by Joshua Cohen
In her room in its bathroom connecting, she runs the sink’s tap, splashes her sliced hand underneath.
Remember to shut all the drawers and the doors, to turn off the taps—her instructions.
This she must remember, too: which door is her closet—some lead into nowhere, gape into void, a walkin with no out.
She takes a white maternity dress from the drycleaner’s hanger, more offwhite she thinks as she holds it up to the just repainted wall, and, softly, with a sweep, lays it all out on her side of the bed, huge and lonely as empty—always been her side of the bed though she can’t remember when or if they’d ever decided. She’d slept on this side, it feels, even as a girl with her mother, and then alone in her twin. This side, closest to the sun’s rise and its brightening of the bathroom adjoining.
Come my beloved to greet the bride—
the Sabbath presence let us welcome
their mother in the Master Bedroom would be an attempt at a prayer impossible to translate, which she sings to herself in a language she only half-knows, hums, then mouths without sound, kicks her slippers under the bed to sleep there with their innumerable sisters and shoes, as she sits on the bed to unburden her blouse and then again rises to step from her skirt.
Her hand she stretches out to the distaff, her palms support the spindle
She still has to make the salad, too, she remembers: artichoke hearts are what she’d forgotten, they’d be on the middle shelf of the fridge. What else, listing mundane. Standing naked in front of the mirror, which is nude itself, motherwide and as tall as all fathers, it’s hard, she thinks, even in this shadow, to feel, what’s the word? resplendent, to even ape resplendence, what’s that; she exhales her belly cheek, tracing the elastic waves made by the panty waistband, those raggedtoothed, scarry wavelets breaking cuts into a flurry of small widening rivers, stretchmark tributaries veined swirly and tidal from her thirteen pregnancies now, is it that many, has it been; cutting a fingernail through the watery grain of her vanity, cedar topped by tile, its dust if you can believe despite Wanda (where’s the nail broken, she looks but can’t find it, not really, forget it, that’s not what I do). Is it still there, though, and if so will it fit? and, then, what is It? all, the marriagebedclothes, the one or two items of clothing she owns for a life lived between the swellings of kinder, the workout apparel she’d bought for that one month fitness jag back a year ago now, the lingerie he’d once bought her, a year or so before their first, so long ago she thinks at the mirror, at herself in the mirror, thinking of resilvering, too; the intrusion on intimacy of practical life, the practicable, dusts: on this great expanse of wood taking up an entire wall—if there’s light enough naturally and not that of those bulbs above kept glareless and silent from hum, upon whose turns she doesn’t want to break her eyes in her forgetting of them over the Sabbath—a few hairbrushes, combs toothsome, tangled up with the week’s losses, mostly grays from her true hair, some six variously styled wigs beneath, shaytels you say, she says sheytels, one for each day and then the Shabbos’ kept under the kerchief of sky, snooded with a tichel, worn tight: straight, wavy, curly corkscrewy, crowned and banged, nipped in the nape, tapered and layered, the Asiatic silky and the synthetics, hitech faux, the Maxi, the Micros and Euros, the Rachel Gold, Leah Plus; these wigs over wigs under wigs she wears, auburning over a chocolate base over her own unadulterated hair, that natural brilliance, all lightening shades of the One True Shade: the naturally lightened if still a little dyed henna of aged dusk, of the olden night dawning in strands, to pluckout if too light to gray or white or to tuck behind the ears, the fall of horizon; then, an odd handful of pins: bobbies, safeties, and straights to prick her with the impractibility of it all, the girlishness; what a fool to fumble among the drawers open and quickly shut again upon another nail, finger, slit hand, for her old tiara, a souvenir from an occasion forgotten, a kitschy wedding or barmitzvah, given away as a favor to another’s celebration—she’d saved it for home, plastic and glittery littering why in its own plasticbag in its own bottom drawer. She rises from her knees to the mirror to try the thing on, sits it askew on her head then turns to look vain over a shoulder, profiling its shadow, holds herself steady at the lip of the vanity while feeling shakes from her belly, from the floor’s carpet a rattle and without her slippers or shoes, fingers for a hold the holes for her earrings removed—hears life coming up from the diningroom below, holds a smile.
Safeguard and Remember. In a single utterance.
And soon, she’s talking with the mirror.
Queen or Bride? she asks, she hasn’t yet chosen, it’s the source of such confusion: who was I last week? her left brow rising, littling slightly her pose, impatience in its patient oncoming.
As silent as a mirror is, and is judging—I think the queen, and so this week the bride.
It’s so simple to forget, isn’t it? like receipts, recipes…tonight, though, the mirror’s agreeable.
To forget like I forget hair things in my purse with the tiny round mirror—to reflect with it my reflection: the Bride, it must be the Bride—how could I forget. Write it down or you’ll forget, I always say. A gumstick, a sucker. It must be, another list…check the Bride, strike through the Queen with a line. Her mouth talks back to her and her eyes, she’s crying—you want an argument? He wouldn’t know, or is it a she, the mirror? her husband would’ve forgotten. Should I wait for him? she asks as she polishes, lowing her shoulder as if trying to palm herself flatter, so less light’s scattered into incoherence, less muddle more flattened slim, dark: licking a fingertip, then rubbing at the mirror as if trying to wipe away its blemish, betrayal.
One day, one Sabbath night, she’ll be the Queen-Bride, she of compromise, the Bride-Queen—she’s tucking her hairs, those of the wigs, some gray naturally, some unnaturally even, if only for the sake of appearance, authenticity, modest verisimilitude, behind the nubby, knobby earlike exudations of the eyeless, mouthless, but kinkily with noses, the brittle, chipped foam, plastic, and plaster busts that are the stands for her wigs, their holders, the heads she has spare, with all of even them thinking the better of waiting for him, Hanna nodding them shook with her hands almost strangling their bases under their chins in the permissive affirmative; and so Bride she’ll be, they’re in agreement, though their noses still snobby, held in the air.
She bumps a leg on the endtable next to her bed at her side as she goes to the phone, dials with half a nail lost to one of Israel’s work numbers—ext. 13, that’s the private, but there’s no answer and so she tries another, 1 through 12…maybe Loreta’s still there.
Hello, your Majesty…she begins to talk before she realizes it’s his answering service, the hiss, that strain of falsity laid over the voice he had even back then, when he’d call from the city out to her on the island, (212) to (516) to here and now Joysey she leaves him a message, telling him he’s the Groom like you’re it.
He’ll want to be King though, that’s the trouble, hangs up with a halfhour in which to try again, and then Shabbos.
What it is, is revelation: the hairs in the drain, clogging, the bald white tub and the showerhead above still adjusted to the morning height of her husband. An opening—it’s the type of translucent slidingdoor that Israel in his early haste hauls off it tracks every now and again, doesn’t quite pay to have someone schlep out here and take a look at it, it’s his temper that requires that service; but now as always for her in her caution at the tangling hair, which is both his and hers, and her beware of slips and falls it slides with efficiency, and Hanna steps over the edge of the metal. Tile surrounding, walling, is patterned in hexagonal agglomerations the same as the pattern of the tile in the kitchen, blue, white, highlighting similar flecks in the carpeting of the den. Or, you know how it is, she’s the only one in the family to call the Livingroom such, a source—seemingly a fourwalled, lowceilinged cell—of major domestic misunderstanding when Israel says Livingroom and she thinks he means what she calls the Familyroom when what
he really means is what she calls the Den, take a breather. There to what, replace a lightbulb, water the plants, not too often, not enough. Just as Upstairs to Hanna is the floor closest to the frontdoor, at the level of the grounding earth, and below what Israel calls Upstairs that’s known to Hanna as Upstairs-Upstairs, just as the Basement below them both is called by Israel the Basement and by Hanna Downstairs, usually, to herself, her daughters and Wanda, or else to Israel she occasionally defers, resigns to calling it Downstairs-Downstairs, as the last Israel was down there was when, she can’t remember, for what.
In the shower, on its only low shelf she could sit on to wash her feet in her lap if it wasn’t so cluttered, so full and so pregnant—arranged by height if not by psychosis, tens of bottles, fifty or more tubes and cylindrical cans: shampoos, conditioners, oils, ointments once poured over the head becoming anointments, butters, balms, washes and exfoliant scrubs, all with their motley labels, rainbowing from her squeezing, her crumpling clutching, in their manifold phases of peel, anonymizing, secondshed skins, Now with extra aseptia, and scented with myrrh, with cassia, stacte, onycha, and galbanum with the 10% added bonus of frankincense thrown in for free, alongside numerous plastic dishes below the marble dish that’s part of the wall hosting soapbars, cakes, variously watered away, some merely small lumps suspended within themselves, amid their froth, their expectant saliva greedy for the taste of her skin, others freshnew, and hard, as if ready right from their packaging the valuepak to have their names rubbed from them, their imprintings and inscriptions effaced by the water, her wash, the rash of dish-panning hands on her skin—all the names in the name of her daily ablutions. She runs her hands through her True Hair—Friday being one of three hairwashing days of the week, the last hairwashing day (one Sunday a month, we wash and style the wigs, or rather we drop them off, the salon does)—rotates the ring of the showerhead to her setting favored over that of her husband, then immerses her head in its pressure, not Israel’s pissy sprinkle but a heavy, thickly dropped flow, while bent, head hung, examining the veins running down her legs as if trickles, the slowing of flood, their lapping freezing as nerves numbed to the tips of her toes, then leans back, her hair lashing her shoulders and nipples like the handles H is for Hanna and C for who cares though she’s always thinking about it, so cold; the drain down which the impurities wash, their whirling pool, that spiral navel, picks lint from hers popped, absentmindedly. Stuff grows from the grout, all manner of mosses, lichens, and mold, epiphytic, parasitic, have to ask Wanda, remind her she’s reminding herself. There’s a hardness in her hands, not a stomach or another lump God forbid, but a straight sharp becoming softer by the moment, the spill, variformed. It’s the Rag from downstairs, taken upstairs-upstairs, she lathers with a finger of soap. What sop, the draining of stains. Hanna washes herself with it—outside the spray, its steamy source. A cell in here, so confined, she’s thinking cloistered, what could go wrong. Her hand wrapped in the Rag finding its way into her, wet: bubbles, surfaces popping the light—in from the bathroom’s sconces set unattractively, unflatteringly high over the sinks and that mirror—slip over her thighs, purse through her hairs; she blushes then steps back into the spray to rinse herself thin again, thinned, all this flesh and only a little that’s hers—if only to be rid of this hugeness, the heaviest pregnancy yet, hers or any’s, it weighs…a sea of skin, an ocean lathered as if a storming of soap, a cleansing if dangerously choppy, a purifying surge at hightide. Unbridgeable, uncrossable—this fear, though she’s been professionally told, technologically reassured: it’s not triplets or twins; Israel’s water never divided into the waters of her bags back from shopping, the paper, the plastic, her sack, the rubbernippled breakables stacked above the cannedgoods, she’s thinking, dented herself; the mixed multitudinous salad, undressed, the two loaves of challah I told him to buy, left uncovered…the boiling pot of the sun to burst itself into three stars by which we’ll divine—as many babies as the stove blechs its burners, which I’ll leave on over Shabbos, I’ll forget to turn off, that’s how many it feels, that’s how frazzled…she’s afraid, of this secret she’s keeping, that’s keeping her, how long can this go on, how far can I take it: it’s only one, though that’s not it—it’s that He’s only one: congrats, finally, it’s a boy!
A big one, Uncle Samuel had said, and he’s the doctor, the biggest I’ve ever dealt with. Though how she’d known it all better than him and before, having had the experience; but to confirm—wisdom is your own voice and prophecy, that of another—a brother, the eldest brother of her father had said, her stepfather, an observation a second doctor had seconded, this also an uncle of hers, Doctor Solomon, her mother’s brother, her youngest, concurring: ginormous!
After twelve, though, you should be able to handle it, which one had said, handle Him—Mazel Tov to your husband, a son!
She tells Israel everything, she hadn’t told Israel that—she’s thinking, why ruin it?
Hanna washes her heels and she washes her ears and she washes her One True Hair, the twitchy tip of her nose.
In the shower, she hears: the memory of the doctors’ voices, her own voice, and, within the whirlwindy muffle, gathered in the shower, risen to its tiled peak and lost in the steaming, the voices of her kinder; heard indistinct as to speaker or even age, as impossible to differentiate as to enumerate and yet how she tries, to respond, crying for her girls, and—through the halfdim of a hallway below her daughters slowly assemble, dazedly, pulling each other and pushing, teasing at one another, Rubina then Simone trying to act like Rubina detached, removed, behind the rest and mothering, selfconsciously not engaged in this messing around.
One’s holding candlesticks, the other with candles.
As to involve the others in preparations adult and mature and so, also, to calm them, Rubina hands the candlesticks one to Asa the other to Isa, has them place them on the designate sill, then struggles their candles in, melts, waxy dribble, rolls the wicks in her fingers, wicking them as stretched as their wait, longer, just a moment more’s yelled despite there being no yelling, disallowed as it’s almost time: Hanna comes downstairs in a maternity dress, blue for a boy, she thinks, betraying, whitesashed, not the white dress or shift, the mirror and the heads arranged around it in conference had decided against it, shook no then brushed hair, her white kerchief, her scarf the shade of the window opposite her descent with her heels pecking the tile from the last step to the floor, through the kitchen to leave the Rag wrung out in its drawer, shut, then a tug at the handle of the oven’s door to check, that the timer’s been set for tonight and tomorrow, the Shabbos mode back through the hallway toward the diningroom, her daughters.
From the windows looking in with the eye of the moon above, the sun below—who else is looking in in this neighborhood—she’s only a round taken of darkness, they all are, their shadows merging to mother the night.
Hanna smoothes the tablecloth, white, prepared for the taint of tonight—anything to put off the fire.
But Rubina strikes the match, and holds it there, the other sisters holding that hand.
The lights float in darkness, which interpretively is either something in nothing, or its reverse—and then, after the slightest, when no one knows if they’ll make it, the flickers go to life, in blue, in yellowing white; Hanna’s hands in their sweep, and her daughters, they follow: their words, which are hers, coming lower and hushed—though it’s not as if they’re afraid anyone’d hear—their vowels are stretched, wicked, lit on the tips of their tongues; some of the daughters knowing the words only through sound alone, others through the way their tongue feels in a particular mouthspot, the youngest ones just moving their lips in a manner that seems to them serious.
A blessing not of the candles, but of daughters standing at window without fear of fire, warm, and about to be watered and fed: what riches, what wealth of comfort and beauty surrounding; a pair of diamonds without jewelry, unset, these culets blessing them as if worth all the world, saved for their fl
ee only every Friday examined and polished—valuables struck out of sulfur, dug from their holdings in trunks, dispersions like the spreading of flame…how strange, how foreign it feels to be thinking of how to survive, how to exist, to prepare for a future unknown and yet, inevitable—as the candlelights burning are the impurities in the night, it’s impossible not to admit, though the necessary impurities, they have to insist, that that reminds them of that that remains still unfinished, unlit, in need of repairs.
And then the moon, too, an impurity, and the stars—they’ve all come in pairs. Their house, so lit, the world entire. And everything around it, surrounding, forget it. Banished, unto the basement, unfinished. They disperse, the sisters one by one, each of them ten, a hundred almost, or so it appears to Batya, to her own hallway, or room—except hers, soon not to be—heading upstairs, to sit, upstairs-upstairs, lying in wait, peering out over the yard and the drive through their windows that won’t open, God forbid they should fall from; they’re brushing each other’s hair with their mother’s brushes, combs, they’ve had to wait until she’d finished with them. All except Batya, her tears dried to the quality of the glass she’d shattered, these shards from her eyes: our grief burdens, as it’s converted unto the nature of the responsible sin. She’s itchy, she’s scratched up her face and it’s red and hurts awfully. Now she attempts to sit in the livingroom, the familyroom, the den of her father and his animal life: struggling, shvitzy and angry, barely able to get herself up on a sofa, which Israel calls a couch or else Hanna does and Israel a sofa—the fireplace ledge. The candles are shining from just down the hall, and Batya’s thinking if only to herself why this happens every Friday with the sticks and the wicks and her sisters, it’s so together and pleasant and, she doesn’t have the word, the ideas, but why not every night, every day three times with meals and a cookie, a cupcake. Warming, though confused, babied with hope despite the burn of her cheeks. Atop a table of stacked bills, clipped receipts, President Resident, addressees: Mister Hanna, Misses Israel. A book she can’t read that holds prayers her head knows, a siddur. And a bowl of what’s to her fruit. Batya consoling, fists an apple that’s wax, bites, then replaces it, teethmarks first.