The Queen Gene

by Jennifer Coburn

  Every time I visited Bernice’s apartment, I was struck by how modern and hip it is. The eye was immediately drawn to a glass patio door that offered a view of the Intracoastal water way. Bernice’s apartment had funky art including wire sculptures, hand-beaded couch pillows, and a World War II era quilt sewn by her grandmother. My grandmother and grandfather were compulsive gamblers and lost quite a few family heirlooms in poker games. My grandmother lost her mother’s quilt in a ladies’ card game, and Aunt Rita reclaimed it twenty years later at a temple rummage sale in Brooklyn. The temple was about a mile from the home where they grew up before Rita and Bernice both moved to Long Island.

  “I’m so happy yaw here!” Bernice said in her thick New York accent. “Sit, sit, let me get you something to drink. You’ve had such a lawng trip, you must be exhawsted.”

  “I can grab some drinks,” Jack offered. “You’ve got a great view here, Bern.” I forgot that this was his first visit to her new place. I went into her bathroom and saw an enlarged black-and-white (really brown-and-white) photograph of Bernice when she was Adam’s age. She was in a light-colored wool pea coat and matching hat, clutching onto a rag bunny. Her cheeks were full and chubby, but the piercing brown eyes and thick brows were recognizably Bernice. It was the 1920s, before the quilt was sewn and lost. Before the Holocaust that my family lived in fear of. Before the two miscarriages that preceded my father’s birth. Before her sister Rita was diagnosed with polio at six weeks old. Next to the large photograph was a framed parchment with calligraphy writing. It was titled, “A Woman of Valor.” On the floor was a pair of satin Chinese slippers with dragons embroidered on the tops.

  Adam walked around the living room, pointing out which areas needed to be baby-proofed. As much as Aunt Bernice wanted to believe that we could simply tell him not to touch her porcelain tea cups, the reality was that the kid was a typical two-year-old. “Come here, mamaleh,” Bernice said to Adam. Amazingly, he complied. He climbed onto her ample lap and let his head sink into her breast. “Yaw mothah used to love when I tickled her arm,” she said as she began to run her perfectly manicured nails up and down the length of Adam’s arm. She was right. I did love that. It put me in such a dreamlike state, it was easy to fall asleep. Both Bernice and Rita offered arm-tickling services, but truth be told, Bern’s were far superior. At about age ten, I figured out that their technique revealed a lot about their personalities. Bernice’s was a slow and sensual stroke that caused me to relax. Rita’s was more of a frenetic scratching, one that often left white trail marks where her nails had clawed. “Is there anything special you two want to do while yaw here?” I knew not to glance at Jack for fear that we would blush. “There are some wondahful shows down here. Nothing like that all that jazz on Broadway, but some lovely musicals. We can go to the dawg races this weekend if you’d like.”

  “Let’s play it by ear,” Jack suggested.

  “The condo shows movies in the community room, you know?” Bernice continued. “It’s Meg Ryan week. Tonight it’s the movie where she’s Einstein’s dawtah but she really loves Tim Robinson who also turns out to be very smart. Tomorrow is You Have Email and Friday they’re showing Sleeping in Seattle. Right after that it’s Harry and Sally.” I’ve never heard my aunt get the title or details of a movie correct, even when she was younger. When I was nine years old, it was Bernice who took me to see my first R-rated movie immediately after defying my mother’s directive not to let me get my ears pierced. She had hers done right after me at Neuman’s Jeweler on Merrick Boulevard, then the two of us went to the Sunrise Mall to see That Barbara Streisand Was Born to Sing, otherwise known as the remake of A Star is Born. I remember watching the screen agape at the sight of half-naked Barbara Streisand and Kris Kristofferson engaged in heavy foreplay. Bernice seemed undisturbed, casually dipping her hand in the popcorn tub. “He is so sexy, don’t you think?”

  Still stroking a zoned-out Adam, Bernice agreed. “Okay, you do whatever makes you happy. This is yaw vacation. Whatever you want to do, we’ll do. You want to sit by the pool and relax, we’ll sit by the pool and relax. You want to wark on the beach, you’ll take yaw wark on the beach. You want to go down to South Beach and people-watch, you’ll go down to South Beach and people-watch. You want to go shopping, we have beautiful shopping. I made up your room so you’ll be comfortable, so whatever you want to do, you’ll do.”

  “Okay,” I said, smiling. The fact that Bernice and Anjoli were not blood relatives was plainly apparent sometimes.

  “You want to get yaw nails polished, there’s a beauty shop downstayahs,” Bernice continued. “You want to exercise yaw bodies, we have a state-of-the-arts gymnasium downstayahs. You want to get a suntan, you’ll sit by the pool and get yaw suntan.”

  “Okay,” Jack said.

  “Whatever you want,” Bernice concluded. At least we thought she’d concluded.

  “It’s yaw time to do whatevah makes you happy.” With that the phone rang. Bernice answered. “Oh hello, Anjoli,” she said before pausing. “Yes, they just arrived safe and sound.” Another pause. “He most certainly is.” She listened. “Yes, the most gawgeous baby. I couldn’t agree maw.” She nodded. “I don’t know yet. I think they want to go to the dawg races.” A moment later, she continued. “Greyhounds.” She stopped to listen again. “Oh no, I’m shuwah they treat them very well.” After another moment, “No, they didn’t tell me about yaw dawg. Well, I’m shuwah they were going to. They just warked in the dooah.” This time Bernice paused for a full minute, nodding her head attentively. “Oh my Gawd, that’s awful. How harrable that must be. Uch, bleeding? Listen, if you think he’s suffering so much, why don’t you have him put to rest?” Silence. “Yes, she’s right here. I’ll get her for you. Good tawking to you. I hope it awl works out for yaw Pez.” She made a kissing noise.

  On the way to dinner, Jack asked Aunt Bernice if she’d be willing to babysit for Adam while he and I went out for a drink.

  “Of cawse!” she said, delighted. “He’s no bothah at awl! We’ll have so much fun, won’t we, mamaleh?” She pulled a five dollar bill from her purse, offering to buy Jack’s and my first round of drinks.

  “Oh, no!” I immediately protested. The guilt was too much. “Please, we’ll be fine.”

  “It’ll be my treat,” Bernice said. “You’ll go to the Diplomat Hotel acraws the street. They have a bawr by the pool with beautiful drinks.”

  In the few hours we had been in Hollywood, Jack and I had already heard an earful about the Diplomat Hotel. “You have to see the Diplomat,” a ninety-year-old woman with a wig and gravelly voice told us as she looked up from her bridge game. In fact, everyone in the card room stopped their respective games to recommend the bar at the Diplomat Hotel. As we were leaving for the restaurant downstairs, our group passed a sea-foam green room where four women were parked at a card table. Two of them were in wheelchairs. It went something like this:

  Bernice: Ladies, I don’t want to interrupt yaw game, but I want to introduce you to my niece and her family. This is Lucy, my brothah’s dawtah, her husband Jack, and their little boy Adam. This is Ina, Ezra, Fanny, and Sylvia.

  Ina: Oy, so beautiful! And look at that baby. What’s his name?

  Sylvia: (shouting) It’s Adam.

  Ina: Eh?

  Ezra: (shouting louder) It’s Adam!

  Sylvia: Where are you visiting from?

  Bernice: New Yawk. They just got in today.

  Lucy: Actually, we moved to the Berkshires a year ago.

  Bernice: Just say New Yawk. What do they know from the Berkshires?

  Ezra: I know the Berkshires. We spent every summer there. It’s lovely.

  Jack: (Inhales to speak, but is unable to begin.)

  Ina: Now it’s not so gorgeous with all that snow. They can keep their Berkshires with all that cold.

  Ezra: What’s the matter with your ankle?

  Me: I sprained it hiking.

  Ina: Uch, these kids and their hiking. They can keep their m
ountain climbing. It causes nothing but broken bones.

  Bernice: After dinnah, they’re going out for cocktails while I play with the baby.

  (Collective gasp)

  Ina: You’re going to the Diplomat, of course!

  Sylvia: Of course they’re going to the Diplomat, where else would they go? It’s across the street and they have such a beautiful bar by the pool.

  Ina: Whenever my grandchildren come to visit, they stay at the Diplomat.

  Ezra: It’s a lovely hotel. They re-did it.

  (Collective head nodding)

  Sylvia: Come back tomorrow and tell us all about it. Oh do I love that Diplomat!

  (Jack and I smile)

  Bernice: Come on, you two. Stop yapping and let the ladies get back to theyah game.

  * * *

  As Jack and I headed out the door that evening, my heart raced with fear. Bernice told us not to worry about Adam a bit, but the truth was I was scared that I might faint from nerves. “Just wark across the street. It’s ten dollahs to park in their fancy garage. Who needs it when you can wark?”

  “Um, we might not go to the Diplomat,” I said.

  Jack shot me a look as if to ask why I had said a word.

  “Not go to the Diplomat?!” Bernice asked incredulously. “Why wouldn’t you go to the Diplomat? It’s lovely. There’s a bar right by the pool.”

  “I know, it’s just —”

  Jack saved me from the inevitable stammering that would have followed. “We might want to try something different. Someplace less touristy.”

  “Less tawristy? What makes you say the Diplomat is tawristy?” Bernice asked.

  “I don’t know,” Jack began. “The fact that it’s a hotel.”

  “It’s a beautiful hotel,” Bernice said, now pursing her lips with disapproval. “They re-did it.”

  “We’ve heard,” Jack said. “Listen, we may end up there yet. Who knows?”

  “Who knows?” Bernice muttered. “They could go to a bar right next to a pool at the Diplomat, but that’s not good enough for these two big shots.”

  Rita’s absence was felt when no one added, “Imbeciles.”

  Chapter Six

  The next morning, as Jack, Bernice, Adam, and I were waiting for a table at the International House of Pancakes, my aunt asked us if we had a good night out. Jack nodded, still tired from our adventure outside our normal lives. “Where did you wind up, the Diplomat?” Bernice asked Jack.

  “Um, no,” he returned. He was groggy from getting to bed late, then listening to Bernice’s leaky faucet all night.

  “Where did you go?” she pressed.

  “A local bar,” Jack answered.

  “What was it cawled, this local bar of yaws?” Bernice asked.

  Sheepishly, Jack answered, “I don’t remember.”

  “You don’t remembah the name?” Then turning to me, she asked if I remembered the name. I nodded that I did. “Well, what was it cawled?”

  “I’ll tell you later,” I said, glancing at the assortment of Floridian chubsters in the waiting area. I felt positively svelte here. Last night I felt like a Telletubby.

  “Why laytah?” Bernice demanded. “Why can’t you tell me now?”

  “Uh, I gotta go to the bathroom,” Jack said, walking away.

  “I’ll tell you later,” I said, shooting glances at Adam.

  “Why can’t you tell me in front of the baby?” Bernice asked. “Where in God’s name did you people go last night?!” I shushed her and promised I’d tell her later. “Tell me now!” she demanded.

  I mouthed the words a strip joint.

  “You went to a steak joint?” Bernice asked loudly.

  I placed my finger over my lips and tried to contain my laughter. “A strip joint,” I whispered.

  Her eyes popped open and her mouth dropped. “A strippah club?” she whispered. “Why would you do something like that?”

  “I’ll tell you later,” I assured her. I never saw a person eat pancakes faster.

  * * *

  An hour later, we stood in the shallow end of the condo swimming pool as Jack and Adam splashed in the kids’ wading pool. “What made you go to a strippah club?” Aunt Bernice wore a black Lycra one-piece swimsuit with a skirt that came to her mid-thigh and a white swim cap with large pink daisies on it.

  “I don’t know,” I said, watching the sun dance, casting a mosaic of light on Bernice’s turkey neck. “I’ve always been curious about what goes on in strip clubs. It’s like this secret world women aren’t supposed to enter, where none of the rules of the outside world apply. There’s something erotic about that.”

  “Do you think you’re part lesbian?” she asked.

  I laughed. “Nah. You’d be surprised how many other female customers were there.”

  “Really?” she asked.

  “Really.”

  “What kind of women would go to a place like that?” Bernice asked.

  “I don’t know. Women who are curious. Women on dates. Women who were checking it out as a place to work.”

  “Oy, women on dates!” she said. “If your Uncle Irv evah took me to a strippah club, there would be no marriage.”

  “Really?” I asked. “You’ve never been even a little curious about what goes on there?”

  “Nevah!” she said. “I do have one question, though.”

  “Shoot.”

  “String panties or totally nude?”

  “Totally nude,” I answered.

  “And what about the pubic hayahs?” she asked. At that point, Sylvia’s thick pearlescent toenails approached the poolside. She came by to ask how we enjoyed the Diplomat last night. “They didn’t go to the Diplomat,” Bernice answered, rushing off her friend.

  “They didn’t go to the Diplomat?” she said as though I wasn’t right there.

  Hurriedly Bernice nodded. “They went to a local place. We’ll see you laytah, Sylvia.”

  “Oh that reminds me, Bernice,” Sylvia said. “Sally Schimpkin can’t make it to bridge next Tuesday because she has to take Fred to get his dialysis shunt put in. Can you give me a ride, please?”

  “Of cawse, dawling. Now if you’ll excuse us, my niece was catching me up on family mattahs.”

  Sylvia was offended. “Oh, I see. Fine. I’ll let you get back to your family matters.”

  Bernice turned her head back to face me so quickly, I swore I heard a swoosh sound. “Anyway, what about the pubic hayahs?” she asked.

  “What about them?” I returned.

  “Do they shave them awl awf or do they do those pubic hayah stripes?” Bernice asked.

  “Some of each,” I said.

  “That must help keep theyah vaginers cool in the summah,” Bernice offered. “It gets very humid in Florida and if you have a lot of hayah, it can get very muggy down theyah.” I nodded, not sure of how to respond. “What type of girl would be a strippah?”

  “I don’t know,” I said, shrugging. “Women who like to dance, women who like money, women who don’t mind being naked around a lot of guys. Money-loving, dancing exhibitionists, I guess.”

  Bernice made a face as if I was crazy. “I mean what kind of goil would lowah huhself like that?”

  “Oh don’t say that,” I said, feeling oddly protective of the dancers we met the night before. “It’s only if you buy into the whole idea that nudity and sexuality are somehow bad and dirty that you consider a stripper as lowering herself.”

  “You don’t think it’s lowering her moral standards?” Bernice asked. I shook my head. “Then it’s raising them?”

  “Bernice!” I said. “It’s neither lowering nor raising them. It is what it is and that’s all that it is.”

  My aunt exhaled in frustration. “What about their breasts?”

  I contained my smirk. “What about them?”

  “Awl celluloid?”

  “Some,” I answered, playfully keeping it brief. “Listen, I know you have no curiosity about the whole thing, so I’m going to go join Ad
am and Jack in the kiddie pool.”

  “Okay, but answer one more question for me,” Bernice asked. “Do they sit on yaw lap?”

  “Only if you pay extra,” I said. “Okay, I’ll be go —”

  “I’ll bet it’s hard to walk in those Ho Chi Minh shoes,” she said.

  “Ho Chi Minh shoes?” I knit my brows.

  “Those glass slippahs that make you look like a Ho Chi Minh.”

  “Do you mean Hoochie Mama?” I asked.

  “Hoochie Mama, Ho Chi Minh, you knew what I meant.”

  I shrugged. “Look, walking in anything with heels is hard for me with this ankle,” I reminded her.

  “What kind of men go to strippah clubs?” she continued.

  “Guys with dicks,” I quipped. “Straight guys with dicks.”

  “Were there any fights?” Bernice asked.

  “Fights?”

  “I can imagine those mowtahcycle hoodlums with earrings and tattoos fighting ovah the girls,” Bernice said.

  “Aunt Bernice, you make it sound like a rated-X version of the Pirates of the Caribbean ride at Disney. There were no fights. Let me explain something to you,” I began, now an authority on strip clubs. “Guys go there, and they don’t say much. They are completely and solely focused on watching naked women. If they chat with their friends, or start fighting with other guys, it takes attention away from what they’re there to do.”

  “Look at naked goils!” Aunt Bernice finished with the excitement of a child who just answered a tough question correctly.

  “Exactly.”

  “Do you think yaw Uncle Irv evah went to one of these places?” she asked.

  “Aunt Bernice, I couldn’t know.”

  “Then guess.”

  “Okay, if I had to guess, I’d say yes.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes,” I said. “But I’m sure he hated every minute of it.”

  “What about my son?” she asked.

  Oy.

  And on and on the list went. Bernice asked me about every male member of our family — including uncles I hadn’t seen in more than a decade. She then moved on to ask about the men in the condo, from the security guards to Mark Abramowitz, who was sunning his global belly by the pool as we spoke.