Nobody Will Tell You This But Me

by Bess Kalb

  I went to Christie’s and I wasn’t going to spend more than $1,000. I came back with a charcoal sketch by Milton Avery and a yellow print by a young artist from the Hamptons, Jackson Pollock. I spent $600 altogether. My hand to God. When the value went up—you’d kill me if you knew by how much—I didn’t dream of selling it. I just bought a better frame.

  There was a den off the dining room and I filled the built-in shelves with my books. In those days, women would buy these fake “decorator” books with cloth bindings to make it look like someone in their family might be a reader. I had all the classics from my brothers, of course—the Brontës and Austen and Mary Shelley and all her friends. I had the turn-of-the-century writers, Hemingway and Fitzgerald and Graham Greene. I had Mailer and Bellow and Updike and all the men who thought they knew better than anyone else about Jewish suffering. Ha. I had all my biographies—Stalin and Truman and Picasso—and all the writings on art and music and all the poetry I could fit. I’d read The New York Times Book Review for new books and those would join the pack. As the years went on, I fell in love with Coelho and Coetzee and all the prizewinners. Reading was very important to my brothers and it was important for me. I’d read a book and I’d imagine Leo grilling me about it: “Well, why did you enjoy it? It’s not enough to enjoy it—it has to come to life and pinch you on the arm.” The ladies at the club would marvel—“Bobby! Another book?”—as if I’d tucked my leg behind my head.

  In 1965 your grandfather was working very hard at the factories and construction sites and trying not to get shot in an alley by the Mafia—he worked constantly in those years. The children were out of school, and I couldn’t take it and I said, “Hank, you’re taking a month off and we’re going someplace quiet for the summer.”

  There was a man at the neighborhood pool named Lenny Demashkin, and he always went on and on about “the Vineyard” and how there were Jews there. So we packed the car and went to Martha’s Vineyard. We rented a cottage in Chilmark for the summer, and we rented the same one the summer after that, and then years later your grandfather got his professorship at Columbia and we had full summers off, and so I said, “Hank, we’re buying a house on the Vineyard right on the ocean.”

  In those days, there were the Jewish academics and there were the WASPs. Two separate enclaves. We found a real estate broker who sold “Jewish houses”—that’s what they were called, because they’d been owned by Jews who had enough money and slipped through the cracks—and we bought the house on Stonewall Road. That’s where we met our people.

  They were different from our Ardsley neighbors; they were all academics from Harvard and MIT, and your grandfather was accepted into the gang because even though he was a philistine, he had stumbled his way into the Ivy League.

  There was John, whom we met the summer before he’d win the Nobel Prize in Economics, and his wife and I got along. He’s a dear man, and you’d never know he was the smartest person in the state at a given time. John and your grandfather shared a lobster pot in Menemsha Pond—blue and yellow stripes. The same colors as the Kennedys’! John and his wife would be at every Thanksgiving. They came to all the kids’ weddings—John was at yours.

  You saw John at the funeral, crying in the back row. He’d been widowed, too. Oh, his heart was broken for your grandfather. When he squeezed your hand and said, “I’m sorry, little girl,” you knew he knew how much I loved you.

  Ninety-one years old and he helped your grandfather carry my coffin from the building to the gravesite. That’s John. Till the end.

  The whole gang on the Vineyard was very smart. There was Alan. All of his daughters went to Radcliffe and went on to run various hospitals. There was Lev—he was Czech born—and one summer he was sure he’d win a big prize in mathematics, I think it was the Fields Medal, and one afternoon he got a call and was told he wasn’t going to win after all. He returned to the beach after lunch, announced the news, walked around the bend behind the bluffs, and took off all his clothes and ran into the water naked. Nobody said a word.

  We had our little enclave, but the rest of the island wasn’t particularly welcoming toward Jews at the time. We had our place and the WASPs had theirs and the African American community had Oak Bluffs, where your grandfather and I would drive for a night out at a restaurant. At the Chilmark Community Center, there were square dances on the weekends, and the Christians would dance with the Christians and the Jews with the Jews, and the only time it was intermixed was softball. Your grandfather sprained both his wrists sliding into some red-faced stockbroker at home plate.

  All afternoon we would sit on the beach, and the women were all “Harvard wives” and some of them had PhDs. But they accepted me immediately. Do you want to know why? I’ll tell you. Books. They saw what I was reading on the beach: Tom Stoppard and Flannery O’Connor and William Styron, a book a week. So we talked books. We all had our big opinions. We argued and we shouted and it was wonderful. And so I made my friends there, and all winter in Ardsley I’d think about them.

  Your mother was like me, a reader. You were, too, although God knows I never wanted you to be a writer. But I knew you would. I told you, Bessie—you should be a teacher. Make a salary. Have the summers off to travel. But you wouldn’t listen. You never did. Neither did I. That’s what made us friends.

  EMAIL, 2010

  SUBJECT museums

  Bobby Bell bobby326@gmail.com 9/18/10

  to me

  visited the museum of art and design at columbus circle-it is sometimes called the popsicle museum . the quality of the crafts was great. i have always loved crafts. i saw the matisse exhibit also. it was fair.  am reading a good book called brooklyn by coim toibin. it is about an irish young woman coming to america. this is one of my first emails.love,grandma bobby

  PHONE CALL, 2011

  GRANDMOTHER: I’m very worried about your friend Emily.

  GRANDDAUGHTER: Why are you worried about Emily?

  Because of the boy she’s going with. The one who works at the not-for-profit in Brooklyn.

  You remember that?

  Of course I remember that—I’m not an idiot!

  This I know.

  She must break up with him.

  And why is that?

  Because if he’s not going to move to San Francisco for her, forget it.

  He has a job!

  That’s not a job. And besides, you’re always out at night consoling her, and it’s not good for your relationship with Charlie.

  Charlie doesn’t mind.

  He does mind. Anyone would mind. You must pay attention to him.

  I pay plenty of attention to my boyfriend.

  And he’ll stay your boyfriend!

  What do you mean?

  Nothing.

  Grandma!

  Forget I said anything. What do I know?

  Charlie and I live together, we do everything together, he’s very supportive, and I love him.

  Then why doesn’t he propose to you?

  Because it’s only been two years!

  What does that matter?

  Because it just does!

  Bessie, you must cook for him at least five nights a week.

  I cook all the time.

  Two nights a week. It can’t hurt.

  Fine, fine. You’re right.

  I’m always right.

  PHONE CALL, SEPTEMBER 2014

  GRANDMOTHER: Bessie, did you land?

  GRANDDAUGHTER: Hi, hi—yes, I landed. I’m at the airport.

  Good. Order a car service.

  I’m taking a cab. It’s the same thing—it’s actually much faster and less of a hassle.

  Bessie, you must take a car service.

  Nobody takes a car service!

 
; That’s not true. Everyone takes a car service—I see them all the time. Use the account. Call Skyline.

  Fine. I’ll call Skyline.

  You’re lying.

  Of course I’m lying!

  Bessie, I’m going to kill you.

  I don’t care. Grandma, you don’t have to worry. The only reason I’m not taking a subway is my ankle is in a—

  Your ankle is in a what?

  Nothing. My ankle isn’t in anything. It’s fine.

  You’re lying to me.

  Grandma, I can take a cab from LaGuardia Airport to the Upper West Side.

  Bess, do you know how much I worry about you?

  Enough to kill me!

  Enough to kill you.

  THREE CONVERSATIONS

  STONEWALL BEACH, MARTHA’S VINEYARD, MEMORIAL DAY 2012

  [PUTS DOWN HER BOOK]

  GRANDMOTHER: Bessie, can I ask you a personal question?

  GRANDDAUGHTER: Oh god.

  Bess Bell Kalb.

  [PUTS DOWN HER BOOK]

  Ask away.

  What on earth are you doing with your life?

  Excuse me?

  You heard me.

  Well. Presently, I’m trying to have a relaxing moment on the beach. But I guess that’s shot to hell.

  What are you doing at Wires magazine?

  Wired. Wired magazine. It’s a good magazine. It’s owned by Condé Nast!

  I don’t care if it’s owned by the Queen of Sheba. They’re not letting you write.

  They’re paying me to fact-check.

  You sit there scrubbing up another person’s words while they get all the glory and you go home to Charlie and you’re not you.

  I’m pretty sure I’m me.

  Is this what you want? Is this really and truly what you want?

  Honestly, everyone starts somewhere and I’m paying my dues, and it’s a good job in a bad economy, and Charlie’s job is in San Francisco and Wired is the only San Francisco magazine that would pay me a living wage—

  If you need money, I’ll give you money.

  I know. Thank you.

  You’re impossible.

  And besides, I love San Francisco.

  Did you hear yourself?

  What?

  How your voice went up?

  My voice stayed completely flat.

  “I love San Francisco.” Bull.

  Not bull! You saw it—you had a great time!

  You put on a good show when I visited, but I know my granddaughter. San Francisco is for people who wear polar fleece to restaurants and try to convince each other to go camping.

  I like camping.

  And I like getting shot in the head. What about that woman Nell?

  What about Nell? I haven’t heard from her in a year.

  But you went to Los Angeles and stayed with her and went on and on about all the writers for that cartoon you met.

  It’s not a cartoon. It’s The Simpsons.

  Excuse me. The Simpsons. Why don’t you write for The Simpsons?

  Ha! That’s like me saying, “Why don’t you lay a golden egg?”

  Bessie.

  What?

  If I wanted to lay a golden egg as much as you want to write for The Simpsons, I’d lay a golden egg.

  So what would you have me do?

  Call up Nell. Tell her you want to move to Los Angeles and write for television.

  It’s not that easy.

  Can I ask you another question?

  Fine.

  What would a man do?

  He’d call Nell and tell her he wants to write for television.

  JUNE 2012

  GRANDDAUGHTER: Grandma, did you read the Grantland article?

  GRANDMOTHER: I did. I have it right here. I’ve shown everyone at the club.

  It’s like ten pages long.

  I sit there while they read it.

  Your poor friends.

  They know what they signed up for. They’re all proud of you. Miriam. Sue-Ellen.

  Did you like it?

  Like it? It was brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.

  Which part did you like best?

  The part where it said “Bess Kalb” on the byline.

  JULY 2012

  GRANDDAUGHTER: Grandma?

  GRANDMOTHER: Bessie, you sound like you’re crying. Oh my god—

  No, it’s good. I got it. I got the job. The Jimmy Kimmel job.

  Hank! She got it! Your grandfather is beside himself. He’s applauding from the other room. Oh, Bessie.

  Isn’t that incredible?

  No. Incredible would be if you didn’t get it. It’s entirely a hundred percent appropriate.

  I’m still crying. I have no idea what I’m doing, and they’re giving me a thirteen-week trial period and then they’ll probably fire me, and I have to move to L.A. and rent an apartment somewhere and I don’t know what I’m going to do or what it is.

  Bessie.

  What?

  Get a blowout before your first day so your hair isn’t a mess. The rest you can handle.

  LEAVING YOUR MOTHER

  We’d come back from the Vineyard in the fall and I’d get very tired and very blue. I hated the routine of it. How your mother was constantly pushing me away, and I missed my friends from school—Estelle in particular. I’d sit on a kitchen chair by the phone and call her during the day. She was home now, too, with her miserable husband.

  I was hard on your mother. If she had a bad grade on an exam, I’d yell and she’d cry. You’d think I hit her. I was trying to motivate her. I couldn’t stand to watch her become a burnout, to see her brilliance and her wit and her intellect and her sheer force of will go to waste in some parking lot with hippie kids smoking marijuana and making plans to move to San Francisco. I’d tell her, “Robin, if you don’t succeed in school, you’ll never make your own money.” And she’d fire back with something real smart like, “It worked out just fine for you.”

  I didn’t have a choice. She did. The world was changing around her and I was terrified she was going to be swallowed up by it.

  But she couldn’t see anything beyond my anger. She’d ask, “Why do you hate me?” And I’d just stare at her across the breakfast table, that long black hair of hers wild around her face, and I’d get up and say, “Robin, I don’t hate you. I’d die for you.” And she’d look at me and grunt. An incredulous grunt. She reminded me of my mother: serious. Strong-headed. My mother died just before she was born and I named your mother after her. “Robin,” for Rose. You both got Rose’s name in one way or another.

  Nobody cried harder at my funeral. Not even your grandfather.

  Your grandfather noticed how I’d changed in Ardsley and how I’d go to bed earlier and wake up later, and one day he looked at me as I was putting on my face in my bathroom. My bathroom. You want to know the secret to a long marriage? Separate bathrooms. So your grandfather said, “Bob, tell me what you need and I’ll do it.” He really meant it.

  I told him, “I need to get away. Just the two of us.” There was nothing your grandfather wouldn’t do for me. So that’s what we did.

  We left for four to six weeks at a time. We went to all the great cities: Paris and London and Lake Maggiore in Italy, where Hemingway wrote A Farewell to Arms. Your grandfather would see me happy and it would make him elated. He’d say, “Can you believe our luck?” And I’d say, “Not in a million years.” He’d hold me in his arms and we’d dance on verandas all drunk on local port, and for those moments everything would make sense.

  We would stay at the grandest
hotels—an ice cream sundae at two in the morning served in a silver bowl. Breakfast solariums overlooking the Swiss Alps, the hills of Provence, and the Aegean Sea. I don’t know if it was the opulence or the distance from home, but whatever it was, it worked. This was before they had a name for the malaise and the torpor and whatever it was that takes hold of a woman trapped by her own circumstance. There wasn’t lithium. There was the Ritz.

  My mother fled through Europe, and half a century later I danced through it, Kir Royale in hand. How do you like that?

  As the years went on and your mother grew into an adolescent, we’d leave for one of these trips and she would invite her friends over and throw parties. She’d open the liquor cabinet, let all the kids take what they wanted. Peter Luskin from down the street got so drunk he walked right through the plate glass sliding door to the backyard. It’s a miracle he survived. I think he and your mother were going together at the time.

  I’d come back and she’d be just awful.

  When your grandfather and I returned from London one spring, I brought your mother back a beautiful season of clothes from a store on Carnaby Street. My favorite was a gorgeous lime-green shift with a white Peter Pan collar and matching coat and pillbox hat. I hauled it back to Ardsley and she took it out of the garment bag and laughed. She was in the ninth grade—it was the year she led the petition at her high school to allow the girls to wear pants. She’ll tell you she did it for equality, but I think she did it to get back at me for forcing her into dresses.

  Sometimes she’d start screaming fights with me that lasted a week. I don’t recall what on earth they were about. Usually my cigarettes. She’d dump the whole pack in the toilet, and we’d have to call a plumber. Once I caught her emptying a whole carton in the powder room—you know, the room with the chinoiserie wallpaper. She flushed the toilet and yelled, “You’re killing yourself, Mom!” I burst out crying and I told her, “Isn’t that what you want?” and she stared at me. She let it hang in the air. After an eternity, she said, “No.”