nice boy sends you real flowers. Maybe some jewelry.”
I can’t help myself. I smile. “Like a Venus flytrap?”
“A what?”
“It’s this flower that eats flies. It’s a carnivorous plant.”
Zeyda shakes his head. “No wonder the whole world is getting divorced. They don’t even know how to send flowers!”
“What does a girl send back?” I haven’t sent Paul a photo today.
“A girl sends her heart, of course,” Zeyda says.
I shake my head. This is the dumbest, most ridiculous and sexist thing I’ve heard in at least a week. Why would you give your heart away for some dumb flowers you could buy yourself at the grocery store? And is your body supposed to follow along after your heart? There’s no point in saying this to Zeyda—he’s just trying to be romantic, even if it’s so old-fashioned it’s sexist. I shake my head. “You know,” I say, “if you went to the JCC, you might meet someone, maybe someone you could send real flowers to. That might be kind of exciting. I bet there’s a ton of single women at those things.”
Zeyda’s face falls. “Ah, Sydney, none of them would be half as beautiful or witty or charming as your bubbie.”
I squeeze Zeyda’s hand. It’s true. Before Bubbie got sick, she was an amazing person. Maybe not witty, like Zeyda claims, but charming and beautiful. Bubbie made homemaking an art form. She was a great cook, shopper and decorator. She was always planning a party or making a cake for someone else’s party. She would have made a fantastic event planner if she had lived at a time when women like her had careers.
Neither Zeyda nor I say anything for a while, each of us wrapped up in our memories of Bubbie. I feel a blanket of sadness settle over Zeyda. It’s like his own fog, except his has a name and a reason, unlike my own. The sky darkens and the living room grows dim. Neither of us mentions turning on the lamps, and Zeyda and I sit in the gloom a long time. Finally I say, “Let’s go for a walk.”
“I haven’t been yet today,” Zeyda admits.
“You should. Fresh air,” I say. I want to add to clear our minds, but it seems weird to say out loud. I kiss Zeyda’s cheek instead. I pull on my jacket and then help Zeyda with his hat and coat. I tell Crystal we’re going out for a bit.
I wheel Zeyda down the gentle slope of his driveway and then west, past the park. It’s twilight, the light
s of downtown coming on. Abby and I used to think Zeyda and Bubbie owned the park, since they didn’t have a yard at their house. We used to call it Zeyda and Bubbie’s Park. We played tea party in the bushes and had contests to see who could jump off the swings from the highest point. I’d like to stop at the swings now, but Zeyda needs to be near the ocean, to not just watch it from his window but feel it on his cheeks.
I push him along the beach path. To the left is a grassy park dotted with massive willows, and then the cliffs up to the University Endowment Lands. To the right is the beach with its neat rows of logs. In the distance I can make out the North Shore mountains, and downtown twinkling off to the side. No one is on the path except a few dedicated joggers in hats and mittens. The tide is still in, and the ocean is splashing up high on the sand. Zeyda and I stop at the lookout near the sailing club, the wind blowing against us. I can just make out the shape of the mountains against the dark sky. I take out my phone and snap a picture. Maybe I’ll send that to Paul.
The container ships sound their foghorns. “I love that sound,” Zeyda says, “but usually I’m hearing it from my bed, not out here in the wind.”
“Are you cold?” I ask.
“No, I’m good,” Zeyda says.
My phone buzzes in my pocket a few times, but I ignore it. The night is too beautiful to look at a screen. Zeyda and I stay a few minutes longer, and then I wheel him back.
It’s completely dark when we get home, and Crystal is waiting in the entry, looking worried. “You were gone so long. What were you doing out there?”
Zeyda says, “We needed some fresh air. It was good to feel the dark.”
I’m surprised by Zeyda’s words, but Crystal is already clucking and helping him off with his coat and hat. “Ooh, Sydney, your dad called looking for you. He’s going to pick you up.”
“My dad?” Dad works downtown or on building sites around the Lower Mainland. He usually bikes if it’s not too far away. He’s working in Burnaby right now, nowhere near here.
“Yes. He said he was texting you.”
Dad never texts me. Still, when I pull out my phone there’s a text from him. He wrote, U still at Z’s?
Yes, I type.
Ride home tog?
Sure.
But where is he coming from?
Crystal wheels Zeyda into the living room and gives him his evening Scotch and bowl of nut mix. While I’m waiting for Dad, I send Paul the photo of the mountains and sky. I hit Send quickly, before I can change my mind. I look at the picture again, then write on my phone,
no stars yet,
but they’re coming,
pinpricks on velvet,
we are not alone
I almost send Paul the poem too, but he might think it too weird or think it’s about him. I shove my phone into my bag.
A few minutes later Dad rings the bell, his long legs still straddling his bike. He’s wearing his biking gear instead of his work clothes, and his graying beard looks sweaty, like he’s been on his bike a while already. “Hi, Morris,” he calls into the house as I gather my things.
Zeyda yells back, “How’re the bridges?” He asks Dad the same question every time he sees him.
“Holding up fine,” Dad calls back.
“Good, good to hear,” Zeyda says.
“Naomi said to ask you about Friday-night dinner again. We could pick you up or call a taxi for you. Whichever you prefer.”
Zeyda bats a hand in the air. “It’s not for me, all that singing and food.” Zeyda has boycotted our Friday-night dinners ever since Mom joined a new shul, made some new friends and, in her words, revitalized our Shabbat dinners. I think he also hates having us help him navigate the front stairs of our house.
Dad shrugs. “I said I would try. Maybe next week.”
Zeyda doesn’t say anything else, so I bend down to give him a hug. “See you soon,” I say. I feel like telling him how sometimes being with Paul lifts the fog, if only temporarily, but who is Zeyda going to be with? No one, unless he gets himself to the seniors’ drop-in.
“Come back soon,” he says. “I’ll teach you about market equities.”
“Okay. And think about the JCC.”
“What’s happening there?” Dad calls from the front door.
“Lots of single women.” I turn back to Zeyda. “Think about it.”
Zeyda frowns at me. “Get out of here. Go ride your bike in the dark like a crazy person, with your crazy father.”
“I heard that,” Dad says. “It’s the closest thing to flying I’ve found.”
Yes, flying, I think. Sometimes.
“Goodbye, David, Goodbye, Sydney.” Zeyda dismisses us.
Outside, Dad waits while I unlock my bike and fasten my helmet.
“How come you were over this way tonight?” I ask as I switch on my bike lights.
“I have a new volunteer position.”
“Really?” Usually Dad doesn’t do that kind of thing.
“Yep. At the AIDS hospice.”
I strap on my helmet. “Does their building need structural repairs or something?”
Dad laughs. “No, I was inside.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Like, visiting with sick people?”
Dad nods. “You want to take the long way home? It’s faster.”
He means up the hill to the university campus and then along the bike path on Eighteenth, where there’s less traffic. “Sure,” I say, then, “Why were you visiting with sick people?”
“I told you, it’s my new volunteer position.”
I get on my bike, and Dad and I head out to the street. “But you hate sick people.” Dad can’t stand hospitals. He used to break into a sweat when we visited Zeyda after his stroke. He doesn’t even like to pick up Mom at work.
“I don’t hate sick people,” Dad says evenly. “Tonight I was helping feed people who are ill.” We’re coasting along the beach road now. Dad’s ready to go faster, his legs already warmed up, but he’s letting me set the pace before we hit the hill.
“You’ve never had anything to do with sick people before,” I say.
“That’s true. I guess I’m trying to reach out, do something different.”
“Oh. That’s weird.”
There’s definitely something else going on here, but all Dad says is “You ready to fly?”
I nod, and Dad pulls ahead. I lift out of the saddle, pumping my legs to keep up. Slowly we build up speed to take on the hill.
After dinner Abby and I are loading the dishwasher while Mom and Dad figure out some bills. Abby is singing her way through Les Misérables and dripping water all over the floor.
“Why are you so happy?” I ask.
“I’m excited about the monologues.” She whips a dishtowel through the air.
“Oh, did the admin approve the play?”
“They need to see the final script.”
“So?”
“We’re working on it.”
“Isn’t it already written?” I pass Abby a pot to scrub.
“Yes, but some of us are writing our own monologues. I hadn’t planned on it, but there’s this guy, Jay—well, everyone thinks he’s a guy, but he wants to be a girl—and he asked to be in it because he wants to write a trans monologue about wanting a vagina.”
“Wow.” I stop slotting knives into the dishwasher and look up at Abby.
“Yeah. Wow. I had to think about that. Some of the other girls weren’t even sure about having a guy in the play. I mean, this is about women, right? But then we’d be some sort of horrible oppressive matriarchy or, I don’t know, a coven of mean girls if we didn’t let in someone who wanted to be a girl, right? Anyway, he wrote this amazing piece about wanting to have a woman’s body. How could we say no? Then once Jay wrote his own piece—I still don’t know if I’m supposed to say he, she or they, but I’m going to ask tomorrow—a whole bunch of us decided to write our own monologues. I don’t think we’ll be able to call it The Vagina Monologues anymore, because that’s
trademarked, but we’ll be able to call it something similar, like The Vagina Stories or The Vagina Musings or Down Under or something like that.”
I can’t help myself. “What’s your monologue going to be about?” I brace myself and imagine the worst. She’s probably going to describe periods or sex.
“I’m going to write about all the things we call the vagina instead of vagina.”
This doesn’t sound so bad. “Like hoo-haw?”
Abby giggles. “I forgot about that one. No, I’m going to write about taking back the word cunt.”
I close the dishwasher and back away from Abby. “You’re kidding, right?”
“No.”
My hands come up to my cheeks. “What do you mean, taking it back? That’s, like, the worst word for girl parts I can think of.”
“Wait a second.” Abby goes to the back door and pulls a book out of her backpack with the c-word written right across the cover. “No, look at this. I found it in with Mom’s old women’s studies books, and it says that cunt was an old Germanic word, and that people have started using it as a swearword, but that actually it’s really powerful. There’s a short section in the original play about the word cunt and the letters, but it doesn’t talk about the word the way I want to.”
Of course Mom would have a book called Cunt in her collection. Doesn’t every mother? Or maybe only a mom whose idea of a fun car quiz game involves naming the parts of the vagina. Last summer when our drive to the Okanagan was getting long and boring, Mom turned down the radio and announced we were going to play a game. For five points, she had said to Abby and me, who knows the proper term for female external genitalia?
I know! Abby yelled. The vulva!
Excellent, Mom said. Okay, here’s a question for you, Syd. True or false: if your period is late, you must be pregnant.
The Most Dangerous Thing Page 4