and mother and daughter sat in the midst of each others fear and grief as time did not stand still but moved with such agonizing slowness they felt crushed by the hands embrace, and the mother continued rubbing her cup and looking at the edge of the window, And what happens if Maria does not get well?
Isabella remained immobile, her hands around the coffee cup unmoving, her glance steady as a breeze waved a shirt on a line…. She must get better…shes my baby….
Yes, yes….But if she doesnt????
Isabella was rigid, seemingly not breathing.
These operations they will give her skin…from other parts of the body to hide scars….What is it our Maria looks like???? I see only bandages. How is it she needs operations? How is it we know the doctors are true? What is it we know about them? Are they any different than everyone else…here…in this…place????
Isabella still rigid, her breathing inaudible and unnoticeable, eyes widening, knuckles getting whiter and whiter
Why dont we see whats behind the bandage? What is it they hide from us? Why do they not talk to us? Why is it they look at us as if we do not exist and walk away? Why is it they look at us as if we are going to steal from them? We are not animals…nor are we thieves yet they always run from us when all it is we ask is how is our Maria??? what is going to happen to our Maria??? Why do—MOMMA—suddenly grasping her head with her hands and squeezing as hard as possible, squeezing her eyes painfully shut against the hot tears pounding in her head, feeling the pain of her toes pushing against the bottoms of her shoes, her knotted calves, her burning throat—No more momma…please…please…so many questions—shaking her head—I cannot find the answers either. I look in their faces and try to see…to ask…to know…but I dont know what their eyes or words say—You know what their eyes say—looking Isabella in the eyes, her stare unwavering—it is what their eyes always say to us. O momma…momma—tears slowly seeping from her eyes—I dont care what their eyes say, I care only about my baby—But their eyes speak about Maria too, they say they do not care, that she is of no importance to them, she is only a pile of bandages in a bed….
Isabellas chin almost rested on her chest. She watched the tears dropping on her lap, there seeming to be so few falling compared to those she felt rolling from her eyes…Where do they all go??? where do they all come from???? She felt her breath on her wrists as she spoke, I pray they will think she is one of theirs and will make her better, as she was the morning she left here and walked down the stairs with her school books in her hand.
I pray too—shrugs—what else is there…for us?
I pray…I pray and pray but there is only silence from the Blessed Virgin…I pray and pray and hear only the beating of my heart—Isabella slowly raised her head a few inches—I am frightened momma—raising her head a little more and staring into her mothers face, clasping her hands and squeezing hard—I am frightened for my little girl. Her mother looked back at her daughter, her expression stern, hard, unrelenting, watching the tears slowly roll down her daughters cheeks, her expression softening with each tear, in time a feeling of reassurance in her eyes as she reached over and put her hands on her daughters, My prayers, too, are spoken to deaf ears…perhaps it is that God cannot hear our tiny voices here…perhaps it is that the monsters in the streets…and the demons in the hearts of these crazy people, chew up the prayers before she hears them….
they looked in each others eyes with as much love as possible, frightened of their fear, each hoping to see, or hear, in the other the answer to their own personal fears and the threat to Maria, Isabellas eyes eventually closing, too heavily burdened with grief to remain open, Perhaps you are right momma. It is possible it is as you say. But we will light a candle anyway…what else can we do?
their hands as one between them, slowly leaning toward each other, the air coming through the open window still alive with noise and fumes.
Moishe cautioned Bobby about moving around too much, You are needing to rest already…get strong.
Hey Mush, I dont be a ol man like you—throwing his shoulders back, but stopping in mid motion as the pain shot through him, but continuing to smile at Moshie.
Moishe smiled, and nodded his head, Its since a long time Im your age. Now, I find any excuse to rest.
Bobby looked around and frowned, How you get all this shit down here? You got some big shit here Mush.
Thats happening a long time ago. A long time I spent doing this—looking around—but I had lots of time.
Bobby started walking around the apartment and Moishe reached out to steady him from time to time, but held back and let Bobby find his own sense of balance. They went into a room that was filled with carts, wagons, hand trucks, dollies, a couple of work benches, and tools hanging on all the walls, My workshop—Moishe looking around proudly.
Damn, where you get all this stuff?
Long, long time—smiling at Bobby—so much older than you.
Bobby looked at Moishe, Thats for damn sure.
Moishe smiled and shrugged as they continued their tour. Bobby was amazed by what he saw, never having imagined anyone actually living in such luxury…all this space to move around, and lights everywhere but they didnt hurt your eyes, you could just see everything so clearly. And the food, a big freezer stuffed with food, huge refrigerator filled with food and more ice cream than he had ever seen in one place. At least that was how it seemed. Bobby kept looking at Moishe and shaking his head as he looked around then started walking toward the front door, This the door we be comin in, the pretty muthafucka? Moishe nodded and followed Bobby to the door who tried to open it and Moishe stepped in front of him and unlocked it, You want it should be opened? Yeah. Moishe opened the door and Bobby looked out, then shook his head and closed the door, Moishe looking at him quizzically, I was so fucked up I thought it might not be real like I remembered, but it be real—shaking his head—Damn, I still dont believe all this shit Mush.
Moishe looked at him, smiling, noticing the signs of fatigue around his eyes, Come, we go back to the kitchen, time for some more soup.
Bobby nodded and followed him back to the kitchen and sat gratefully at the table, closing his eyes for a moment as he felt the effects of the exertion.
Moishe started warming the soup and put the bread back on the table, with the cutting board and knife, and took the butter from the refrigerator. He motioned toward the bread and Bobby nodded so Moishe cut a couple of slices and pushed the bread and butter to Bobby. Right on Mush.
Moishe went back to the stove and poured the soup into a bowl and put it in front of Bobby and once again smiled and felt warm and glowing as he watched Bobby devouring the soup and bread. Bobby suddenly stared at Moishes wrist, What that tattoo—looking up at Moishe?
Moishe stared at the numbers on his wrist for a moment, then looked at Bobby, Ya…you dont know about this. Bobby shook his head and continued to look at Moishe who took a deep breath and exhaled noisily, A concentration camp…such a long time ago—closing his eyes for a moment—another world, another life….
O yeah, I heard of them—frowning—I thought they was for jews. You dont look like no jew.
Moishe smiled, So….What do I look like? Just another old honky.
Moishe chuckled, Ya….Well, true mostly jews, but others too.
I hear they be bad ass joints.
Moishe ruminated the words, Bad ass joints….Ya, very bad…very bad….I was not jew, but….
Moishe was silent for a moment, Bobby glancing up at him as he continued to eat, So…someday Im telling you the story—and Moishe smiled, his thoughts obviously elsewhere. He became aware of the table and Bobby when Bobby dropped his spoon in the empty bowl and leaned back, Man my belly be so full I caint move—wiping the bowl with a finger, then licking it. Moishe watched sleepiness start to weigh Bobbys eyes and smiled, Maybe its a good idea youre lying down and resting.
Yeah…I be one tired dude man.
Moishe stood close to Bobby as he got up and started walki
ng to the bedroom. After Bobby laid down Moishe went into the living room and sat in his chair. After a few moments he looked at his wrist, seeing the numbers he could never forget….
So… what is the tattoo???? So many years I let the memory rest, sleep some place far away. The numbers are always on my wrist…and in my mind, but the memory I struggled so long to forget…at least the nightmare of it. I know I can never forget, never be free of those years, but does the nightmare need to be reawakened? Now? How many years can I have left? Shouldnt they be peaceful? Is he here to reawaken the demons? Or are you the demon that cant stand to see me enjoy peace of mind???? O, what is this boy to me? I help him because that is what I do, simply because it is there to be done and I am able to do it…he needs help and I can give it…he needs bandaids and I have bandaids. Thats enough. Hes hungry and I feed him. Simple. We are all brothers in hunger. Enough Werner, enough…enough. Youre a plumber, an electrician, a handyman not a philosopher. Yes, Im a very handy man, a man who is obviously afraid…yes afraid. Im afraid. So…it is all very simple, I am afraid of getting attached to this boy…a grandson (yes, the grandson I never had) and then he leaves and once again I have a broken heart…a heart that has been broken many times, yes, yes, it has been mended each time, but no more sorrow, I cannot survive another broken heart…the grief, the sorrow…I have long since run out of tomorrows in which to be healed….Yes, yes, I know, with each broken heart my heart broke open, more and more each time…more light coming in and more love going out, but I was able to endure the pain, then, I can no longer endure…my heart hangs by the merest of threads, it beats, but to an old drum. My pain is mine and does no one any good, just as my madness was mine and no one could break the bars for me. I have lived…I have died…I did the best I could and here I am, an old man getting ready to the and a life…a wounded life, an animal from the streets over my head comes into my life and in his need brings with him my past….
Moishe bent over and covered his face with his hands
I cant go back there…not again. The camps are gone, let the memories of them sleep in their ashes. I am old and weak and have a heart only for keeping this body alive, not for reliving the horrors of hell—Moishe jerked himself up—Ahhh, whats the use. I will do what I will do and all this craziness, all this talk, talk, talk, words to fill the air and my head and always I do what I do—Moishe shook his head and smiled and filled a bowl with ice cream and poured chocolate sauce over it—Maybe its better to eat ice cream than torture myself, either way Im going to do what Im going to do…what else is there?
It seemed to Isabella, and her mother, that the doctors were always running through the corridors, and the nurses rushing from one bed to the next, and so could not ask the questions that would not leave their minds and hearts. But one day a nurse smiled at them after giving Maria an injection and saw the fear and confusion in their eyes and faces and reassured them that Maria was going to be alright, that their little girls life was not in danger—She will live? Oh yes, she will definitely live. There is no infection, and she is responding very well to treatment, feeling a sigh go through her as her words registered within the two women and their expressions radiated their relief and gratitude and they held tight to the nurses statement that Marias life was not in danger, that she was going to live and though talk of surgery and scars frightened them they were able to concentrate on the fact that Maria would live and no matter what else may happen that was the most important thing and so they left that day with a lightness of heart they hadnt felt since first this terrible thing happened. The breeze that brushed their faces as they left the hospital was friendly and seemed to be a caressing message from God that He was looking over Maria and would take care of her, that as He filled her little heart with love He also filled His heart with Maria and no harm could come to…yes, yes, that was the message of the breeze, the promise of the breeze, and they rode the bus, walked the street and climbed the stairs to their apartment knowing Maria was safe and soon all her troubles would be over and she would be home, with them, safe in their arms. Isabella gathered up her children and started cooking, but first made a pot of coffee. She put a cup of coffee on the table in front of her mother who leaned over the cup and closed her eyes and inhaled the aroma, the sounds from the street muffled and dulled.
And so the trips to and from the hospital were easier, less exhausting to the old woman and less fearful for Isabella. Maria still cried and sobbed but now they knew the pain did not mean Maria was going to die. They could see the pain was bad, very bad, but that would pass and her life wouldnt, and so they did what they could to soothe, to reassure her, to feed her healthy soup, and not worry about their little baby because the nurse had said she would live.
One day Marias bed was empty when they got there and panic made speech impossible for a moment as they stared at each other, blessing themselves, the grandmother muttering prayers, Isabella frantically looking around, and the patient in the next bed told her that Maria was in the treatment room, and both women folded on chairs and sat motionless for many minutes, almost afraid to breathe, then moved slightly and allowed the information to ease away the rigidity of their bodies and they sat quietly, glancing at each other from time to time, each counting their breaths until Maria returned and they could see for themselves that she was alive and alright and they would feed her and touch her and watch her breathe and feel the beating of her heart in her chest.
Then Maria appeared on the other side of the bed in a wheelchair, their gasps audible as their senses were assaulted by Maria sitting in a wheel chair, her face wrapped in bandages, just the same 2 slits for eyes and 1 for the mouth, the hole for her breathing not at first visible and as she looked at them they felt she was suffocating and might at any moment the and that was why she was in a wheelchair because they knew only very sick or old people were in a wheelchair and Maria must be dying, the nurse must have been wrong or why was she being wheeled around and suddenly Isabella almost leaped across the bed as the attendant locked the wheelchair and helped Maria stand, Now, aint that nice honey yo family be here with some soup—chuckling and shaking her head—now dont that be a nice surprise—helping Maria get into bed then smiling at Isabella and her mother, She doin jus fine, yo little honey here—continuing to look at them as she noticed the look of panic on their faces, frowning, wondering what was wrong, then realizing they were staring at the wheelchair and smiled again, No…no, it be alright. Patient go anywheres they got to go in a wheelchair and thats the rules…you tellem chile. Maria leaned against the raised top of the bed and spoke very slowly, painfully, to the women, explaining quickly, but clearly that she had her bandages changed in the treatment room and you have to go in a wheelchair, and instantly their expressions changed and their relief was tangible and a silent sigh flowed from their bodies. Maria sat quietly, and silently, for many moments and the attendant asked her if she wanted anything and Maria shook her head and the attendant smiled and said to enjoy the soup and pushed the chair out of the room.
The women watched Maria for a moment, seeing the clean bandages, the slightly larger slits for eyes and mouth, seeing this as further signs of recovery and guarantees that Maria would indeed be alright.
Bobbys mother sat on the side of his bed bouncing her youngest on her knee, unmindful of the scratching and squealing behind the wall. The child was silent yet the sounds of its crying were still in her ears, her head, and pulsed throughout all her body. She drank from the coke can and toyed with it for a moment until her fingertips were cold then put it on the floor. She heard her throat swallowing the soda, heard the can on the floor, heard the noise from the rest of the house, the streets, and the walls, but it was like the air surrounding her…there and unnoticed. The child started whimpering and she unconsciously increased the rate of bouncing until the baby quieted and she just continued staring at the walls, through the doorway, out the window across the living room, unaware of anything except the ache in her heart that had been there so long it was
as much a part of her as its beating, not really knowing she lived with this ache for many, many years, only aware of a vague sense that something was missing inside her and that no matter what happened in her life she always, from time to time, became aware of this ache, and would open another coke or light a cigarette or yell at one of her noisy kids, or just stare….
or sometimes she would lean out the window and yell down to her friends sitting on the stoop, or knock on their door, and they would sit and talk and laugh and poke fun and play the dozen and drink soda and smoke cigarettes and for a while she would be unaware of the ache, the vague sense of discontent, but always, sooner or later, it would descend on her and the all pervading feeling of hopelessness and uselessness of being trapped in a life of overwhelming despair, and she would rock back and forth until everything disappeared…the apartment, the noise, the kids, the rats, her body, her mind and all her feelings and all she knew was the absence of all these things and it somehow seemed to be the way it should be…but it was impossible to maintain so she always drifted back into her mind and body, and every other aspect of her life, and opening a can of coke, perhaps changing the babys diapers and allowing the wall to descend, the wall she had been building almost all her life and had to work to keep in repair, the wall that cut her off from being drowned by her feelings and surroundings, by the simple reality of her life, and she/d put the baby on her hip and yell at the kids to shut up or go visit some and laugh.
The Willow Tree: A Novel Page 7
