by Karen Bender
When the cloud of neighborhood children appeared at the end of the block at three-thirty every day, she walked them home. She would sling their school bags on her shoulders and walk each child ceremoniously to the front walk. “Here is your bag,” she would say.
“That’s not my bag,” the child sometimes said.
Lena was peeved by this reaction; she seemed to think the child was to be grateful to get anything. “Yes, it is.”
Clearly, Lena had to have some scheduled activity out of the house. Though Lou couldn’t think of anything for her to do at the store, Ella bribed him with a chocolate pecan coffee ring, and he agreed to devise some job for her. The first day, Ella dropped by and found Lena sitting by Lou, a pile of loose socks on the floor.
“I’m the sock roller!” she announced. She picked up a cup of Coke and took a long, noisy sip. “Now I’m tired.”
“She did seventeen socks,” observed Lou.
“And—” prompted Lena, beaming.
“And she did an excellent job of picking lint off shoes,” he added.
Lou agreed to take Lena three days a week; Ella would take her the other days. On the days when she was to work at the store, Lena woke before anyone was up. Ella would find her in the kitchen, pacing. She changed breakfasts midway through the meal—decided she wanted Oat-i-os instead of Wheaties, or some type of egg. Lou would buy her a soda at Woolworth’s each day, and before they left the house, Lena had to decide on that day’s flavor: cherry or cola or lime. Some days, she was so restless that she skipped breakfast and waited outside on the front step. She stared at the night-damp lawn, the concrete walkway glistening with silver snail tracks, and she waited for her usefulness to begin.
Vivien was in high school, and her energy was focused, designed to loft her to a higher place in the world. She had moved from Helene’s Dance School to the World Dance Academy in Hollywood. She proudly announced to Ella the names of her teacher and of the professional students in the class; her voice trembled as though the names constituted a kind of argument. “That’s wonderful,” Ella said, wanting to stand with her daughter in this bubble of excitement, even if she didn’t recognize any of the names. Vivien apparently had a talent for ballroom dancing, for coordinating her steps with a partner’s; she was very sensitive to the movements of another.
At fifteen, Vivien was lovely; when she walked through the house in a bathing suit, oblivious of the new shapeliness of her body, Ella was dizzied by her beauty, and Lou felt the need to spout elaborate theories about Eisenhower. And the world opened up to her. She shared gossip with her high school friends but concealed it from Ella; she received numerous calls from eager young men. Sometimes, to Ella’s delight and confusion, she came to her for advice.
“Harry,” Vivien said, “calls me all the time, and he’s nice, but he has a laugh like a horse and he’s not all that bright. I don’t know whether to date him again or stop.”
“He laughs like a horse, forget it. You’re a wonderful prize, sweetheart; you can get better than that—”
“But Genevieve thinks he’s going places.” Pause. “I like it when he calls.”
Ella felt a million answers rise up in her. She burst out, “Just do whatever you want.”
Ella sometimes found herself trying to ignore Vivien’s adolescence, for fear that she might ruin it. Afraid of giving the wrong advice, she said nothing; instead, she bought Vivien expensive, absurdly sexy dresses she thought her daughter would like. They were on sale at May Company or Bullock’s and Ella snapped them up for no particular occasion; they were wild creations, with beaded bustiers or sequined waistlines, and held the promise of glorious events. Vivien accepted them and then changed them in her own particular way. When she wore them, she never looked quite as Ella had imagined she would, and this incongruity made her daughter a shimmery, unreal person—like a movie star on a screen. Ella did not know how to talk to this person, so sometimes there was a wariness, a silence between herself and Vivien. She did not know how to help Vivien grow up.
When Vivien entered high school, Lena was twenty-one and had never been on a date. One morning, sitting in the kitchen, shaking salt on a scrambled egg, Lena made an announcement.
“I think I would like a husband.”
Ella sat still.
“Is that all right?” asked Lena.
“Well,” said Ella. She gripped her coffee cup so that Lena couldn’t see her hands tremble. “Why?”
“I’d like someone to hold hands with,” Lena said in a serious voice. “I want someone who can walk with me around the block.”
“What kind of husband would you like?”
Lena smiled. “A nice one. With blue eyes. Someone who likes TV and coffee shops.” She leaned toward her mother. “I want someone who loves me very much.”
Ella could barely wait for Lou to get home and hear about this new development. He shut the door to their bedroom, sank onto the bed, and removed his shoes; then she let it out.
“Lena wants a husband,” said Ella.
His feet dangled in their purple socks.
“She does; she’s thought about it. She wants to get married, Lou. She wants someone with blue eyes.”
“Who would marry her?” asked Lou.
He did not say it unkindly.
“Perhaps some man,” tried Ella.
“She needs someone to take care of her. Not to have a romantic affair with,” he said.
“She wants a husband,” said Ella.
“She’s my daughter, she’s sweet, but, honey, I can’t think of anyone who would marry her. I have to admit that if I was a young man again, I wouldn’t marry her.”
“You don’t think that Mr. Weiss down at Van Nuys Flowers?”
“The floral assistant? You mean the lush?”
She sighed. “That Jake Steiner always compliments Lena’s hair—”
“Lena’s and every lady’s on the block!”
She felt barren, a bad mother, unable to produce a man who could love her daughter.
“So what does she do her whole life?” asked Ella. “Stay here with us? Sit in the living room, watching TV?”
“Well,” said Lou, “at least it’s a nice living room. Ella, Ella.” He caught her arm. “We can’t force anyone to marry her. We can’t”—he laughed—“pay anyone off.”
An enormous engine spun inside her, but it couldn’t move her to the place she wished to be. She paced around the room as he changed his clothes.
“Would you marry Vivien?” Ella asked, suddenly.
“Vivien? What?” he said.
“If you weren’t married. If you met her. Would you marry her now?”
Lou pulled a ratty sweater over his head. “Vivien,” he said. “She’s certainly pretty. Just like her mother. She’s a little bossy when she wants to be. That would drive me crazy. No, I don’t think Vivien would be the right wife for me.” He winked at Ella.
Ella tried, unsuccessfully, to smile.
Ella had seen the ad for the matchmaker posted in a deli on the West Side. The matchmaker, named Ilana Golden, had an office on Fairfax Boulevard. Over the phone, she told Ella to bring two 3-by-5-inch color photos: a recent close-up, with makeup, and a full-body shot of Lena, preferably in a dress.
Ilana Golden’s office was on the second floor, above an insurance office. A silver mezuzah hung on one side of the doorway. The walls were filled with wedding photos, dozens of smiling brides and grooms. Some clutched each other; some jointly lifted pieces of cake. They were short and tall, handsome and plain; they wore many types of tuxedos and veils. Yet they all had a curious similarity, as though they had all become related on their wedding day.
“Ella?” said a petite woman with frosted blond hair sitting at the desk.
“Hello,” said Ella.
This was not a matchmaker. The matchmaker she’d once seen in Boston was a bludgeon-like woman who knew enough not to dress better than her clients. Ilana Golden wore a blue silk dress with shoulder pads and held a
clipboard; she looked as if she was checking inventory.
“You have the daughter named Lena,” said Ilana Golden, consulting her clipboard.
“Yes,” said Ella.
Ilana handed Ella a questionnaire. “This is what we use nowadays. You answer a few questions; we set them up. It’s almost scientific. Now let’s take a look at her.”
Ella gave her the two photos. Ilana held them to the light. “Nice hair, nice hair,” she said. “What is she? Eighteen?”
“Twenty-one,” said Ella.
“We’ll say eighteen,” said Ilana. “Bigger pool. Now, hobbies? Interests? Does she play the piano?”
“You probably can’t tell from the picture,” said Ella, “but she’s slightly retarded.”
“Oh, now stop,” said Ilana lightly. “I’m sure she’s a nice girl. Now, violin?”
Ella sat forward, alarmed. “No,” she said, “she’s retarded. I don’t—I don’t know what to do.”
Ilana patted Ella’s arm blithely. “Darling, darling. Don’t you worry. So she’s a little slow. We’re all a little slow. Me, I can’t for the life of me understand how airplanes fly. It makes no sense! My sister, she can’t balance her checkbook. It’s a task that’s beyond her grasp.”
The questionnaire was two pages long and included such questions as: Do you prefer outdoor or indoor recreational activities? Do you regularly celebrate Shabbat? How loud do you play music in your home? What time do you usually go to bed?
“She—finished high school,” said Ella, “but she’s not normal. She needs a man who’s like her.”
“I see,” said Ilana, winking.
“They—can’t go . . . they have to stay at the house for the first—the second date.”
“Well, relax, Ella. We’ll find a man for her.” Ilana waved at all the frozen smiles lining the walls.
Ella referred back to the questionnaire, searching for one question she knew she wanted to answer. Failing to find it, she handed back the paper. “She would like someone with blue eyes,” she said.
He was not slightly wrong. He was deeply wrong, the kind of person you watch and wonder—because of the falseness of his smile, the aggressiveness of his stride—how you can both claim membership in the same human race. His name was Edward. He was tall, in an easy way; he’d shot up into the world knowing it would welcome him. Loneliness clung to him like a scarf, easily discarded; he was not like Lena, who’d never really had a friend.
“You’re here for Lena?” Ella asked.
“Yep. Lena Rose,” Edward said. “Great name.”
Ella rushed upstairs to Lena, who was sitting on her bed. Lena had never waited for a date; she didn’t know how to do it. She didn’t know how to seem uninterested, the way Vivien was before a date. Lena had plunked herself on her bed and was simply waiting.
“Honey, we need to talk—”
“Mother,” said Lena, “my date’s here.”
He lasted two hours. They sat on the patio, and Ella brought them her homemade chopped liver, which she referred to as her liver pâté, and a plate of Ritz crackers. Lena and Edward sat in the milky beams of the patio lights, and their faces glowed. He talked. Ella spied on them through the kitchen windows. It was apparent why he’d had to consult a matchmaker. His overconfidence was the saddest thing in the world. He spread himself out on the chaise longue and told idiotic jokes. When Lena didn’t laugh—because she never laughed at jokes—he sat up and leaned toward her; he was one of those grabby types, desperate to yank out happiness, no matter how false. “Come on, sweetheart,” he said. “Don’t you get it? Smile for me.”
Lena rubbed a strand of hair across her mouth. Edward rarely looked at Lena; he told his jokes to the darkness of the yard. All of a sudden, as though it were time, he turned toward her and took her face in his hands.
It was not clear what he meant by this action. Puzzled, Lena began to laugh. Her hands reached up to his, and she lifted them off her face. She began to giggle, little explosive sounds, and then jerked back, laughing, almost a kind of shrieking.
Edward stood up, shook Lena’s hand, and walked off the patio to the front door. Ella followed, several feet behind, craving answers to questions he would not be able to answer. He walked through the hallway, now not a date but a stranger, took his coat from the closet, slapped on his hat, and headed back into his life.
Lena was standing in front of the refrigerator, taking out whatever she could find: Bing cherry Jell-O mold, more chopped liver, cold stew.
“He told bad jokes,” said Ella. “You don’t want him. Thank God he’s gone.” She pushed open the screen door and began to wave out the air. “Come on, help me get him out of the house.”
Lena stayed in front of the open refrigerator and began to cry.
Perhaps Ella could buy Lena a husband. Or hypnotize one of the matchmaker’s desperate clients. Ella had made this daughter, finger and bone inside her body, and was offering her up to a life alone.
“Wait,” Ella said. It was such a dumb bit of advice; it meant one thing when she gave it to Vivien, another when she told it to Lena. Wait, you may stop wanting this. Wait, you may begin to love flowers or dogs. Wait until I can find someone to love you.
One day, Lou handed Ella a flier a customer had given him. It said: Wilshire Charm School for Young Ladies and Gentlemen Who Are Mentally Retarded. Now forming. Anyone interested call 229-1640.
She looked at it, alarmed. “What do I do with this?” she asked him.
“I thought Lena might want to go,” he said.
“You think Lena needs to be more charming?” she asked.
“Maybe she’d have fun,” he said.
She signed Lena up. The class was to be held every Thursday at four o’clock. Ella could not imagine what it would be like. She tried to picture Lena possessed of charming attributes: well-groomed fingernails, a little pillbox hat.
The class was held in an empty elementary school building near Wilshire Boulevard. The room was a little dark, and the windows were tall white rectangles of glare. The desks were arranged in a large circle. There were seven young women and two men, and their mothers sat in chairs right outside the circle; the students looked like planets closely surrounded by moons.
Two instructors stood in the center of the circle—Mrs. Latham and Mr. Hughes. “We are here to teach social graces to our students,” said Mrs. Latham. “To present themselves well to others, and even to date.” She wore a mustard-yellow cashmere sweater and a strand of pearls. Her daughter, Camelia, was a member of the class. Camelia was a heavy girl who sat, hands clasped, at a child’s desk and looked at her mother with wondering pride. “I was visiting a clinic for the mentally handicapped in Philadelphia, where they offered these classes for adults, and decided to start one here. From now on in this class, we are not girls and boys, but ladies and gentlemen.”
A couple of the girls squealed at this. Then everyone settled into a puzzled silence.
The mothers introduced themselves and their children, who ranged in age from eighteen to thirty-six. Ella stood up, her hand on Lena’s shoulder. “My name is Ella,” she said, “and this is my daughter Marlene. We call her Lena.” Lena looked up, surprised; Ella had never called her Marlene in public. The ladies were Camelia, Lottie, Jane, Evelyn, Sophia, Marta, and Lena; the gentlemen were Ronald and Larry. Ella was pleased to see that Lena was the best-looking of them all. While the daughters were clothed in plain, almost dowdy outfits, the mothers had all dressed competitively; some wore silk hats, and the air was thick with the sharpness of perfume.
“Today we will cover grooming,” said Mrs. Latham.
The two gentlemen went off with their mothers and Mr. Hughes, who held a can of shaving cream and a razor. The ladies’ mothers were instructed to sit quietly in the back.
“Your appearance is important,” said Mrs. Latham. “When we wash our hair and put on makeup, we present ourselves well to everyone else.” The room was hushed; the ladies shifted around, scratching their arms, ch
ewing on their hair. But they were listening. Mrs. Latham handed each one a lipstick. “We’re all going to put on lipstick by ourselves,” she said. “I’ll show you how.”
The ladies removed the caps from the lipsticks. Camelia stood up as a volunteer. “Do one lip at a time,” said Mrs. Latham. “See? Follow the line of your lips. Pretend you’re using a crayon, and fill it in.” Camelia proudly walked in front of the others, turning her face regally so that they could see her red lips.
Then all the ladies made attempts with lipstick. There was a sudden camaraderie among the mothers as they all tried to see as much as they could. Mrs. Lawrence, mother of Evelyn, whispered, hoarsely, “Peach is not her shade.” Their daughters leaned intently over small square mirrors. Jane drew a lipstick heart on the back of her hand. Sophia licked her lipstick as though it were a tiny Popsicle. Their mothers tensed.
When their faces were fully made up, the teacher had them parade past their mothers. “And we present the well-groomed ladies of the Wilshire Charm School,” said Mrs. Latham.
The ladies glanced at each other, not knowing what to do next. A couple of the mothers applauded weakly. Jane began to giggle. Sophia coolly examined her fingernails; then, without warning, she squealed, dropped to the floor on all fours, and began scuttling across the room, making chirping sounds like a mouse. One by one, the other students dropped to the floor and began to chase her, squealing in an exuberant game of Cat and Mouse.
The mothers rushed forward. Ella went to Lena. “Up we go,” she said, grasping her daughter’s hands. And Lena and then the others sprang up like immense flowers in a garden. Their hands were gray with dust.
Lena immediately began to practice her new skills at home. She wore a full face of makeup to every meal. Her manners became impeccable, authoritarian. “Say thank you, Daddy,” she told Lou after she passed the margarine.
“May I ask why?” he asked, suspicious.
“Because you have to,” she told him, blinking her deep blue eyelids. “Please put your napkin on your lap.”