The Stubborn Season

by Lauren B. Davis

  “Me! It wasn’t me!”

  “Sure, sure, all the boys say that, but the girls, they still cry.”

  David pulled on his ear.

  “David here, he just like a son to me, like my own son. Connie, he travel around now, he has the fevers in his feet. Go, go go! All the time go! He come home soon, I got a good feeling. Marry a nice girl, yes? That’s the way to go, pal.” He took David by the scruff of the neck and shook him so he nearly fell off the chair.

  “Don’t you have something to do in the kitchen? Maybe slaughter a lamb?” said David.

  “You want to be alone, eh? I find a hint. You don’t have to hit my head. But, miss, he give you any trouble, you come to me. I gonna fix.” George laughed, slapped David on the back and left to harass other delighted customers.

  “He likes you,” said Irene, trying not to laugh.

  “Sort of like having a three-hundred-and-fifty-pound bear like you. It’s a mixed blessing.”

  And maybe it was the ouzo, and maybe it was the calamari and maybe it was the laughter and the room, or maybe it was David himself, but the light feeling came back and she let it fill her up and push out the dark, at least for the moment.

  32

  September 1937

  Irene sat at the table near the shop window making a list of pros and cons. In the long run, it would bring in more money. In the short run, it would cost money for books and tuition. It would be a wonderful challenge and a real profession with a future, but it would mean long hours of study and work too. Would there be time for all of it? What would happen if David left? She tapped the pencil’s eraser against her tooth and stared out the window.

  She’d made enquiries and found she could complete her high school requirements at night on an accelerated program the university offered for people just like her who had been forced to abandon their studies to work. If all went well, she could begin studying for a degree next year.

  On the other hand, her mother had locked on her with a vengeance. Her questioning eyes followed Irene, intuiting, in that weird way of hers, that something was going on just outside the line of her vision. The miracle of Margaret’s leaving the house earlier in the summer was clouded over now by her constant grilling and her belittling remarks about David.

  “You can’t fool me, my girl,” she said. “I’m smart. I can see things. You can’t pull the wool over these old eyes.”

  “There is no plot, for God’s sake, Mum. What do you have against David?”

  “I’ll say no more. I’ll say no more.”

  And Irene could see that she would try to keep quiet, slamming doors and rattling pots and pans to make up for her tightly clamped jaw.

  “You’ll come to a bad end, Irene, if you don’t listen to me.”

  “Yes, Mum,” she’d say, too tired to argue through another evening.

  “We’ll see. The truth will always come out in the end.” Margaret’s laugh was brittle.

  Sitting in the shop, Irene thought of the impending winter and how the house always seemed smaller in the cold, dark days when she and her mother pushed up against each other, two grouchy bears in never-restful hibernation. She thought of the churning, restless, hungry world David had opened her eyes to, a world both tortured and yet beautiful in its struggle. She thought of Ebbie and Mike making their way in university and their eager enthusiasm for the future. Ever since the day of the demonstration and the walk through the Ward, she’d felt her life was at a crossroads. She had been part of something that day.

  Irene sighed, put her papers away and headed home. It was Monday evening and she felt the tension in her shoulders as she walked up the path to her house, shuffling through the season’s first yellow leaves. She wondered how many times she’d walked toward her house in this manner, sensing like an insect for any changes in the atmosphere, putting out feelers to pick up any subtle disturbances in the air. She had her own key, and yet her mother, by putting the bolt across the door, could still lock her out at will. This evening the door was unbolted. A good sign. Her mother could be heard singing “Sweet Leilani” with Bing Crosby on the radio. A very good sign. The house was rich with the smell of roast chicken.

  “That you, Irene?”

  “Smells wonderful in here.”

  “It’s almost ready. Wash up.”

  “Yes, Mum. Be right there.”

  The table in the kitchen was set already. The salt and pepper shakers, the little Chinese man and woman, stood in the middle of the table, next to a red lacquered bowl full of green lettuce. Irene wondered, for the thousandth time, what this fixation was her mother had with red things in the kitchen, red and black wherever you looked. Irene sat down heavily on the chair near the window. Margaret, an apron around her waist and a scarf tied up like a turban on her head, had her back to Irene and was mashing potatoes in a pot on the stove. Then she turned to Irene, and her face was tight.

  “I found this in your room,” she said.

  She took a pamphlet from the Pharmacy Department of the university out of her apron pocket and tossed it down on the tabletop. The little Chinese man fell over, a few grains of pepper spilling from the top of his head.

  Scream at her! Scream!

  No.

  “You went through my things?” said Irene.

  “I was cleaning. I’m allowed to do that, aren’t I? It is still my house, isn’t it? Now you tell me, what’s this all about?” Margaret struggled to keep her voice low. She had been filled with a powerful sense of vindication when she had come upon the pamphlet early that afternoon, because she’d finally unearthed the plot being hatched by David Hirsch and her daughter. Now, however, the feelings were mixed with fear.

  “I was just making some enquiries. You know, maybe for the future.”

  “What sort of enquiries?”

  “To be a pharmacist,” said Irene, and the words sounded foolish even to her.

  Her mother laughed. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s not that you’re not smart, dear, I’ve always said how smart you are. But a pharmacist? That’s not going to happen.” She turned away and bent to take the perfectly browned chicken out of the oven.

  “Why not? Why couldn’t it?” There was the feeling of stone in Irene’s chest.

  “Be realistic. You have to run the store.”

  “I’ve thought about that, and I’ve got an idea there, too.”

  “Oh, you have, have you?”

  It was absurd, of course, but Irene wished she’d put down the carving knife. “It’s not a big thing, Mum.”

  Margaret slammed the carving implements down on the counter and picked up a dishtowel. She began to wipe her hands, even though they were not wet. “It may not be a big thing to you, Irene, but it certainly is to me. I may try and put on a good face for your sake, but let me tell you, there isn’t a day goes by when I don’t feel like just packing it all in and crawling back upstairs to that bed. Well, I guess I should have expected this. You’re your father’s daughter, after all. Peas in a pod, the two of you. I can see that now.”

  We know about the Jew. We have discovered things, from the look on his face, the things we can hear between the words you say. You’re both guilty of many things.

  Not yet. Quiet.

  “Mum, please, just listen to me.”

  “Why should I? You’re all set to flit off to school every day and make me go out to work, are you? How do you expect me to be able to cope?” Margaret began scratching furiously at the back of her hands. “I wouldn’t last a week stuck in the shop with that Jew.” She looked at the chicken, the green beans, the mashed potatoes, all in their pots on the top of the stove. “This is all ruined. Completely ruined.” She picked up the bean pot and threw it into the sink.

  “Mum. You don’t have to go out and work in the store. I never said that. None of this will probably ever happen, anyway.” The words were tart with bitterness.

  “Well, you certainly can’t run the store and go to school at the same time, can you?” Fool! Think! Margar
et’s face paled. “Oh, don’t tell me! You have some foolish idea in your head about selling, don’t you? Well, I am not going to have you selling the store, selling our whole future, just so you can go off and waste money on a silly pipe dream.”

  “I wouldn’t sell the store and it’s not a silly dream, Mum.” With every word it seemed more possible, not less. “I could turn the place back into a real drug store someday. I want to make something out of my life.”

  “I know I haven’t made much out of mine, but that’s hardly my fault, is it, now? You don’t need to rub my face in it.” She fished in the pocket of her apron for a handkerchief, and blew her nose.

  “This is not a catastrophe, Mum. I don’t know why you’re carrying on so. I’m not going to sell the store. I’m not going to ask you to work there.”

  Margaret stopped crying and considered Irene. “So, you’re going to forget about this, then?”

  “No. I’m going to do this. I think I just might.”

  “Then, what are you talking about!”

  “David will take care of the shop alone,” she mumbled.

  Margaret laughed. Good! Let’s get to the twisted root! “That isn’t even worth commenting on.”

  “Mother, nothing’s been decided. But it is possible.” She made every attempt to keep her voice even and reasonable, for she knew how the slightest tonal fluctuation could unhinge Margaret.

  Margaret walked over to her and, before Irene could move away, reached out and grabbed her tightly by the jaw, her nails digging into her daughter’s skin. She brought her face close to Irene’s.

  “Oh, you’d like that, wouldn’t you? Well, I will not have that mangy little man insinuating himself in our lives. I knew the moment I set eyes on him he was no good. Look what news he brought with him. Not that we even know if he told the truth, of course. I’ve thought about that.”

  “Stop it!” Irene pushed her mother’s hand away and slid her chair back into the corner.

  Margaret stood in front of her, her hands on her hips. Be careful! Lay it out. Show her, but be careful. Her eyes became clouded and cunning. “We have only his story to go on, don’t we? We don’t even know if he’s telling the truth. We have no way of knowing, do we? My brother could be very much alive, out there somewhere. This could all be a con, and David Hirsch could be a cheap grifter. Or there is another possibility. I’ve thought of it, but I bet you never have, have you? It could be worse than a con. So much worse. You’re still so naïve. But have you considered that Rory could have been murdered?” She tapped Irene in the chest with her finger. “That’s right. Axed to death. Or hit on the head with a rock. Have you ever thought of that? And even you can see who the natural culprit would be, can’t you? David Hirsch’s hands could be very bloody indeed, my girl.”

  She hadn’t thought about that! She hadn’t considered it! That’ll fix her. That’ll bring her ‘round again.

  Margaret turned back to the stove. “No, I can see by the look on your face. When you’re older, you’ll see. People like that. They’re not like us. You have to be cautious. I know what ideas he’s been putting in your head. But it’ll have to stop. He wants you, you know. Filthy things. You should thank me. I know how close you came. Almost turned against me, didn’t you? Plotting with him, I’ve seen you. But I wouldn’t let that happen. No, my girl, I wouldn’t let that happen. You’d be better off dead.”

  “Mum, don’t say any more, please don’t.” All the air seemed to have left the house and there was only the pulsing pressure of her mother’s words. She rubbed her cheeks, where her mother’s nails had left half-moon marks. She saw Margaret with her sad, slightly askew turban on her head, a curl of grey hair sprouting from the side. She saw the attempts her mother made to create some sort of world where such a hat could be worn, in a red kitchen, while roasting a chicken, and it would be all right, it would be suitable, it would be appropriate. It was the kind of world you found at the end of a rabbit hole, and one her mother wanted to trap her in, just the two of them, gnawing on chicken legs, listening to the radio and forever picking each other’s hairs off the white porcelain of the bath.

  She said I’d be better off dead.

  Where do you end and I begin?

  Margaret carved the chicken, the knife slicing easily through the flesh.

  “I know these things aren’t easy to hear, Kitten. But we have to face facts. I could smell it on him right away. Hirsch.” She chuckled, and waved the big fork in Irene’s direction. “He hid his name from us at first. Did you notice? Didn’t come right out and say he was Jewish. They’re a sneaky people. I’ve said that before and you argued with me, didn’t you? Your father was right in that. To think I used to disagree with him. But even you can see it now.”

  It’ll be all right. Irene is a good girl. Now that she’s been told the truth, it will be fine.

  Margaret served potatoes onto the plates, then turned to the spilled pot of beans in the sink and spooned up some of those as well. She brought the two plates to the table.

  “Don’t be disappointed, dear. Don’t look like that. Chief Thundercloud. Do you remember when I used to call you that? But really—” She patted Irene’s hand, which remained in her lap, safely holding the other. Irene looked down at her mother’s hand on hers, at the broad red scratches there. “I think it’s for the best that things stay the way they are now. Except for David. You’ll have to get rid of him right away. Eat up, dear.”

  Irene gazed at her plate. She knew that if she picked up the fork and began to eat, something dreadful would happen. It was very clear. If she ate this meal, here at this table with her mother, she would continue eating here every night for the rest of her life. She would remain in this kitchen, eating the same meal, day after day, too weak to fight the same repetitious battles, and eventually the walls she’d so carefully maintained—mortared with a little acquiescence here, a small agreement there—would crumble. They would fall and she would be invaded, overrun, occupied completely by her mother’s unwell soul. There would be no boundary between them. They would be one.

  You’d be better off dead.

  “Irene? What’s the matter, Kitten?”

  “I’m going, Mother.”

  “Going where, dear? You have to eat your dinner. I made you this nice dinner.”

  Black wings! Feel the black wings!

  Irene pushed herself up from the table. She walked down the hall. She walked up the stairs, each step feeling as if there were a concrete block around her foot.

  “Irene! Where are you going?”

  Idiot! Black wings! Do something! Do something!

  Irene knew she must hurry. She climbed the stairs and reached her room before her mother could catch her. She put the chair under the doorknob. She pulled her suitcase from under the bed and began stuffing things into it. Her mother rattled the doorknob. A few clothes, not much would fit. The photo of her father, another of Uncle Rory. A book of poems by Auden. Her mother banged on the door. She felt like her father, leaving the house with next to nothing, leaving even less of herself behind. This will be, at last, her mother’s house. Her mother, who terrified her.

  “Irene! Let me in! Open the door!”

  Irene opened the door.

  “How dare you lock me out!” Her mother had taken the turban off now, tossed it aside in her anger, Irene presumed.

  “I’m going, Mum. I’ll call you.” Irene put up her arm and moved her mother gently, but firmly, aside.

  “Where are you going? Where are you going?”

  “Maybe to a hotel. Then tomorrow I’m going to look for a room. Where I will live.” She started down the stairs.

  “No! I won’t have this. No!”

  Irene turned to look at her mother, although she did not want to. Women were turned to salt for actions just like this. She did not want to see her in this state, wanted to find some other way to part. Her mother stood halfway down the stairs. Her hands were in fists, raised above her head, her face full of dark fear and rage.


  “I’m not leaving you, Mum. I’m just going. There’s a difference. I’ll see you. I’ll pay for everything. You’ll have to go outside now. But you’ll be fine. I promise.” She continued down the stairs and now her mother followed her, silently tugging at her, Irene pushing her away. With great effort she reached the door. She put her hand on the doorknob. The entire house seemed to echo and groan.

  “I’ve known this would happen. I have always known what a devious girl you were. In my day children didn’t fuck Jews, didn’t abandon their parents, didn’t leave them to die alone. I’ll go mad, Irene! I will! And it will be your fault! I can feel it coming! You can’t just leave me like this! I can’t cope by myself. I’m not strong like you are! Irene!”

  Listen to the sound of wings. Here they come. Goody.

  Irene was so tired. It would be easier to just turn back, to let whatever might happen, happen—the two of them melding into one sad and festering wound, hiding together from the world. The two of them dying. She put her arms around her mother, who gripped her tightly. Every muscle in Irene’s chest threatened to crush her heart. Then she pushed Margaret to arms’ length and was surprised to see how much stronger than her mother she was. She picked up her bag again. She stepped out on the porch. Just a simple thing, a small step. A mere foot from one side of the door to the other.

  “I might as well kill myself. I’m going to die alone,” Margaret cried.

  Death is a dark wing, too.

  “Oh, Mum,” said Irene, her own face streaming with tears. “You must stop, dear. Just stop thinking about yourself so much.” Her throat was so thick the words were in a voice not her own.

  Irene felt every step away from the house was a step walked on a bed of broken glass. She heard the door slam. The sound of her mother’s yowling followed her down the street and a few of the neighbours came out to see whatever was the matter. She waved at them.

  She saw her hand was trembling and she put it in her pocket. Then she took it out again and turned up her collar against the chill.