by Gigi Fenster
‘Morris, big boy, take off the shorts.’
There are ink stains like spots of blood along the bottom of Norman’s pockets. Blue blood like the Queen’s. Morris wants to take a finger and trace them. Poke at them. But that would mean taking his hands out of his pockets. If he takes his hands out of his pockets they’ll make him take his shorts off. And he’s not doing that. Ever.
He of the pen stains and polyester tie—he wore an open-necked woven top for Passover? What was it? Some kind of costume party Passover re-enactment?
No, no, Morris is tired and confused. There was no kaftan, no open-necked shirt. Just Norman wearing a white shirt and tie. And yet there was, on those Seder nights, something of a Pharaoh about him. He lifted the matzo high above his head and broke it into two clean, sharp pieces. He determined which portions would be read and which omitted. There was no bickering at his Seder. He was the man of the house.
I guess you would have been the one to ask the four questions.
I was the one who asked the questions.
Year after year the only child at the table. Year after year the one who the adults turned to, depended on. The one who God depended on. To get it right.
When the other children from cheder had long since moved off the four questions, the task having been taken over by younger siblings or cousins, or some kid visiting from overseas who hadn’t learned the questions properly, there was Morris, still asking. Still standing. Still forgetting.
Come on, they couldn’t have made you stand.
I’m remembering this. I stood.
Stood and faltered and mangled his way through the four questions. His mother kept her head bent over the book, following the words with him. Norman smiled up at him, encouraging. When it was over, Norman would praise and Pearl would look up from her book.
Joan would give an extravagant gift when he found the hidden matzo, and Morris, his throat drier than the bread of affliction which his ancestors ate, would know that he was undeserving.
The problem was that Norman and Joan never had children. They never wanted them, the younger Morris supposed, and why would they? They had each other and their dogs and Morris to ask the four questions. Morris to look for the matzo. Morris to hug and sometimes, where Joan was concerned, to hold too close so that he’d try to wriggle away and his mother would have to apologise and say that he didn’t like to be held much.
When Morris got older he began to wonder whether Norman and Joan had sex. Or did Norman wear a condom? And still later, when he got old enough to understand, he felt sorry for them both and tried to bring himself to withstand Joan’s hugs. It was easier to do when done out of pity.
One Passover they were joined by a cousin on holiday from Australia. She wasn’t a real cousin but Joan’s niece, come to visit with her parents. How proudly Joan had presented the girl to Morris, how bravely she presented Morris to the girl. ‘Becky, Morris, you’re cousins and I love you both, so go on, be friends.’
Morris watched Joan patting the girl’s red cheeks, smoothing her blond hair, and he thought of Moses coming down from the mountain to the sight of his people bowing before false idols. That red-faced Becky was just like the golden calf. She wasn’t his cousin. Not even nearly.
I always felt sorry for Moses. Can you imagine what it was like for him, to go through all that he did, leading a bunch of ungrateful slobs through the desert, only to be denied, at the last minute, entry into the Promised Land? And for what? Some silly infraction. I don’t even know what he did wrong. Do you remember what he did? See, you can’t remember. And for that completely forgettable infraction he gets to die in the desert. Unfair, I say. You always reminded me of Moses.
Me remind you of Moses? I’m not a bit like Moses. He was a hero.
When Morris was at university he once went on a long tramp with a group. The hikers found themselves hemmed in by thick bush and impassable terrain. Morris suggested a way through. His route started by taking them away from where they were heading, and it was rejected out of hand by most of the group. But the tramp leader said, ‘Hear him out,’ and Morris’s friend Murray said that no one had come up with anything better. So Morris explained, and was surprised (and concerned) to find that he had convinced them.
When they burst through the bush into the open and saw the lake before them, Murray gave a loud whoop. The tramp leader said, ‘Behold, the Promised Land.’ And someone said, ‘Morris, our hero, our Moses.’
Morris could have been a hero to the not-cousin. He could have found, then pretended not to have found, the hidden matzo so that Becky could lift it up and lisp, ‘Thee what I got, Morrith.’ The adults would have seen that he’d let Becky find it, and been proud of him. But he’d sat on the cushion that was hiding the afikomen, and crushed it.
Becky gave a loud wail and punched him in the stomach.
Joan told Norman he was silly to have hidden the matzo where the boy could sit on it. Becky’s mother said she didn’t care what the tall boy had done, Becky shouldn’t have hit him, and Morris, with matzo crumbs all over his corduroy pants, wondered how Goliath had felt at finding his forehead suddenly struck by some little pipsqueak with a catapult.
First Moses, then Goliath. You were having a biblical evening of it. Goliath is another one to feel sorry for. He couldn’t help himself. He wasn’t bad, Goliath. Just himself. Like Moses. Moses was a stutterer, you know.
What?
He stammered. He couldn’t speak for himself. A bit like your mother.
My mother didn’t stutter.
I know that. His brother spoke for him.
Norman?
No, no, not your mother’s brother. Moses’ brother. But since you’ve brought up the topic of Pearl—
The topic of Pearl?
The topic of your mother. Where was your mother in all this?
Pearl was agreeable with her family. She was pleasant to her sister-in-law, helped in the kitchen and was an easy, undemanding guest. She remembered birthdays, bought exactly the right gifts—tidbits for the dogs.
Pearl did everything right, but she moved through the gatherings with the air of a woman who has learned the names off by heart, who, on being presented with a relative, runs through a list in her head before settling on … Joan, Norman’s wife. Your friend. What would you do without her?
Once she found Morris sitting alone in Norman’s study, flipping through a magazine. She looked at him from such a distance that he wondered whether she was running through names in her head before coming to … Morris. My son. Who should be in the kitchen keeping Joan company, not hiding himself in Norman’s study.
‘Come and join the family, Morris. Dinner will be starting soon.’
She set a slow pace down Norman’s passage. When they reached the dining room where the noise was coming from, she breathed in sharply through her nose and seemed to pull herself erect before glancing down at him and opening the door.
Later, when the evening was over and the car doors closed behind them, she let out a sigh so loud that Morris wondered whether she’d been holding her breath all evening.
Morris should have been in the kitchen keeping Joan company. He should have learned the four questions better, should have phoned Norman and Joan more often, let them know how things were going at school, at university. He should have gone with Sadie to visit them after they moved to Australia. He should not have stiffened when Joan came to hug him. Would it have been so hard really, Morris, to pat those dogs once in a while?
It was different for Sadie. She liked having family nearby. She liked maintaining contact with them. She wanted to phone Joan when the babies smiled, walked, said mama. She chose to discuss school reports, Morris’s job, what they’d be doing for Norman’s birthday. ‘His sixtieth, can you believe it? No, I don’t think Morris will make a speech but I’d be happy to tell the world how much I adore that husband of yours. I’ll shout it from the rooftops. Joan’s Norman is the sweetest man in the world.’
She was sorry wh
en Joan and Norman moved to Australia. She kept telling them how much she’d miss them. She told them so often that it was all told up. She’d used up all the words, all the ways of saying I’ll miss you, before he even knew they were going.
Joan phoned Morris with the news. ‘We wanted you to know first. You’re like a son to us. So we wanted to tell you first. That we’re going trans-Tasman. Can you believe it? We’re crossing the ditch. To live. At our age we decide to up and move. To Australia, no less. Melbourne. I’m going back to my roots. Where my brother is.’
I bet she told Sadie ages ago, Morris thought. She’ll have discussed with Sadie when and how to tell me. Now she’s waiting for me to say something. What does she want me to say? She already knows we’ll miss them.
Joan said, ‘You know my brother’s in Melbourne and your cousin Becky’s got three children. I’d like to get to know those children.’
Say something, Morris. Anything.
‘Three children.’
‘Two girls and a boy and I hardly know them. Oh, I tell you, Morris, they’re as cute as can be.’
‘What about Norman’s work?’
‘Oh, Morris, you know Norman pretends to work but really he’s retired. There’s nothing keeping us here any more and—’ she lowered her voice, as if letting him in on a big secret—‘to tell you the truth, I never loved Levin much. I’ll be happy to see the back of it.’
Now that your mother has died, Joan might have said. There’s nothing keeping us here now that your mother has finally stopped lingering and finally died. We’ve been wanting to move to Australia for ages, Joan might have said, but we couldn’t leave, could we? Not with your mother lingering. We could hardly leave her, could we? Or Levin.
She might have said that, and she might have also said, It’s not like you made the effort to visit us very often. Instead she said, ‘We’ll miss you. And Sadie. And the children. The children will have to come over for holidays and you’ll come and visit us, won’t you? We’ll have lots of lovely holidays together. You’re like a son to us.’
Of course I knew they were going before you did. I knew everything before you did. Joan and I discussed how to break it to you. Joan was worried that you’d feel let down by them leaving so soon after your mother died. She didn’t want you to feel forsaken.
Had Morris felt forsaken? He remembers feeling only guilty. It was his fault they’d stayed in Levin all that time. His fault and his mother’s.
Forsaken. Guilty. It doesn’t matter. You should have made more effort to see them. You definitely should have come with me and the children when we made that trip to Australia.
I had work. I couldn’t go running off to Australia. I spoke to Joan on the phone every week. You spoke to her all the time. They didn’t expect us to go there. It wasn’t necessary.
Not necessary! Never expected it! For crying out loud, Morris, sometimes you can be so infuriating.
What? They didn’t.
You were like a son to them.
Well, they weren’t—
You know what were pretty much the first words you said to me when we first met?
The first words?
Pretty much. The first words you said to me were, ‘Joan and Norman. Not my parents.’
Not my parents. Why would I say that to someone I hardly knew?
Why indeed? Anyway, the point is, you should have—
I had my own parents.
Joan and Norman loved you like a son.
I had my own parents.
Okay, okay, I’m not asking you to deny your parents. You had your own parents. I admit it. A mother. And a father. Pearl and Joe Goldberg. Mother and father of Morris Goldberg.
Pearl and Joe.
Pearl who brought you up and Joe who taught you the importance of good tramping gear. Equipment and lists. Check and check. You don’t cut corners on tramping gear. From your tent to your shorts. And for you, my boy, we start with the shorts.
‘Good gear. You don’t cut corners with tramping gear. From your tent to your shorts. And for you, my boy, for you we start with the shorts.’
Morris’s father is taking his six-year-old son shopping for shorts. Next week they’re going tramping together. Man and man. Father and son. Next week tramping. This week shopping.
Joe waves away with a laugh and a kiss his wife’s suggestion that they take the tram. ‘But this is an outing, an adventure for Morris and me. We’ll go in the car and we’ll eat in a tearoom and we’ll buy shorts. Who knows, we might even bring back a little something for you.’
Did you? Did you bring something back for her?
I don’t know. I can’t remember. What does it matter?
Pearl stands in the bay window, watching them walk down the path to the garage where the car is full of petrol, waiting, ready for adventure.
Joe holds Morris’s hand. He turns suddenly, too quickly, to face the house, and does not let go. Morris trips and is pulled around in a circle about his father to face his mother, who is still at the bay window.
Joe shouts, ‘Cheerio,’ and stretches Morris’s hand into the air.
Pearl doesn’t wave back. The light must be shining in her eyes.
Did they bring something back for her? Morris can’t remember, can’t imagine that it would have made much difference to her, and anyway, it’s not part of this story. This story is about him and his father who made the shop girl laugh and got a discount from the shopkeeper, who twirled his hat when they walked down the road. His father who sped up to overtake the tram, who sang love songs as he drove and made the car dance across the road in time to his singing. ‘Something’s gotta give. Something’s gotta give. Something’s gotta give.’
So this is after the first time you were supposed to go tramping together.
The first time?
Yes, yes. The first time your father blew you off.
Blew me off?
Oh for crying out loud, Morris. The first time your father cancelled on you. He went without you. But now we’re on the second time. About a week before you were supposed to go a second time. That’s where we are now. Are you sure you remember correctly? Just a week?
I don’t know, Sadie. You tell me. You seem to know so much. I was only about six.
Six. You were six at the time.
This is a story about Morris’s father, who laid their provisions on the lounge floor and stood looking down at them before reading aloud from a list: ‘Tent. Billy. Hip flask for your father. Backpack big enough to take provisions for two.’
Joe had a new backpack. It had come on a ship from America. Months before the backpack there was a catalogue laid out on the kitchen table. Joe called Morris and his mother to come and look.
He said, ‘Trapper Nelson,’ and ran Morris’s finger along the letters. ‘The best backpack money can buy.’
Pearl shifted the washing basket on her hip and leaned over her husband’s shoulder.
‘It could take months to get here. It’s not cheap.’
‘That may be, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned in my long and varied life, it’s the importance of good gear.’
A long and varied life, Morris thought. Will I have one of those?
‘Long and varied,’ said Pearl. ‘You’re thirty-five years old—’
‘Exactly, precisely right, and you wouldn’t want it ending prematurely with me getting washed away down a river, a flooding river—’
Morris shifted closer to his mother. He wanted to grab her skirt.
‘—for the want of a decent backpack! Now would you?’
Morris shook his head.
His mother shifted her basket to the other hip. ‘No,’ she said at last. ‘No, I wouldn’t.’
Joe lifted Morris on to his knee and pointed to the picture. A man stood beside a tent. A dog lay panting in the open entrance flap.
‘You see, big boy, your mother and I agree. We are at one. Ad idem. There are few things as important as good camping gear.’
Pearl sai
d, ‘It’s not cheap and we need—’
‘Few things as important, as important.’ Joe’s leg shook. Was he playing Phar Lap and the jockey? Morris giggled. Phar Lap got faster. Morris clung to the table. Phar Lap kept jiggling. Morris was scooped into his mother’s arms.
‘Come with me, Morris, you can try out the new puzzle from Uncle Norman.’
‘But I want …’
‘Few things as important as …’
‘I said, come. Now.’
The pack arrived two months later. Joe stuffed it full of blankets and walked around the garden ‘breaking it in’. He wanted to put Morris in it, but Pearl wouldn’t allow it. She and Morris watched him through the window. Morris wouldn’t have minded climbing into the pack. He knew he’d be safe in it. His father said it was the best quality money could buy. You don’t cut corners when it comes to tramping gear.
This is a story about Morris who stood next to his father as he studied the provisions laid out on the lounge floor. Morris who jumped from item to item as Joe read from his list.
‘Tent. Billy. Hip flask for your father.’
‘Yes. Yes. Yes,’ and, for the Trapper Nelson, a double yes because it can take provisions for two.
And a yes for the shorts which didn’t go into the backpack.
Because I would wear them.
Because you would wear them on the tramp. Which you were doing with your father.
In the morning.
Early.
Morris has worn his new shorts to bed, along with the rest of his tramping clothes. Right down to his socks.
His mother can’t understand this silly behaviour. He is six years old and should know better. She asks him over and over why, in heaven’s name, he wants to do such a ridiculous thing as to sleep in his tramping clothes.