And I can’t decide if this is so because I’m still pretty dazed, or because lying here on my side feels better, so much better for the cramps. I bet I can figure who it is simply by spotting the reflections, right there in the mirror.
It’s a freestanding mirror, tilted over its feet, set in an ornate oval frame, which is so classy, and like, fit for a queen, and which used to be hers. I mean, his ex-wife. But then, just the thought of it—I mean, the thought of catching sight of myself in her mirror—is like, strange. It gives me goosebumps.
And it isn’t just old wives’ tales, or just my nerves. I’ve seen images of Natasha. Lenny keeps them old pictures stashed away in the drawer, next to his side of the bed, and—like, quite by chance—I found them one day. If not for the age spots spreading over the pictures, and if not for the yellowing, you could swear that face is mine.
So whenever I find myself passing there, by that mirror, I close my eyes, or turn my head away. And I ask myself then, What on earth did he find in me—a simple girl, with no high school diploma, who at times can’t help but making him bored stiff?
What did he need me for—me and my lousy enunciation—when he had already married this woman who, by everything I’ve learned about her, was so fine and so talented, and came from an awful long line of musicians?
And why, why did he tell me, that first time we danced, that I reminded him of a girl he used to know?
Lying here, in what used to be her side of the bed—a side which isn’t mine, at least not yet—I’m thinking about her, worrying, like, Is she gonna come back here, any time soon, to claim her place?
The other day, standing there behind the kitchen door, I could hear Lenny. He lowered his voice when he told his son that yes, she’d been there, in the hospital, visiting him. And I think he said that he’d shut his eyes, just to be focused, to feel her; which is a bad sign for me.
I’m wondering now how much time I’ve lost, and where Lenny might be, ‘cause if not for his injuries, and being stuck now in a wheelchair, I can picture him in my head real easy, pacing back and forth somewhere else right now.
It Is Not Too Late
Chapter 2
I can hear a noise of some kind, clicking awful close to my ear, on the other side, I mean, Lenny’s side of the bed. I try to stay still, because of this dull pain, and because of wondering if, somewhere deep inside, my baby can feel it, too.
Then I turn my head—just a little—and take a peak over my shoulder. I glance real quick at that standalone mirror, which is facing away from me. And what do I see reflected there, if not something that’s, like, so strange to my eyes, so unusual, that it makes me want to blink, or wipe them in awe.
Three squares of fuzzy wool are being held there, suspended in midair. Directly behind them hang three shadows, under which you can see three chubby old women, crinkling their noses—long, longer, longest. They’re straining their crossed, beady eyes with great focus, under three pairs of glasses, and clinking, clinking, clinking three pairs of knitting needles, like, all together now!
And there, on the floor, you can see three balls of thick yarn chasing each other, and from time to time, getting tied in knots, every which way across them fat ankles.
Anyway, at first glance them old women look kinda similar, like a rough, wrinkled copy of each other, what with those high arched, strange eyebrows. I pinch myself, but they’re still there—in the mirror as well as outside of it—no matter how long I try blinking and wiping my eyes. It takes me a while to tell them apart:
The one sitting to the left, she’s toothless. The one in the middle has a pimple on her veined temple. And the one to the right, well, her nose isn’t only the longest, but also the knobbiest of all three.
Wrapped around her neck is a long tape measure, the edges of which roll all the way down and curl there, in her lap, next to a pair of scissors.
All of a sudden, like something has clicked in my head, I know who she is: this is Hadassa Rosenblatt, known to all as aunt Hadassa—though nobody can tell me exactly whose aunt she is anyway—she was the one spreading nasty, awful rumors about me, saying I was dating some other boyfriend, like, behind Lenny’s back.
At the time, I decided to make things real easy for her, and told her there’s no need for her to come to my wedding, and in fact it would be so much better if she’d stay as far as she could from me; which made her sisters, Frida and Fruma, stay home, too. Since then, my mind is kinda at ease—except for wondering, Why the gossip? Why did she try meddling in my affairs? And now, ain’t them three sisters gonna curse me, like witches do, in old children stories?
And what on earth have they been doing here, in my bedroom, sitting behind me, watching me so quiet—so mute like, even—that for the last hour I didn’t hear no squeak out of them? Or else was it me, was I too sleepy, too dazed to notice them?
In a blink of an eye I can tell that aunt Hadassa can tell, somehow, that I’m awake, and that I’ve been watching her for the last few minutes.
So at once, she straightens her back and elbows aunt Frida, who in turn elbows aunt Fruma. And they all nod a slight nod to each other, and each sister in her turn pulls some yarn from her ball and then kicks it, so it goes into a whirl and then settles there, at their feet. All of which seems so smooth, so precise, so much like a chorus line; which reminds me what Lenny told me about their past.
I remember, he said that one of these days, he’d like to finish his story about them, which goes something like this:
Having fled from Poland during World War II, the three Rosenblatt sisters arrived in Paris, where they discovered glamor, or at least the chance for it.
They bleached their hair super blond, so as to put the shtetl, and the horrors they must have suffered, right out of their mind, along with the old way of life.
Around the same time, they changed their names to Brigitte, Monique, and Veronique. Along with their names, they threw out a few other things which had failed to serve them: their long, dark skirts, and their modesty.
Wearing frilly underwear and black stockings, they auditioned for a show at a nightclub, a highly acclaimed nightclub called the Folies Bergère—only to be rejected, because sadly, their dance routine was too nice and conservative; which made them furious, and even more driven to make it.
So with clenched teeth, they learned how to lift their skirts, and flap them about in a highly erotic, flirtatious manner. After several months of hard, painstaking work, the three sisters finally became an overnight sensation.
They ended up joining a cheaply produced show in the nightclub district of Montmartre. Their fame spread. They became known for their fancy cancan costumes, which left them practically naked.
Their earlier, orthodox upbringing didn’t seem to inhibit them in the least. Behind the curtains, they went from one scandal to the next, and had countless affairs.
They never married, or had children. Later, in secret, they told Natasha that at one time Brigitte—also known as Hadassa—had gone through a difficult abortion. She couldn’t afford a real doctor, so who knows what instrument was used there.
Soon after, she’d been kicked out from the show, because sadly, she couldn’t perform the required cartwheel any more, or even the high kicks.
All this is, like, awesome! But me, I find it hard to believe that there was a time when aunt Hadassa could do any of that. To this day, she still wears the black stockings, as do her sisters, and she can keep a beat, an incredibly fast beat, which you can hear by the clicking of her needles. Anyway, she’s declined with age. Her flesh looks doughy, and she’s kinda heavy.
Looking at her makes me decide one thing right away: I’m never gonna grow old! I simply refuse to do that.
Lenny tells me that later, when they moved to the States and settled in Los Angeles, the Rosenblatt sisters became very close to his wife. They adore Natasha, perhaps because of having no kids of their own; which in the end, comes down to hating me.
Of one thing I’m sure: if th
ey could wave a magic wand, or a needle or something, to undo whatever binds us, Lenny and me, to each other—this marriage and above all, this pregnancy—they would do so without thinking twice.
What’s more, they seem to keep a secret among them, when it comes to this question: where’s Natasha? She hasn’t shown up here for the last, say, five years; which is cool with me—but still, strange.
If I ask them about it, which I did at one time, the sisters would find a way to skirt the question. And if I ask Lenny, he would hide the truth, somehow, with a kiss, and anyway, he won’t give me no real answer, either.
All of a sudden aunt Hadassa clears her throat and says, “Nu? Why are you staring at my eyebrows?”
To which I say, “Who, me?”
“Oy, dear! When you’re older, you’ll understand,” she says; which serves only one purpose: to inflame me.
And so I ask, “Understand what?”
Aunt Hadassa wraps the yarn onto the left needle, and loops it around. “Understand this, Anita,” she says. “The thing about eyebrows: it is the first thing to go, when you get older.”
Me, I don’t have nothing to add to this piece of wisdom, to which she adds, “They hang down, I mean, heavily, over your eyes, and show your age, being so droopy and white, and so slick, to the point of resisting any fix, any type of makeup.”
“I’m never gonna grow old,” I state.
Which makes her curl her lips, like she knows something I don’t. “Give it time, dear, give it time! My, my, Anita, you’ll end up just like me, having to pluck them! Pluck-pluck-pluck! And then, just so you can look halfway presentable, paint them right back in, dear—as best you can.”
“Really,” I insist. “It isn’t your eyebrows. It’s that nose on you. That’s the thing that fascinates me.”
Naturally she seems surprised to hear that; which forces me to clarify, “I really, really hate it.”
“So do I,” she admits, for no other reason than to try to appease me.
Now aunt Hadassa slides the knot onto the other needle, and so does aunt Frida, and aunt Fruma too, in her turn. Their arms seem pretty wrinkled, like yesterday’s newspaper.
I lift my pinkie finger and tilt it ever so slightly, as if holding a teacup.
“Hey, aunt Hadassa,” I call. “See here, my hand?”
“What about it?” says she.
Now waving my fist in the air, I say, “I just want you to know that if you ever stick your nose, like, anywhere close to me, or to any of my private affairs, you’re gonna leave me no choice, see, but to punch it. Seriously, that’s one thing I learned from my ma, and I warn you now: I learned it real good.”
“Ha,” she puffs. “Your affairs, they seem to stick out like a sore thumb, and right in our noses, too. It is you who, by fainting at the most ill-advised time, forced this stink on us, on our delicate sensibilities.”
“Why, how d’you mean?” I ask, totally confused.
“Who do you think has been taking care of you all day,” she says, “Ha, princess?” And aunt Frida joins in, “Who has been wiping the dribble from the corner of your mouth?” This, while aunt Fruma chimes in, “And who, do you suppose, has been changing that pad, down in your cute little panties?”
“What?” I ask, in great outrage.
“Yes, dear,” says aunt Hadassa. “Lenny, he found you right there, right outside the kitchen door. He said he’d called you, and called you again, then again, because the omelette, it was almost ready, and you never answered. So he figured you must have left.”
“And the omelette,” she continues, before I have time to catch my breath. “Oy, it was getting cold, and of course it is no good cold, so finally he figured, of course, that he was hungry, because all he had for breakfast was coffee. You know he is sick of your egg salad, right? He never eats it, dear, now does he. Why you keep making it is beyond me!”
By now I’ve opened my mouth to answer, which at once makes her raise her voice. “So,” she says, “he transferred the omelette to a plate, and added some butter on top, and waited a bit, just to let it melt, and to make sure you, dear, were not coming back. Nu, then he just ate it, after which he came out and realized, all of a sudden, that quite sadly, he had been mistaken; that in fact, you were there all along, in the corridor, lying flat on your back, and barely breathing, too. Which is when he picked up the phone and, finally, called us for help.”
In disbelief I say, “Help? I don’t need none of your help! And where, where is he now?”
To which she says, “My, my! He is so exhausted now, after all that excitement, I mean the wedding first of all, and then his stay at the hospital. Too weak, I am afraid, to be of any use! And his son, Ben, nu! What can I say? Men! They managed to lift you, somehow, and carry you to bed. So now, consider yourself lucky, dear, to be in one piece. As soon as we came, they went out.”
“Out? Out where?” I ask.
But in place of an answer she just waves her hand, saying, “I do not wish to lump them all in one heap, but somehow, you see, men can never take care of themselves, let alone take care of us women. They are never there for us when we need them—now are they!”
For a minute I hesitate to ask, “What did you say, just now, about changing my pad? What pad?”
Which makes her lay down her square of wool and say, this time real slow and careful, “You know you are bleeding, right?”
It is then that I try to jump from the bed, because not only do I feel ashamed, even violated, which of course isn’t the first time in my life—but all of a sudden I sense a cramp, just like a stab, down in my stomach, in the same place where so far, the pain’s been dull.
So she hurries over, and places the palm of her hand, like, real heavy, on top of my shoulder. “You can’t do that, dear,” she says, pushing me back, and propping up my pillow—even as I rise up to ask, “Why? Why the hell not?”
“Nu,” she says. “Just be a good girl for me and lie down, nice and easy now, and for God’s sake, be still. Take up knitting if you like. I can bring you instructions,” she adds, “for anything. Baby blanket? Baby socks? Just tell me, dear, tell me what you like.”
Despite her offer, I’m sick of the way she keeps saying dear.
There’s no way for me to know what she means by that, because her tone is like, bitter, and it don’t hardly agree with the sweet taste of this word, and because she keeps repeating it all too often; all of which tell me one thing: aunt Hadassa is torn. She can’t decide between wishing me ill—and helping me back to my feet.
“I won’t lie down,” I say, defiantly. “And I really, really don’t like knitting.”
Her painted eyebrows arch even higher, and I begin to get an uneasy feeling, because at this point, she’s much too close to me, and the light bounces off her needle much too sharply, and now the tip is right here, against my skin, and it scratches.
I point a finger at her, like, right in her face, to make her take note of my nails. “Shove off! Away from me,” I tell her. “I mean it, don’t you dare come any closer to me with them fine needles.”
“I see,” says aunt Hadassa.
She wraps the yarn around her index finger and plucks it, as if to transmit a message by wire. “A feisty little kitten,” she says, “are you now!” At which time aunt Frida asks, “She’s a kitten?” and aunt Fruma confirms, “Yes: a feisty little one!”
By now Aunt Hadassa has stepped back, and with a tight-lipped expression she sits there and starts sewing the three squares of wool together, using some fancy sort of a stitch, and clicking her tongue, and sighing, like, “My, my.”
After doing this for a while, she pushes them glasses up her nose, and raises her eyes to me and says, “I’m trying to talk to you, dear, like I was your ma, you know.”
To which I say, “And what makes you think I need another ma? One’s more than enough! And you, you don’t know nothing about my ma.”
“I guess I don’t,” she has to admit. “But being pregnant is not for sissies
, dear. You must make sure you are strong, like me.”
At hearing this, I can’t hide my disgust. “If this is what strength looks like, I swear, I’m gonna take disease.”
“I see,” says she. “In that case, it’s not too late, you know.”
And before I can ask, “What is?” she goes on to drive the point home.
“I have done it before, and it can make things so much easier for you, because really, you like to run around and have your fun, don’t you. And here you are, poor dear, lying in bed, confined, probably, for weeks, if not months. Now with all this bleeding going on, my, my, who knows what has happened there.”
She points her needle at me, stressing, “Maybe it’s no good anyway, I mean, not viable, if you know what I am saying—”
“Don’t—don’t you dare say it,” I flash a warning at her. “For God’s sake, bite your tongue!”
At that minute, aunt Hadassa picks up the scissors; which is when I suddenly remember that piece of music which I heard with Lenny.
He took me to some opera, Wagner I think, which was long and kinda difficult to get, but he told me to listen, and he explained it all to me, and from there I remember them, the three Norns: They spun the thread of fate, and they sang, like, the song of the future.
Beware, they sang.
Beware, I tell myself now, as aunt Hadassa holds up the yarn, and snips it.
And with a sigh she leans into her feet and gets up. So do her sisters, and all their images in that oval, standalone mirror, right there in the opposite corner.
“Nu, we are going to leave now,” she says. “We are going to hurry out, dear, because we do not want you to tell us we should go. Just think about it, will you? I was just saying... It is not too late, really... You are in pain, dear, I can see it quite plainly. And there is still time to end this.”
My Own Voice Page 2
