Only a haircut, their innocent eyes seemed to say.
But they looked guilty, I thought.
Oh good, you’re up, my mother said.
It was unbearably hot in the kitchen so I went back to bed without a word.
Later my mother’s face hovered over me. She put a glass of water in my hand.
Joe left me alone all this time. He was considerate that way.
My mother was not. She kept trying to rouse me.
It’s not my place. A child needs his mother, she said to me one day.
Was she referring to my son or my husband?
I lay in bed, a wet cloth on my forehead. I dreamt of cool things: lace curtains, bone china, crystal goblets, the tinkling of the glass doodads on chandeliers.
It is not natural, my mother said from the doorway, balancing Jonathan on her hip. I am glad to do this, but it is not natural. Your child needs you.
I can’t, I said.
She sat on the edge of the bed, the baby against her shoulder. She touched my face.
We had never been especially close, and were not now.
Never been close, yet at the same time
too
close, I was suffocating, the room was squeezing me like a girdle. Her hip touched me and through the sheets it felt burning hot.
I had no idea what she was thinking.
And as she sat near me, studying my face, I realized for the first time that she found me as incomprehensible as I found her.
Whatever is the problem? she said.
I’m unhappy, I said.
But why?
I hate this apartment, I whispered.
I had wanted to say that for years but knew it was futile.
Perhaps you should move then, she said and abruptly rose and left the room.
I knew she would never want to leave this apartment. She had lived here since she came to this country, it was practically a member of the family by now. She would never leave it, and I could not leave her.
So I was surprised that, when Joe came home one evening announcing he had been given a promotion, my mother said: It’s time to move to a new place.
Joe said he would look for another apartment.
I did not entirely trust his taste but it did not matter, we would be leaving this dark apartment with its dingy memories, leaving this neighborhood of narrow streets, loud radio music, stray cats, undergarments strung on clotheslines above the street, gutters clogged with unnamable things.
I got out of bed. I curled my hair for the first time in months.
I took my son in my arms.
And in a matter of days Joe said he had found an apartment he knew I would love.
Ilana
I did not want to go with them.
This apartment was crammed with memories, stains, the musty clothes of people long absent. I could not imagine leaving. The new place was so far away that people spoke differently, dressed differently. Even the light fell differently, it was paler and colder. It would be like traveling to a new country. Where would I buy my cabbages and cinnamon? Who would sell me the leather scraps to mend my shoes?
And how would Shmuel find his way to bed?
I had hoped they would move without me. Sashie needed to learn to care for her own child. She did not need me. She and her husband needed privacy, they needed to get acquainted. After a year of marriage they hardly knew each other.
And I admit that after a lifetime of tending to other people, I was looking forward to taking care of no one but myself.
Sashie had never enjoyed my company. Yet she insisted I move with them.
She said it was her daughterly duty, but I think it was something more.
I think she was afraid to be alone with Joe. I had brought their marriage into being, and she seemed to think it would fall apart without me.
And I also think she was suspicious of me. She was forever peering over my shoulder, bursting into my room unannounced. She wanted me to stay where she could keep an eye on me.
So I went with them. Partly because Sashie insisted. But mainly for Jonathan. He squeezed my finger in his strong little fist and gave me hope.
Sashie
We moved into the new apartment when Jonathan was still a tiny baby.
I was so excited.
I was so glad to move, not just for myself but for Jonathan. The old neighborhood had gotten so bad, drunks asleep on the doorsteps who didn’t wake up even when you stepped on them to get out, little girls barely out of pigtails prostituting themselves on street corners. I was sure the place would have a bad influence on him.
Suddenly Jonathan seemed more important than anything.
Everything seemed new to me. Shining and different.
A fresh start.
I resolved to clear my head, think of nothing but the future.
Six rooms! For just Joe and Jonathan and me. And my mother of course. We couldn’t leave her behind.
It was an exclusive building. Joe had to go through an interview just to apply for the apartment. Of course I hadn’t been worried about
that,
Joe was the sort of man people liked immediately. He knew how to talk to people. I told you what a big, fine-looking man he was; such shoulders, such a chin, such wavy hair. Such a shine on his shoes, the handkerchief in his pocket, folded just so. He had impeccable manners. But he was not effeminate, not a bit. Whenever he met men he would give them a crushing handshake, and a little nod, and a look that meant: you know and I know that I could beat you to a pulp if I wanted, but why don’t we act civilized instead?
He was such a fine figure of a man. I wanted Jonathan to grow up to be just like him.
So we moved in, and our old furniture didn’t half fill up the place. I couldn’t wait to fix everything up. My mother settled into her room and kept to herself there. I didn’t mind. She still embarrassed me; in this fine place I was more aware than before of her accent, and the thick rolled stockings she wore, and her hair which she dyed pitch-black with something that looked like shoe polish. But I was glad to have her with me.
I met our next-door neighbor, Mrs. Fishbein, who seemed a respectable sort. She came to the door in pearls and white gloves, lacquered gray curls and spectacles on a chain; she invited me to take tea with her sometime. And our neighbor across the hall, Mr. Mizzer,
he
looked just like Abraham Lincoln, and he was a retired banker, so of course he was all right.
Mrs. Fishbein was the first to tell me about the street cleaners. Our building was in a particularly exclusive neighborhood; there was a private street-cleaning service that came once a week. There were strict rules governing the placement and sorting of garbage. The cleaners came on Tuesday nights and cleared away everything that did not belong.
It sounded too wonderful to be true.
I lay awake far into the night the following Tuesday. Finally I heard them: a mechanical, scuttling, buzzing sound down in the street, like a hundred brushes and dustpans, or thousands of little forks and knives scraping up the last of dinner. A soothing, restful sound.
The next morning the streets were spotless. They sparkled. I put Jonathan in the perambulator and took him for a walk. Look Jonathan, I said, look at the nice clean streets. But he seemed more interested in the toy my mother had given him: a carved wooden figure, with blunt features and what looked like real hair. The thing was unsanitary.
The cleaners do a wonderful job, I told Mrs. Fishbein.
Yes, she said, it’s taken a great deal of effort, but the streets are finally in a decent condition.
Mrs. Fishbein, I discovered, owned a young pug dog that liked to bark in the wee hours of the morning. The dog irritated me to no end, but after her kindness to me I felt I couldn’t mention it. Besides I knew better than to antagonize the neighbors right from the start.
Joe came home from work tired in the evenings. I met him at the door with a drink and a kiss. Isn’t it
wonderful,
Joe? I must have said this to him a hundred times. I loved pattering to meet him over the handsome hardwood floors. I loved the pure clean light that came in through the tall windows.
Wonderful, he always said with little conviction. He had to work harder and longer than before; the maintenance fees for the apartment were more than he had anticipated.
I thought the
incompleteness
of the apartment disturbed him. I knew that once I decorated the place thoroughly he would see how wonderful it was.
Every Tuesday night I lay awake to listen to the street cleaners. The streets on Wednesday mornings were marvelous. They looked polished.
The streets beyond our neighborhood seemed so dull and dirty by comparison. People sitting on stoops half dressed, garbage bags, tin cans and broken bottles, scratchy radio music, dilapidated cars, children dashing through an open fire hydrant—isn’t that illegal? I did not like to leave our neighborhood even to shop. And I certainly never took Jonathan.
Then I discovered catalogs. I ordered curtains, slipcovers, lamps, rugs, end tables. The convenience! I told them all the measurements and colors over the phone, I told them my name in a clear, slow voice, and then ten days later the things arrived in nice clean cardboard boxes.
The deliverymen assembled some of the furniture for me. I did not like the look of them, their black fingernails, but I could not do it myself, and I did not want to ask Joe. I wanted to surprise him.
The white gauzy curtains, the new crystal in the cabinets—everything looked wonderful. I picked up the phone and ordered more.
But when Joe came home he hardly noticed. He seemed tired, not at all his usual cheerful self. When I gave him a kiss hello he grabbed me and buried his face in my neck as if he needed comfort. I could smell wilted cologne and a sweaty kind of weariness on his collar. I could feel him nuzzling and smacking against my fresh clean dress, and he began to tug me toward the bedroom.
Oh Joe, not now, I said.
It’s not that I
mind
acting like silly newlyweds. Not a bit. I don’t mind at all,
now and then.
But Joe wanted to do it so
often,
and always at the most inconvenient times. And he messed up the bed so, he wrinkled the sheets, practically pulled them off the bed sometimes. I was hours straightening up afterward. Not to mention what he did to my clothes. The way he tore them up—as if he’d never seen a button before, or a hook-and-eye fastener!
Besides I was afraid of the influence it might have on Jonathan; I was sure overhearing such a thing could have an unhealthy effect on a child.
So Joe let me go, and my mother and I fixed the dinner, and we ate and then sat for a time with drinks and magazines. We spoke little. In fact I don’t think Joe said two words. It was a lovely domestic evening. So peaceful and serene. The living room looked marvelous.
That night the street cleaners sounded smooth and graceful, as if they were ballet dancers pirouetting down the street catching dust on their tutus.
The next morning Mrs. Fishbein told me that one of the children who lived upstairs left his bicycle on the stoop overnight. Now it was gone. We could hear him bawling above our heads.
It was unfortunate, perhaps, but it was the child’s own fault. He should have followed the rules. Everyone else in the building did. Everyone came home early Tuesday evenings, stayed inside, drew their curtains, locked their doors.
A few nights later Joe came home looking brisk and determined. Let’s go out tonight! Come on! he said. He grabbed my arms and swung me around.
Where? I said.
Anywhere you want, he said.
I looked at him. He appeared handsome as usual, but looking closer I saw one tiny hair protruding from his nostril. Once I noticed it, I could not
stop
seeing it. I looked around the room. I had ordered new throw pillows for the sofa with tassels on the corners. I had hung new drapes that hid the windows completely. I had polished every surface with a toothbrush and a special abrasive powder.
I want to stay here, I said.
He threw up his hands.
After that he came home later in the evenings. He said he had to discuss business with clients over dinner. He said he had to meet old friends.
I did not mind. I was generous with him, let him spend his time as he wanted. I was not a domineering housewife. Besides, I had so much work to do.
My mother kept to herself. She had her own life, she came and went as she pleased. I stayed away from her room; the sight distressed me. I reminded myself that she was born in a country where people bathed once a month and kept their chickens in the kitchen in winter. She had come very far, considering. I never questioned her, and I was glad whenever she took charge of Jonathan. Somehow she never seemed to mind changing his diapers.
Tuesday nights were my favorite time. The cleaners had a brisk military sound, like marching troops spearing wastepaper on their bayonets.
Late at night after they had finished I always felt clean and purged and luxuriously peaceful. Sometimes I felt so good I woke Joe and let him have a little fun with me. But he had to promise not to thrash much or disorder the bedclothes.
Several weeks later on a sunny Wednesday I came upon Mrs. Fishbein sobbing in the hallway. She said her pug had disappeared; she felt sure he had wandered down to the street the night before. I tried to comfort her, but the dog never reappeared and I cannot say that I was sorry.
We received notices in our mailboxes stating that the street cleaners were upgrading their services at no extra charge. They would now come on both Tuesdays and Thursdays.
I was thrilled. Now I lay awake two nights a week listening to the cleaners, like low-rumbling clouds rolling through, or a crackling forest fire.
Mrs. Fishbein mourned her pug. The days were uncommonly bright. Jonathan grew and thrived. One Thursday I forgot to bring the perambulator up from the street and the next day it was gone. It was a small loss. But Jonathan raged for hours, screaming for the little wooden doll that had been left inside it, under the blanket.
Joe came home early on Tuesdays and Thursdays like everyone else, but on the other nights, on Wednesdays and Fridays and weekends, he stayed out later and later and came stumbling home in the wee hours.