Turn Us Again

by Charlotte Mendel

  My father lurches heavily to his feet and staggers towards the door. I prepare to face a night of torture wondering if he was too furious to even say good night, but luckily he turns at the door. “Same place, same time tomorrow night.”

  “It’s a date.”

  The following evening finds us ensconced in our chairs. I can’t help wondering how similar this position is to the two facing chairs in Evercreech. I flip to the next section with trembling hands — I have been waiting for this all day — and begin to read.

  “Wait a minute. What about my father’s death?”

  “I’ve read that already. Maybe you’d already fallen asleep.” Surely he wasn’t going to ask me to read that whole section again?

  “You must have encountered my marks, since you seem to have covered a vast number of pages?”

  “Marks? Yes, I think I did see some marks.”

  My father slams his beer down on the table, scattering froth. “Those marks indicate that I have something to add! The whole fucking point of this exercise is to give me a chance to input, despite your blatant disinterest!”

  Why does it sound so awful when my father says fuck? I say it all the time. “But father, I thought we were reading it together so you could give input as I read, rather than waiting for me to come up with questions.”

  “If you’d noticed that I was asleep, maybe you would have reached the conclusion that I was unable to initiate input.”

  “I’m sorry.” I didn’t want to have an unpleasant argument, nor admit that I got so caught up in the manuscript that I balked at interruptions for tedious justifications. “Let’s talk about the marks now.” I start to flip the pages back, skimming the margins for the first mark of yesterday’s lengthy reading session. And back and back. Jesus, he couldn’t have been asleep this long.

  “Umm, there’s a mark beside her conversation with the taxi driver when she’s in labour. She suggests you let her go to the hospital alone because you wanted a good night’s sleep.”

  “Unpleasant conjecture. Husbands weren’t invited into the delivery room then like they are now. They had no part in the process.”

  “I expect she wanted you to go with her, anyway.”

  “Then she should have said that. It is evident from her manuscript that I was overcome with excitement when she told me she was in labour. It just didn’t enter my head that I should accompany her to the hospital, where I assumed she’d be whisked into a room with a large ‘Husbands Keep Out’ sign. I certainly wasn’t thinking about getting a good night’s sleep — I doubt I slept at all that night.”

  “I get your point.” I hope there aren’t too many marks. I just want to get on with the manuscript. The ‘whys’ screeching in my head from the moment I received the fax ‘Dying, would like to see you again’ were poised: clarification was imminent. The sense of anxiety that always permeated our house when I was growing up, the anger when my mother died because I felt he had ruined her life, the fact that I hadn’t seen him for eighteen years. Why? It’s like something momentous has been forgotten, and the manuscript is about to enlighten me. My father’s elaborate explanations and justifications feel like a deterrent to this goal. I know he wants me to understand him, but I’m more interested in understanding myself. At the same time I’m totally aware that I must hide this and listen patiently. This is important to him, and he is dying.

  I find the next mark. “When she comes home after giving birth, she’s not too impressed by the cot and stuff, because they’re old. I think I know why you marked this, because you’d gone to a lot of trouble to get everything for the new baby and she wasn’t appreciative?”

  “She was relentlessly negative all the time. I could have made hundreds of marks in this manuscript, and pointed out hundreds of occasions in our married life not mentioned here, where she destroyed my efforts with useless disapproval. She undermined my desire to make her happy and then blamed me when I ceased to try.”

  “Well, dissatisfied men bellow and dissatisfied women freeze you out with silent disapproval. That’s a pretty typical man-woman interaction, isn’t it?” I say, already flipping to the next mark.

  “Are you getting this? Is there any point in doing this?”

  My hand jerks. “What?”

  “You act like you just want to get this over with.”

  “Really? I don’t mean to, but your points aren’t very complex. There’re pretty obvious, actually. I do know you both, and I can imagine you rushing around getting everything ready, proud of yourself. And I can imagine Mum wanting brand new stuff.” I remember how Jenny advised me to remain neutral, as though I were witnessing a clinical experiment rather than being set up as some type of judge.

  “I’m not just talking about this incident, but about an entire aspect of our relationship which isn’t covered in this book. She was consistently negative, about the places I found to rent or buy, about our cars, in fact about most of my choices. It was impossible for me to differentiate between what mattered and what was just a daily bitch session. She has selected specific incidents for this manuscript, in order to paint a picture of a man who ignored her needs. But it wasn’t like that. A new cot was a worthless desire, moving out of Farmer Brown’s house was a need, but her discontent was equally great in each case, so I learned to dismiss all her feelings as unimportant.”

  “At the beginning she didn’t paint you like that. She said you had noble ideals and loved her.”

  “You’re referring to our Cambridge days, before our marriage? That was different. I was noble and she was a beautiful saint. A saint never bitches. Can’t you see how things deteriorated over time?”

  I wrack my brains for something to say that will show that I have absorbed his point and agree with it, even though I think the manuscript does struggle to put Sam’s actions in perspective. I sit there nodding for so long that he tells me to find the next mark. Relieved, I comply.

  “There’s a mark beside her comment ‘We are all beautiful people,’ when you tell her she’s talking rot, in the pub after she came back from Newcastle and you failed to meet her train.”

  “Yes. Her feelings as she waits are described poignantly. And then her efforts to reconcile with me — despite the fact that the transgression was mine — followed by a chat with Louise where she fears I love her less. There is something dishonest about all of this. Mummy knew that I was abjectly dependent on her at the time, terrified that she would stop loving me and I’d lose her. She knew I hated her going away and suffered while she was gone, sure she was enjoying herself more than she did with me. I made it clear before she left that she must come back in time, and I tortured myself over whether to meet her or not. I wanted to hurt her like she had hurt me by her brief telegram. That is not a noble sentiment, but it doesn’t put me irrevocably in the wrong. I think she knew it too, hence her efforts towards reconciliation.

  “As for the ‘Don’t talk such rot’ conversation, I don’t remember it. I do recall that she often maintained frigid silences lasting for days and indeed created an unwelcoming home for the most trivial of reasons. If she was trying to be nice here and I rejected her efforts, it just proves that she knew she was in the wrong.”

  “I wouldn’t say she was in the wrong,” I answer, goaded into abandoning my ‘absorb, listen and keep quiet’ rule. “You were always trying to control her.” I flip through the manuscript. “Here, just after she becomes pregnant and you leave, telling her you expect her to be a bigger person when you return. Or after your marriage when you say, ‘We’ll see who wears the pants in this family. ’ Or saying ‘That’ll teach you’ when you didn’t meet the train.”

  “I’ve explained the train episode! I was fearful she would start buggering off whenever she felt like it, because everywhere else was so much better than being with me…”

  “So you wanted to control her.”

  “I didn’t want her to dis
appear for as long as she felt like without talking it over with me. And the time I told her to be a bigger person — she was going on and on about me leaving law. She had no understanding of the cutthroat side of the profession. She was only thinking of the money. It seemed such a base way of looking at things — this profession pays more so you should do it, even if you hate it. I have deep reservations about the shady side of the law, the wheeling dealing and dishonesty. I don’t think I could have succeeded as a lawyer. I have never met a principled man among them. Yes, it’s true, I wanted her to have the same attitude towards money as me. I wanted her to accept me whether I was a lumberjack or a lawyer. Is that so bad?”

  “And the ‘We’ll see who wears the pants in this family’ comment?”

  “I have nothing to say about that. It was a rotten thing to say on our wedding night. I don’t recall the incident, so I don’t know why I was in such a foul mood. I would like to leave it at that, but again I must remind you that the events chosen in this manuscript are hand picked. If it were my manuscript, I would write about how I was brought up thinking yelling and arguing were healthy, normal forms of expression. How everyone in my family fought freely. Then I would recount how my wife maintained frozen silences for days if I raised my voice during an argument. Weeks would pass without any communication other than disapproving looks, because I had dared to do what it was normal for me to do. I would insinuate that she was trying to control me, by forcing me to abandon the behaviour I’d imbibed with my breast milk.”

  My father sighs and supports his heavy head in his hands. “This is so exhausting, and also so pointless. Who cares anymore, these silly things we did to hurt and control each other? Our lives could have been so different. I did love her. I still do. I have never loved anybody else.”

  “You said a couple of nights ago that you have suffered from your mistakes and wish you could start the marriage over and do it differently, remember? I understand that that is what you really feel — and you are being forced into self-justification when you counter the details in the manuscript.”

  “I did some terrible things; the worst when I was drinking. Speaking of which, let me refill your glass.”

  I jiggle my leg on my knee until he returns and then ignore the glass of beer and start to read. Finally.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Within a couple of weeks Sam left again for London, this time to find a job and a flat. Madelyn spent the final time with her parents battling a strange feeling that it would be a long time before she stayed with them again. She almost dreaded Sam’s letters, knowing the final one would rejoice at his new employment and their imminent reunion.

  “At least there are no cottages with toilets half a mile away in London,” she joked with her mother, who gave a slight shudder. Madelyn realized that Mary’s silence about her circumstances had been a blessing, but the absence of a sense of humour in retrospect was a pity.

  Eddie showered her with affection and worshipped young Gabriel, who was just beginning to potter around tables, hanging on for dear life with one hand and sweeping everything majestically to the floor with the other. Eddie would roar at his antics (another misplaced sense of humour) and not only fail to curb naughtinesses himself, but prevented Madelyn from doing so. He did not get drunk for the entire visit, which ended abruptly with the arrival of the telegram:

  Boring job as clerk. Hope temporary. Fantastic flat. Meet you at Kings Cross on Thursday.

  “Look at that dear, Sam has got you a ‘fantastic flat,’” said Mary in a pleased voice. Madelyn remembered his enthusiasm over the Evercreech cottage and felt sceptical, but abstained from sharing her thoughts with her mother.

  In the event, the flat was fantastic. Bright, airy, boasting the latest appliances and filled with nice furniture. The baby’s room was equipped with a brand new cot, and new toys were propped up for admiration purposes in various corners of the room. Madelyn’s scepticism grew, even while she met Sam’s expectations with warm praise and exclamations.

  Later, over roast chicken and salad, which Sam had prepared with laborious love from a new Jewish cookbook, she asked him about his job.

  “So far it appears to be a cross between servitude and basic writing skills. It’s exceedingly boring.”

  “And does it pay well?”

  “Slightly better than forestry. But then again London is more expensive than the country, so if you were hoping to move up in the world I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed.

  “So how can we afford such a lovely place to live?”

  Time stood still while Sam smeared a piece of bread with butter. Even Gabriel seemed to hang on the answer, or perhaps he was entranced by the butter.

  “Perhaps the most unfortunate result of my father’s death, insofar as you are concerned, was that it affected a reunion of sorts with my mother. She has exploited this turn of events, which concurs with her own desires without requiring her to sacrifice her pride, by establishing us in this flat.”

  “I thought she was broke.”

  “Apparently not. Resourceful squirrels manage to hide nuts during the worst winters.”

  “And she is doing all this for us in return for…”

  “Oh, it’s all a question of give and take with mother, down to the last detail. I think we are required to visit her every Sunday afternoon, effectively ruining our weekends, and get married in a synagogue after you have converted.” He eyed her to gauge her reaction as he said this.

  “What does that entail?”

  “Studying Judaism for about six months, then a little ceremony, after which we’ll get married.”

  ‘Another marriage,’ thought Madelyn with a suppressed grin, ‘with relatives and dancing and a new dress.’

  “Will it affect the way we live? Christmas and Easter, baptizing the children?”

  “And church every Sunday, if you’d like. This has nothing to do with me. It is not my desire that you convert.” He sounded almost apologetic.

  Madelyn was curious. “So why are we doing it? I don’t mind at all — it will be interesting to study this ancient religion, the roots of Christianity. But surely you are indifferent to the comforts of this apartment, when Evercreech suited you so well. What motivates you?”

  “My mother’s will.”

  Despite Madelyn’s intuition, she was not worried the next Sunday as she dressed little Gabriel in his best shirt and breeches. Even the strange visit from Aunt Dotty and Daniel the day before had failed to arouse any sentiment other than amusement. It was obviously an ‘inspection’; Aunt Dotty had done everything but walk around her. Madelyn was placid, smiling in case they wanted to view the condition of her teeth, of which she was quite proud. They did not stay for tea. In fact they did not stay for ten minutes. Nobody even sat down. On the way out, Aunt Dotty inquired if she had a decent coat to wear for the visit to Grandma Golden.

  “Quite decent, thank you,” replied Madelyn, noting Sam’s worried expression, as though he wasn’t sure about the coat at all — a reversal of positions from the father’s visit in Evercreech.

  However, she needn’t have bothered to speak at all. Aunt Dotty rummaged in her cupboard and extracted a respectable, though well-worn, raincoat. She held it up between thumb and forefinger as though it smelled funny, and then marched out with Daniel. She returned a few hours later with a new, green woolen coat, of excellent quality. If Madelyn was supposed to feel insulted by such proceedings, the ruse did not work. She was delighted.

  Madelyn dressed carefully, putting her hair up in a bid for sophistication. She couldn’t recall a single instance where she had failed to charm when she wanted to and felt confident that she could win Grandma Golden over.

  Sam was in an utter panic. He kept clutching his stomach and saying he felt sick. Once he burst out, “Oh God, I wish it was over.”

  “For goodness sake, Sam! It’s your mother.”

 
He turned gray at this reminder and then glanced at his watch and bellowed so that she dropped her lipstick, “What the hell are you doing? We’re going to be late.”

  He held her elbow and propelled her along the road to the bus station at a frightening rate. Gabriel, clasped in his other arm, began to whine as he sensed something portentous of an unpleasant nature.

  “Please prepare yourself, Mummy… Madelyn. I must remember to call you Madelyn in front of my mother.”

  “Thank God for that.”

  Sam continued as though she hadn’t spoken. “She’s a very hostile woman. She took to her bed for about three weeks when we got married. This is going to be a rough couple of hours.”

  “You will protect me, won’t you?” Madelyn asked coquettishly, startled by the haunted look he gave her.

  Grandma Golden’s apartment was immaculate, filled with velvet furniture and expensive little knick knacks, all within Gabriel’s hot little reach. She had an imposing face, hewn out of granite with large, sharp features. Her hair was a purplish pomade standing straight up from her large forehead. There was a daub of red blush on each cheek, resting uneasily on those chiseled peaks like jam smeared on a work of art.

  She kissed her son effusively, bestowed an awkward kiss on her grandson’s cheek and ignored Madelyn. Once they were sitting she looked at her insolently, up and down with open contempt. In her turn Madelyn eyed the luxuries of the apartment, wondering how much had been stashed away in some little nest egg, unbeknownst to the dead man.

  There was a maid called Pearl, with whom Grandma Golden seemed to communicate with aristocratic waves of the hand. Her flicks back and forth produced tea, cigarettes and ashtrays. Madelyn was served last. She hardly noticed, being absorbed with the peculiar misery of supervising an energetic child in a glass house.

  A flow of conversation was directed at Sam, who balanced his cup and saucer on his knee in apparent mortal fear that he would spill something.

  “How do you find the apartment?”