The Orange Tree

by Martin Ganzglass

  She smiled at his acting out. She did enjoy being with him. He was genuinely helpful. Her inner voice, her Somali, Muslim voice, whispered that if she didn’t stop this, here and now, he would keep trying until he got hurt. She didn’t want that to happen.

  “Maynard,” she said. She almost reached out to touch his hand and comfort him for what she was about to say, but caught herself. “You have given me good advice today and I appreciate it. I owe it to you to be perfectly honest. You are trying to move what I want to remain a professional relationship beyond that. I cannot now or ever.” He looked at her calmly. “I was married to a non-Muslim. Once was enough. It was a terrible mistake. I will never marry outside of Islam again.”

  “I respect that,” he replied. She was surprised by the twinkle in his eyes, surprised that he would be mirthful after the finality of her statement. “You’ll still call me Maynard, though, right?”

  “Of course I will. And we will still be friends. At the Home that is.”

  “That’ll just have to do, then,” he said, getting up. “Coffee Thursday afternoons in the staff room. Purely professional,” he winked at her as he stood up. “Time to go back to work. See you around.”

  She watched him leave and smiled to herself. She had caught his reference to her being a beautiful woman. She had enjoyed the attention at the men at the wedding dance. Hassan Kelly had called her once since then. Medina’s cousin, the one Amina thought of as Mr. Mercedes from Vancouver, who she had no interest in whatsoever, had called Medina several times. Medina always managed to hand the phone to Amina, ‘just to say hello’ her aunt had cajoled. Of the three, Amina had to admit she especially liked being flattered by Maynard. Perhaps it was because she had set the rules and he had accepted them.

  The following Saturday afternoon, Amina sat in the gazebo at the back of the Home with Helen, Mrs. Greenfield, Mrs. Choi and Mrs. Cohen. Airing the ladies out, the CNAs called it. It was a warm April day and three of them were snoozing in the sun, calm as cats on a window sill. Only Mrs. Cohen was awake, reading her newspaper.

  The lawn, which earlier in the month, had been saturated with purple crocuses, now was bordered with yellow and white daffodils, their orange centers the color of sweet marmalade. Tall green tulip stalks, waiting their turn to bloom, lurked in the background, the leaves coyly revealing a hint of the colors to come. Amina watched Mariam and Amy, still in their soccer uniforms, practicing dribbling drills on the grass. They had played their separate school league games earlier in the morning. Mariam, with her more advanced footwork, was consistently faking Amy out. She smiled as Mariam deftly tapped the ball behind her, twisted to her left and raced past Amy. “Not again,” Amy screamed, chasing after her laughing.

  “I can’t find Molly,” Mitch said to Amina as he walked up the ramp and into the gazebo. “I left word with Mr. Spencer at reception to page her.” He looked at his sleeping aunt, her chin resting on her chest, one hand clutching a tissue, the other resting lightly on the wheelchair arm. He heard his daughter laughing and watched Amy block Mariam’s kick. He was glad she was having a good time. Amy’s first Board meeting at the Temple was the week before her Bat Mitzvah. She no longer thought that it was such a good idea to be the Youth Member on the Board. She had to read all the past minutes of the meetings, while keeping up with her class work and preparing for her Torah reading and presentation. The more stress she had, the more difficult she had been around the house. Ell was being firm with their daughter. Amy had made the commitment and she had to see it through. Amy had petulantly decided that fine, she would do it, but she would do it her way with no help from her parents, thank you very much.

  Amina had also wanted to talk to Mrs. Bernstein. Now, she was overwhelmed with doubt about what to do. She and the family were 11 days into Ramadan and she was tired most of the time at work. Tired from getting up at 4 am to pray and eat before sunrise, tired from working and fasting during the day, and tired from staying up late celebrating the breaking of the fast with visitors at their house, or driving somewhere to visit others. It was difficult observing the Ramadan fast in a non-Muslim country. In Mogadishu, whole neighborhoods had celebrated the breaking of the fast together. People walked to each other’s homes because their relatives lived nearby. She remembered the short pleasant stroll to and from the mosque, greeting people in the street, chatting with them before or after prayers. In Somalia, at work, the pace had been slower because everyone was awake during the night enjoying the food and the company. In the United States, you had to work as if there was no Ramadan. In Virginia, where they lived, there wasn’t a call to prayer. Their mosque didn’t even have a minaret. The call would not have been heard or answered by Moslems. None of them lived in the neighborhood. They drove to the mosque, parked, prayed and drove home. It was part of the strangeness of being in the United States, living with Jama and Medina. She was safe in the familiarity of her Somali home and aware she was a foreigner every time she went out.

  Despite, or perhaps because she was up more at night, Amina had found time to do some research about GEDs on the computer. With Mariam’s help. Her plan had been to sign up and take the test, get the GED transcript and apply to NOVA. There were five separate tests and she had to pass each one. She was confident of every subject except Social Studies. The website indicated it was basically American History. She knew nothing about it. She would have to study that first before she could even take the GED exam. It didn’t seem possible to her she could take the GED, the English and Math placements tests and NOVA’s Nursing Preadmission Test and file her application in time for the beginning of the Fall Semester. With all of the studying and testing she thought, maybe she should quit working at the Home and get agency work. She would have a more flexible schedule and fewer hours. And she noted ruefully, also much less pay and no benefits.

  By the time Molly found them, Helen was awake and Mitch was pushing her wheelchair on the paved path which looped around the lawn amid the lushly colored flowerbeds and the few, early blooming azaleas. Molly caught up with them and knelt down so she was at eye level with Helen.

  Helen scratched at a mosquito bite on the back of her wrist, slightly above her watch. The scab came off and oozed blood. She continued scratching.

  “You look happy to be outside,” she said, taking Helen’s hand in hers. Molly caught Amina’s eye as she wiped the blood off with one of Helen’s tissues.

  “When Mitchell is here, I don’t care if I’m inside or out. Where’s the rest of the family? And the boys?” she asked, twisting around to look at Mitch.

  “Eleanor and Josh are running some errands. They’re fine, Aunt Helen. The boys are fine, too,” he said, catching Molly’s puzzled look. “Let’s go back to the gazebo. You can talk to Amina for a while.”

  Mitch left his aunt with Amina and walked back down the path to Molly. “She’s losing it more and more. She’s always talking about Jews being attacked or asking is our neighborhood safe. She’s convinced that Senator Ribicoff didn’t come to the Ellington School concert because he’s a victim of anti-semitism, or is in hiding somewhere. The boys she mentioned. I think she means her brother’s children, my cousins. They’ve been dead for years. I don’t know what to do. It’s becoming harder and harder to get through to her. How does she remember that Senator Ribicoff wasn’t at the concert in mid-March,” he said exasperated, “but she can’t remember what she had for breakfast, or where she is?”

  Molly put her hand on his forearm. “Whatever’s happening to Helen has nothing to do with you. You’ve not caused her to go down hill. You got that?”

  Mitch nodded. “So what’s happening to her?”

  “Well, we know it’s not a UTI. We do weekly tests now and that’s not her problem. Look, Mitch. We’ve lots of residents who are in a never never land and don’t even know their own children’s names. At least Helen still recognizes you and your family and Amina. And I know she takes pleasure from that. You can see it in her face.”

  She stooped and
pulled a wayward dandelion from between the bricks on the path and threw it on the grass. A curious robin hopped toward it, decided from a distance it wasn’t edible, changed direction and pecked intently under a forsythia bush. “But even if she didn’t, Helen can still decide for herself what to eat or wear. Although,” she laughed, “I’d be the first to say her sense of color and outfits is pretty peculiar. The other day, she had on light green plaid pants with her purple blouse, the one with large white polka dots. I needed sunglasses to look at her.”

  Mitch smiled faintly. “Ok, but I see her mind going. Should we be doing something for her?”

  “Old people’s minds deteriorate, some faster than others. They regress and become more like children. You saw her scratching back there?”

  “Yeah,” he said, waiting for her to explain the connection.

  “Little kids scratch their itches all the time, no matter how many times you tell them to stop. Adults know to leave it alone. Helen’s like a child. She’s responding to the sensory stimulation, the itch, not knowing the consequences of her actions, which is an open sore and possible infection.” She paused to see if he understood, shielding her eyes from the sun.

  “We can order some brain scans, see if we can find some problem there, but then what?” she continued. “You don’t want her to be operated on, do you?” He shook his head. “If we’re lucky, we might be able to attribute her problem to part of her brain which can be treated with drugs. But there may be side effects which could change her more than just talking about Jews being persecuted. She’s still able to make little decisions about her daily life. That means she’s in control. My recommendation. I’d leave her alone.”

  “Well,” Mitch sighed, “ok, but she’s sleeping more and seems more tuned out when she’s awake and with us. I don’t know what we’re going to do at Passover.”

  “Do what you usually do. Have her over. What’s the worst that can happen? She’ll drink the wine before the blessing?”

  Mitch laughed. “Probably, she’ll fall asleep and then wake up and say something unrelated to what is going on. You’re right. It’ll be ok. Our Seder’s are kind of loose and ecumenical anyway. We have our own xeroxed version of the Haggadah. My sister’s coming up from North Carolina. Sort of a consolation prize for not making Amy’s Bat Mitzvah in May. Our neighbors, who are Catholic, are coming. And we’ve invited a couple we met through the Presbyterian Church at our Temple.”

  “Sounds nice,” Molly said with a touch of envy in her voice. “We have to go to my in-laws. They’re Orthodox. It’ll be a three hour long ordeal, if I’m lucky.” She rolled her eyes. “All in Hebrew. Are you and the family coming to the Home for the second night of Passover?”

  “Yeah, we signed up, all four of us. My mother-in-law doesn’t want to come. She says this place depresses her.”

  “It depresses me too, sometimes. But then, one of our residents will laugh or have fun at an event and I snap out of it.”

  “Eleanor says she doesn’t know how you do it. I couldn’t.”

  “That’s what makes the world go round, Mitch. Here comes your son.”

  Josh raced down the path. “Dad. Guess what. I asked Mr. Lowenstein to come for Passover and he said ‘yes.’ Isn’t that great?”

  “Want to say hello first to Ms. Bernstein?”

  “It’s ok,” Molly said. “See. Things like this make this job worthwhile. That’s a good deed Josh. I’m sure Mr. Lowenstein will have a terrific Passover because of you.”

  “Oh,” Josh said, almost as an afterthought. “Mom and Grandma are having a fight over it. Grandma thought it was enough if we sat with Mr. Lowenstein at the Home’s Seder.”

  “Uh-oh,” Mitch said, catching sight of Ell heading toward the gazebo, without her mother. “Come on, Josh. Bye, Molly,” he said and headed back to Aunt Helen.

  “I hear we’re going to be 12 for Passover,” he said, kissing Ell lightly on her cheek and inhaling her perfume.

  “Yup, we are. It might be a bit tense, but Izzy’s coming,” she said firmly. “I was so proud of Josh being considerate and kind. Everything we want him to be and my mother then goes and throws a wet blanket on it. She has it in her mind that Passover is best celebrated only with family.”

  “Well, that only goes against about 5,000 years of Jewish tradition,” Mitch observed sarcastically. Ell gave him a cautionary look as Josh and Amy walked up to the gazebo.

  “Ok, kids. Say goodbye to Aunt Helen. We need to go home and get some chores done. We’ll see her tomorrow and the first night of Passover which is,” he dragged out the word until Josh picked up the hint “Tuesday, when Mr. Lowenstein is coming,” he shouted.

  “And we have to pick up Aunt Judy at the airport tomorrow and she’ll be staying until Wednesday morning.”

  “Dad. Do we have to put Josh in my room? Can’t he sleep somewhere else? His feet smell.”

  “Your room smells like dead fish,” Josh retorted. “And you have…”

  “Amy and Josh. I’m not in the mood for this now,” Ell said. “Grandma’s waiting in the car. We’ve already discussed this, Amy. Josh is sharing your room, Aunt Judy will sleep in yours, and that’s final. Now come on, let’s go.”

  Sunday night, after dinner, Judy filled their living room with her bitterness. Mitch hadn’t realized she was having such a tough time going through her divorce from Ed. Her face looked more severe with her hair combed back from her forehead. Her rimless glasses emphasized, rather than hid, her sparse eyelashes and she wore no makeup. Their children were grown and after 37 years of being married, she was alone, stubbornly living in the house, which was now too big for her, overwhelmed and worried about everything. Finances, maintenance, retirement, her health. She said she had few friends of her own in Charlotte. Most of their friends, when they were a couple, had been through Ed, who was much more gregarious.

  Mitch played the role of a good listener, while Ell helped Amy with some homework. Judy had bought an expensive battery operated lawn mower because she couldn’t ever start the gas mower and was afraid of tripping over electrical wire. Now she had to remember to recharge it if she wanted to use it. He suggested that she could hire a high school kid to mow the lawn every few weeks if her new mower was a problem. She said she didn’t like to drive alone at night, which meant she didn’t go to any concerts or plays. He suggested cabs or perhaps selling the house and getting an apartment closer to activities she enjoyed. She cried, describing how she had opened the Sunday Observer a few months ago, and seen Ed’s wedding announcement and photo of a much younger woman, named Rosalind. The divorce had been his fault. Why did he end up with someone and she lived alone? Mitch had no answer to that. He had the ungenerous thought that his sister’s personality may have contributed to the breakup. She had changed over the years, becoming more rigid in her attitudes, overly concerned about details that didn’t matter, emotional over everything and breaking into tears for no apparent reason. He knew that Ed, instead of trying to support her emotionally had become more distant. So their marriage had deteriorated until there was nothing left. He had no answer and simply told her she would adapt, it would get better over time, and she still had her work, all platitudes that sounded banal as soon as he uttered them.

  Judy confessed she felt guilty she couldn’t come to Amy’s Bat Mitzvah. However, that Saturday in May was the beginning of this weeklong special educators conference in Phoenix. She was delivering a paper, she said. No, she confessed, actually she was only part of a panel discussion. But, she hastened to add, it was a good opportunity for her to meet people. And she just had to get away from Charlotte. Coming to Washington, D.C. for Passover was such a treat, a break from her unjust, lonely isolation in Charlotte. She hugged him and said how good she felt to be with them for Passover.

  Monday, he and Ell went to work. Judy borrowed their car, obsessed about getting lost but managed to find her way to the Home and spent the day with Aunt Helen. She came back late in the afternoon and was helping Ell in t
he kitchen preparing dinner, when Mitch got home.

  “How’d it go with Aunt Helen?” he asked.

  “Did you know that life should be lived like a sharp radish? That’s what she told me.” Judy laughed, and he thought she was more like he remembered his older sister, quick to smile and certainly more vivacious that she had been the night before.

  “At first she thought I was Mom.”

  “You mean her mom, our grandmother?”

  “No, Mitch,” she said a bit impatiently. “Our mom. Her sister. She kept asking me if I remembered the two of them going to concerts at Carnegie Hall for $2 standing only tickets. Finally, she worked out who I was and that I have two children. We talked about them for quite a while, what they are doing, where they live, you know. You told me Aunt Helen wasn’t there all the time, but I didn’t know how confused she is. I mean, one minute we’re talking about my kids. The next she’s telling me she never thought ‘it’ could happen in the U.S. I asked her what and she looked at me like I was stupid. ‘Anti-semitism,’of course she said. And then she went off on how the children were in danger and she hasn’t seen Senator Ribicoff in months. Didn’t he die several years ago?”

  “Yeah. He did. She talks about Jews and ‘trouble in the neighborhood’ a lot.” Mitch said.

  “She told me the Home is selling people. That’s her explanation as to why they disappear. Not that she seems to care much about the other residents. Since I haven’t been there before, and she knew that, she had a nasty comment about everyone we saw. This one looks like a dead cat, that one steals jewelry, that one’s a whore sleeping with the male residents, another one smells, another hoards food and so on.”

  “We know the drill,” Ell said over her shoulder, peeling carrots at the sink. “She hasn’t talked like that in a while though.”

  “Maybe it’s because my sister is a fresh audience. So, how did you handle it?”

  “I listened, I didn’t argue with her, and I changed the subject. We talked about music. Classical music of course. Her favorite composer is Mozart. She remembers concerts she went to and the names of some musicians. So we talked about that. I asked her about her hat shop and she remembered things about that. I just work with her on topics she feels comfortable with.”