Chains Around the Grass (6 page)

If anyone had threatened them, if a flood or fire had pitted her life against theirs, she would, without a moment’s hesitation, have gladly made the exchange. She was capable of deep, real motherly love. What she lacked was the dogged interest in following up the little details which transforms motherly love from an emotion to the rock-bed of a small child’s whole existence. Boiling noodles to exactly the right consistency. Keeping track of undershirts and little socks so that there are always clean ones, always dry ones, no matter how many times a day it is necessary to change them; keeping track of who did what to whom and meting out educational justice. Knowing when to let a child express himself by arranging cornflakes on the couch pillows and when to insist on keeping some semblance of order and cleanliness in a home.

At all these kinds of things, Ruth knew she was a dismal failure. She hated the oppressive, daily grind of the small, thankless tasks which keep a home from falling apart. It was not the work; she wasn’t lazy or spoiled. She just hated the constant feeling of doing it all so badly.

In her mind’s eye, she held guilty, secret rituals, exorcising herself of all responsibility, the equivalent of sneaking down to sit quietly on an empty beach during perfectly good working hours. And in these rituals, she was alone in deep silent waters, looking neither right nor left for weaker swimmers drowning, but taking slow, anarchistic strokes—joyously bereft of goals. And sometimes, in the early morning when everyone was still blessedly asleep, comfortable and well in their beds, she had the amazing vision of herself in a tailored blue wool suit, hair and nails shining, sitting behind the bright, clean surface of an oiled desk with a typewriter, telephone and dictation pad set out with simple orderliness before her.

“Come Saraleh. Come, I’ll dress you. We’ll go visit the nice people,” she said without enthusiasm, catching Sara’s arm as she danced around the room, finding herself dragged along, dancing behind her. What a kid! Ruth couldn’t help smiling. She couldn’t walk—she danced everywhere, pirouetting, banging into walls, scraping her knees, rubbing her elbows raw…

“Knock, knock,” the child said suddenly, standing perfectly still.

“OK, come on now.”

“Knock, knock!” she repeated insistently.

“Who’s there?” Ruth said wearily. “Boo.”

“Boo-who?” Ruth said dutifully, “Now…” “Boo-who-who?”

“Boo-who-who-who,” Ruth gave in. “Now Sara…!” “Boo-who-who-who-who?” Sara continued, delighted. “SARA!!!!!”

“Please, Mommy! Just once more, please!!”

Ruth took a deep breath and closed her eyes: “Boo-who-who-who-who-who-who!!” she said slowly, with effort.

“Why, Mommy? Why are you crying?” Sara asked with great innocence.

“You little witch!” Ruth laughed. “Who taught you that one?” “Daddy. Daddy knows lots of jokes.”

“Your Daddy loves to laugh,” Ruth told her, getting her dressed. When she was ready, Ruth checked on her sleeping baby, then held her daughter’s squirming hand and walked rapidly down the long hall.

She felt better taking Sara along. Armed. There would be two against…she shrugged, feeling foolish. Against what? She knocked timidly, hoping not to be heard.

“Who is it?” a woman’s voice demanded.

Ruth hesitated. The fear and suspicion in the tone put her off balance, so clearly did it mirror her own misgivings. And yet, it created a certain kinship too. “It’s Mrs. Markowitz. From down the hall.”

She was a very thin young woman with badly chapped, redknuckled hands which she wiped nervously on a clean, but faded cotton housedress.

“Oh, Mrs. Markowitz. I’m sorry. I didn’t… Please, please, come in,” the woman said graciously. “Excuse this place,” her hand swept in a wide arc, including in its apology the airless, sour smell, the threadbare rug and chipped wooden coffee table. But the table was dustless and the frayed couch pillows neatly arranged, Ruth noticed with respect.

From the depths of the dark hall a child’s short, choking sobs wafted down to them. The woman turned toward it, her fingers becoming fists she plunged into her pockets. “’Scuse me, won’t you?”she said stiffly, retreating into the bedroom. She emerged with a pallid, thin baby boy whose hair, like his mother’s, was a faded, sunless blond. The child’s coughs turned into loud, gasping noises and his mother patted him, her bashful eyes narrowing in alarm.

Impulsively, Ruth caressed the child’s thin little arm with its blue-veined, almost transparent skin and thought of Louis, plump and pink, napping in his crib. She intoned a silent prayer.

“It’s asthma,” the woman explained, again apologetic, concentrating, as if afraid to miss a cough.

“What does the doctor say?” “That he needs dry air.”

They looked at each other a moment in silence, aware of the living room windows facing the sea. Ruth searched her face for a trace of anger or irony, but found only a worried resignation.

“Those sea breezes must be the worst thing…” Ruth shook her head, then was appalled she’d spoken. It sounded like criticism. But the woman took no offense, nodding her agreement, intent on the coughing child, her eyebrows anxious, her face pleading.

She must be really very young, no more than twenty-five, Ruth guessed with compassion as the woman looked up and flashed a sudden, hopeful smile. “But we…we got…plans, my husband and me,” she stood up with sudden energy, “Wait, please. I’ll show them to you!” She lowered the baby gently onto the rug and disappeared into the hallway.

Sara rubbed her hand along the baby’s pale cheek. “No! Leave the baby be, honey,” Ruth pulled her back.

“Oh, you don’t have to worry, Mrs. Markowitz. That’s not a catching thing, that asthma,” the woman said carefully.

That her genuine concern for disturbing the child had been misinterpreted as self-interest made Ruth groan inwardly. But she felt helpless to set things right. In her experience, the more a person tried to talk others out of their misconceptions, the worse it got. So she advised herself to just shut up and at least not make it worse.

“Look!” Thick, glossy Chamber of Commerce pamphlets spilled out of large manila envelopes, covering the coffee table. Ruth thumbed through them politely at first, and then with real enjoyment. It was like basking in summer heat among healthy vacationers; a place where white houses on flat green lawns were inhabited by tanned young blondes in white shorts with nothing more urgent to do than water rosebushes. In such a place, Ruth thought, the woman’s hair would grow really golden, the little boy’s paleness darken into rosy health. She felt a sudden yearning to see it happen.

“They have jobs out there. Housing. Dirt-cheap. For a song. We just need a little nest egg, for moving, rent deposits, you know… And my husband Bill, they just let him go…” Her eyes looked off in the direction of the pale light streaming through the windows. They were tired eyes, Ruth thought, but eyes that had not yet given up.

“Well, where are my manners! Let me get you something—some cookies, a cup of coffee?”

“Oh no, no thank you very much. I’ve still got so much to do. Unpacking…”

“Oh, I know what that’s like…”

“Place is such a mess. Can’t seem to make a dent in it… And I left my baby asleep all by himself,” Ruth got up quickly, trying to prevent the woman from troubling herself with extra work, yet anxious to avoid appearing insultingly eager to get away. “I just dropped by to thank you for the help. The light bulb and the phone call. You know, the movers came so late… We so much appreciate all you did.”

The woman looked at her blankly.

“You know,” Ruth repeated with heavier emphasis, wondering what in heaven’s name she had done wrong now. “My husband. Oh!” Color flooded her face. “This is apartment 7h isn’t it? My husband told me specially…”

“7a,” the woman said softly. They stared at each other awkwardly, then suddenly both giggled.

“Glad you came by anyway,” the woman held out her hand. “The name is Dundee. Dundee Williams. And if you do need anything, anything at all…”

Ruth grasped the work-roughened hand warmly. “Well, I’m real glad to have met you. And I wish you a lot of luck, going out West and all. Looks so nice out there,” she smiled, surprised at how much she liked this woman in her old housecoat, liked and understood her as she had never liked or understood the PTA mothers in Jersey with their pleated skirts and pearl-button sweaters. She bent down, planting a swift kiss on the baby’s white forehead, then edged away, saddened, as the coughing began once again.

“So how’d it go?” Dave asked later that night. “Fine!” she said, being honest.

He studied her face a moment and then, satisfied, leaned back and relaxed.

Chapter four

So what do you think now?” Dave bellowed, his arms flung wide enough to embrace everyone in sight.

“A bicycle!” Jesse walked around it for a while, giving it little unbelieving strokes, as if to make sure it wasn’t about to disappear into thin air. “Gee, Dad, thanks!”

“And a Revlon doll,” Sara shouted, frantically tearing open the box. But when she actually took it out and held it, so tall and with a spangly pink and silver dress and little diamond drop earrings and silver high heels, she stood absolutely still, sucking in her breath as if drowning in a huge tidal wave of joy.

“Oh, Daddy!” She ran to him, jumping up into his arms, squeezing his broad neck with her one free hand.

“Dave,” Ruth’s voice was deep, overwhelmed, as she draped the new fur coat around her shoulders. It wasn’t mink, but still…a real fur coat!

His arms met around her back, caressing her through the thick, soft folds.

“Didn’t I tell you I knew what I was doing? What did I tell you? What did I say?” He laughed.

Things were going well. He had a way with customers, not that it surprised him. He knew that from the store. But the tips! The way these city folks and tourists responded to a smile, a little decent service! He couldn’t really afford all this, not exactly…but what the hell. The way things were going…well there was no telling how deep the mine was or how large the mother lode. Besides, he believed in celebrations; in not waiting for perfect moments, and this was about as good a time as any he had known in his life.

“To celebrate, I’m taking you all for a little ride.”

“Aw, Dad, now? I wanted to take the bike out for a spin….” Dave held up his hand. “Nothing’s gonna help you, Jesse. Just

get dressed and follow me.”

In the gleaming yellow taxi, the off-duty sign on, he drove past the projects and the rotting hardware and grocery shops where old Black men leaned back against peeling wooden shutters near displays of pomade and hairpins. He drove past respectable little wooden houses, Waldbaum’s, a large white synagogue, past parks and schools, until he entered a place where large private homes sparkling with huge picture windows were separated by tended lawns.

It was a place where houses seemed to live, but not people, Ruth thought, shuddering and hugging herself. She never liked these kinds of neighborhoods, all fancy shmancy. They made her feel inadequate and unfairly judged.

He parked the car, then ran around to open the door for her with a little bow. “Madame,” he smiled, taking her hand with courtly grace and helping her out. Then he tucked her arm firmly though his, leading her through the gates and straight to the front door.

“Dave!! What are you doing?!” she protested, squirming to release herself. But before she could pull free, he had already pressed his thumb decisively onto the doorbell.

A voice—a bit alarmed, Dave thought with uneasy surprise, called out: “Who’s there!?” Had he changed that much? He took off his cap, smoothing back his thinning hair. “Don’t you recognize me, Rita? It’s Dave.”

The door opened stingily, the crack widening with caution until it finally framed an older woman. She wore an expensive black dress, the kind you’d wear to a catering hall or a hotel for a Bar Mitzvah, Ruth thought with slight contempt. It was not a dress for the house in the middle of the day. The woman’s sharply angled, ungenerous body discouraged anything as rash as a hug.

“David,” the woman smiled tightly, her uncertain eyes wandering appraisingly from his cabby hat to Ruth’s new fur coat. Then she exhaled.

“Nu. A real surprise. Come in, come in.” She pecked at Ruth’s cheek and patted Sara and the baby with a little more enthusiasm.

“Reuben, you’ll never guess!” she called over her shoulder up the stairs.

“Guess what?” An older man padded down the steps. The children looked at him, startled. Except for graying hair and a larger paunch, he could have been their father. Halfway down, he stopped, patting his pipe meditatively against his palm, staring at his younger brother. “Long time, Dave,” he finally said.

“Yeah,” Dave agreed, walking hesitantly halfway up the steps to meet him, shaking his hand with an ingratiating enthusiasm that made Jesse turn away his head in embarrassment.

“These are my kids, Reuben,” Dave said eagerly, gesturing toward them, his voice suddenly hoarse.

“Nu. Time goes. Beautiful kinderlech, beautiful. So please, please, sit down, sit down.” He led them through French doors newly painted in creamy white and gilt, into a room golden with sunshine and down-filled, yellow couches.

Sara sank blissfully into the soft luxury.

“Just watch the little feet, sweetheart.” Rita said, her tone jovial, her eyes unfriendly.

Sara stared down at her toes with vague guilt.

“So many years to catch up, Dave. You look good. Right, Rita, he looks good?”

“Very good,” she nodded, bored.

“Couldn’t be better,” Dave agreed, rubbing his hands together, trying to have enough enthusiasm for all of them. “Just went into a new business a few months ago.”

“What? You sold the candy store?”

“Yeah. Got tired of schlepping in cold bottles of seltzer at four in the morning. Instead I got this…these…taxis,” he said, making it plural at the last minute.

“Yes? What? Taxis?” Reuben suddenly leaned forward.

“Well, it’s actually only just the one at the moment. But with the way things are going…” Dave said eagerly, shrugging with a modest smile, like a man about to accept an award at a testimonial dinner. He explained his plan to Reuben, his hands reaching out and contracting, almost as if he were maneuvering around a boxing ring with a dangerous opponent. When he finished, he leaned back with nervous satisfaction and rubbed his neck, using the opportunity to take in and memorize every last piece of furniture in the room.