by Joshua Cohen
What follows is unsure, from the shock, a reasoned excuse, the mourning, another—as scattered as shards of the gallon’s vessel shattered with the fullness of morning’s milky light that was God and still is, God Who is the vessel, too, though He be plastic and unshatterable, as He is everything and is full of everything, even Himself; glosses scribbled across history’s whitest holiday tablecloth, handwritten writ to be read aloud upon Mondays and Thursdays that are the Law’s second and fifth days of the week, to be debated offhand on the days between that will become as will they all the perpetual Sabbath, in arguments, also, at the table of Paradise, over a brunch of the crow that will be savored as sweet upon the coming of the Messiah and the resurrection of tongues. One source holds thusly. Other sources withhold. This is what’s known. Upon that Shabbos morning, early, Wanda upstairs and so absenting herself from the Underground’s emergency meeting goes, instead, to the kitchen to telephone every number of every person ever represented in what Hanna once called her Other Bible, which is to say her addressbook, overstuffed more than even the most obliging of vessels—delimited but dangerously, contained with clips, and with rubberbands wristed; at hand, the receiver, the phone’s mouthing ear.
It’s an emergency, Saturday desecrated only with the greatest respect. Book on the counter, it counters, how to begin. An immense tome, a testament to the availability of everyone that she, Hanna, had ever met, near met, was who knows how related to, sketchily, pencil under pen revising the margin, Hanna could’ve explained, during her relatively short span of whatever this was: marriage, daughters, son and then, death. Preparations. A volume painstakingly annotated, amended, addended, updated every lie of insomnia, every sit of amenorrhea, revised every turn atop the mattress from one side to the other with the both of them pregnant, with flux of residence, marriage/separation/divorce information (including info for the lawyers of each party, that of the lawyers of the lawyers, too, psychologists PhD, the shrinks of the shrinks, all their mothers and rabbis and yadda), work and offspring notations, appended with birthday, anniversarial, and other dates important to remember if impossible to and so the scrawl here, frenzied scratches made with the weak hand, maniacal blots and crossings, fades, it’s not the pen that remembers, it’s the ink, which is without form but voids, then goes as dry as a mouth open for sleep with her just scratching at the paper as if a knife into stone, looseleafed tablet inscribed with a wound; xreferenced and by memo reminded, additionally notated with every possible system, and any possible means, of getting in touch without truly touching, which is noted impure, many of them decades obsolete, many years. Too intensely large for any of the drawers of the unit countered by the frontdoor, it’s kept if unlocked in a safe, fireproofed, in the closet by that door and obscured by coats for the season, winter or summer depending.
Wanda’s managed to heft the mass atop the formica, to unbound it then open its pages to drift to the floor, which is wet from her rushing, above, Underground—where they’ve been plotting for hours before invisible dawn—filthy from ash and the butts of her cigarettes she now smokes inside with no one to ask her please don’t. Intending to ransack the A’s, to begin with the Adamses, whom Israel’d met at the Bar, at a function of the Inns of Court maybe, or, Hanna would’ve known: there’s probably an indicative abbreviation addressing that quandary herein—and then to work on south through the J’s and K’s to the Z’s, down at the end of the alphabet, where it’s warmer and the sun always shines, phoning everyone that strikes her as halfway Unaffiliated, and so none of those bergs and blatts, these steins or zweigs disconnected, out of service when, finally about to lift the receiver, manicured in the red of distress poised for the dial, the touching of tones, a low thrum zeroes through, a call incoming, and she who wouldn’t even begin to screen picks up, to answer it at pitch.
Hello, you have reached zee Izraelienz!
Alive whoever you are, call me back, will you? I hear the dead get good rates on longdistance.
Wanda dials the number as it appears on the screen for ID, and wouldn’t you know it, it’s PopPop, estranged father of Israel, resident of a world that came into being when God said Miami, it was.
Unlike his wife, who died years ago of some strain of neglect, he’s Affiliated, firstborn and so, a survivor.
Hello, you have reached, she says again when he says, About time!
No call for such snarl, she’s just exorcising instructions—Wanda with the cord coiled around her arm, a snake’s helix hissing its orders from beyond the grave that is silence.
Who, a boy, when was He born, He’s survived, how, no one else did, hymn, who am I, who are you…what’s the name, beautiful, Benjamin…nu, no problem, no problem whatsoever, I’m glad to, send Him on down, fine, that sounds great…make sure you lock everything up…do you know if they’ve left a will…guess I’ll have to find a new lawyer…Christ, just give me a call when you get here—then, we’ll talk about severance. Despite that he hadn’t known until presently of his SonSon’s existence, PopPop’s more than willing to assume responsibility, legal if not especially otherwise, for Him whose bris, which though never needed would never happen, PopPop wasn’t invited to, though he would’ve loved to attend or to’ve sent regrets only, an opportunity to stiff the parents on a gift, a check paid to the order of the happily bouncy, as he’d estranged himself from the family, or them from him: the flamboyant, wristflaunted homosexuality not as much the issue as an unwillingness to appreciate, or even respect, an observant life for his son—now Israel then John, according to some accounts, though others hold Jim, which was James. Affiliated’s one thing, nothing too aberrant about that, we don’t have a say in the matter, I am that I am, but observant, God…and then to think he’s presently dead, John Israel my boy, that he’d died for it, of it and me, what a messy martyrdom, from the rebirth that is conversion, who would’ve thought, that one’s blood could be changed by just a prayer, a bath of the glands and a—why’d he have to go get himself switched?
I myself had that surgery, but…
After they brunch on all that’s left in the basement fridge, leftovers intended last night—even suckling the sponges used to wipedown, then leaving the dishes, utensils, and plasticware stacked in the sink for either Adela or nobody, or else herself upon a successful return—Wanda piles Him into the landrover, Hanna’s: meaty black, chromed, and with the power of hundreds of machined horses, its loin of trunk slash backseat packed to obstruct the windows and mirrors with three changes of clothing in a garmentbag (Israel’s clothes, which Benjamin could only hope to ooze into, even if elasticized, Him, them or both, leave the bottommost button undone), and one outsized piece of luggage Ima & Aba had only ever taken with them once, to Palestein, early in the marriage, monogrammed HI and filled with assorted mementos mori nestled alongside a thermos of the juice of the grape. Photographs, birthcertificate, a fountainpen stuffed in a stocking. Wanda horseshoes out of the drive, onto the street, toward the risen sun then south, toward the Gatekeeper’s not yet beset with the blare of sirens (sweeps had begun in the cities, Developments would deal with their own until reserves could get themselves mobilized). As they approach the hut, Wanda begs an indulgence with a smile betraying, her nerve, nerves, her lips and caffeinatedly browned fallen teeth, the heart of the withered Keeper, too, who as if inspired by miracle or only listless, secularly depressed, raises the guardrail and lets her pass with Him hidingly pushed down to the floor of the landrover, to tongue at the mats, for crumbs of loose change.
Many hold this landroving a violation of the Sabbath and if so, what of it: mass death leaving only one infant survivor must satisfy the minimum requirement of an emergency. A situation, most rabbis would rule, to be immensely forgiven. The two of them sealed in together with climate heat Hi, radio locked on the frequency of the news with the volume knobbed way up past conversation, a hand gloves the wheel, the other grips a beverageless beverage holder as if to stay grounded. Out of Joysey, Turnpike south to I-95—the moment they hit th
e Florida stateline, smash, a dent past the weeping sign, Welcome To—The Sunshine State—No-Fault Divorce—it’s all weather…a snowflake, the ineffable first that falls that night into morning—Sunday, the day after the day that was Xmas—the first that’d fallen in Florida in the lifespan of anyone’s memory, stars their windshield, melts, trickles away into speed. As tradition, as unique and as fragile.
Mortal Beach (say it like you mean it, you know the accent), PopPop Israelien’s retirement facility: a skyscraping tower flanked by two low and white wings that host pools both indoor and out; hedging, wellkempt; the ocean teems just outside. They pull up the lazy drive ranked in palms rubbed together for warmth, then idle. An elderly, unseasonably polyester apparition stoops under a canopy sagging with snow. Him, he’s out of shaped, as if a genital cut into covenant—hung flaccidly, flagging like the form of the state they’re in, dysfunction. Wanda unlocks, helps Benjamin out, approaches with caution, with nothing to say, burdens the luggage about His shoulders and arms with no help from His grandfather, if that’s who he is, who must be when he takes from the pocket of his polyester the rent he’d shylocked last week, a jealous wad, rips from it what feels less than half, best I can do then presses its stack into the palm of the woman to mingle their shvitz: Wanda who refuses at first, as she’d been conditioned, but then, he pushes, understanding the ritual yet hoping for a final refusal, and now and as if a denial or two too early and quickly, Wanda accepts, stuffs the mess down into her dress to lump her another breast between the two that are already abundant, kisses Benjamin distractedly, with only one lip on the fat lip of His forehead, withdraws, hauls herself back into the idling rover, out and through the lot then down the lower drive; slowly going so as to avoid the bodies arrayed, stacked by numbers, floor then unit, corpses asphalted and ready for pickup, under the circling and perch of harbinger birds.
Polaks, PopPop sighs, waving a fist in her wake.
And then, turning to consider Benjamin, raising his voice—don’t slouch, stand straight, chins up, don’t forget to breathe; as the lesser of our prophets advise, enjoy it while it lasts.
A week’s vacation begins with a game, chess, the rules PopPop’s, those of the house, the loser to pay for the delivery they’re expecting, any moment. Miso pepperoni. A large pie topped with anchovy sushi. Carbohydrate with extra cheese. Languorous lo mein. And so he goes easy on Him, slow but not too: there’s no blitz, no other nefarious gambit with three moves to check, four to mate; PopPop relaxing, even offering Him to play white.
In this life, the rules are so seldom explained.
Here, the hope’s to safeguard the King, to protect him no matter the price, even that of the Queen whose room He has, MomMom’s—always and early: pieces are introduced, sent out to allow in the air, pawns like the princes in fairytales He’s never been told, set out into the world in which to find for us their fortunes; then the King, He should shuffle inside, Castling, slamming the heavy door to every heart along the hallway, narrowly longing: needing His solitude, such majestic room or space, crown removed, tarnished, flaking leaf to the ore, only to be cornered in a cloaking nightshirt, gnawing at His nails—thou shalt not removeth thy hand from thy piece…
In Miami, everything exists for Him, even PopPop, who calls Benjamin accordingly: King, the address if he’s angry; more usually he’ll go with your Majesty, in a mocking, patronizing lisp: as in, would your Majesty like to eat now or in an hour, then a smirk, it’s time for your Majesty’s shower or bath, has your Majesty finished His chores, cleaning, sweeping, rag and sponge, time for linner your Majesty, time for your dunch, has your Majesty yet scrubbed His teeth, flossed with the mouthwash, did you forget, it’s your Majesty’s bedtime—or, hours past, which means they’re still playing, the only activity allowing Him to know late, the midnight quirks of the fridge, the toilet tank gurgitation, what bulbs’ve gone out that PopPop’s never replaced because, don’t worry, he’ll tell you, your move.
What PopPop wants to move against: the way Benjamin dawdles a pawn between thumb and forefinger, padding it around, rolling as if snot, pickypaddyrolly, juvenile habits with His tush poorly wiped, though PopPop’s replaced the toilet tissue after each meal already, and there’ve been many; He’ll pottytrain on His own, don’t expect an old mensch who needs changing himself to change Him. The stick, though, isn’t from the tush, or the incontinent nose, rather from the mouth, muncharrheac, His uninhibited snacking during play, eating from the endtable opposite the table of beginnings, of openings, feints, the defense of offense, laden with all sorts of treats, goodies left untouched for maybe three decades, through no less than six moves in residence, sweet-meats, even those sorry kisses they’ve got infused with liqueur, all trayed there treyf probably and only once in an early spontaneous fit of the domestic by PopPop’s late wife, His MomMom: white piece fructified with wishniak candied brilliant, schmeared in nutty fudge, Shoreside saltwater taffy, glopped with grease mandelbrot macaroon; Him swallowing between thoughts as they PopPop says, Kibitz, kvell, kvetch, and schmooze through their game giving way to games, midmove accusations, recants, recounts, and recriminations, though as if suddenly scrupled PopPop throughout avoids talk of His parents, reserving that, thoughtfully, for the breaks between.
When I first met your MomMom, it was only two weeks before her own father would pass—could’ve been Affiliated for what I knew of him, never met him, I wouldn’t have wanted to, even she’d said it was her meeting me and wanting to marry me that killed him…MomMom Israelien, then, as Unaffiliated as it gets, ScotsIrish Assembly of God trash come down with a bad case of the Christ, infected with the Ozark gene, milked on the water of the Arkansas River, had herself died last year on the first night of Hanukah, of cancer of the heart, angiosarcoma and from there, Israel’s concern—not that any of this saddened PopPop, even mattered to him who’d only married her for her to marry not only him but his hidden self, too, as a front for his true sexual orient, which was that he liked people like him (he would’ve married himself or his mirror were that legal, if that would’ve taxwise made sense); and her, she’d married him only because no one else would, or so she had thought, marry her, what with her hunch and the scrunch of her nose and the balding head and the crows that nested under her eyes that loosed their turds to her tongue, which always hung from her mouth, and panted and reeked. Her, she’d never done chess with him, couldn’t, was too dumb or just said she was, thought the pawns just other sampler yummies in attractive presentation, noshables she’d forgotten she’d put out when and for whom, and so this, so enjoyed—the first game PopPop Israelien’s played against anyone other than himself since the advent of his marriage, not even Arschstrong.
Here, Miami of all places, a revelation upon receded land, tribal Miami that’d emerged from the backwater at this nowhere that’s been called Okeydokey, or maybe Suckywayoungy (something or other surely unpronounceable, how do those feathervoiced natives do it?)—with the true indigenous of this city, of this country entire, vomited up from that river only later named for a saint who’d been the husband of the virgin that she gave birth in the manger; each having to cling to a frond of a palmtree to keep from drowning at the dawn of their time—here, the wine thinned out, came watered down, the beard grew back into the face, the nose was absorbed, the foreskin grew out from the shaft. Prior to the tragedy that’d occurred on the anniversary of the day that that virgin gave birth, many had thought that intermarriage, which is the marrying between different peoples, races, religions, would destroy the Affiliated, diluting the blood with another bodily fluid. But, as our scholars remind us, since the blood of the dead has always been transmitted through the mother, at least according to the Law theirs and ours, it’s in truth impossible to sex us out of our birthright, no longer chosen. Though PopPop, being a firstborn, and so a survivor, had been born Affiliated, he’d married later in life Unaffiliated, and so though their son, His father, Israel, was not born Affiliated, was not even born Israel, it’s said, he’d become conv
erted, perhaps unnecessarily though unforced and so—it’s your move, PopPop says, yours; his paternal grandfather, he cheated often, had bishops up his sleeve, you had to watch him, keep him talking, you took your hand off the piece. His MomMom, PopPop’s wife native to a mother whose preacher’s preacher’s preacher had been exiled out to mission her hometown of Lamed, Kansas—or so hold other scholars among us—she’d never thought why to switch sides; PopPop’d never asked, never wanted to ask or wanted her to, in truth he liked her Unaffiliated, held his own Affiliation over her, that dumb, ignorant, uglyilliterate bitch, I loved her, I didn’t, why should she have converted, even if he’d asked her to, it made him feel more who he was, which felt good, even after their son, their only though he wasn’t born Affiliated and so couldn’t survive as firstborn once converted in at least half his blood, had married out, or married in, and which was it exactly—a topic, Is’ decision, not entirely out in the open with his mother, His MomMom, who’d been disappointed, though she wouldn’t complain when they talked, which was never; anyway, His grandfather didn’t like to remember her, alright, and Whose bed am I sleeping in? Did you ever sleep with her in it? and If you did, did the two of you ever pillowtalk about my father? aren’t questions you ask a mensch as old as PopPop, especially if he’s your only living relative, angry, and naked except for a pink robe, ever loosening, with a sash blue & white trimmed in a bloom of lace thorns. Better to keep quiet, sit straight at the board, chins up and take in your surroundings before you’re beaten, and delivery has to be paid for: PopPop’s unit a shvitzshop with its shades down, the heat turned all the way up against the exterior nip; who knew from winterized, that the heating ever worked here. Interiorly, the carpeting covered with samples of other carpet in clashing colors, walls yellowed with pipesmoke except white in the shape where a crucifix hung until the death of His MomMom, the pale patch seeming like the complexion of a clothed, unexposed body, basking out on the wide holy beach just outside. An uncountenanced emptiness hanging over the table on which they match their play to stalemate. Then, the bell rings, and they ignore it as it might only be their deliveryboychick, returning after his shift for the tip they’d purposefully forgotten.
