Chains Around the Grass (7 page)

“Pretty quick return on a new investment,” Reuben said calmly, taking out his pipe, tapping it and lighting up.

Dave smiled. This, he understood perfectly well, was not meant as a compliment, but an expression of Reuben’s usual don’t-think-youcan-be-smarter-than-your-big-brother-don’t-even-try. Still, he smiled, because it was a beautiful day and his surroundings made him feel rich; because his wife was lovely in her expensive new coat, his gift, paid for by the return on his wise investment; because his son was tall and handsome, his daughter pretty, his baby sweet. He smiled, because for once in his life his plans had worked out well and he had nothing to be ashamed of.

Reuben studied the smile, impressed. “Maybe you need a partner?”

Dave could think of many things to say, but only one stuck in his mind: Jackie Gleason’s favorite line: “How sweet it is!”

“Just a thought,” Reuben smiled uneasily.

“Right.” Dave couldn’t believe it! “So, how’s your partner working out? What was his name again? The Pole?”

“Now Dave, let’s not bring up that again,” Reuben squirmed. “Five years we didn’t speak. It’s enough already.”

“Sure, you’re right. Bygones.” Is there forgiveness in my heart? Dave asked himself, that my own brother preferred to take in a stranger to his business over his own flesh and blood? That he could have helped me and didn’t? He searched Reuben’s eyes. Yes, there was. That too, among many other things. He rubbed his hands together. “If you’re serious, give me a ring. I’ll think about it.”

Rita brought out a small silver tray with cakes. “Take, kids, but be careful with the little crumbs. And maybe you should wash your hands first.”

Jesse drew his hand back, offended, but Sara stuffed her mouth full, shoving the cakes in whole before her aunt could change her mind. She was enjoying herself tremendously until she looked up and saw all eyes—including her aunt’s—upon her.

“Be careful not to choke, darling,” Rita said dryly. Reuben suddenly got up. “I’ll show you the house.”

A really wealthy person, one with real taste and discernment, would have smiled at the offer—and at the house. It was all canned taste, bought by the pound. Department store Louis XIV. But for Dave and Ruth and the children, it was like a fairyland. They followed him through what they perceived to be huge rooms, full of light and air and warm, polished objects: carousel horses and brass trays, and tables of dark wood. There were damask curtains and carpets your toes got lost in.

“This used to be Thelma’s room.”

“How is my niece? Still at that fancy Boston college?” Dave wanted to know.

Reuben cleared his throat uncomfortably. “That was years ago. Dropped out. Now she’s in California. Her husband is a nuclear something. Makes a good living, bottom line, you know.”

“Kids?”

Rita shrugged. “She has trouble with her tubes. I told her not to be in such a big hurry. What does she need it for? She’s young yet, she should enjoy. But she wants babies, you know how it is. So, doctors, all the time doctors…” She shook her head at the foolishness of it all.

Sara stared at the four-poster bed dressed in lavender and white frills, looking as if any moment it would get up and dance. The furniture was all white and gold, bathed in a lavender glow from the sheer curtains. She longed to lay down in that bed, to bathe forever in the transforming glow of that lavender light.

The rest of the house flipped by them like the slick pages of a magazine, until their heads swum with undigested images of gold framed mirrors, gleaming copper pots, and crystal perfume atomizers. Even the water in the bathroom was better, Sara rejoiced, watching it bubble over her hand softly, instead of pelting it.

This—Sara thought, experiencing a conviction as powerful as any person undergoing a religious conversion—is what it means to be happy.

“And here’s the garden,” Reuben said, opening the patio doors.

“Sara!” Ruth cried out, mortified.

“It’s all right. Leave her, leave her,” Reuben chuckled magnanimously as the child rolled over and over, laughing, on the lush green lawn, breathing in the sweet fragrance of the tender grass, of safety, of privacy, of ownership…

“Look at her, look at her!” Rita shook her head, disapprovingly.

Dave watched the child, a smile frozen on his face, his heart aching.

“While you’re in the visiting mood,” Reuben interrupted, sending his wife a withering look, “go see Sylvia. She lives ten minutes from here, with the Gelts. Multi-millionaires. She always complains how you don’t keep in touch.”

“So, how is my sister?”

Reuben shrugged. “Sylvia’s all right.”

“How good can it be for a childless widow?” Rita interjected, shaking her head.

“It could be a lot worse,” Reuben said sharply. “Fifteen years she’s been alone, you know,” the critical, accusatory edge in his voice sharpened.

Dave shifted uncomfortably. He hadn’t come to his brother-in-law’s funeral, hadn’t even paid a shiva call… If he hadn’t spoken to his brother Reuben in five years, he hadn’t spoken to Sylvia in twenty.

“Not that I’m really in touch with her all that much either,” Reuben softened his tone hurriedly, by no means interested in assuming the thankless and tiresome role of family peacemaker.

Rita took Ruth’s hand, looking reproachfully at Dave. “Don’t be strangers. I…we…never wanted this…not talking…”

“Shh…forgotten already,” Reuben cut her short with an irritated and authoritative clap. “You live close by?”

Ruth shot Dave an anxious look.

“Not far, not far. But we plan to move soon. This is not a bad neighborhood,” he looked around appraisingly, “…and seeing how it’s near the family. If something comes up, you know, five bedrooms…”

Ruth swallowed hard.

“Something good, not just anything. Something like yours, you know? What do you say, Ruth? Five be enough? You know, one for guests. It’s good to have an extra room. For guests.”

Ruth’s eyes pleaded as she pulled him gently toward the door.

Just one more stop, Dave said as he started the car. He flew past florists and elegant boutiques to the next township where huge parks bordered each other and houses could only be glimpsed in the distance, behind hedges and gates, like palaces, and the silence was uninterrupted except for the endless rustle of clean wind through treetops and flowers.

He pulled up along the curb and stopped. Over the hedges, at the end of a winding road flanked by poplars and solid old oaks, they glimpsed the Gelt’s estate.

“Makes Uncle Reuben’s look like the servants’ quarters,” Jesse hooted.

Dave grabbed him around the neck, playfully squeezing. “Yeah,” his eyes sparkled. “Yeah.”

“How do people get that rich anyway, Dad?”

Dave released him. “Any damn fool can make money in America, unless you’re a dope like Morris…”

“Dave!” Ruth warned.

“…sitting on your can and watching it spread for thirty years. Afraid to make a move, to pee too long in case the boss should look at you funny…”

“There’s more to life than making money, Dave. Morris is a good father and husband…” She looked up sharply. “Dave, this isn’t about Passover, is it?”

“Well, honey…we don’t have to talk about it right now. But actually I did think we could stay home one year. That I could sit at the head of my own table. Read my own Haggadah…”

“You’ll break your teeth over the Hebrew,” she laughed.

“So, I could say it in English. Where’s it written it’s a crime to use English?”

“Listen. Between everyone we’re talking to and not talking to, we’ve got hardly anyone left! I want the children to feel they have some close family.”

He didn’t answer her, getting back into the taxi and gripping the steering wheel, looking out at the big house nearby, the smiling lines around his mouth sagging, hardening into uncharacteristic bitterness.

Ruth climbed in next to him. “I’m sorry I said anything. You have nothing to regret. You were such a good son.”

A good son, a responsible son, Dave thought, turning the key in the ignition. And his mother had clung to him like a life raft in a raging sea. He’d been the only one to take her part. Reuben had said that since the old lady had fought with the old man for twenty years trying to get him back into a skullcap and side curls he couldn’t understand why she wanted him back when he decided to leave. And Sylvia, who had introduced her father to the buxom, aging blonde who became his second wife after he divorced their mother, had said (and they were the last words she ever said to her brother Dave) that their father deserved better than an old greenhorn.

He had sided with his mother, but it was his father he understood.

You had to forget about the synagogue. You had to keep the store open, take the cab out Saturdays, holidays. You even had to change your name so it wouldn’t point a finger at your chest and back you up against a brick wall. And in exchange for playing it by the rules (rules his mother hadn’t and his wife didn’t, wouldn’t, understand) you were promised the jackpot. Reuben had played and won. Sylvia had played and won. And now, he thought, driving past the house behind the hedges, now it was his turn.

Chapter five

To her great surprise, Ruth found herself happier than she had been for a long time. Life in the housing projects, she realized, was like the life she had loved as a child in the large apartment houses in Brownsville that were always alive with warm voices and familiar faces. In New Jersey, each little house had had its own gate, its own lock. And the streets had been as deserted as graveyards. Here, she felt she knew everyone and they her. There was no need for pretense. The furniture was worn, the clothes mended and unfashionable, the hairstyles devised over the bathroom sink. But if you needed a cup of sugar, you could knock on any door. She viewed each door a little like she did the cover of a novel. Beyond each was a separate world, a story.

In 7e were the Cohens. Despite their Jewish name, Ruth soon discovered they were devout Catholic churchgoers, except for the father, a grumpy Jewish alcoholic disowned by his family, including his brother the doctor. He kept his refrigerator locked with a chain so that his three teenagers, Mary, Willy and Andrew, wouldn’t eat up his drinking money. Mrs. Mary Cohen, a handsome, heavy-set woman, seemed an older version of those good, red-cheeked Catholic schoolgirls in their plaid skirts. Ruth had great respect for Mrs. Cohen and was mortified that a Jewish man should be giving her so much trouble. They spent time together, trading immigrant stories, teaching each other about religion. And Mary, a pretty teenager, often babysat.

The two MacDonald sisters were in 7b. A widow and a spinster, their thick Scottish accent charming, if hard to understand, their home smelled of spicy cookies and freshly ironed linen. Both were in their late sixties, with beautiful rosy complexions and silvery white hair and a way of speaking which Ruth found incredibly encouraging. Just a nice, sunny day was enough to set their cheeks beaming, their eyes alight. Often, they showed up at her door with hand-knitted doll clothes for Sara and warm booties for Louis.

The Cramers, a childless old couple who kept parakeets in open cages, were in 7c. Sometimes they would leave their door ajar and you could see how they kissed the birds and allowed them to peck food from their mouths. Mr. Cramer, a retired postal worker, walked around in an apron and never left the house by himself except early each Sunday morning. Even in the bitterest weather, he could be seen jogging along the beach for miles, red-faced and near collapse. The unkind rumor was that he chanced the cold, the risk of being attacked by dogs or vagrants and even a heart attack for the sheer pleasure of getting away from Mrs. Cramer, at least for a few hours. The old couple often invited Sara in, letting her play with the birds, teaching her how to hold her finger so they would fly to her.

Mrs. Robinson was the first Black neighbor on the floor. The day she moved in, some neighbors grouped in the hall talking, creating a low unpleasant buzz. But when they saw her get off the elevator—a plump, grandmotherly woman with horn-rimmed glasses, the air cleared. Later they learned she had raised a family of nine alone, and now had taken in a grandson with a heart condition. She supported herself by sewing and mending and soon became custodian of the floor’s broken zippers and unhemmed pants.

They all liked each other. They felt at home. Then, without warning, things began to change.

Dark scrawls of breasts with darkly penciled nipples appeared on the staircase walls; and on other floors the strong smell of cheap cooking vegetables filled the hallways. The elevator’s only window was smeared with spit and an army of small Black boys guarded the main entrance with sticks, barring Sara’s way or challenging her to pee down the elevator shaft, until their mother appeared with menacing wooden switches and herded them home.

The original flow of tenants—respectable blue collar workers, retirees, struggling small businessmen—was joined by a trickle, and then a steady stream, and finally a deluge of large welfare families from the Bronx, Harlem and Puerto Rico, turning the original tenants into castaways, helplessly stranded on a rocky promontory in the center of a vast ocean not of their choosing.

There was prejudice against the newcomers—yes. But mostly, fear and resentment. The first tenants had come from the decaying core of the city’s heartland, neighborhoods in Brooklyn, the Bronx and Queens, places where the owners of small, family-owned grocery stores had been bloodied and robbed; where it had become an act of courage or foolishness to walk out of the house after dark. They’d come because they honestly believed in the benevolence of the great city who had offered them these new homes by the sea with rents they could afford with dignity. They’d believed that the projects had been built for them, to right a wrong, to protect and care for them. And now they felt the great swell of horror at their betrayal; without their knowledge or consent, the festering inner core they had ?ed had been brought to them.

Most of all, they felt ashamed. How had it happened that they’d fallen so low, without even having felt the wind at their back, or the precipice, or the one silent step forward that had brought them down?