The Orange Tree

by Martin Ganzglass

  Mrs. Shapiro’s head bobbed up and down. In her yellow suit, with her thinning dyed blond hair styled in vertical moussed tufts, Mitch thought she looked like a perplexed chicken. “Oh,” she said, as if gasping for breath. “Oh my. Did you hear that Manny. The Home employs Arabs.”

  “What a wonderful example of tolerance,” Mrs. Fessler said, smiling appreciatively at Mr. Shapiro, and stepping between him and his wife. “You should have included it in your speech today. After the part about how Jews and blacks have worked for social justice together for decades. It would be wonderful to publicize that, especially with all the public relations people still here,” she said, gesturing around the cafeteria. She took Mr. Shapiro’s hand in hers, as if to shake it. “You must be so proud to be President of the Board of this Home. You know you really should have an article written for some national Jewish newspaper. It should tell the story of how this Home is a leader in the industry, in” Mrs. Fessler hesitated, “Jewish Moslem relations.”

  “You do have a point Mrs. Fessler,” Mr. Shapiro said. “You can’t imagine all the bad press nursing homes get these days.”

  “I can, Mr. Shapiro. I really can,” she agreed quickly. “It must be terrible for you to have to bear the burden of all that unjustified criticism while knowing what a wonderful place of refuge the Home is for its residents. And such a comfort to the relatives who have entrusted you with the care of their loved ones.” She turned to Mrs. Shapiro. “Your husband is a wonderful human being, Mrs. Shapiro. You are a very lucky woman. Can I join you for a glass of wine?”

  With that she hooked her arms into those of the Shapiros and the three of them made their way toward the refreshment table.

  Mitch looked at Ell and let out a long sigh. Ell just rolled her eyes and laughed.

  “Wow,” Molly said. “Your mom can charm the whiskers off a cat. I should have kept my mouth shut. But somehow, Mrs. Shapiro and people like her bring out the worst in me.”

  “My mother does have a way about her” Ell admitted, smiling. “She sure does,” Mitch added, provoking a mildly nasty look from his wife.

  When they got to the refreshment table, Mitch ruefully noted that much of the finger food was already gone, just as Josh and two other boys raced by with their plates piled high with cookies. Molly excused herself to find her husband and Mitch walked over to Amina and his aunt while Ell went to look for Josh and Amy.

  “Thanks again, Amina,” Mitch said. “It’s my fault she got to the stage.”

  “It is no problem, Mr. Farber. I am happy to help your aunt. You know I am very fond of her.”

  “And she likes you. How’s that matter with your nephew going? Resolved yet.”

  Amina shook her head. “They keep postponing the trial. I do not understand it. It has now been rescheduled for the second week in March. My nephew is very nervous about it.”

  “He’s in good hands,” Mitch said, noticing that she pronounced rescheduled the British way with a soft sh sound. “If it were my son, I would use Artie.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Farber for recommending him. I am sure he will do his best.”

  “Did you find him,” Aunt Helen, said, interrupting their conversation.”

  “Find who, Aunt Helen,” Mitch said distractedly.

  “Senator Ribicoff,” she said insistently. “He should be here by now.”

  “Oh, I don’t think he will come. It’s already pretty late, Aunt Helen.”

  “That’s a shame. I wanted him to meet Amina. He would like her.”

  “I will meet him some other time Helen,” Amina said, not knowing who Helen was talking about. “I have to go now. I will see you Monday. Have a good day tomorrow.” She bent down and kissed Helen on both cheeks. “It is time for me to do my afternoon prayers,” she said quietly to Mitch.

  “Goodbye, Amina. See you tomorrow,” Aunt Helen said, waving at Amina’s back.

  “Ok, Aunt Helen, let’s go find Eleanor and the kids.” He looked around, saw Ell and Josh talking to Mr. Lowenstein and headed in that direction. Josh introduced Aunt Helen to Mr. Lowenstein. She did not acknowledge him. Mitch thought it could be her hearing, or simply being cantankerous.

  “Mr. Lowenstein. How come your children don’t visit you?” Josh asked.

  “Joshua. You shouldn’t ask questions like that?” his mother reprimanded him.

  “It’s ok with me, Mrs. Farber. Both of my sons are in the military,” he explained to Josh. “My oldest, Barry is a pilot in the Air Force. He’s stationed in Frankfort. That’s in Germany. My other son, Ted is a military attaché in Tokyo, Japan. They’d like to visit me but in the military you have to follow orders. They’ll come to see me when they get home leave.”

  “I’d really like to meet your son who’s the pilot, Mr. Lowenstein. That’d be cool.”

  “I’ll arrange it, Joshua. I promise.”

  “Come on Josh. We have to find Grandma and Amy and head home. I still have to prepare dinner for everyone. It’s been nice talking to you Mr. Lowenstein. And again, thank you for taking an interest in Josh,” Eleanor said.

  “Please call me Izzy. It makes me feel younger. Especially when a beautiful woman like you says it.”

  She acknowledged the compliment. “Ok Izzy. You have a good weekend. Maybe we’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Eleanor spotted her mother and Amy standing near the entrance. As Josh scooted around Aunt Helen’s wheelchair to catch up with his grandmother and sister, Molly intercepted them. “Be sure and watch the 10 o’clock news on Channel 5 and at 11 on Channel 9. I’m told they’ll have clips of the concert. You know, Maryland family and residents enjoying music by DC young artists. That sort of angle.”

  “Too bad Izzy Lowenstein’s sons weren’t here for this. But I guess, since they are overseas in the military, they couldn’t just couldn’t come. He’s very patient with Josh,” Eleanor said. “And in turn, Josh idolizes him.”

  “Is that what Mr. Lowenstein told you?” Molly said, the anger rising in her voice. “My God. They’re not in the military. One son, the older one Barry, is a hedge fund manager in New York City. Rich as Croesus. A condo on Wall Street, a chateau in southern France, I forgot where. In the five years Izzy has been here, he has visited him once. Can you imagine. Just once,” she said angrily, her face coloring. “Two years ago in December. And that was when he had a few hours before getting on a corporate jet to fly to Cancun or some fancy resort in Mexico. Still, I should be grateful,” she said sarcastically. “Barry pays for his father’s residency here a year in advance, every January. Probably gets some kind of tax break for doing it.”

  “And Izzy’s other son?” Eleanor asked quietly.

  “He’s never come at all. He’s some kind of naturalist. Specializing in bats.” She spat out the word, as if it were the bats’ fault that Ted Lowenstein never visited his father. “He’s based in southeast Asia somewhere. But he does send colorful postcards now and then. Usually on his father’s birthday. Why,” Molly said, shaking her hands as if pleading to the heavens for an answer, “are so many parents just abandoned by their kids. Is it so hard to give them just a little love and companionship?”

  “Who’s not visiting their children?” Aunt Helen asked. “You’re not angry at my Mitchell and Eleanor,” she said cocking her head so that her right eye scrutinized Molly. “They’re good people.”

  “Of course they are,” Molly reassured her. “We were talking about someone else.”

  She turned to Eleanor and said in a soft voice, “Oops. Just violated the cardinal rule of nursing homes. Don’t talk about residents in front of other residents.”

  “I know it doesn’t help Izzy feel better,” Mitch said, keeping his voice down “but his case has got to be the exception. Right?”

  “It’s the extreme,” Molly replied. “I’ll admit that. But, with many of our residents, the family visits are few and far between. You guys are great and it’s only your aunt, Mitch. Not even a parent.”

  “We have to be going,” Elea
nor said in a subdued voice. “It’s been a lovely afternoon up to now. It was nice meeting your husband, Molly.”

  “Oh, Eleanor, don’t let my sour mood spoil it. Sometimes, I just wish I could wave a wand and every resident would have their family around them.”

  “You do the best you can to make them happy,” Eleanor replied. “I couldn’t’ do what you do. And you’ve certainly helped us with Aunt Helen.”

  “I have good people to work with,” Molly said, waving goodbye.

  Amina left the staff ladies room, having performed her ablutions. She turned the corner of the hall toward the room the Home had recently set aside for their three Moslem employees to pray. Maynard was coming towards her. There was no way to avoid him.

  “So,” he said, stopping in front of her. “How’s the Heroine of the Hebrew Home?”

  Amina exploded angrily. “Why, Mr. Lewis, do you have to be so abrasive and nasty towards me? Why can’t we have a civil and respectful professional relationship?”

  “Because Ms. Musa,” he said with exaggerated politeness, “I see an intelligent woman being taken advantage of and not taking advantage of the intelligence God gave her. And my name is Maynard. Is that too difficult for you to remember?”

  “First of all, I am not being taken advantage of,” Amina snapped back. “The Home is compensating me for my additional hours on Saturday and although it is none of your business, I am now working the sixth day because I need the money. Second, what concern is it to you whether or not I am advancing my career? Third, I know your name but until you treat me with respect, I do not intend to give you any indication that I want to know you on a first name basis. Finally, Mr. Lewis, I am on my way to pray and I do not appreciate this interruption.”

  Maynard bowed low. “Well said Ms. Musa. Very well said. I will henceforth treat you with all due respect and hold you to your promise to call me by my first name. And when you do that,” he continued calmly, “I will explain to you why I am concerned that you are still a CNA bed pan changer and toe nail cutter with no plans for a better career in nursing.” He moved to the side and bowed her through.

  Amina entered the prayer room, angry and annoyed. She knew this was not the proper frame of mind in which to pray. The purpose of prayer was to leave the everyday world and submit to Allah. She raised her hands to the side of her face, palms open, thumbs behind her earlobes and began reciting. She softly uttered the familiar words of the opening Sura, and, bowing at the waist, recited three times that Allah is the Greatest. She rose from the bended position once more before kneeling on the small prayer rug, feeling the soft fuzz of the fabric on her forehead as she faced toward Mecca. She tried to maintain a calm state of mind as she prostrated herself. She did this one more time and remained seated on her haunches, calling for blessings from Allah upon Mohamed and his followers, as Allah has blessed Abraham and his followers.

  As she completed the ritual, she thought of Josephine and poor Thomas and asked Allah, the Most Merciful, for his help. Josephine had been hopeful that the second opinion from Sloan Kettering would be more positive. It had not. The tumor in Thomas’ brain was inoperable. He was adamantly against radiation and chemo. The odds were neither treatment would help. He wanted to live the remainder of his days in peace and in warmth, not undergoing a debilitating treatment in the dark cold winter of New York City. He needed to be surrounded by his brothers and sisters and their children, to die among his family and not among strangers. He and Josephine had left for Negril at the end of January. Amina prayed that Allah would watch over her friend’s husband in Jamaica and either grant him recovery or peace. She stood up, her prayers completed. As she did so, she realized her first thought was of Maynard Lewis. She was irritated he was pushing her to advance her career, just like her brother, Bashir.

  Sunday was a cloudy cold day. Mitch had slept in a little later, reluctantly leaving Eleanor in their king sized bed, warm from their body heat, to walk Oliver. First he brought in the Sunday New York Times and Washington Post, lying, since around 6:30 on the sidewalk in front of their house. Both were heavy with the usual Sunday special sections and weekend advertising. Oliver eagerly stuck his head through the collar, signaling he was ready to go. However, once outside, he found every nearby shrub of interest and although they were gone for almost twenty minutes, they hadn’t progressed very far down the street. Eleanor was downstairs making breakfast when they returned. He kissed her good morning and she kissed him back, but it was the kind of embrace with her hands on his hips ready to push him away. It told him she had something serious she wanted to discuss. He turned away and filled Oliver’s bowl with cereal nuggets from the grey Rubbermaid barrel in the kitchen

  “Amy said she is not going to Ingrid’s party today. It has to do with her being afraid to show her face. She’s still worried about not being the Youth Delegate on the Temple Board.”

  Mitch felt tethered down by inescapable obligations. Josh was going over to a friend’s house mid morning and would be there until late afternoon. Mitch had been looking forward to spending time with Ell alone, at least for a few hours before they went to visit Aunt Helen, and before picking up Mrs. Fessler for dinner. Now Amy would be tagging along all day. He loved his daughter dearly but sometimes, he resented her when she was a clingy, constant presence.

  “We can’t call Rabbi Silver until 10 am the earliest. And even if he were to recommend her, it won’t be a done deal until he gets the Board President to agree. Remind me what were we going to do this morning?”

  “Just chores. We need to go to Price Club for some things. I have a list. I told Amy that if she wasn’t going to Ingrid’s she’d have to come with us. Now’s she in a funk because I won’t let her stay home by herself.”

  “Mother, I’m not in a funk,” Amy said waltzing into the kitchen, wearing tight pre-washed blue jeans with dark denim patches on the two rear pockets and an oversized hooded sweat shirt with raised dollar signs on the front and back. “I’m going to get bat mitzvahed in three months. That means I am supposed to be an adult according to Jewish law,” she said petulantly. “But you won’t let me stay home alone,” she said emphasizing you as an accusation against her mother. “Rabbi Silver won’t let me be on the Board. Why’s everyone against me?”

  “Whoa, young lady,” Mitch said. “This is no way to start Sunday morning. The Rabbi isn’t against you. He just told you what the Temple By-Laws say. He can’t change them but maybe he can make them work for you. I said I’d call him later this morning and I will.” He reached down and gave his daughter a hug. “Mom and I certainly aren’t against you. We don’t feel comfortable with you staying home alone. We’re worry warts. It’s for our peace of mind and doesn’t reflect on your maturity. After you’re bat mitzvahed and an adult member of the Jewish tribe, we’ll send you out, as in ancient times, to tend the sheep and fight off lions with a slingshot.”

  Amy sucked her teeth in exasperation. “Daddy. Don’t be silly. All I want is for you to treat me as an adult. I have a cell phone. Oliver is with me. I should be able to stay in our own home in broad daylight.” She sighed deeply, as if the burden of going with her parents was almost too much to bear.

  “Come with us this morning, sweetheart. Read a book in the car and give us a hand at Price Club. It’ll work out.” He was interrupted by the phone ringing. Eleanor beat him to it.

  “Yes, Molly. No, we haven’t looked at the paper yet. No, you didn’t wake us up. Yeah, we saw both Channels last night. It was good coverage. Ok, in the Metro Section. We’ll check. Thanks.”

  Amy had already taken the newspaper out of its yellow plastic wrapper and was rapidly going through Metro. “Oh my God. It’s Aunt Helen.” Mitch and Eleanor looked over Amy’s shoulder. The photographer had caught Aunt Helen at the moment she was beaming up at the young violinist from Duke Ellington, the violin still tucked under her chin. She had a beatific expression on her face, as if she had been transported by the music. The caption read: “Young and Old Musicians Meet
at Nursing Home,” followed by a story giving the details of the performance, together with another photo of Mr. Shapiro and the Dean of the Ellington School shaking hands.

  “Ell. Did we go to the same concert?” Mitch asked. “How could they call what Aunt Helen did music? And in less than a second after this was taken, she was screeching at the poor kid that it was her violin.”

  “They wanted the emotional impact of the photo and ignored the facts in writing the caption,” Ell said, analyzing it pragmatically. “It’s a great picture of Aunt Helen. You have to admit that.”

  “Let me see,” Josh said, pushing his way between them. “Wow. She looks happy. Mom, can I cut out the picture to show Mr. Lowenstein, in case he didn’t get the paper?”

  “You can bring him the entire section. Don’t cut anything out for him.”

  Mitch looked at her, puzzled by the severity of her tone. Eleanor didn’t respond. He knew she didn’t want to talk about it now so he didn’t press it.

  “Dad?” Amy asked. “Did Aunt Helen play the violin when she was younger.”

  “I never saw her play and my mom never told me she did. I was as surprised as everyone else yesterday when she picked it up.”

  “But dad,” Amy persisted. “She looked like she knew how to play. You know the way she held the violin, the kleenex under her chin, the bowing up and down. Just like that woman at the concert mom took me to.”

  His daughter was right. Aunt Helen had gone through the motions of an experienced violinist. “I don’t know, sweetheart. Maybe she’s been to a lot of concerts herself and was just imitating what she had seen. We can ask her but I’m not sure we’ll ever really find out. This afternoon when we visit her, she may not even remember what happened yesterday. She may be losing her mind and play acting like a child.”

  “It looked real to me,” Amy insisted as she left the room to get ready.

  They dropped Josh off just after 10 at the Donaldson’s in Cleveland Park. Mitch gave Eleanor the car keys and got in on the passenger side so he could use his cell to call Rabbi Silver. As he dialed he glanced back at his daughter. Amy sat in the back seat, pretending to read her book on the Holocaust for her Seventh Grade European History class.