She tickles his earlobes and he smiles. “So let me do this for you, he says. “Today I will make you an omelette, a big one, like you have never tasted before. Don’t say No, Anita.”
“Mrs. Kaminsky,” she corrects him, playfully.
“Yes, indeed, sweetheart,” he says, because it is so easy to please her. “Now go, go already, put some clothes on you, my dear, slightly pregnant Mrs. Kaminsky.”
Up to this moment no one has told me anything, in a precise and direct manner, about her pregnancy. Maybe they decided to let me figure things for myself, if I can; which makes me feel a little indignation. The entire situation is new and baffling to me. Also scary, somehow. I am ashamed to admit that I have no clue, looking at this woman, how far along she might be.
She does not look pregnant, not in the slightest, does she.
My father is no longer grouchy—but now I am. I am mad, really: mad at him, mad at Anita. With burning eyes I try to pierce through her, even as she places herself, ever so slowly, deeper in his embrace. In this position I can spot, for the first time, the round line of her belly.
There: now she freezes. Anita stands still, and so does time. Then, by barely perceptible degrees, it is starting to happen: each of her limbs softens, and then changes position—at the slightest measurable angles—until she is about to release herself, perhaps with the thought of turning, little by little, towards the door.
She seems so vulnerable. With a penetrating gaze, I imagine laying my hands on that shirt, which hangs so loosely around her. I strip her of that thing, and cast it aside. In my mind she is bathed in morning light, and naked. I imagine seeing clear through the skin, that fair, translucent skin of her belly. I wonder then if it is as freckled as the tip of her nose. Then I lose control over my fantasy. Somehow, it takes an unexpected turn.
Eyes closed, I immerse in darkness, the deep, dense darkness of her flesh, which is moist and marbled, here and there, by blood vessels. I find myself floating inside. And the pulse, which at first was but a faint echo in my ears, is now becoming more pronounced, as if—even without knowing where I am headed—I must be getting there. I lose myself, blindly and completely, in the beating of that sound. And it is then that finally, I arrive.
The void is here, encased by a slippery, glistening lining, which is streaked by tiny veins all around me. A swoosh can be heard, and I sink into the wave, sensing that something new, strange, even menacing is beginning to take shape here, in these lukewarm waters, something for which I am still struggling to find a name.
A cell? No, not as simple as that. A threat, I say to myself, a new threat for me.
I open my eyes and at once, fear awakens in me. No, not just fear—but something more severe, something like a rage, a murderous rage. Right now it is a vague emotion, still without form.
I do not even want to know at whom it is aimed—but I recognize that it is fueled, in part, by desire. It turns me white with anguish, as if I have just walked through glass, shattering it—or let my fingers spread open, dropping an egg to the floor, or a fossil, the fragile fossil of a fetus.
I move the knife away from me and—trying to avoid any rush moves—I turn to take a look at Anita: her outline is framed, for an instant, by the kitchen door. The next instant she is gone.
It is then that I ask myself, with great agitation, What is it? What has happened here, to grip me in such agony, such panic, even? And I hesitate to give myself an answer, because it makes no sense to come out and say it—but all the same, this I know: that cell floating inside, in the dark liquid of her womb, and constantly growing, constantly multiplying with such vigor, such aggressiveness, will soon become me. I mean, a copy of me:
Perhaps even better than me, because at this point I am already worn out. I am not a boy anymore, which is something that by now, I have learned to regret. At twenty-seven years old I am unsure, somehow, of my own direction, my own purpose in life. For fear of looking like a complete failure, I cannot tell anyone about this—least of all my father.
I have no one, really, no one to whom I can turn.
Trying to regain my calm I tell myself, Don’t be stupid. You have nothing, absolutely not a thing to worry about. You sense danger where there is none. What is the threat in that cell, that minute, insignificant matter which, by now, is probably no bigger than a sesame seed, or a grain of salt?
And as soon as I hear me say, Don’t be stupid, I remember being six years old. I remember having the same sense of panic, and trying to calm myself in the exact same way, when mom went to the hospital, saying, “Be a good boy for daddy, and how would you like me to bring you something, a little surprise?”
I remember then, that she came back empty-handed. I was careful—very careful—not to ask her where my surprise was, because I could tell that she had no answers. Mom laid in bed many days, with eyes red and swollen with tears.
And later—when she finally got up, and by accident she saw the baby carriage, my old, crooked baby carriage which dad had fixed up and cleaned and polished, and from which he had removed all the rusty spots—then a shudder passed through her. And she turned away and went back to her bedroom. It was there, through the keyhole that I saw her, folded up on the bed, as if there was a great pain in her.
I gaze at my father, trying not to think about his new wife, this woman, Anita, who managed to displace my mother; trying not to cringe with the expectation—no, the certainty—that so will this new, fresh copy of myself. My brother. My rival. Once born, he will displace me, in my dad’s arms and in his heart.
“So, can you help me, Ben?”
I turn in the direction of the voice, surprised to see the wheelchair at the other end of the kitchen.
“So, can you get me a bowl?” asks my father.
And having asked it, and then having to repeat the question once or twice, he seems equally surprised, as he studies the blankness of my stare.
I do not lift a finger. In my mind I can already see him—or rather, the ghost of him—walking proudly down the street behind a baby carriage, so the whole town can see this newborn and adore him. And I ask myself, What is my place in that picture. Where the hell am I.
By now, my father has managed to maneuver around the counter, in the direction of the refrigerator. Out of its open door he takes out a carton of eggs, and turns his head over his shoulder, asking, “So, Ben, how many for you?”
“Never mind,” I tell him. “I lost my appetite. No omelette for me.”
N Over L
Chapter 4
Already she has a blue mark on her arm, and another one on her thigh, maybe more. And it is unclear at this point if these have happened earlier, when she collapsed, or in the last five minutes since my father found her, during which he has been trying, in vain, to lift her by himself. When the fact finally occurred to him that in his condition, he was too clumsy for the task, he made up his mind to call for help and so, here I am.
Anita is lying there, legs folded, in the worst possible corner in this corridor, which is poorly lit and even worse, poorly ventilated. I slip one hand under her back, and another one under her knees, and pick her up. I find myself surprised not only that she has fainted all of a sudden, not only that she is now in my arms, her head bobbing up and down over my shoulder with each step I take—but more than anything, surprised at how light her body is.
How can she be pregnant, I ask myself, and immediately answer by asking, What do I know. Her heart must be working harder now, working for two, really. No wonder she is lightheaded. Anita, I guess, is off-balance because for her, this must be a time of change.
Once inside their bedroom I lay her down, roll her knees over to the center of the bed, turning her away from the edge, and place a pillow under her head. Then I rise away from her, to throw the windows open.
Hearing the squeak of his wheelchair behind me, I turn to my father. I look at him as if to say, Well, what now? And he returns a look with an equal measure of confusion, as if to ask, Look, Ben, ca
n you tell, is she breathing?
I snatch a small, hand-held mirror from the dresser by her side and feeling important—at least as important as a TV brain surgeon—I hold it to her mouth. “Yes,” I report, because in no time, the glass has become clouded. “So? Now what? Shouldn’t you call someone, or take her to an obstetrician? I mean, just to make sure—”
“I’ll call aunt Hadassa,” he says. “For sure, she will know what to do.”
I can hear the wheels turning on his way back to the hall, then, a dial tone, and his voice. “Listen, there’s a problem,” he says, in an urgent tone. “Yes. No, this time it's not me. It’s Anita.”
There is a brief pause, after which he goes on to say, “Well... I wish I knew. No. I have no idea what happened, exactly. She was making breakfast, fussing over it in her own, excessive way. And she was just fine. I mean, she was fine one moment and then, the next moment she is lying there, flat on the floor. Just like that. So, can you come? I need you here. Who said you are not welcome? Why, now what gave you that idea?”
He pauses to listen and then, in a reassuring tone of voice, he promises, “Really, you are. Yes, you are welcome here. Always. And Frida. Yes, of course. And Fruma too,” he says, sounding as if all three of these women have just descended, with a heavy thud, right on top of his shoulders. “Absolutely. Listen, this is no time for games. Well, seriously now, when will you be here?”
The conversation drags on in the background. Meanwhile, I bend over Anita to check her pulse. I place a wet towel over her feverish forehead, and unbutton her shirt, to make sure she can breathe with no obstructions.
I try to avoid looking at her body—but still, I can see the ticklish point under her chin, and the long line of her neck, which is plunging into the collar, and the jugular vein fluttering there, and the nipple, half of which is peeking out from the shadow, down there under the opening of the shirt.
Her ribcage starts flaring up now with rapid, disorderly breathing, as if to escape a nightmare. This, I figure, is something she must face alone. And so I turn away from her and take a searching look around the room.
For the most part, it looks familiar: the same freestanding, oval mirror, tilted there, in the corner. The same four poster bed, which as I recall, was delivered in boxes from a manufacturer in North Carolina, and which took my parents two days to assemble, because the instructions were, unfortunately, less than clear, and so they nearly gave up.
Still, there are a number of changes here. First, I miss seeing their wedding portrait which, years ago, used to be displayed quite prominently, in a thick, richly decorated frame, suspended from a nail right there, above the headboard. All that remains of it now is some plaster, smeared in a rough, hasty manner, in a sloppy attempt to fill in the hole of the nail; also, a rectangular outline up on the wall, where the frame used to hang, and where the paint still retains its dark, nearly original tone; while around the edges, the paint has faded a long time ago.
And second, I miss seeing the pure white silk sheets, which used to wrap so neatly, so tightly over this bed. They were embroidered in the corner with an elegant monogram, designed, of course, by my mother. It was an overlay, I think, interlacing two glyphs: a slanted, longhand N, combining some of its decorative strokes with an L: Natasha over Leonard.
These sheets have been replaced, recently, with a royal blue bedspread. Pretentiously royal, I should say. It reminds me of a storm at sea, because of the color, I guess, and because of the folds rising and sinking here every which way, as if a gust of wind has blown across the surface, creating friction between that which is air and that which is fluid, and drawing ripples all around.
And there, lying on top of them is Anita, the woman who displaced my mother. Her rest, if you can call it that, is agitated—but then, at the sound of my father’s voice, coming faintly from the other end of the apartment, she spreads open her hands and her face brightens. She seems to relax, even smile.
From here, it sounds as if there is some distress in his voice. “This is Lenny,” he says, starting a different conversation now.
I can see how her eyelashes start flickering, ever so lightly, over the freckles.
“It’s me,” he repeats, to someone out there. “Me, Len.”
My father talks now with an unusually slow manner, and with clear intervals, stressing every word; which makes me curious. I wonder who is it now, who is at the other end of the line.
He lowers his voice, but I can still hear him saying, “Just listen, dear. It’s me. It’s Lenny.”
By now Anita is trying to open her eyes, if only by a crack. I have no idea if she could hear anything, or if she has caught sight of me. I wonder, can she see my outline, can she make it out against the bright sunlight in the window, and does she recognize, through the narrow interval between her eyelids, who I am.
So I whisper to her, “Anita...” which makes her nod her head.
“I carried you here,” I say, “because you were dizzy. I mean, you fell.”
She mumbles a long sentence, most of which I can barely understand.
“So, how are you feeling?” I ask. “Any better, now?”
Anita opens her mouth and out comes a big yawn.
I wait for an answer and before long, I can hear her purring softly, and from time to time, shivering slightly in her sleep. The rhythm of her breathing is regular now. So I unfurl the blanket over her, and cover her up to her ears.
I imagine my father standing right here, in my place at the foot of the bed. I step back and in my mind, picture him taking a step forward, lifting the edge of the blanket, which is still settling over her.
His hands go in, searching playfully for her feet, touching the creamy skin, fondling her toes, rolling each one of them ever so slightly between his fingers; which makes her arch her back, stretch out her arms, and twist her body around until she is turned over, on her back. She points her toes towards him with a cry of pleasure.
Anita utters a groan as he applies gentle pressure to the soles of her feet, caresses the arches, the heels, the ankles. Her knees spread open and fall apart, until she takes control of herself and brings them together—only to have them spread open again.
I close my eyes because this way, I can see with greater clarity. The entire blanket is coming alive, folding and unfolding, stirring with their passionate tangle. From time to time the ripples rise to mark the line of his back, or the curve of her embrace.
Waves come and go, crests roll in, followed by deep troughs, all giving a hint here, a hint there of the ways of their bodies, aching for each other, desperate to cling, to hold, to be taken.
Then, in my mind I conjure up the missing presence. The presence of the forgotten woman.
I gasp, for there she is: mom steps in from the shadow behind the mirror. Even if I try, I cannot grasp her. She advances slowly until she is standing right here, a few steps removed from the bed, tired, covered with a fine layer of dust, the dust of a long travel. By now it has caked on her face, because of the sweat that has already dried up. And in that crust, a crack here, a crack there bring out the crow feet by the corners of her eyes.
There is a stack of sheet music in her hands, which mom lets scatter in her path across the floor. Perhaps by now she has grown weary of her journey. I imagine it has been a while since she heard an ovation, since she took her bow in front of a crowd. And now, somewhere out there, a kid must be playing, practicing notes which are drifting in through the open window, out of sequence, confused.
She is wavering in her mind whether she should stay here, in this bedroom—which is hers after all—or walk out the door.
Finally, her exhaustion weighs in. Mom looks around her for a quiet place, and as if she were a stranger, she tiptoes—so as not to disturb—to the corner of this bed, where she turns her back to the two of them.
Her weight makes barely a dent on the mattress. She curls herself, tightening her arms over her knees and interlacing her fingers, which helps her keep loneliness
away. Then she starts falling asleep, in the same place where the monogram—Natasha over Leonard—used to be.
It is then that I open my eyes and walk out of the room, closing the door behind me as softly and as gently as I can.
A Woman, Forgotten
Chapter 5
From here I see the wheelchair, deserted. My father has managed to rise from it and now I can hear him down the hall, cackling in victory over this thing, this contraption, this symbol of his handicap, which is despicable to him. He is trying to walk. More precisely, he is swinging his crutches, a bit precariously I think—and in return, he is being swung by them, back and forth and over and again, making a small advance, a minute one really, with each attempted step. For him, this must be a dance of triumph.
Stopping for a moment by the console table he dials, listens, and redials. His ear is pressed to the handset, which is connected by a long, spiral cord to the phone, which is nearly buried by various papers, and hidden behind an old alarm clock. The cord is stretching tensely in midair, or slithering behind his back as he goes back to hobbling to and fro across the floor.
There he goes, reaching the wall, banging it accidentally with the bottom of the crutch and then, somehow, turning around, aiming to reach the opposite wall and bang, turning around again, while listening intently to the earphone. With each footfall, my father attempts to cut through some stutter. He tries, it seems, to restart a conversation.
He pays no attention to me. Still, his voice is deliberately lowered, which tells me this is private. I should turn away, really, and keep myself far out of earshot—but for some reason I make no move, and no sound either. Why is the connection so bad, I wonder, and who is it, who could it be at the other end of the line?
The White Piano (Still Life with Memories Book 2) Page 4
