by Gigi Fenster
Pearl’s eye might have shifted a bit. She might have turned slightly towards Sadie when she related how she and her sister stained their clothes when picking mulberries.
At last Sadie stopped talking and Morris stood up to pull down the wireless.
When it was time to go, Sadie suggested to Morris that he leave the radio on. He shook his head, wondering whether she’d argue the point, but she just bent down and gave Pearl’s good hand a little squeeze.
Morris walked some way down the corridor before noticing that Sadie was not beside him. She was pinned against the wall by a cleaner with a trolley piled high with sheets.
Not so very sweet, thought Morris, to put your mother in a place like this.
Sadie gave him a wave from behind the cleaner’s trolley and pretended to steal a sheet. Morris wanted her to stop. She shouldn’t be joking in this place. Or running. Or clutching him in a tight hug and saying, ‘Let’s get the hell out of here.’
He tried to smile. ‘Watch out. You’ll knock me over.’
Sadie looked around her. ‘D’you see how some people seem to be moving in slow motion while others are all speeded up?’
‘We’d better go. Joan will be waiting.’
‘Compare that old man, the one holding on to the rail, with that woman, the visitor on her way out. She looks like she’s moving at about twenty-five times his speed. She can’t wait to get out of here while he, poor old thing, he’s taking all the time in the world to go nowhere. He’s like an old cassette that’s been played too often and now it drags along so that every note takes fifteen seconds to play out.’
Twenty-five times his speed. Could it be that much? Morris looked at the old man, then at the woman and back to the man. Three times his speed at most.
He made an effort to slow down. He wouldn’t want Sadie to think he was rushing out of there.
Outside in the fresh cold air, she said she thought the visit went well and asked about the radio. When Morris told her about the manager, he saw her burn.
‘Oh, that makes me so angry. For crying out loud, Morris, who does that woman think she is? Your mother can’t read. She can hardly see. The radio’s pretty much her only pleasure. The manager said she would confiscate it? Supervised use only? Bullshit. Pearl needs it for the company.’
Sadie insisted that Morris find a solution to this problem. ‘Fix the radio so that she can’t change the settings. It will be easy for you. You know about electronics and stuff. Make a plan.’ Insisted that he discuss the matter with Norman and Joan. ‘Come on, Morris, you can do it sensitively so that Joan doesn’t take it as a personal affront.’
But Morris blundered and explained it all wrong, and left Joan sniffing that she supposed it was worth trying to fix the settings but there was always music playing in the lounge and it was good for Pearl to go there rather than sitting in her room all day.
Sadie said, ‘Joan’s right. It is important for your mother to go to the lounge,’ and she patted Morris’s back.
Norman put a dog on Joan’s lap. ‘And Morris is right. She should be able to listen to the wireless.’
Later, when Joan and Sadie were in the kitchen, Norman handed Morris a roll of masking tape. ‘Stick this over the knobs. That ought to do it.’ He fiddled with a pen in his pocket. ‘The sad thing is that Pearl’s hands have got weaker. Joanie feels bad about it.’
Joan came in with a cake and Norman said, ‘Now, Morris, don’t you worry about explaining to the management. Joan and I will see to that. Won’t we, Joanie?’
‘We only want what’s best for her.’
The masking tape worked and Pearl did seem to listen to the radio, but from then on, when Morris went to visit his mother, he had to turn the radio off on his arrival rather than on. And that meant trying to find things to say to her.
Every Saturday, setting out with Sadie, and later the children, to visit Levin.
Well, in the beginning it was every Saturday but then you stopped going so often. At some point you became resistant. Why did you become resistant?
I never became resistant.
You became resistant. And you had a good excuse. You had a good wife.
A good wife.
A good wife. Who visited your mother on your behalf. Even though she didn’t have a clue who I was.
You used to laugh about her.
So sue me for laughing about your ibberbuttle mother. I never did it to her face. And I wasn’t the only one. Joan of Arc laughed too. It was a way of letting off steam.
Steam?
Especially for Joan. She took a lot of strain, you know, looking after your mother. Not even her own sister. So we laughed a bit. So sue me.
Joan didn’t mind looking after my mother. She said she didn’t mind.
Of course she did.
Did say it or did mind?
Both. Neither. Anyway, what happened to make you resist going?
Nothing happened.
For crying out loud, Morris. You used to go every Saturday. Even after the children were born. You always visited your mother. Then you became all resistant and then you stopped.
I never stopped.
David must have been about three when you stopped visiting your mother.
I never stopped.
What happened, Morris?
Joan was standing at her front door like she always did. Always so happy to see them, so full of presents for David and kisses for Rachel and I knew you were coming so I baked a cake. The doggies missed David. Did David say hello to the doggies?
David wanted to open his presents and Sadie had news to share with Joan, so Norman said, ‘Why don’t Morris and I drive to the home together and leave you girls for a bit of a gander?’
‘Good idea,’ said Sadie. ‘You know how Joanie and I love a bit of a gander.’
‘And I love being called a girl,’ said Joan, ‘though really Morris should go on his own today. Norman on his own tomorrow. That way Pearl will feel like she has lots of visitors. She’ll feel busy.’
‘But if I go today,’ was Norman’s line, ‘I get to have time with my nephew.’
All the way to the home Norman asked questions. How’s the new business going? Is the partnership working out well? Is Sadie planning on going back to work? How are you managing financially? Did you see Joanie’s dogs in the newspaper?
Fine, fine, soon, fine, no but Sadie did.
On the way back they were silent. Morris focused on the road. Norman ran his hands up and down the lines of his corduroy pants.
On their return both went straight to the bathroom.
Morris wondered whether Norman was also going to wash his hands, whether they felt as grubby as his own, whether he always washed his hands on returning from the home. Did Joan do it too?
Something happened. What happened?
Nothing happened.
What happened?
The door of Pearl’s room was ajar. On the radio someone was being interviewed about disco music.
‘Knock knock,’ called Norman. ‘Are you decent, Pearl? We’re coming in.’
At first Morris thought she was trying to pick something up from the floor. It must have been something important, because she was leaning so far forward she was at risk of toppling over. He stepped forward to help her, to catch her from falling, and saw that she was dozing and that there was no risk of her falling for she was strapped in.
It wasn’t a chair she was sitting on. It was a commode.
Her mouth hung open. She was drooling.
Morris was afraid of her.
Norman said, ‘How can they leave her sitting here on her own? She’s strapped in, for goodness sake. I’ll find someone to deal with this,’ and he left the room.
Scared of your own mother. What do you think she’s going to do to you? Strapped in the seat as she is? Morris took a step back, but the smell followed him and his mother’s head moved. Her eyes flickered and she seemed to be peering over the top of her eyes at him, running through names in her
head.
‘I’ll just …’ He took another step back. Pearl’s head jerked upwards and her hand lifted as if to beckon to him, as if he could help her.
How long did he stand at the door, too scared to approach (think of her dignity and she’s not really calling you. She doesn’t know who you are, who she is, where she is)? Too ashamed to walk away.
How long before he heard Norman saying that he’d like to discuss this with the manager? Wasn’t there a policy about sitting with people while they were on the commode? How long had she been there? She was half-naked asleep, for goodness’ sake.
How long before he could call across the room to his mother, ‘They’re on their way. You’ll be fine’?
The nurse chivvied Morris out of the doorway and into the passage. She closed the door behind her. Pearl Goldberg, said the little sign on the door. Room 25. Morris and Norman stood in the passage and breathed the smell of the place and were silent.
Pearl’s circle had been stirred away.
You know you’re supposed to wash your hands when you leave a cemetery.
A cemetery?
I’m just saying.
Morris focused on the road, Norman ran his hands up and down the lines of his corduroy pants, and when they got home both went directly to the bathroom. In the tiny spare bathroom, Morris washed his hands, dried them, washed them again. There was a little wooden step in front of the toilet. Norman had made it for David to help him reach the bowl. Sadie would have stood next to David. She would have helped him on to the little step, good boy, clever boy. Joan, come and see what a clever boy David is.
Morris washed his hands again. From outside the door he heard David calling, ‘Normie said he’d bring me a lolly.’
He dried his hands and went to join his family in the kitchen.
It was like walking into a diorama.
Once, on a school trip, Morris had visited a museum which had dioramas showing how families lived in different eras. From the early settlers through to Modern Auckland, they sat in their living rooms, mother with her tea cup forever poised, father always stern, always gazing at his watch.
Morris’s classmates rushed around the museum, tearing from exhibit to exhibit, pointing out the funny clothes, the silly toys. ‘Look at that girl’s skirt. How did she go to the toilet?’
Morris wasn’t interested in the clothes or toys. He was interested in the expressions on the dolls’ faces—faces that were still for long enough for him to really look at them. That face is stern. You can see by the frown and the way the mouth is turned down. That little girl is happy. She’s smiling and holding her head to the side so that her hair falls over her shoulders. She wouldn’t do that if she wasn’t happy.
The dioramas had names: Prosperous Settler Family. A Victorian Mother and Her Daughter Visit the Apothecary. They told you what to expect, what it all meant. Morris liked that.
The sign on Joan’s kitchen door would have read: Levin: Three Generations Enjoy a Warm Drink Together. There would have been a red rope across the kitchen door. Morris could have stood on the other side of the rope and worked out their faces. He wouldn’t have had to walk in.
‘Enter Valentino,’ called Sadie.
Joan said, ‘You naughty girl,’ and pulled her mug up to her face.
‘I beg your pardon?’ said Morris.
‘Valentino. The great lover. Joan was telling me about your first conquest.’
‘My what?’
Joan put her cup down. ‘I’ll see how Norman is doing.’
Morris tried to laugh. ‘What were you two talking about?’
‘Oh nothing. How’s your mother? Nothing really.’
Two Generations of Women Discuss Their Husbands, the plaque might have read. They are Interrupted.
I told you on the way home what we were talking about. We were talking about the first time you were with a girl. Junebug Joan said that she was to blame for it.
To blame?
You know what I mean.
But why were you talking about it? Why to her? Give me one good reason.
I don’t know. We just got on to it. Jesus Christ, Morris, there are about a million reasons why Junebug and I would be talking about your first girlfriend.
A million.
About a million. And she introduced you two. She told me. It started with her.
It started with Joan. She had a friend who lived abroad whose daughter was visiting New Zealand and was desperate to go tramping. The girl would be staying with Norman’s friends in Christchurch, the ones who’d been so kind to Morris when he first went to Canterbury, the ones who’d invited him for Friday night dinners and made sure he had somewhere to go on Jewish holidays.
Joan phoned Pearl. Pearl phoned Morris at the university residence. When Morris heard it was his mother on the phone, he thought someone must have died.
Pearl said, ‘Have you got a pen on you? Never mind. I’ll put it all in a letter to you, to confirm. Now, Morris, Joan’s friend is coming and you’re to take her tramping. The girl’s name is Natalie. That’s N-a-t-a-l-i-e without an h.’
Pearl gave details of the girl’s arrival time. She used the letters E. T. A. Morris tried to interrupt her when she dictated the phone number of Norman’s friends.
‘Mum, I’ve got their number, but …’
‘… 584. Joan has told Natalie that you’ll make contact with her directly. You can arrange everything with her. I’ll put it all in a letter.’
Pearl had finished her speech. Morris could almost hear her notes rustling.
‘Arrange everything. But I can’t. I’ve got assignments due. Exams are coming up. I’m too busy.’
‘It’s all organised and it’s only one day.’
‘A whole day. I can’t do it. I’m sorry but I just can’t.’
Pearl departed from her notes, put on her I’m-counting-to-five voice. Morris was to stop being petulant and fussing over nothing. It was the least he could do for Joan and Norman. They’d been so good to him.
‘But I …’
‘Anyway, I’ve already said yes. Phone the number. Make the arrangements. How bad can it be?’
Oh Mum, thought Morris, you have no idea.
Morris knew what Natalie without an h would be like. She’d be blond like that horrible little niece of Joan’s—what was her name? Becky. She’d lisp and simper. She’d think she was going for a stroll in the park and be completely under-prepared. She’d keep asking questions about the names of trees. She’d want to chat.
‘And one other thing, Morris. She doesn’t speak any English.’
‘You mean …’
‘Not a word. Not one word.’
‘I can’t. Tell them I can’t.’
‘I’ll send you a letter with all the details, to confirm,’ said Pearl, and she put down the phone.
Morris returned to his room, kicked—actually kicked—the door open. His shoe left a dark mark which would later give him a warm, bubbling feeling in his stomach but which, as he made it, only increased his anger.
It was a sunny day. Students were lying on the grass outside. Girls had their skirts hiked up. Some guys had taken their shirts off. Any one of those shirtless men would have leapt at the opportunity to take a foreign girl out on her own. Morris could conduct statistical research and ask them one by one: You have just been asked by an aunt to take a female student from Europe tramping for a day. Do you (a) leap at the opportunity, (b) plead exams to get out of it, or (c)—
He wouldn’t even get beyond (b). Are you kidding me? What kind of choice is that? Where’s the catch? Wait, no, don’t bother telling me about the catch. I’ll take her anyway. She’s alone in a foreign country and wants company, warmth, loving. I’ll take her anywhere. She’ll take me. Hey, Mike, come and listen to the terribly bloody difficult choice Morris has to make. They’d make ribald jokes and boast about where they’d be taking her, where she’d be taking them, how some things land on your lap, don’t they just?
And Morris would s
tudy the numbers on his clipboard and wonder what the hell was wrong with him. How could his mother do it to him?
Well, as things turned out, there was nothing wrong with you, was there? You were just a bit shy. Nothing to be ashamed of. Quite cute actually.
Cute. Cute?
And as for your mother doing that to you, well it’s obvious why she made you do it. It was a way of helping to repay her debt.
Her debt.
The debt she felt she owed Brother Norman. And Joan. For helping her out.
Helping her out?
Financially.
They never helped financially. My mother had a job.
Sure and her part-time job as a doctor’s receptionist kept the two of you in a three-bedroomed house in Kelburn, paid for all those extra lessons you had, not to mention the expense of sending you to university so far away. A part-time job. It’s not like women were well paid in those days. How much did she work? Maybe three hours a day? Fifteen hours a week as a doctor’s receptionist. That wouldn’t get you very far.
It must have been more than fifteen hours a week. She must have worked full time. Why else would Morris have had to accompany her to work so often? Why else would he have spent endless hours in the waiting room with the sick old men and the sniffling babies?
Every time they went to the surgery Morris begged to be allowed to wait in the car, and every time his mother ignored his pleas. The car was cold, the waiting room was warm. There were magazines in the waiting room. He could do his homework in the waiting room. She could keep an eye on him there. If he sat quietly and waited patiently, she’d give him one of the lollipops which the doctor kept for his patients.
Morris hated the doctor’s lollipops. No matter how carefully he opened them there were always little bits of plastic sticking to the sweet. One lick made the stick soggy and the lolly crumbly. Some of the lolly crumbs had sharp edges. Morris would feel them in his mouth and wonder whether a splinter could go down his throat. Whether you could die from that.
