It gives a sharp sound, which startles my father. His mouth is mirrored in the surface of the blade, and suddenly it becomes clear to me that the oven is not the only one fuming—so is he.
He raises his eye to her, and jealousy escapes. He glares at me, and a warning shoots out. What does he want from me? There is nothing I can do. He hates me for staring at her and he hates me for trying not to stare.
Now there she stands, by the counter, measuring the coarsely ground coffee, one tablespoon then another, right into the basket of our coffee percolator. He groans, which sounds like a bubble over a flame.
I can tell they have a language between them, a language without words: Anita glances back at him, he gives her a nod with his head, and in turn she secures the top, as tightly as she can, on the percolator. Her feet tap around the linoleum floor. For whom is she performing this dance, I would like to know.
Anita is bare legged, buttoned up in an oversized, short sleeve cotton shirt, which probably belongs to him. It is crumpled, maybe from rolling around in her messy bed. Although, judging by my father’s condition, as well as his mood, that may have been the only action she got last night.
I can easily see her the way he does: his shirt hangs loosely around her, refusing to disclose any hint of her curves. You can only guess her nipples, because even as you try to pin them down, they sway on her body, roll with every step, when she walks and when she stops, right there by the stove. And only when she turns the button, raising the heat to medium, do they mark their place, briefly, by pressing against the coarse fabric.
Then, rising to a tiptoe Anita takes a peak through the clear glass knob, right there on the top of the percolator, to check if the coffee is sufficiently brewed. Her hair is gathered loosely, and coiled into a French twist. Some strands have unravelled, and they are dangling around her face and over one shoulder, hemmed in by a soft, reddish fuzz. I try to imagine how it would feel to twirl that curl around my finger.
The same reddish fuzz flashes, for an instant, right there, from her armpit, as she lifts her arm to pour out his coffee. Anita hands him the cup and he sets it away from him, far in the middle of the table, saying, “Now go, go get dressed already. We will take care of things here.”
“We?” I say. “Who’s we?”
“You,” he says. “And I.”
I rise up against him.
“You?” I say. “You can barely move, and what kind of things are we talking about? I don’t know much about taking care of anything here, especially when I am hungry, and right now I am hungry, very hungry, and what about my omelette?”
“And what about me? I’m hungry too,” says Anita. “I’ve got such a huge appetite this morning. And you know,” she hints at him, “there is a bun in the oven.”
This is when he makes his move. My father leans forward in the wheelchair and to my surprise, he wraps his arms around her waist, gathering her to his breast. She lets out a cry and lays her hands over his shoulders. Her fingers flutter around his neck, and glide down to his back. And so she stands there, embracing him.
It is amazing to hear her now: by contrast to her singing, her giggling voice is full and rich. In no way can I explain it.
He rests his head gently against her belly, rubbing his forehead against it. I think I smell his scent on her, which makes me turn my eyes away, because I know I am the stranger here, and this moment is so private, so intimate between them. Touching her, and being touched in return, seems to bring out a change in him.
“Look at you,” he says, and for the first time this morning, there is laughter bubbling up, deep down in his throat. “Now where is that bun? I cannot feel it. It is slightly flat, no? No wonder you have such a big appetite! Why, it is an appetite big enough for two.”
She tickles his earlobes and he smiles. “So let me do this for you, he says. “Today I will make you an omelette, a big one, like you have never tasted before. Don’t say No, Anita.”
“Mrs. Kaminsky,” she corrects him, playfully.
“Yes, indeed, sweetheart,” he says, because it is so easy to please her. “Now go, go already, put some clothes on you, my dear, slightly pregnant Mrs. Kaminsky.”
Up to this moment no one has told me anything, in a precise and direct manner, about her pregnancy. Maybe they decided to let me figure things for myself, if I can; which makes me feel a little indignation. The entire situation is new and baffling to me. Also scary, somehow. I am ashamed to admit that I have no clue, looking at this woman, how far along she might be.
She does not look pregnant, not in the slightest, does she.
My father is no longer grouchy—but now I am. I am mad, really: mad at him, mad at Anita. With burning eyes I try to pierce through her, even as she places herself, ever so slowly, deeper in his embrace. In this position I can spot, for the first time, the round line of her belly.
There: now she freezes. Anita stands still, and so does time. Then, by barely perceptible degrees, it is starting to happen: each of her limbs softens, and then changes position—at the slightest measurable angles—until she is about to release herself, perhaps with the thought of turning, little by little, towards the door.
She seems so vulnerable. With a penetrating gaze, I imagine laying my hands on that shirt, which hangs so loosely around her. I strip her of that thing, and cast it aside. In my mind she is bathed in morning light, and naked. I imagine seeing clear through the skin, that fair, translucent skin of her belly. I wonder then if it is as freckled as the tip of her nose. Then I lose control over my fantasy. Somehow, it takes an unexpected turn.
Eyes closed, I immerse in darkness, the deep, dense darkness of her flesh, which is moist and marbled, here and there, by blood vessels. I find myself floating inside. And the pulse, which at first was but a faint echo in my ears, is now becoming more pronounced, as if—even without knowing where I am headed—I must be getting there. I lose myself, blindly and completely, in the beating of that sound. And it is then that finally, I arrive.
The void is here, encased by a slippery, glistening lining, which is streaked by tiny veins all around me. A swoosh can be heard, and I sink into the wave, sensing that something new, strange, even menacing is beginning to take shape here, in these lukewarm waters, something for which I am still struggling to find a name.
A cell? No, not as simple as that. A threat, I say to myself, a new threat for me.
I open my eyes and at once, fear awakens in me. No, not just fear—but something more severe, something like a rage, a murderous rage. Right now it is a vague emotion, still without form.
I do not even want to know at whom it is aimed—but I recognize that it is fueled, in part, by desire. It turns me white with anguish, as if I have just walked through glass, shattering it—or let my fingers spread open, dropping an egg to the floor, or a fossil, the fragile fossil of a fetus.
I move the knife away from me and—trying to avoid any rush moves—I turn to take a look at Anita: her outline is framed, for an instant, by the kitchen door. The next instant she is gone.
It is then that I ask myself, with great agitation, What is it? What has happened here, to grip me in such agony, such panic, even? And I hesitate to give myself an answer, because it makes no sense to come out and say it—but all the same, this I know: that cell floating inside, in the dark liquid of her womb, and constantly growing, constantly multiplying with such vigor, such aggressiveness, will soon become me. I mean, a copy of me:
Perhaps even better than me, because at this point I am already worn out. I am not a boy anymore, which is something that by now, I have learned to regret. At twenty-seven years old I am unsure, somehow, of my own direction, my own purpose in life. For fear of looking like a complete failure, I cannot tell anyone about this—least of all my father.
I have no one, really, no one to whom I can turn.
Trying to regain my calm I tell myself, Don’t be stupid. You have nothing, absolutely not a thing to worry about. You sense danger where there is none. Wh
at is the threat in that cell, that minute, insignificant matter which, by now, is probably no bigger than a sesame seed, or a grain of salt?
And as soon as I hear me say, Don’t be stupid, I remember being six years old. I remember having the same sense of panic, and trying to calm myself in the exact same way, when mom went to the hospital, saying, “Be a good boy for daddy, and how would you like me to bring you something, a little surprise?”
I remember then, that she came back empty-handed. I was careful—very careful—not to ask her where my surprise was, because I could tell that she had no answers. Mom laid in bed many days, with eyes red and swollen with tears.
And later—when she finally got up, and by accident she saw the baby carriage, my old, crooked baby carriage which dad had fixed up and cleaned and polished, and from which he had removed all the rusty spots—then a shudder passed through her. And she turned away and went back to her bedroom. It was there, through the keyhole that I saw her, folded up on the bed, as if there was a great pain in her.
I gaze at my father, trying not to think about his new wife, this woman, Anita, who managed to displace my mother; trying not to cringe with the expectation—no, the certainty—that so will this new, fresh copy of myself. My brother. My rival. Once born, he will displace me, in my dad’s arms and in his heart.
“So, can you help me, Ben?”
I turn in the direction of the voice, surprised to see the wheelchair at the other end of the kitchen.
“So, can you get me a bowl?” asks my father.
And having asked it, and then having to repeat the question once or twice, he seems equally surprised, as he studies the blankness of my stare.
I do not lift a finger. In my mind I can already see him—or rather, the ghost of him—walking proudly down the street behind a baby carriage, so the whole town can see this newborn and adore him. And I ask myself, What is my place in that picture. Where the hell am I.
By now, my father has managed to maneuver around the counter, in the direction of the refrigerator. Out of its open door he takes out a carton of eggs, and turns his head over his shoulder, asking, “So, Ben, how many for you?”
“Never mind,” I tell him. “I lost my appetite. No omelette for me.”
Chapter 4 Apart From Love
As Told by Anita
Later, when I wake up, it takes me a while to grasp where I am, and even longer to figure out that I’ve lost time, that time has passed. The last thing I remember is like, making breakfast for him—and now, somehow, it’s late afternoon.
I’m lying here on my side, with the bedside lamp shedding a dim light behind me. I can tell that his side of the bed is empty. Why am I here? How did I get here? Why am I so dazed, so confused? And where’s Lenny?
I gaze across the ceiling and along the walls, trying to pick out every shade, every hint. And there, opposite the bed I spot my wedding dress which—now I recall—I’ve hung on the coat rack, right there in the corner.
The corner of the bedroom is the only place here which I reckon is truly mine. Strange, no? I still feel that way, despite having slept here with him, on and off, for like, the past ten years. I keep telling myself that I must claim this space, claim it as mine, right away. And maybe I will one day, when the baby’s born.
I try to picture a crib here, next to me, and at once everything looks so much brighter. I hope the baby can soon feel something of what’s in my heart—but not the confusion.
Staring at that corner I know one thing, and I know it real clear, at once: this lovely dress, made of heavy satin and trimmed with lace and beading and what not, which I’ve dyed, the morning after the wedding, orange at the top and purple at the bottom, so it can still be used in the future—like, at dances and parties and stuff—this dress isn’t gonna to fit me no more.
Up to now I’ve pictured it in my head, shining awful brilliant, just like a rainbow, and swirling all around me; and with every step, billowing between my legs, and like, making me adorable, so adorable in Lenny’s eyes—but now that I touch my belly and feel the beginning, the very beginning of change, right here around my waist, what’s the point of all that.
On the floor, under the hem of the dress, I can see two pairs of shoes: one is my new, white satin shoes, which Lenny’s bought for me, like, two weeks ago, just for the wedding.
When he wants to, he can be real kind. He knows so well how to spoil a woman. He gave me a ring with a pink sapphire. I bet you it’s real! Also, a gold chain with a locket, which at the last minute—like, just before saying, I do—I decided not to wear. I wanted to look classy, and worried that it’s gonna be a bit much.
And the other pair? Now, that’s my very first pair of high heel shoes. They’re worn out, but still kinda bright, and chipped only a little. To this day I’m totally crazy about the color: hot pink!
Ten years ago I spotted them up there, in a store window, and for a whole month I stared at them every day, on my way home from school, and my heart sank, knowing I didn’t have no money to buy them. I liked how the side of the strap was like, spruced up with a plastic rose, which has since fallen off. Awful cute, it was!
Then I found a job at this ice cream place, down there at the Santa Monica pier. I got my first week’s pay, and was so happy, so thrilled to rush in and buy them, because they wasn’t only pink—but glossy too, and because now I was just like an adult. Ma took one look at them and slapped me, which made me figure that now, I was gonna have no choice but to apply plenty of makeup, so that this side of my face, which was flaming red, won’t stand out all that much.
Then she slapped me again, this time on the other side, which turned out to be just as stinging—but at least, it solved the problem for me, ‘cause now I found myself, like, pretty even; you know, balanced on both sides.
Ma said I looked like a bitch in them shoes—but I didn’t care, really I didn’t, because it was my sixteenth birthday and it was my own damn money, for me to do as I please, and because I had to fight her, like, tooth and nail to keep the little I had, so that she won’t take it from me, for my sake of course; and because most of all, I thought them shoes made me look just fine.
Now I can see one pink shoe standing lopsided, held up somehow in-between them white shoes; and the other pink one lying there, turned over, like some openmouthed baby whale, trying to rise for a breath from a sea of dust.
Me, I still remember the first time I wore them, which was also the first time I met Lenny.
He was standing out there, on the other side of the pier. The lights on the Ferris Wheel had just started to come on. They was gleaming there, directly behind him.
Somehow I could spot his outline in the distance, in-between the swirly letters, which I couldn’t read, because from the inside, which was where I was standing, left was right, right was left, flipped into looking kinda foreign, which can really confuse you. But I knew them letters spelled the name of the place. They looks cool, too, like they’re gonna drip and totally melt, floating up there on the pane of glass between us.
It was a hot summer evening, and the place was awful packed. I paced back and forth behind the counter, serving the customers, dishing out fresh smiles, scooping Dutch chocolate here and vanilla there, and trying to get a beat going, trying to sway my hips and at the same time, steady my step over my new, hot pink high heels, which isn’t near as easy as you might think—at least, not on the first try.
After a while I noted that he started pacing just like me, back and forth, and with the same beat, too. I liked the bounce of his step. Right away I thought he was gonna make a fabulous dance partner. And I knew, really I did, it was gonna to be a wild night.
You won’t believe how wild it turned out to be—but in a different way than you might expect, like, an entirely different way. He was so handsome, too, with that slicked-back hair, just like them stars in the old movies!
And like, there was something about his walk, about the way he carried himself, that reminded me of Johnny, mom’s previ
ous boyfriend, the one who confessed to her that he couldn’t get no respect from his wife.
Just like him, Lenny seemed to be in his early forties, and like, he was talking to himself from time to time. I bet he was rehearsing some excuse. Which made me bust out laughing, laughing so hard that my hat—that ice cream uniform hat, made of hard white paper folded in half—nearly flew off my pony tail. I mean, if you find yourself in such a bind, having to come up with one new story after another for the old wife, you might as well just get rid of her, and get yourself a new girl.
The minute our eyes met, I knew what to do: so I stopped in the middle of what I was doing, which was dusting off the glass shield over the ice cream buckets, and stacking up waffle cones here and sugar cones there. From the counter I grabbed a bunch of paper tissues, and bent all the way down, like, to pick something from the floor. Then with a swift, discrete shove, I stuffed the tissues into one side of my bra, then the other, ‘cause I truly believe in having them two scoops—if you know what I mean—roundly and firmly in place.
Apart From Love Page 4