She listened the way my grandfather did, with all her attention. When I was finished, she said, “I think it’s great, Bernie. You must feel closer to your dad.”
Did I? And did he know somehow that I had his name? I wished I really believed that, or felt as happy and special as I did the day of my bar mitzvah. “I guess,” I said.
Then Hornberg came in and we took our seats. He began a lecture on nature vs. nurture, about what has the most influence—genes or environment. When he was at the blackboard, with his back to the class, the guy next to me passed me a note from Mary Ellen. It was folded several times, and it took me a few seconds to get it open. All it said was, “Hello, Bernard Martin Segal.”
Seeing it written down like that was a shock that went all through my body. Maybe it was crazy, but at that moment I began to feel changed, to feel the name belonged to me. I remembered the prayers said in the synagogue, and Rabbi Stein’s hand over my head during the blessing. The ceremony seemed more religious to me now, and more important. It was almost as if it was all taking place again, there in the science room with its pink plaster models of human guts, and its stuffed animals and birds, with Hornberg’s chalk squeaking on the board. Maybe it was because my father had been a science teacher that I felt him right there, still loving me, and glad that I had become Martin, too.
I opened my notebook and practiced writing my whole name, the way Ma said she used to practice her married name after she and Daddy got engaged. I wrote, “Bernard Martin Segal. B. Martin Segal. Bernard M. Segal.” And I added a fancy loop at the end, like my father did when he signed my report cards.
Money to Burn
AFTER MY ALLERGY SHOT on Monday afternoon, I went to the travel agency and returned my ticket. I was rich again. As Pop would say, I had “money to burn,” but now it didn’t mean very much. There was nothing special to look forward to. I bought two Snickers and a Mars bar on the way home, and I ate them all. By the time I got there, I was nauseous, and a little depressed.
Grandpa was taking a nap, and Celia and Grace were in the kitchen, playing casino.
I took the roll of bills out of my pocket and counted them at the other end of the table.
“Which is the good ten again, Celia?” Grace asked.
“The ten of diamonds,” Celia told her. “And it’s worth two points.”
I sighed. “I guess money really can’t buy happiness,” I said.
“I’m building queens,” Grace announced.
“You can’t build face cards,” Celia said. “Remember?”
“Hey, Amanda Belinda Smith,” I said. “How would you like to sell that old ring back to me, for a tidy little profit?”
“Don’t call me that,” Grace said. “And I’m never, ever going to sell my ring.”
“Save your money, big shot,” Celia advised. “We’re going to the mall tomorrow to buy Ma’s wedding present.”
“You don’t need me for that,” I said. “Here, take some dough, whatever you need. Just pick something out, and I’ll sign the card.”
“Listen, Segal, you have to go,” Celia said. “It’s going to be from all three of us, and all three of us are going to pick it out together. And stop flashing that money around, it’s disgusting.”
I went upstairs just as my grandfather was getting up from his nap. “That was a nice snooze,” he said. “I dreamed I was out trawling in the Bay.” He yawned and stretched. “So, how’s my boy?”
“Okay, I guess.”
“What’s the matter, Bernie?” he asked.
“Nothing. I’m kind of bored, that’s all.” I took two twenties and a ten off the roll of bills. “Here’s the money I owe you, Grandpa.”
“Why don’t you hold on to it, Bernie,” he said.
“Thanks, but I don’t really need it anymore.”
“I’ll tell you what,” he said. “Put that away, and start saving again. Maybe we can arrange a trip to Florida for you during your next vacation. We could have a good time together. I’d introduce you to my friends, show you the sights.”
“Thanks, Grandpa,” I said. I went to the shelf and started shoving the money back into my bank. “Thanks a lot!”
Good Luck!
WE WENT TO A&S, the big department store in the mall, and Celia dragged Grace and me from counter to counter, asking our opinion about coffee makers and candlesticks, monogrammed towels and gravy boats. I couldn’t imagine why anybody would want any of those things, but I kept saying, “Fine get that.”
As soon as I’d say it, Celia would squint at whatever it was, turn it upside down, hold it up to the light, and decide against it. Things were either too practical or not practical enough. They were too expensive or looked cheap. After a while, Grace wandered away to the toy department, and stayed there.
“If you don’t make up your mind soon,” I told Celia, “I’m going to break something. Maybe your neck.”
“All right, all right,” she said. “What a baby you are.” And we settled on this huge, ugly, gold-colored tray that said “Good Luck!” all over it in about a hundred different languages.
We gave the present to them the night before the wedding. Celia had had it wrapped in silver paper with bells printed on it, and a tremendous silver bow.
“Whatever can this be?” Nat said as I carried it into the den. Celia walked beside me, wringing her hands, and Grace brought up the rear. “Oh, darlings,” Ma said.
“If you don’t like it,” Celia said, “you can bring it back and get something else. I have the receipt.”
“You’ll like it,” Grace told them.
And they did.
The Wedding
THEY WERE MARRIED IN our living room, with just a few friends and relatives there. Ma was very happy, and as jittery as Celia had been right before the play. Was she like this the first time, when she was about to marry my father—a time before I was even a member of the living world?
It was beginning. Grace dropped the needle on the Wedding March record, and after a sliding screech, the music filled the room. Grace ran to take her place beside Celia under the canopy of flowers.
I held my arm out, and Ma tucked her trembling hand through it. Together we walked down the narrow aisle made by the folding chairs.
Nat was waiting, towering over Rabbi Stein. His face was pale, and for once he didn’t look that cheerful. Grandpa sat in the front, next to Nana and Pop, his hands folded in his lap. Someone coughed, the way someone always does at concerts when the conductor lifts his baton.
“Break a leg, Ma,” I said, and I gave the bride away.
A Biography of Hilma Wolitzer
Hilma Wolitzer (b. 1930) is a critically hailed author of literary fiction. Her work has been described by the New York Times as “often hilarious and always compassionate.” Born in Brooklyn, New York, she began writing as a child. She was first published at age nine, when a poem she wrote about winter appeared in a local journal. She was voted the poet laureate of her junior high school, but after graduating from high school at sixteen she worked at various jobs, from renting beach chairs under the boardwalk in Coney Island to pasting feathers on hats in a factory and holding a position as an office clerk.
Wolitzer married at twenty-two, and though her family consumed most of her time, she began writing again. Her first published short story, “Today a Woman Went Mad in the Supermarket,” appeared in print when she was thirty-six. Eight years (and several short stories) later, she published Ending (1974), a novel about a young man with a terminal illness. The New York Times called it “as moving in its ideas as it is in its emotions.” Ending was released when Wolitzer was forty-four years old and she was dubbed the “Great Middle-Aged Hope.”
She followed this success with In the Flesh (1977), a well-received novel of a conventional marriage threatened by an affair. Since then, her novels have dealt mostly with domestic themes, and she has drawn praise for illuminating the dark interiors of the American home. In the late seventies and mid-eighties, Wolitzer also pu
blished a quartet of young adult novels: Introducing Shirley Braverman (1975), Out of Love (1976), Toby Lived Here (1978), and Wish You Were Here (1984).
Following her novels Hearts (1980), In the Palomar Arms (1983), Silver (1988), and Tunnel of Love (1994), Wolitzer confronted a paralyzing writer’s block. Unable to write more than a page or two a day—none of which ever congealed into a story—she did not publish a book for more than a decade.
After working with a therapist to try to understand the block, she completed the first draft of a new novel—about a woman who consults a therapist to solve a psychic mystery—in just a few months. Upon its release, The Doctor’s Daughter (2006) was touted as a “triumphant comeback” by the New York Times Book Review. Since then, Wolitzer has published two more books—Summer Reading (2007) and An Available Man (2012).
In addition to her novels, Wolitzer has published nonfiction as well, including a book on writing called The Company of Writers (2001). She has also taught writing at colleges and workshops around the country. She has two daughters—an editor and a novelist—and lives with her husband in New York City, where she continues to write.
A three-year-old Wolitzer poses for a portrait, taken in 1933.
Wolitzer with her mother, Rose Liebman, and sisters, Anita and Eleanor, circa 1943.
Wolitzer drew this picture of FDR in 1945.
Wolitzer and her husband, Morton, celebrate their wedding day, September 7, 1952, in Brooklyn, New York.
Wolitzer sits on a park bench with her daughters, Meg and Nancy, in 1964.
Wolitzer relaxes on the beach in Oyster Bay, New York, with her daughters in the 1960s.
Pictured here (clockwise): Wolitzer, Linda Pastan, Stanley Elkin (with his back to the camera), and Tim O’Brien talking at the Bread Loaf Writers’ Conference in 1985.
Wolitzer has frequently visited schools across the country to teach children about writing—experiences that she remembers fondly. Pictured here is a thank-you note from a fifth-grade student in Greenville, South Carolina, circa 1992.
Wolitzer enjoys time with her grandsons, Charlie and Gabriel, in Springs, New York, in 1996.
Wolitzer with her husband, now a retired psychologist.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1984 by Hilma Wolitzer
cover design by Angela Wilcox
978-1-4532-8795-8
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Wish You Were Here Page 13
