by Evergreen
"I'd like to go to your office and the movie. But not to the party."
"All right, we won't talk about it now." He bends to kiss her. "Are you sleepy now? Will you go right to sleep if I turn off the light?"
She nods and he turns out the light. But she isn't sleepy. She lies in the dark and her thoughts rush.
Lots of times during school vacations, Papa takes them to his office. Papa is proud of Maury in his navy blue suit and cap, of Iris in her good coat that has a beaver collar, of the braces on their teeth. He takes them into the private room where he has a great mahogany desk, just like Mr. Malone's across the hall.
Mr. Malone is fat and tells jokes. He keeps a box of chocolates in a drawer. The Malones are like family; when Mama had her appendix out Mrs. Malone came to the hospital every day. They live in an apartment quite nearby, except that theirs has more rooms because they have so many children. These children are all big and healthy looking; Iris feels weak and sallow in their company, as though they could see the shoulder blades under her dress, like the frail wings of birds when you pull the feathers back. The Malones like Maury, as everyone does. He goes all over their apartment, looking at stamp collections and baseball cards, eating cake in the pantry. Iris sits with the grownups until Mrs. Malone calls the daughter who is nearest Iris' age. "Mavis," she says nicely, "why don't you take Iris into your room and show her the doll house?"
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And Iris goes, knowing that Mavis doesn't want her, knowing she ought to say something lively and unable to think of anything to say at all.
Mama goes on talking in the Malones' living room. She can always talk to people, to Mrs. Malone's sister who is a nun, to Ellen and Margaret at home, to a cranky saleswoman in a shop. People always smile at her. Papa says her voice is like a bell; it is one of the first things he ever noticed about her. "Most women yap and shrill like busy little dogs," he says.
Yes, he loves Mama, it's plain to see. He's always talking about how smart she is and what a wonderful cook, much better than Margaret who gets paid for doing it. He boasts about her beautiful red hair and was upset for three days after Mama had it cut off.
Yes, he loves Mama; he talks about her too much. "Listen to your mother, Iris," he says, "your mother knows what's right!"
But tonight he is angry at Mama. They are quarreling inside. She hears them now, in their bedroom. Good, good. I'm glad he's angry at her.
"It's mighty queer," Papa says. "I don't know who it is that you've got it in for, the mother or the son? You get all stiffened up whenever those people are mentioned."
"I do not!" Mama screams. Iris has never heard her shriek like that.
"Yes, you do! It makes me wonder sometimes what the devil went on in that house to make you react like this? Can't even mention a chance meeting, won't go to the woman's funeral. I can't make head or tail of it—"
The door slams. There is more loud talking that Iris cannot distinguish; then the door is opened again and she hears Papa say, "Very well, I suppose it's just false pride. You've risen in the world and don't like to be reminded—"
"Will you leave me alone!" Mama cries.
Then there is silence.
A long time later the door to Iris' room is opened. A wedge of light comes in and widens. Her mother walks over and stands by the bed.
"Iris?"
She does not answer.
"Iris, you're awake. I can tell by your breathing."
"What do you want?"
Her mother sits down on the bed and takes Iris' hand, which
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lies in hers, not moving. "I wanted to come in and hold your hand before you fell asleep."
Her face is partly turned away, but Iris sees that her eyes are funny; they look swollen. "Have you been crying, Mama?"
"No."
"Yes, you have. Was it because I told about that lady and that man?".
"What lady and what man?"
Pretending again! "You know!" Iris says crossly. "The lady who died."
"No," says Mama, looking away.
Then something rises in Iris, something she has never felt before. It is a kind of softness, feeling sorry for Mama.
"I did it on purpose," she says. "I wanted to make Papa angry at you."
"I know."
"Aren't you angry at me?"
"No. We all have feelings sometimes of not liking people, or wanting to hurt them."
She wants to say, I'm sorry I can't love you as much as Papa. She says instead, "Papa wants to buy me a new dress for your party, but I don't want to come in and meet all the people."
He always calls her in when they have company. She has to stand alone in the doorway while all the people, the ladies in their perfume and bracelets, sit in a row around the room, their faces turned to Iris as she stands there being looked at.
"I don't want to," she repeats. "Do I have to?"
"No," Mama says. "You don't."
"Do you promise? No matter what Papa says?"
"I promise."
"Because I hate it! I hate it!"
"I understand," Mama says.
She sighs with relief. "I feel sleepy now," she says.
"Do you? That's good." Her mother goes out and closes the door very softly.
She could not then have known what she knew much later: that her father in his blind love lied to her, maybe not even realizing that he did. He lied when he called her a queen, for she had been no queen then and never would be. He lied when he talked of the great things she would do and the people she would 'show.' She
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would be embarrassed to remember how foolish his loving words had been.
But Mama gave no false hopes. Mama was often ill at ease with Iris, that was plain to see. For this Iris was often to feel great anger, to feel that she could really hate her mother. And at the same time she knew that they were and always would be as closely attached as the fingers to the hand and the hand to the arm. How could she have understood such things when she was nine years old? It was only after passing through a great deal of life that she would understand.
Yet perhaps in a way, though surely she could not have expressed it when she was just nine, perhaps in a way she did understand it, even then.
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Nothing was done by any of the family in that house, or outside of it, that his father didn't know about. Maury felt sometimes as though his presence was everywhere, even when he wasn't at home. Some of his friends didn't like their fathers; one or two really hated them. Some of them felt that their fathers weren't interested in them. That was not true of Maury and Pa. He was interested in everything about Maury: his friends or his teeth or his manners. He taught him how to tie a tie. He showed him how to shake hands: "A man gives a firm handshake, as if he means it," he said.
Pa took Maury to his barber because he didn't like the way the old one cut his hair. They played checkers and Pa had promised to teach him to play pinochle, although Ma didn't approve. But Maury knew he would teach him anyway. Sometimes they wrestled on the living-room floor—his mother didn't approve of that either— and although Maury was almost as tall as Pa, Pa always won. His muscles were like iron. "That's from years of labor," he said, and now he kept up with exercises every morning. Once Maury saw him pick up a heavy man who had fallen in the street and carry him to the sidewalk all by himself.
But Maury wished Pa wasn't so interested in him. Sometimes he wished Pa would just let him alone. Iris, that stupid whining kid, could talk him out of anything. Not Maury; Maury had to 'toe the mark.' That was one of his expressions. Another was 'measure up,' an expression that Maury hated.
I
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This morning Maury was angry, mad-angry, because he had to go with Pa to visit his grandmother. She was in an old-age home.
"Aw, gee," he said, "do I have to go? A bunch of us were going to the rink this morning."
"Of course you have to go," his mother said. "You haven't seen your grandmother in months, and she's asked for
you." She handed Maury his tie and jacket and got his good camel-hair coat out of the closet. She was all rushed and anxious. "Hurry, hurry, your father's already got his coat on. You know he can't stand being kept waiting!"
Maury strained into his sleeve. "Washington's Birthday, and I have to waste it! When do I get a whole day off to go skating?"
He knew that, if it were up to her, she'd let him go. She did look sympathetic for a moment, but then she said cheerfully, "Go, go. It won't be so bad," and pushed him to the front door where his father was ready to leave.
She remembered something. "Wait, wait, Joseph," and thrust a flowered tin box into Maury's hands. "I baked cookies for your grandmother. I'm sure they don't get such wonderful food in that place."
She kissed his father. She was tall, her face was on a level with his father's. In the morning she wore loose robes, blue or yellow or pale green like the insides of bonbons. Her clothes smelled sweet like candy. His father was all dark, except for the white shining board of his collar. He wore dark suits, sometimes a blue that was almost black, sometimes a gray that was almost black, a hard round derby hat and black shoes.
It was cold this morning; they felt it even in the elevator shaft as they went down to the street floor, and then the wind blasted and slammed them across the sidewalk to where the chauffeur held the door of the car.
"We're going up to the home, Tim," Pa said.
"Yes sir, Mr. Friedman." Tim always touched his cap and asked whether it was cold enough today. Then he went around to the front of the car and swung into the driver's seat.
The home where Maury's grandmother lived was on the fringes of the Bronx. Once it had been open country but now it was empty lots, with scatterings of new brick row houses and stores. It looked unfinished. Maury didn't know anybody who lived here and he only came here to visit his grandmother, which was not very often. It had been a year since he had seen her last, just before his Barmitsva,
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when his father was so upset because she wasn't able to commd 'see this day.'
"car runs like a charm," Pa said. He lit a cigar. He always had half a dozen rich black ones in the inner pocket of his jacket; he and his friends liked to exchange them. They urged their brands on one another, blowing out a blue-gray haze of smoke, not unclean, although some women objected to it violently. But Pa seen: proud that his wife liked the fragrance, although Maury kneviat even if his mother didn't like it she wouldn't say so.
Hather struck another match, fumbling with the soggy end of the or, took it from his mouth to study it, replaced it and puffed agaii
"/' he said and repeated, "the car runs like a charm."
Tbar was new. They had owned cars as long as Maury could remoer, but this was the first car meant to be driven by a chawr. It had a sliding glass panel between the back of his neck and ere the passengers sat. Maury's father was still not used to it, wperhaps still uncomfortable with the chauffeur. There had beerDme talk about it at the dinner table.
"live a lot," he had explained, but it sounded like an apology, /e've got jobs all over the city now and out on the Island. It's hard to have to worry about parking. Besides, this way I can over papers and save time while I'm being driven."
We he himself was concerned, Pa always had to have a prac-ticahson for anything he spent. He would buy the most expensive lgs for his family, toys or furniture or fur coats for Maury's mot! but with himself he was frugal.
Hinfolded the New York Times and handed the first section to Mry. "I already read it at breakfast," he said. "Read it thorough it can be a big help with your school work."
P;as so concerned with what Maury did at school. He never had Itime to go to teacher conferences; Maury's mother did that, but the evening Pa wanted to know everything that had been said.tid he read the report cards very carefully when they came twice year. He was always pleased.
H'ould slap Maury on the back. "Very good, son, very fine," he vld say. "That's as it should be."
My wondered what would happen if the reports were not 'as theysuld be.' He knew his father wouldn't punish or scold too harde way some fathers did. But he also knew what his father exped.
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The home was an old stone mansion, with wings and additions, lawns and a portico over the door. The inside was a net of corridors and cubicles, the corridors clogged with wheelchairs and tin trays of dirty dishes standing outside the rooms. And such a smell! A smell of disinfectant, frying grease and urine. Maury hated it. All the old, old people pushing walkers, and the young nurses, brisk and rapid, rushing in and out of rooms where through half-open doors you could see more old people lying in the beds, their gray hair mussed on the pillows. Maury hated it.
"Your grandmother is seventy-eight," Pa said now. Her room was at the end of the hall and she lived in it alone. Most of the people lived two in a room.
"Danny has a great-grandmother. She's ninety-two."
"That's very rare. And she had an easy life, that woman, never worked a day or worried a minute. Mama, hello, how are you?"
The grandmother was sitting with four other old men and women in an alcove outside of her room. If his father hadn't spoken to her, Maury would have gone right past without recognizing her. All the old women looked alike in their sweaters and printed dresses, either black or lavender. Those who weren't blobby were shriveled. Maury's grandmother was shriveled.
"Aren't you going to say something to your Grandma?"
Maury said hello to her and kissed her. He knew he was expected to. He didn't want to kiss her. His stomach went queasy at the touch; she had a sort of milky film over her eyes that were turned up to him and the spittle was collected thickly at the corners of her mouth. She disgusted him.
Pa drew up a pair of straight wooden chairs. "Give your Grandma the cookies," he said, and then corrected himself. "No, put them in her room, she can eat later." He leaned toward her. "Well, Mama," he said again.
The old woman stared at him and wrinkled her forehead. Her eyes were empty.
"It's Joseph, Mama," Pa said. "Joseph, your son. And I've brought Maury to see you."
Was she deaf, or what? Didn't she know her own son? Maury stared uncomfortably.
Then suddenly she began to talk. She leaned forward and took Pa's hand. She cried and laughed. Pa answered her in Yiddish, and Maury understood none of it.
The fat old woman on Maury's other side touched his arm and
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tapped the side of her head. "She don't talk sense," she whispered loudly. "Don't pay attention," she said in English. "Her mind goes sometimes. She talks foolish."
Pa heard and frowned. But the old woman was not to be discouraged. "You're too thin," she told Maury.
The old man in the circle stared at Maury and said, "He ain't too thin!"
"What do you know? You got any children?" the old woman argued. "I got four children, three grandchildren, what do you know?"
"I got nieces and nephews, anyway. You got to have children? You got eyes in your head, that's enough!" "I say he's too thin."
"Maury, why don't you take a little walk around and see the place?" his father suggested.
"There's nothing to see," Maury told him. The old man asked, "That's your Grandma?" Maury nodded.
"Why you don't talk to her, then?" Maury flushed. "She doesn't speak English." Now she was talking volubly to Ms father, laughing or crying or some of both, perhaps. She was telling a long story, making complaints or requests. Did they make any sense or not? Maury couldn't tell; his father just listened. Now and then he would nod or shake his head.
Then the grandmother looked at Maury and said something and his father answered. Maury looked away.
The old man said suddenly, "You're father's an important person. I'm eighty-eight and I know an important person when I see one. You can be anything you want," he told Maury. "A boy like you."
Maury looked down at the floor. The old man was wetting his pants. The stain was spreading on his trousers and sliding down the
leg. It was starting to soak the tops of his shoes. Jesus, let me get out of this loony-bin. A nurse came hurrying and took the old man by the arm. "Oh, my. Oh, my, we have to go to the bathroom, don't we?" His grandmother began to cry again.
"Maury," Pa said, very firmly this time, "Maury, wait outside. I won't be long. Or take a walk and look around."
"Why don't you go see the beautiful recreation room your fa-
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ther gave us?" the nurse suggested. "Turn right at the end of the corridor, you'll see it there."
It was boiling hot on account of the old people; he'd heard they were always cold. He took off his overcoat and stood in the doorway of the new room. It was large and light, with a bright blue linoleum floor and imitation leather chairs. Some old people were playing cards. There was a new upright piano in one corner and a woman was playing on it, the same chords over and over: "My Old Kentucky Home." A brown radio stood on a table in another corner next to a machine that gave out cokes and candy bars. There was even a platform with curtains drawn back and fastened to the wall so it could be used as a stage. An old man got up onto it now and shuffled, doing a cakewalk. Maury felt embarrassed for him. Then on the wall beside the double doors he saw the bronze plaque: This room furnished through the gift of Joseph and Anna Friedman, it said.
