Tiger, Tiger (6 page)
“It is not that simple, Keesy. It is about honor. But I don’t think a man should punish his girlfriend for indiscretion. Women are frivolous; they love easily and they cannot help that they are creatures of passion. They are not rational like men. To be mad at a cheating girlfriend is like yelling at the clouds for raining. I have a girlfriend, Keesy, that your mother knows nothing about.” He paused. I felt pleased for a second, understanding that he trusted me not to tell Mommy. A lot of times it was him and me sneaking around behind Mommy’s back. For instance, when I was with him, he would let me sit up front and not wear a seat belt, but when Mommy was there, I had to be strapped in, sitting in the back. And every time he brought me with him to get the car inspected, he would buy me four chocolate-frosted doughnuts for lunch, saying, “Don’t tell your mother.” But I was sad, too. I knew his having a girlfriend had something to do with him never hugging or kissing Mommy, and never saying “I love you.”
He continued: “For all I know my girlfriend is with ten other men, but what can I do about it? I cannot worry about everything. Daughters, sisters, mothers—they are sacred because they are of your blood, and if a man does something to them, that man is wronging you directly. Through my years of experience and watching the experiences of my friends, I have found that men will wrong your sister, your mother, your daughter, and all to get at you, to try to destroy another man’s honor, because it makes them feel powerful. I know there are two sons in this family your mother takes you to see: beware of the sons—play with them in front of company, but do not go off alone with them. It is just practical advice, from someone who knows.” I didn’t dare tell Poppa I rarely saw either of the boys; that I was with Peter most of the time, both alone and with my mother.
As we neared the apartment, Poppa pointed to a patch of graffiti on the side of a building and said excitedly, “Look, it is that macho man, Bones, that vandal they can never catch, messing up our city! Well, today, Keesy, good riddance to our old friend Bones, we never have to look at his name again!”
At our new house, Poppa said we had to take short showers, not the leisurely ones we were used to at the apartment, where we didn’t pay for water. Our furniture was new and encased in plastic wrapping, which Poppa would not remove for fear of ruining it. The plastic was uncomfortable, and as a result no one sat on it, not even Poppa himself. As I saw from watching the mustached moving men, the couch was terribly heavy. It had oak claw feet and was long enough for Poppa to stretch his entire body across. The new TV Poppa bought was huge and had ornate mahogany curls but Poppa would rarely sit in the living room and watch it; he preferred going to his bedroom to watch his tiny TV from the old apartment. We had gotten rid of our rotary-dial phone and got a new touch-tone that lit up when I pressed the buttons, and I couldn’t help but miss the sound the rotary wheel made when I’d turn it. It had sounded like blades on a fresh rink, and would remind me of the times Poppa would take me to Rockefeller Center, where we would watch the ice-skaters.
One day, I overheard Mommy say on the phone that she had thought we would all be happier living in our cozy one-family, side-gabled colonial house than we were in that cramped, roach-ridden apartment, but we weren’t and she didn’t know why. This was true: it seemed that ever since we got the house Poppa went into three-hour screaming tirades even more often, and having a whole house to roam didn’t stop Mommy from lying in one room with her radio or Gibson record player. There was even more for Poppa to clean, and now a greater responsibility for caring about the way things looked. If even a small amount of water spilled on the bathroom floor, Poppa yelled that the tiles were going to rise up. This was such a great fear of Poppa’s that he insisted we mop after bathing, and then he mopped again himself, the entire time yelling about how expensive it would be if the entire floor needed to be retiled. Poppa had a rule that no one could take baths during the day, when he couldn’t oversee the tiles.
Around this time, Poppa was having more difficulty at work than usual and his especially foul mood caused him to rage about my mother’s sister Vera more often. She was the one he called “the bitch in Connecticut.” My mother had two sisters: Vera, who was three years older, and my beloved aunt Bonnie, Mommy’s twin, who lived in Ohio.
One rainy day, while sitting in Peter’s living room after watching
Old Yeller
, which had made both him and me cry, my mother managed to cheer us up by getting me to do an impression of Poppa’s rant one weekend when he came home from the bar and started on the subject of Aunt Vera. “Watch this, Peter!” Mommy said. “Margaux is better than a stand-up comic!”
So I stood up. “Okay, okay, but don’t laugh, either of you, or I’ll start laughing too, and that’ll ruin it. Okay, here goes . . . That old witch in Connecticut—she looks down on us because she lives in luxury in that rich place, and I invited her here once and she wouldn’t come! She made an excuse, some stupid, far-out reason, but I knew she did not want to set one foot into Union City! Well, I hope she dies of a terminal illness! I hope she dies in bed, screaming! She looks down on me! She thinks she is too good for my cooking! And what is more—I know about this kind of woman; she studied French not for love of the language but to meet that rich banker husband! There they are in that house—the bitch and the banker in that cold house—I swear she turned the heat down when we came to discourage us from visiting! I cannot understand such a person! I learned French and
German out of my love for the language and the culture and the food! I respect European culture! I love the French! She pretended to play that flute, too, to attract the banker, but not because the music was in her blood. I cannot stand a fake person! I studied the Spanish poets because of my appreciation for them; I listen to music for the love of it! I will tell you people something. Even if I go to hell and burn it will be worth it, just to see that bitch down in the flames with me!
Because she will be there, I guarantee it! I guarantee it!” I flopped down on the carpet, laughing.
“Margaux should be an actress,” Peter said, his face lit by awe.
“She sure has talent when it comes to impersonations,” said Mommy. “You know something, for all my husband’s complaining about Vera, the truth is she did help us in a time of need. She took care of Margaux for the first two months when I was in the hospital. That’s the first time I got sick and they realized I needed to be on medication for the rest of my life. I couldn’t even hold her. I was terrified of dropping her. I felt like such a failure. I wanted to be with the baby, but I knew I wasn’t well, I was crying all the time, and I knew there was no way I could possibly take care of a baby.”
“Can we watch another movie?” I asked, and Peter put in one of his videotape recordings of
Punky Brewster
. I think Peter liked the show just as much as I did; he said the relationship between Punky’s adopted father, Henry, and Punky reminded him of the two of us.
Mommy continued: “And I feel guilty because I create so many bills. Every time I go to the hospital, it costs Louie about a thousand dollars.”
“So who’s the one who makes you sick?” Peter said, sitting straighter in his chair. “It’s him. Him with all his physical and mental abuse! He brainwashes you, Sandy, into thinking you’re no good when it’s really him! There’s something wrong with him! Sandy, I’m going to ask you a question. Why don’t you leave that man, once and for all? Leave him and get an apartment for you and Margaux. You’re an attractive woman. You can meet somebody else.”
“Oh, Peter, thank you, you’re so kind, but the truth is I’m overweight and no man would want me. I don’t know how to manage money and I don’t know a thing about housekeeping: when I was growing up in Westport, we had a maid. And I have all those hospital bills, which he pays . . .”
“Out of your and Margaux’s Social Security checks!” My mother received an SSI check for me in addition to her own, since her mental illness qualified her as disabled.
“Yes, yes, out of our checks, but still, still he keeps track of the medication and he cooks the dinners and . . . and I’m sick.” She looked into the fish tank as she said this. “I’m not functional; I go to hospitals. I mean, the court would take one look at my record, my being in and out of psych wards, and they would grant him custody. They would take her from me, Peter.”
“Not if you could prove in court that he’s violent with you and Margaux, Sandy,” Peter said, gently placing his hand on her arm.
W
hen the weather started to get really cold and we were forced to spend more time indoors, it was up to Peter to invent new games. No more outdoor barbecues with hot dogs and burnt marshmallows harpooned on sticks, no more pool or chases with the garden hose, no more tree climbing. The winter air made my mother languid; she would get tired out from the walk to Peter’s house, so she spent more time in the living room listening to her headphones while watching the swirling fish (Peter encouraged her to stare at them, saying this would lower her blood pressure), writing letters to Aunt Bonnie, or working on her Fact Book. Poppa had given her a terrible haircut and some of her hair had fallen out due to all the medications she was on. Her face, despite its floridness, nevertheless appeared sunken. Only at Peter’s house did she seem slightly more alive, as if she was vaguely hopeful about something.
Inès wasn’t fond of my mother’s presence in the living room when she came home around six to reheat a plate of food that Peter had cooked and then head off to read under the gold-bronze lamp whose red fringe hung in wavy tendrils. Peter confided in me that after a tiring workday, Inès didn’t like to be pushed into chitchat, but my mother was the type who couldn’t take a hint. Often, Inès read anyway while my mother talked. Peter said she was lucky to have a rare ability to tune out her surroundings. “I can’t,” he said once. “People have mistaken me for a cop before; that’s how alert and aware I am of everything that’s going on around me.”
Peter was determined to keep me active and happy even though we were confined to the house most of the time: with movies, board games, even chess, which he managed to teach me slowly so I wouldn’t get frustrated, and, of course, helping him feed and care for the animals. He even started letting me handle the iguanas when once he’d feared they could scratch me in the face. But now he said I was nearly eight, and getting responsible and mature. He could tell I was ready. He had me wear thick black mitts that looked like boxing gloves before he handed me one of the wise old lizards, who sat very still as I gently caressed him. There is a picture of me taken at that time, my head bent and black bangs falling into my eyes; the lizard’s spiky head lifted and claw curled affectionately on my pant leg—an ancient infant whose keen skin sensed my soft fingertips even through the heavy gloves.
We also had a thousand-piece jigsaw puzzle we worked on. He’d give me a swift kiss on the lips each time one of us found a piece, after making sure no one was looking. Sometimes Miguel or Ricky could wander into the kitchen for food, but thankfully they were always loud, and so was my mother; she shuffled her feet when she walked. Peter said it was important that no one see us kiss, because people were so weird nowadays—in this day and age, any show of affection was suspect; back in the days when he was a kid, fathers kissed their daughters on the lips all the time.
One Friday in January that was as cold as an open grave, I threw my first tantrum in front of Peter.
“I can’t take being inside anymore! I’m sick of it! I hate the winter!” I looked out the living room window at Miguel and Ricky, who were skateboarding outside and, what was more, weren’t even wearing heavy coats. “Look at those stupid boys, they get to be out all year round and they don’t get frostbite. I think frostbite is a rumor, an ugly, false rumor invented to keep girls cooped up! I just wish I could go to the park! I just wish I could go on the swing! I just wish! I just wish! I just wish!” I stamped my feet.
My mother looked to Peter without saying anything.
Peter said, “Margaux, I have a great idea. Come!”
I followed him down the twisty hall stairs, touching each golden key as I passed them, which is something I did every time I went up or down those stairs. I felt excited when we walked into the narrow hallway by the door to the downstairs apartment. We came to an unpainted wooden door, which Peter unlocked with a small silver key. He reached up to pull a long string, and when a naked bulb came on, he beckoned for me to follow him.
“Hold the banister,” he cautioned, but it didn’t even begin until halfway down the little staircase. The steps felt like they were made out of old soft wood and were a little wobbly, so I thought of pirate ships and walking the plank. When Peter reached the bottom he pulled on another string, activating another naked bulb.
“Let there be light! So what do you think? A big old mess, wouldn’t you say? Inès is a pack rat; she doesn’t like to throw anything away. She couldn’t part with her husband’s old clothes. She still has the moccasins he wore when they went to Woodstock.”
I looked around: two motorcycles, some rusty bikes, skis, a few umbrellas, a refrigerator, beach chairs, and some wide-open toolboxes containing nails, screwdrivers, bolts. Piled in stacks on the floor were dusty books; there were boxes, crates, and trunks, which made me curious. But before doing anything else, I leaped onto the leather seat of one of the motorcycles, grabbed both handles, and went, “Vroom, vroom, vroom.”
“I have to get that motorcycle up and running this summer, so we can go for rides. Will you go for rides with me?”
“If my mother lets me. Vroom, vroom, vroom.”
“I have a feeling she will. Your mother is overprotective, but I think I might be able to talk her into it.”
The basement was cold, so I was glad for the cable-knit sweater my mother had made me wear. I’d never been in a basement before. It smelled damp and musty and something reminded me of the air in a cave, or at least what I imagined a cave would be like. The floor looked as though it was made of metal and the ceiling was a collection of long wooden beams so low that Peter had to stay stooped over.