Chains Around the Grass (24 page)

She bought cold cream. Secretly, she lavished it on her knuckles and fingers when the children were in bed, ashamed of her vanity and extravagance. As she typed Jesse’s letters, she watched with secret joy as they began looking softer, the wrinkles fading. Although the signs of age did not disappear, she came to terms with them. They were experienced hands, she decided, satisfied. Hands that had been part of life, working hard.

She had to laugh. If those people in their new suits sitting in office buildings could only see who was sending them these letters! A sixteen-year-old and…and…who? A frowzy housewife? A still young former executive secretary? The sixteen-year-old’s mother? A poor widow with three children?

But she had to admit, she was proud of him, her son. Her Jesse. He seemed like a different person. Nervous, sure. He was always that. But he got up early every day and worked hard, dictating letters, researching new leads, answering his mail. He was happier than she had seen him in a very long while.

But the money! For the stationery! For stamps! For typewriter ribbons! When they could barely put food on the table and pay the rent! She’d tried to explain this to him and at first he’d spent hours talking to her in a businesslike manner, telling her he knew their capital outlay was getting larger, but that income would soon overtake it and compensate. Then he’d begged, saying they were on the verge of closing a very big deal and had to hold on just a little longer…! And finally, he’d become an enraged child, throwing dishes and food around, terrorizing her.

With Morris gone from their lives, she had no one to talk to. Maybe Jesse was right. Maybe he did know best and would make their fortune. And then she would think to herself: he’s still a child and he wants this very badly, needs it the way Sara needs her dolls and Louis needs cartoons…

So the months went by, months when some mornings there was no milk or bread or cereal… She wasn’t afraid of Jesse, she told herself. How could she be? She was his mother. He was a child. Then she would remember what had happened with Morris and be unsure. There was something of the wild, wounded animal in him; a strange and unpredictable rage she feared and could not understand. She loved him; loved to hear him talk and make plans that turned their future all rosy and warm; loved to have someone else in charge.

She tried to tell herself off, to convince herself that it was wrong; that she had to be responsible. She must be the mother and father, the provider, the decider…“You are not responsible for this family,” she told him often. “You are just a child. I am responsible.”

She convinced no one. Not even herself.

Living in a vacuum, with only the children for companions, she sometimes found it hard to pin down reality. Was it Dave’s and Jesse’s world of brass rings out there for the grabbing? Or was it Morris’s and Harriet’s dry planet, where you survived on drops from someone else’s well? And who was to say Jesse wouldn’t succeed? Stranger things had happened, after all, she thought. The more she listened to Jesse, the more it all seemed possible.

Soon, letters with strange, beautiful stamps crowded their newly rented post office box. Jesse opened each one as if it were a birthday present. He would read them out loud, relishing the “Dear Mr. Marks.” They were filled with color brochures of jewelry, large refrigerator cases, perfumes and novelties. Sometimes, there were even packages containing samples: an aerosol can that filled and sealed punctured tires; or blue bottles of cologne with exotic names like Breathless Mist.

But when Jesse went out of the house, Ruth would turn to Sara a bit desperately, and say: “Now he wants to rent an office! How can I rent an office? I hardly have money for food or for a pair of shoes! We can’t even pay for the post office box…And all the postage…! Letters we send, all over the world. He even made me go down to the bank to open letters of credit. What do I know from it? I thought the manager would take one look at the pair of us and laugh. They didn’t laugh. They opened an account…”

Sara would sit by her side, at first proud to be consulted, feeling as if she were participating in a grown-up thing, until the information grew too large for her, too heavy, like the blankets her mother piled on her on cold nights to keep her warm. It became burdensome. She began to hate her brother: for making her mother so unhappy; for his constant bullying and showing off; for his screaming and tantrums; for dropping out of school (for being a dropout, which was only a tiny step away from juvenile delinquent); for being ultimately responsible for the fact that there was never enough food now, never a new thing to wear. Everything was even worse than before, she thought. Even Uncle Morris had stopped coming, drying up her supply of Hershey bars and dollar bills.

Now, no one came at all. And it was his doing.

Often she hated her mother too, for being weak and indecisive and useless. After all, it was her mother who got the checks. Her mother who was supposed to use it to buy food and feed them. She was the one who bought the stamps and the stationery, wasn’t she?

“Just tell him no, Mommy. Why don’t you say you haven’t got any money and you can’t?” Sara would urge her mother again and again.

“Yes, yes, that’s what I should do,” Ruth would nod encouragingly, agreeing. But the next day, she’d be back at the typewriter again, complaining about her misery, her poverty, the money wasted on the stamps, the post office box, the stationery…until Sara ached to be someone else, to be somewhere else instead of part of this unacceptable family that did nothing right.

She would peer at herself in the mirror looking for the defects she knew must be there, binding her to these people. She never saw the striking dark eyes and gleaming, thick hair, but only the slightly protruding teeth her brother constantly mocked. Like those horrible convex mirrors in a fun house, the teeth filled the mirror.

She would never be beautiful. No one would ever look at her and say: “What a beautiful girl.” Nor would anyone love her for her rich, clever father; her stylish mother, her handsome, college-educated brother, her fine home… All that was left then, she realized, was her mind. So she honed it with clear purpose, spending her spare time reading, losing herself in fairy tales, falling in love with Jo March and her sisters; finding the magic way to Narnia. She buried herself in her schoolwork. She’d won a writing contest at school and her English teacher now pinned her compositions up on the walls and regularly read them in front of the class.

Slowly, she began to win approval. She made a few good friends. But after school, there was no place to go and nothing to do. Often, she’d lay in bed, the pink blanket with its worn threads drawn over her head, Filtering the harsh light, turning the world all rosy and warm. But soon, always too soon, someone would start screaming again: her mother at Jesse, or Jesse at her mother. It might be about money, or because the Yankees had beaten the Dodgers, or if there would be two bottles of Royal Cola instead of three…Any of those things would be enough to set it off, like a bomb. She’d hold her fingers in her ears and hum a song to keep the violent sounds from seeping through. Just closing the door was never enough. The sound of Jesse’s feet pounding the floor, his four-letter curses, his loud, arrogant bellowing, her mother’s whining, her hysterical protests.

Often, she would close her eyes and wish desperately that Jesse would die, or just go away and never come back. And then she’d feel ashamed and wish instead that she could become very, very small, a particle of dust that might simply blow out the window and float away.

“Where’s the food, the food?!!!” Jesse was in the kitchen, emptying out the brown grocery bags. Sara suddenly heard things crashing to the floor.

“Why, I got bread and milk and chopped-meat!” her mother answered apologetically.

“Where’s the soda?” Jesse screamed. “Where’s the cake?” “Well, I didn’t know you wanted any,” her mother answered innocently.

“You knew!! You cheapskate!! You knew all right! Now there’s nothing to eat! NOTHING TO EAT!!” he bellowed.

Sara got up and walked into the kitchen. “Leave Mommy alone! Why don’t you just shut up?!”

“Shut up, Bucky!” he said menacingly. “What do you know?” “I know you waste our money on your stupid stamps and envelopes. On your stupid business! Why don’t you just die!”

She felt his hand push her roughly.

He was two heads taller and five years older. But where could she run away to? The dark, menacing hallways? The evil streets? The inhospitable school? The friends and teachers from whom she needed to keep her life hidden? There was only one option open. She squared off, looking at him and not budging: “You and your stupid ideas!” she repeated belligerently.

His hand against her felt like the crack of a baseball bat. She saw black. Then she saw red. She lowered her head and charged into him, butting his stomach and tearing at his face like a little animal. He pushed her back, hard, but she could see he was hurting. It was worth it, she thought, ignoring the stinging pain. Worth every minute. She almost felt joy at that wild flailing of fist and leg, her anger giving her strength, her fear pouring through her pores like sweat. To stand and fight for the little, tiny space left her. Inside her own home.

“Gotteinu,” Ruth shoved herself between them, hysterical. “Gotteinu, Gotteinu!! Leave her alone, leave her! What’s wrong with you! She’s a child. Jesse, stop it!” Ruth cried, unaware he had been equally hurt, and that Sara was equally dangerous. Ruth looked from one to the other. Her children! Her mind went blank with dull pain.

“I am responsible,” she shouted at them. “I am responsible for this family! Don’t be angry with each other!” She pushed them apart. “You’re going to kill me! Look what you do, the two of you!! You take a mother and abuse her! Stop already, stop! It’s enough.” She wept. “Sara, go to your room. Jesse, come. I’ll make you something to eat. Do you want eggs? Corn? Come, come.”

Sara ran into her room. She slammed the door and lay face down on her bed, covering herself with her blanket. She could hear her mother’s footsteps moving slowly around the kitchen, the clang of pots, the flow of water. She knew her mother would come to her later, to dab iodine on her scratches and to cluck her tongue mournfully, helplessly. But first, she would make Jesse something to eat. She would type his letters, and listen to his ideas. Only then, only later, would she remember. Would she come.

March 10, 1959

Mr. Jesse Marks General Manager Horizon Star Company pob 23554 Arverne, Queens, New York

Dear Mr. Marks,

As per your request in your letter of January 1, I am pleased to enclose our latest catalogue and price list of commercial refrigeration equipment. If you need further information, please do not hesitate to contact our head office.

Sincerely, John Delmar

Sales Manager

Pacific Freezer Corporation

Mr. Jesse Marks General Manager Horizon Star Company POB 23554 Arverne, Queens, New York

Dear Mr. Marks,

Many thanks for forwarding the information we requested on commercial refrigeration units. We are now considering the purchase of 2,000–3,000 units and are in the market to receive competing bids from a number of manufacturers and suppliers in the United States and Europe. Please let us know what quantity reductions we can expect on an order of that magnitude.

Sincerely, Jose Fuentes Presidente

Cooperative de Nationales de Republica de Argentina

Mr. Jesse Marks

General Manager

Horizon Star Company pob 23554 Arverne, Queens, New York

Dear Mr. Marks,

Thank you for your letter and for forwarding the positive response from Cooperative de Nationales in Argentina, which we understand is the country’s largest supermarket chain. We would be pleased to consider granting Horizon Star sole distributorship for South America, and would certainly consider a serious discount in unit prices for an order of that magnitude.

In order to discuss the details of our partnership further, I would like to arrange a meeting with you in New York this month.

My secretary will call you in a few days to set up a mutually convenient time. And let me say, Jesse, that I look forward very much to meeting you and cementing what looks promisingly like a long, mutually rewarding partnership.

Sincerely, Howard Archer,

President and CEO,

Pacific Freezer Corporation

Jesse held this letter in his hand and paced around the living room, finally flinging himself into the couch where he read it aloud, his voice ringing. Then he got up and ran around the room, yelling: “Whoopee!” hugging Louis and swinging him in a circle, then calling out: “MA!” He sat her down, and read it to her once again.

“Oh, Jess. How wonderful!”

“Yeah, Ma. We’re gonna make it now! You know how much one of those units costs? Fifteen thousand bucks! And he’s talking thousands of them! With a five percent commission…! Zippidy doo dah, zippidy day, my oh my, what a wonderful day…” he sang, cakewalking across the living room, while Louis followed behind him, trying to imitate. Then he crouched like Groucho, flicking off the ashes of an imaginary cigar:

“What you see here folks, is the beginning of that export company that took all the Latinos by storm, freezing the hell out of their enchiladas…” and then he paused, the words suddenly jogging something in his memory. He straightened up, turning serious.

“I need a suit, Ma. I know it costs money. But I need it. A business suit. And a good pair of shoes.” He touched his upper lip with his fingertips and wondered if he had enough time to grow a mustache.

They went shopping in Abraham and Straus. She was intimidated by the salesmen who smiled when she told them she was looking for a conservative businessman’s suit. Teenagers usually preferred something a bit more stylish and youthful, the man told her. Nevertheless, he found them one. Dark, single-breasted with small pinstripes. They would shorten the pants for nothing.