by Joshua Cohen
At 1800, precisely, this matron enters all in a bustle.
How to describe her? She’s busty, chesty, whatever it’s called she requires for herself and even her title a hall’s wide berth, is due an approach that is its own announcement, given grand entrance with suitable clearance; flushed and winded, hoarselunged with her sighing and how exuberantly she’s entitled, but to what, she hasn’t yet demanded; her heels click as if in preemptory reprimand, clack pushy; you can tell just by the way she carries herself she thinks she’s better than you, her very presence a judgment on yours, which is an imposition; the strap to her purse wound around her arm as if a vein, darkened to writhe above the skin; a frump knot of hair and a loose flap of film: she leads a porter who schleps with him the podium on loan from the Registry’s morning assembly; the porter’s son falters behind his father, with an ancient 8mm film setup he sets atop a bleacher’s books librating. Breathlessly, the woman lays down her purse at the edge of the stage below which the podium’s placed, alongside more heapings of books these without covers and perhaps just loose pages all of a single book, a universal, unread, unreadably total book yet to be cataloged as to the interest of its worthlessness. With fingers dunced with arty nails she dismisses the hired librarians: homely women stooped to their unpedicured toes; they drop their tasks, shuffle out with stares for the young women seated and silent; then, she dismisses the porters, too, these family Kush (mostly shvartze or otherwise minority inmates repurposed from prison, their Garden service intended to lenience their sentence), who gape at the girls on their slow ways out; the woman takes her position at podium, straightens it centered then begins with roll, leering a moment at each face as she kisses out their names…
Here is another orientation—though directed toward secrecy, which is located neither in space nor in time, but only in the head, and therefore private, beforehand classified, disclaimed…Mary? she says, and every girl out in the room seated in their metal foldingchairs posturewise unimpeachable raises each one lacey gloved hand with an innocence that’s debilitating. Eager, earnest, here. All say, altogether, present. Amen, she works her way down the list: Marys check check check, they all seem to be named Mary, what a coincidence to ponder, to squander in fear, and so they bite their lips again in unison, into a weep of blood, weeps, unusually nervous, anxious, in this waiting for what’s next. A shiksa showcase, an extravagance of health and hygiene: these are girls almost women, a moon or two until spring away from their fullness, their ripe; to be perfected only now, if a touch early, a little young, they’ve been selected for that, for that very innocence, appalling, the willingness in their giddy bones, their sympathy for the cause or just desire to help, to be of some aid, some service rendered to tragedy, that and their bodies babied, don’t think they’re not what—proud, greenishly grateful, flattered. Accounted. Forget selected, then extensively profiled and interviewed then selected again; they might as well have been engineered especially for their present purpose: with their surfaces smoothmachined, an expert and easy gleam secreted wet below the skin, a pure denuding whiteness flushing veins like festive wires, as if they’re robots dappled with attractive, demographically approved freckles, symbolically parceled moles, the rivets of their soft planes, the endearing scars of playground, playdate stitches: Zeba’s fall against the kitchentable, Isabella’s tumble down the stairs…they’re real, though, pinch yourself; it just happens they’re all named the same, they’ll have their new names soon enough. Every one of them daughters of Garden maintenance staff, of nurses, redpalmed laundresses, chubby charwomen, foodpreparation personnel; they themselves are all on paper maids, however nominal, or indulgent, that employment. As for their actual purpose, how they’re to earn their true keeps, that’s the secret of their assembly this late afternoon and rumor stiflingly short of notice, only after finishing up their final turndown service—1700, unless their charges, bunked with apologies due to scarcity of space, had tagged a foot the evening prior with the placard provided, Do Not Disturb—leaving a macaroon on each pillow logged in drool. Here in the allpurpose, makeshift, scuffed floored Library, walled without shelves, without system, they sit, in moaning, rustbottomed foldingchairs, demure in their matching outfits, tight’s dark uniforms new with matching nylon hosiery stretching netting across their thighs to surface islands of flesh exposed, stockings webbing even tighter ever darker behind the knee, the length to which the frill hangs from their puffy little skirts slit high, slightwaisted, into which their blouses have been bunched tight against the bud; their polished heels clackety click impatiently, too, as they gossip, give susurrant whispers of hair, to keep their hands occupied lying dusters of rare peacock feather under their seats, placing purses on their laps, opening them, rummaging and applying from them makeup, lipstick, and mascara into the mirrors of their palms; then, once readied, presentable, they straighten themselves again into that posture nothing less than laudable—so wonderful, it’s been said, that the entire Library chaotically surrounding, each and every book, could be balanced on their massed heads for parade through Island streets as yet unpaved.
Good evening, girls, the matron says.
A giggle risen to pop on the bulbs bared to empty heads above…all attention’s turned to her, whoever, their matron, and her breasts like two suckling babies swaddled with a labcoat to which a nametag’s been pinned, saying: Sex Therapist—Staff. They can’t look away, can’t blush, their eyes are hers, their lips; the Marys in unison flip wisps of hair from foreheads free of blemish, from brows kempt, untangle locks from lashes slick in upkeep. Atop a chair of her own she nudges with a heel to the front, the matron dumps her purse, trivially overstuffed, messy: lipsticks glossy, matte, tampons knotted together like sausages, diaphragms like condoms and a cervical cap, gel and spray, loose change, below everything her pointer, with which to smack her own tush as she paces the room, the heads following her to dizzy.
Please stand, she says, and altogether they stand and wobble, on heels they’re still getting used to: they’ve only been on the job for a week. As she paces, the woman looks them up, down, as if assenting, in an invasive nod, not indicating approval, more like its opposite or hope, with slight sighs, low whistles given out through the perfectly attractive crack between her fawned front teeth, she pokes, she prods and pushes…Mary, not you, not you, not—you! pull the hair up and around, yes, now let it down…no, let it fall, that’s it, keep your fingers out of your mouth…take off that necklace; get rid of that ring…Mary, no, no, no, no, yes—keep your head straight, you! I want your shoulders back and chin down…suck in that gut (palpates)—what are you laughing at (pinches), it’s not like you couldn’t stand to lose a few yourself…remember, she whispers, these are little little girls, at least most of them, the latter halfdozen—like for you, better a padded, a pushup; accentuates what you have, rounds out what you don’t…wandering her way back to the front, she goes down on her knees to search for an outlet, to light the projector with its cord engaged in a sensual snaking around her waist, her thighs, as if she’s to plug the device into her very crotch, the always warm and wet socket of her own power; then, she removes her shoes, loses the labcoat, the nothing underneath to nude, unashamed.
Strip, she says, there’s no blushing here or cry, it’s not allowed, we’re women…billows of cloth, indoor cloud—mounds of clothing like whispery cirrus, like melting, melted icecream, spilt milk…excess buttery fat to heap about the feet, then stirred a step out of and around, to whip: the Marys strip slowly and selfconsciously, item by item soon teasingly, too, bit by bit to baring all, as if they don’t know whether they’re flirting with themselves, with each other, or with nakedness itself. My God, she says, that marbling, those striations; I want you all to exercise—and grow that out, your hair; I want curly bushes, huge…turns from them to the door to the hall, opens it, wheels in chiming clink of hangers, a rack of wardrobe left by the porters departed, in her draggy, stumbling schlep knocking books over and open to pages loosed from bindings to
wind around the hall in gusts from the slamming door; paper leaves like chaffing, burning labels, ironsafe, white cleansed from dark colors separately, Made In An Image: the newest clothes, they seem too small, though intended modest, longsleeved and skirted, these uniform black and blue and whites, sweaters standardissue, shoes and accessories folded on the shelf atop, separated there by tags not of size, style, or brand but by identity, which sister.
Get dressed—you, Rubina, and you’re Simone, the tennis shirt, the white white one, don’t worry, it’ll stretch…you, you’re a Liv; those stockings to hide the thighs on you with those nice neat little irises at the knees…you, you’re more the Judith type; she was into bouncy blouses…she’s handing out assignments, dispensing identities, coupling them sibling to her cause. My job, she says as they fumble with their futures, is to turn you into relations…the monogrammed backpack, with a pencil behind the ear—yes, you have to wear the headband…the Marys dress, become others, turn to others as themselves, all relative to one another, a halflife, still becoming: skimping on flowery underwear, bras for those who need them (which sisters and not which Marys), buttoning, clasping and snapping zip up hips as the woman, too, steps into a hanger’s clothes: a dark scrunched skirt, pink cardigan over white camisole, her necked adorned with big jewels on bulkier gold. As a mother, then, she stalks the room, screeching out inquiries parental above the dressing’s din: who’s His favorite sister? does He even have one yet? what’re His favorite foods? quick! rip out the heart through the stomach, anyone have an answer for me? how many squares of what kind of toiletpaper does He on average use? does He use on days He has too much dairy? anyone, anyone?
Let’s begin with something simple…
Which Mary she is, even she doesn’t know, hasn’t yet remembered, she raises her hand, waves it desperately, then whines as if she has to pee.
Her mother sighs, what is it?
Who?
A reel’s readied, the lights overhead strangled with trembling, infanticidal hands; the screen’s the wall in front of them, whitewashed pocked plaster that backs the stage edged with tattered curtains; the woman flicks the switch. A world opens on a longshot, another hall, its weather…snow, the static sky. 10–9–8 kept by circles, blinking as if eyes wandering noctivagously over stage and floor—a flicker, and then His mother, His Ima, her form projected onto the woman now dragging the podium to the side, the body shot across hers, boned, one face ghosted upon another…she shuffles outside the shot to adjust the height of the projector. A woman, rising, raised, levitated, floating…halfdancing to silence, or she’s having a seizure, she’s palsied, perhaps a virus, at least she’s able to laugh at herself, she’s laughing, but at a friend, or with her—but no, she’s not deformed, mutated or miraculous, it’s more like the film itself, which is silent and slipping unfocused, again, and so the matron returns to the projector to steady the image atop its stack of books, wanders halfway across the shot toward the podium removed, returns and readjusts, then interrupts the image yet again and stops to stand far to the side and say the name, Hanna, voicingover the mute…her maiden name, Senior, married Israelien—can everyone hear me, I hope you can; I hate microphones—they’re only good if you don’t know what to do with your hands. She quiets, wets her lips. Here maybe ten, fifteen years before she died, forty if she ever told the truth about her age, give or take a few surgical procedures. 36–30–36, fivefoottwo inches tall, or short she thinks, a bit of a complex there, averaging 130 pounds when not pregnant, which wasn’t often: acceptably zaftig if not a Beshemoth, as she’d always joke—she had a sense of humor. Her husband Israel, whom we’re just getting now, the mensch in the green suit, this was a decade ago, forgive him—he found her attractive, she had beautiful breasts: above average, as you’ll notice, heartily unproportional…with nipples asymmetrically positioned (here she points her pointer, a collapsible erected, extracted from her bag) right pointing up, left down, stray hairs around the—surprisingly small—areolae; a cancer scare at age thirtysix, a cyst was removed, a scar; she has stretchmarks around the waist and thighs and at the armpits, too, a polio inoculation shot to upper left arm near shoulder, radial wrinkling about the face…but don’t take my word for it, you’ll have an opportunity to observe at a later date—we’re keeping her on ice, in Storage.
Her occupation, that of a homemaker, wife if you prefer, or mother, that of the undifferentiated uxorial…note the hairstyle, she says suddenly: it’s a wig, she blushes this once only, the one I’m currently modeling…as Hanna’s head’s flicked up to obscure the shot, pursuing, zooming in on the appetizer buffet behind her, the meaty pinks and vegetative purple—like many women of her enlightened generation, she wore it short after age thirty or so, thinks of it as feminine, but manageable…henna, but a between shade, undecided, or placating, peacemaking, a reddish brownie blond; she went light on the makeup save lipstick, professed a marked preference for skirts at the length of the ankle; in reasonable shape, especially given her twelve pregnancies, eight of them to date, with credit due to classes in aerobics, weekly episodes on the treadmill set to easy.
And, if you aren’t noticing—the woman dances.
If alone, adorned with necklaces of chamsas. A cocktail hour piano/violin.
Observe, please, that this is formal dress; for her, this was fancy. Her underwear preferences tended toward the synthetic, less panties than modified girdles, rearlift enhancers, thighslimmers, waistsnippers, what have you—the entire life cataloged, mailordered by phone, through friends; lacey brassieres with trimming underwires, floralpatterned when risqué or plain in white or black. Her hosiery fleshtoned. Her nails she kept manicured, professionally, in a shade and brand that’ll be made available to you shortly. Patience. I ask you to note the jewelry. Conspicuously chunky were the presents. Amethyst, silver, gold, what she picked out on her own. She holds out her hands, gangly jangling. I’m presently wearing many of these pieces…then gouges a projected eye with the tip of her pointer and says, you don’t know this woman, though she’s now your mother, understand?
And altogether, they exhale; gum pops soft, red lozenges gulped loudly.
Questions. All of you know the boychick I’m speaking of, Ben, one of our Garden’s more famous charges—or have heard of Him? and their heads nod in a row out in the hall dimly far from the projected light. Needless to say, everything I say in this meeting is to be kept strictly confidential. You’ve signed your sisterhoods away. We’ll hold you to your word. Exercise caution and your abs. Your lats and glutei. Marys, daughters—you are to be sisters to one another, and to Him: to keep Him company, to gain His confidence, how should I say this—to keep Him occupied…meaning, to seduce Him—to entertain His body, to distract His brain. In this assignment, Hanna, His mother, is to be your instructor, your mentor; maternal guidance in all its trusting worry—her here the one now dancing, or this evening she thinks it’s dancing, why not, let’s indulge her, that’s what daughters do. Or should be doing, if they’re behaved and well brought up; and you are—try to remember how well you’re provided for, how you’re kept always fed and warm. And thankful as much as ungrateful, too, it’s difficult, it’s tough. I want you to study her, to learn me, to become her daughters, mine…I want you to know her as cold as she is now. Observe her every moment and physical movement, her every overmothered eccentricity, the way she holds herself and others, the tic of the eye, the teethe of the lip, the scratch at the elbow, too; any and all idiosyncrasies you’re able to glean from stock and inspection firsthand, which will occur tomorrow at a time mutually convenient: daughters to bundleup in hooded down, with school announced cancelled, and so gathering instead for the true examination around the frozen slab upon which His Hanna lies, Morgue-stripped, bluegummed and crazyeyed. Anatomized. Dissect her, it. This, the womb from whence you came. Scalpels out. No copying.
Learn to walk her, to talk her, live her, breathe her mouth in yours, to give you life, I mean…eat her and sleep her—because He will; her when y
ou rise up and her when you lie down, her when you go and her when you come, especially when you come…and then this business again with the pointer, her hysterical tapping; what am I forgetting?
Some of you will have your hair dyed, others will be given wigs in various shades and styles; many of your noses will require lengthening by pros-thesis; we’ve already gone ahead and rounded up their six pairs of glasses, frames we’ve refitted with new lenses, nonprescription…and then—and this is why you have to stay in shape and not get pregnant, or menstrually bloated, bellyfat and soft—if all else fails as His sisters, we’ll revert to your normal shiksa states, you Marys blond and blue, allAmerican, you’ll forgive me…I’m getting ahead of myself.
You’ll follow my instructions, and Hanna’s example’s what I’m saying, are we understood?
Lips lilt sibilance in the suspiciously affirmative, then giggle…that’s your first mistake, she says, your last—in this family, no one ever answers when spoken to for the first time, not even for the second, or third; they ignore. Then they yell themselves again even louder.