The Ninth Day

by Ruth Tenzer Feldman

  ”B-but you puh-romised them.” I felt a bubble of anger rise in my throat about the LSD in our bedroom. And about all those promises my sister never kept.

  ”Everyone was taking a list, so I couldn’t say no. But I can’t call from home. This is a shivah house, and we’re in mourning for Grandpa. We shouldn’t be working and worrying about the mundane issues of the day.”

  The thought of Dagmar following etiquette—Jewish or otherwise—forced a smile on my face.

  ”Good going, Hope Springs Eternal. A smile in the midst of all this sorrow and strife.”

  ”C-call m-me M-Miriam or Hope or M-Miriam Hope. N-no m-m-more silly n-names.” My stomach knotted. I rubbed my bandage. Do it. Do it now before you chicken out. “And and a-nother thuh-ing.”

  ”I am all ears, Miss Miriam Hope Friis.”

  ”I b-buried your El-El SD buh-lotter.”

  One thousand one, one thousand two. Her eyes widened. “You did what?”

  I took a breath and barreled on. “You puh-romised n-no d-d-doses in this room. You l-l-lied to me. It’s ruh-otten r-r-rye. So let it r-rot in the guh-round, Duh-agmar. Don’t l-let it ruh-ot your buh-rain!”

  She paced the room in her Morticia getup like a demon professor on steroids. “I don’t believe this. How did you find my stash? You went through my stuff without asking me! I take care of you, and I make phone calls for you, and I take you places, and I make one, teeny tiny mistake, and you have the gall—the gall!—to tell me how to live my life. Plus you have no idea how hard it was to get that blotter. Some Merry Prankster has up and gone, with the best LSD in the Bay Area, and you take the last of his doses and bury them. Bury them! I was going to sell them to pay back the dreidel money. Who do you think you are?”

  ”I…I…”

  ”And that was amazing stuff. Not like the crap they put in the licorice you stupidly ate. You would have had a great time at the Halloween party if you’d stuck with the dose I gave you in the blue cheese dip.”

  What>?! “You…you…"

  Dagmar glared at me. “Yes, Miss Friis. I slipped you one of my precious tabs when we first got to the party. Remember the crackers and blue cheese? You would have had a fit if I told you then, and I didn’t want to spoil your good karma. Somebody had to loosen you up.”

  She’d given me a dose like it was nothing. To loosen me up? I clenched my jaw. Hard. Pain streaked up the right side of my face. I sat there frozen.

  ”And this is how you repay me? You always keep your mouth shut, but now I see you’re as judgmental as Josh. Well, I’ve had it with you. You march right upstairs to Grandpa’s room and stay there. I’m not going to share my bedroom with my bratty kid sister for one more minute.”

  My pulse throbbed. I flew out of bed and grabbed one of Dagmar’s army boots.

  ”Go on. Throw it!” She stood there, her hands on her hips. “I dare you.”

  I squeezed my hand around the leather and strode into the laundry room. I threw that damn boot into a laundry basket, strode back, and threw her other boot in the basket. Then I threw in assorted crap from the foot of her bed and headed upstairs.

  Dagmar caught up with me in the kitchen, just as Josh came in the back door. He frowned at the overstuffed laundry basket.

  ”D-Dagmar’s m-moving to Guh-randpa’s room,” I told him, trying to put words to the jumble of emotions raging through me.

  ”That is totally unfair,” Dagmar shouted.

  ”Shut up, Dagmar,” Josh said. “Let her explain.”

  ”You always take her side,” Dagmar whined.

  They were at it again. Their problem, not mine. I dumped Dagmar’s junk on Grandpa’s rug and filled the laundry basket with the first load of things I wanted—the porcelain saucer Grandpa used for his coins, his afghan, the picture of Grandma on his dresser, Grandma’s suffrage sash and VOTE FOR JUSTICE card, his bag of tefillin.

  I marched back into the kitchen. They were still at it.

  ”J-Josh,” I said, poking his side with the laundry basket to get his attention. “Puh-lease t-take Guh-randpa’s jade puh-lant d-downstairs to m-my desk.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Hope, do Mom and Dad know about this?”

  And then it hit me. They didn’t know about Dagmar dosing me with LSD at the party. Otherwise, I would have heard about it. They would have had a fit.

  I looked at Dagmar and arched my eyebrows. “No, thuh-ey d-don’t,” I said. “D-do they, D-Dagmar?”

  She looked ready to kill me, but I wasn’t going to change my mind. My workshop was downstairs. I’d have a bathroom to myself. Why move?

  ”No,” she said.

  We glared at each other. Even Josh had the good sense to keep his trap shut. Six beats of silence. Then Dagmar said, “Help her with the friggin’ plant, Josh.” She collected a shawl and her boots from Grandpa’s old room and stormed out the front door.

  I arranged Grandpa’s things on my bed temporarily and stuffed more of Dagmar’s crap into the laundry basket. I told Josh exactly where to put the jade plant and gave him the basket to take upstairs.

  ”You should ask Mom and Dad about this. They expected that you’d take Grandpa’s room.”

  ”D-Dagmar and I have an a-agreement.” An arrangement anyway—for now. It seemed fair.

  ”Okay, but I’m just saying, you really should talk to them when they come back from their walk.” He made a point of looking at my flannel pajamas. “You know it’s nearly noon. You should get dressed.”

  Same old Josh. After he left, I stripped Dagmar’s bed and rolled the linens into a bundle. The papers she’d showed me were lying on the floor. Clipped to the list of names was a mimeographed sheet with what she was supposed to say. The names and campus phone numbers started with Prof. Katzenbach in the math department and ended with Prof. Liles in economics. No names starting with M, which I was guaranteed to stumble over.

  I shook my head and wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. Totally crazy. Too risky. I didn’t even call to renew my own library books. And what difference did twenty-five phone calls make compared with the thousand or so faculty members.

  Still…

  I headed for the shower. As the steam built up in the bathroom, I focused on the towel rack and pulled off my bandages.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

  I patted my face dry, wrapped my hair in a towel, and got dressed. Nothing fancy, nothing shlumpy. Black slacks; pale-pink and white, striped oxford shirt; black knee socks; and penny loafers.

  By then the bathroom mirror had cleared. I took a good look. I sucked in my breath. Horrible.

  Tiny stitch marks looped around from the back of my ear and spread down across my cheek to about three inches above my chin. In two places the raw, shiny skin puckered, as if tiny worms lived underneath. Ooze seeped out from the ragged strip along the top of my jaw.

  I opened my mouth wider and watched my new skin ripple. For some strange reason, I thought of that snake in Celeste’s bedroom. I was more than scarred. I was molting.

  I bit my lip and stared at my molting self. Then I dumped clips and rollers in the bathroom sink, combed a part down the middle of my head, and strand-by-strand, put in the rollers. Whatever I was molting into, it might as well have decent-looking hair.

  I stuffed cotton gauze around my right ear and consigned my head to the dryer hood. Then I decided that granddaughters in mourning could still tweeze their eyebrows and apply two coats of clear polish to their fingernails.

  Josh shot me an approving look when I came upstairs. “Nice do,” he said, which is a high compliment coming from my brother. I twirled my blonde curls, and his mouth dropped open. “That’s some gouging you’ve got there. I can’t believe you did that to yourself. You’ll be scarred for life.”

  I put my hands on my hips and faced him. “So?”

  He shrugged. “So, hey, I’m sorry. Does it stil
l hurt?”

  ”N-not m-much.”

  He waved a banana in my direction. “Well, that’s good. It’ll be okay, kiddo. You take care of yourself and don’t let Dagmar boss you around. You want half a banana?”

  I shook my head and felt my hair caress my right cheek for the first time since Halloween. “I-I’m going to B-Barston’s.”

  Who knew? My mouth seemed to be ahead of my brain, but at that moment it felt like the right thing to do. Dagmar wasn’t going to make her twenty-five calls, so I might as well. I still had the five dollars I’d found in her clothes, plus a couple dollars more. Twenty-five calls at ten cents a call. I had plenty of cash.

  Afraid that I might lose my nerve if I took the time for breakfast, I left a note for my parents and strode out the door. The sky looked glorious. Miracles do happen, I reminded myself. I had just finished a fantastical journey across the olam

  . I had a wondrous prayer shawl passed from generation to generation to me—Miriam Hope Friis, the granddaughter of Miriam Josefsohn Jacobowitz, wearer of the shawl embroidered by Miriam, the daughter of Rashi. A shawl that urged its owner to pursue justice.

  Why not pursue justice like Mario? They said he stuttered like me except when he was giving a speech. I’d heard that for myself. Reciting my script would be like a public speech with no one watching. If I could pretend to be an angel, surely I could pretend I was speaking to the multitudes.

  There were three pay phones at Barston’s, and I didn’t feel bad about monopolizing one for a good cause. No one else was using them.

  The woman at the cash register gave me a sympathetic look and half a roll of dimes. I smiled. I was polite. I hardly garbled a word.

  I reread the mimeographed message, and I thought of Gabriel. Maybe he was saying the same words to another set of faculty members at this very moment. Maybe he even wrote the message. It sounded like his style.

  ”Hello, Prof. _______________. I am sorry to disturb you, but I feel compelled to urge you to vote on behalf of free speech at the Academic Senate this afternoon. Some students have been irresponsible, I admit that, but there’s a principle involved here. A university should foster the free exchange of ideas for everyone in the campus community. It’s a question of academic integrity and fairness. Berkeley has an opportunity to be the model for our broader American society, and to protect the First Amendment freedoms endowed to it by the Constitution. [Answer any questions politely] Thank you for your time.”

  Inhale. Slow release. I picked up the receiver, put a dime in the slot, and made my first call.

  A baritone voice answered. “Professor Katzenbach, here.”

  ”Huh-h-h-hello?”

  ”Yes, what can I do for you?”

  My tongue glued itself to the back of my top teeth.

  ”If this is about your grade, you will have to review that with me in person during office hours.”

  I swallowed hard. “I …um… I am s-s-sorry to duh-sturb y-you, b-but…”

  My jaw locked in place.

  ”Please get to the point. I have a lot of work to do today.”

  I put the receiver back in its cradle.

  Crap!

  I retreated to the ladies’ room and studied the pattern on the tile floor. No Serakh. No magical revelations. Then I got up the courage to look at my molting face in the mirror.

  If you think I had glorious insights, you’d be wrong. Whoever I was turning into seemed to have a stubborn streak. Or maybe, I didn’t care as much anymore. Or maybe, I was ashamed at nearly killing myself because of my damn stutter. Or maybe I understood something new about taking risks. Or maybe I remembered what Gabriel said—that people could describe us but we shouldn’t let them define us.

  One foot in front of the other, I headed back to the phones. No way could I call Professor Katzenbach again. I hoped he was going to vote for free speech anyway.

  I inserted another dime and dialed the next number on the list.

  ”Edith Keyser. May I help you?”

  ”Um…yes. It’s …ah … about f-f-free speech on c-c-campus,” I managed. “Pul-ease v-v-vote for our civil ruh-ights.”

  ”Did you mean at the faculty meeting this afternoon?”

  ”Yes,” I said, wishing nods, shrugs, and headshakes could work over the telephone.

  “Are you one of my graduate students?”

  ”N-n-no, puh-ro-f-fessor. I’m a p-person.” How stupid is that?

  Two beats of silence. “Well, I wasn’t planning to go, but since you made the effort to call, young lady, I will make the effort to attend. And I will vote for something in line with the FSM position. I agree with you, person to person.”

  ”Thuh-ank you.” And I hung up, my heart beating triple-time. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

  I got through the next six calls with my usual stuttering and blubbering. I changed the script, and said what I had to, the way that sounded best for me. Two professors didn’t answer their phones, which I let ring for the full ten times, so I didn’t feel like I was chickening out. I celebrated finishing the first dozen phone calls on the list with a hot fudge sundae, which tastes especially delicious in place of breakfast. Then I got back to work.

  I had just checked off Professor Landau—number nineteen—when over my shoulder I heard Mr. Zegarelli clear his throat and ask, “What do you have to say for yourself, Miss Friis?”

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  I stepped back from the telephone and put the dime in my pocket. How long had Mr. Zegarelli been standing here? What was he doing at Barston’s instead of school? I touched the soft new skin by my ear and turned toward him.

  He shifted his gaze away from my face. For some crazy reason, instead of feeling ashamed at my scarring, I felt more solid, more me, as if I’d nailed the opening lines of a Bach cantata.

  Here’s when and where my new me begins.

  Mr. Zegarelli lifted the script from my fingers and read it aloud.

  I folded my arms across my chest and waited.

  He pursed his lips and flexed his nostrils, taking a commanding breath. “Miss Friis, it seems that your unfortunate accident on Halloween and the recent loss of your grandfather have clouded your judgment. Miss Nash has been kind enough to hand in your permission slip and trip deposit.”

  ”I am r-ready to s-s-sing again, sir,” I said.

  ”Yes, I agree. You are quite a talented young woman. I suppose you didn’t realize that I buy coffee at Barston’s after third period. Perhaps you forgot my admonishment that any student who becomes involved in the unrest on campus will be ineligible to represent Berkeley High School at the music festival. What do you have to say about that?”

  Good question.The competition meant everything to me. If I didn’t need money for the trip I wouldn’t have gone to Sproul Plaza. I wouldn’t have occupied Sproul Hall. I wouldn’t have gone to the Greek Theatre. I wouldn’t have understood.

  Inhale. Slow release. “I-I am c-carrying out m-my r-responsibilities as a cit-izen. There is un-ruh-est on c-campus be-because the ad-ad-m-m-ministration d-denies b-basic r-r-rights t-to the stu-dents. I am s-s-simply ruh-minding the f-faculty of that.”

  He practically snorted. “Miss Friis, I cannot tolerate this attitude. Think about what you are saying.”

  I gazed at a crack in the floor and smiled. I thought that what I said came out pretty well. How I said it? Well, a stutter’s a stutter—part of the package called Miriam Hope Friis. Not my favorite part, but still…

  ”I have, sir,” I said. “I d-definitely have.”

  Mr. Zegarelli shook his head and let out a long and dramatic sigh. He refused to give the script back, since, as he put it, he had heard me paraphrase it several times before interrupting me, and it was evidence of my violation of the principal’s order.

  ”I shall expect you in the principal’s office tomorrow after school. I
am very disappointed in you, Miss Friis. You might have quite a promising vocal career ahead of you if you’d learn responsibility.”

  ”Yes, sir,” I said, without a hint of sarcasm.

  ”Good day to you.”

  I nodded. He nodded. He left with the script but not the list. By this time I didn’t need the script anyway. I fished out another dime. Of the last six calls, three professors didn’t answer, one hung up on me, one engaged me in a long conversation about the Marxist imperative, and one complimented me on my clear soprano voice and asked me if I ever considered majoring in music.

  True to my note on the refrigerator, I was home by early afternoon. Mom was in the kitchen, stirring a cup of tea and looking lost. I wanted to give her a bubble bath, sing her a lullaby, and send her back to bed.

  ”I’ll share an apricot Danish with you,” she said. “Mrs. Nash is bringing something from Andronico’s for dinner. I couldn’t manage without her.” Mom lifted the hair away from the scarred side of my face. I winced at her quick intake of breath. But then she said, “Oh, sweetie, you gave me such a scare. And it’s healing nicely. No flashbacks?”

  ”No,” I lied. I didn’t have the heart to tell her about Mr. Zipper Mouth or the monster screwdriver just then. She’d already given me permission to go to the music festival—not that I had much of a chance of going now.

  Mom ran her fingers over the oak grain of our table. “I saw the handkerchief in the casket. That was your idea, I bet. Did you iron it for Grandpa?”

  ”Y-yes.” Three gray hairs had snuck in among the black ones on the left side of Mom’s French twist. “I’ll take c-care of his juh-ade plant.”