What’s Happening? (8 page)

Rita absorbed this tirade silently. Father was quiet for many minutes, contemplating.

“… but I want you to find out for yourself, and do what you think is best,” he began again mildly, solicitously. “Do you think daddy yells at you because I like it? I know what you're going through, and I want to help you. I was young once. But if you don't listen to me …” Anger flared for an instant. “I'm doing these things for your own good. If you don't listen though, you're gonna be sorry. To tell you the truth I don't wish you any hard luck, … but you'll be sorry. Wait! You'll see I was right,” he concluded with infallible finality, raising a finger into the air, then opening his hand in a sign to stop all conversation, as Mother put the steaming serving plates on the table.

“Ahh … this is good,” Father said enthusiastically as he dished out the liver.

Rita sat quietly, wondering if Father really thought these little pieces of liver, thrown into an oven and, still in their cooking platters, onto a bare table without napkins, really was a meal fit for a king. He had eaten this sort of plain, uninspired, poorly served food all his life, and he wanted to think it was good, the best.
Everyone molds a kingdom with his own hand out of his own possessions
.

The others at the table were still moved by Father's indignity and they reflected embarrassment for Father and themselves. They resented the whore from the Village that was a member of their family.

The word Village was a curse in itself. It signified the filthiest of the filth, the lowest of the low, the cesspool of humanity to which drained all the waste matter of the world, the refuse of society. And to think that a relative of theirs had elected to live there, with all the degenerates and queers and nuts—Father's own daughter, flesh of his flesh. It was an affront to the family dignity.

Father was resigned, though, as any good man should be, and he accepted the burden that the Lord had given him. He graciously dropped the subject and chomped a large hunk of liver.

“You know …” Father began again, his mouth full, “you've been there long enough. Maybe its time to come home. Maybe you come home and talk to Rabbi Mayer. Daddy'll go with you. Let him decide—talk to you anyway. What could be fairer? He's a smart man—a good man.”

Pulverized particles of white mashed potatoes and brown liver stuck on the end of Father's tongue and caked in the crevices between his teeth. Rita turned away disgusted.

“Maybe … Let me think about it,” she said, wanting to avoid discussion. She attempted to force down her liver.

“C'mon, eat the liver. It's good for you,” Mother urged Randy. “Don't waste any; it'd be a sin. Sixty-eight cents a pound it cost.” She shook her head, accompanying her gesture with a
tch tch
sound of sadness.

That's all she worries about
, thought Rita,
whether or not she wastes her money and effort … not if her family eats or feels well
. Rita's thoughts were filled with sadness.

“Eat, … c'mon eat,” Father demanded of Rita. “You look terrible. You need a good meal instead of all the sh——“Father almost forgot not to be himself for the moment. “… The crap they have in those creep joints down the Village. You look run down. What are you doing to yourself?” Father was still sure he would flush out some hidden sordid secret; she would admit the filthy error of her Village ways.

“Probably staying up all night at parties,” Randy injected, mixing his words with thoughts he had heard expressed before, thoughts with which he knew the family would agree.

“That's enough, Randy,” Mother said protectively. “Eat the liver … it's good.”

“It's the truth, ain't it? I don't want any liver.” Randy made a face.

“Well, eat some of it anyway. I cooked it just the way you like.” She smiled encouragingly. “It's good for you. It gives you brains.”

Father was still contemplating Randy's words silently. They ate into his brain. Rita felt the rack she was on begin to pull her head from her body. She began to feel trapped. She wanted to leap from the table and leave. Yet she couldn't bear the scene that would inevitably ensue. Why had she come? Why had she come? Why? … Why? … Why? She had had to—that was why—she just had to. They had her mailing address, and if she hadn't come, one day she would answer a knock on the door and there he would be, Father, resplendent in his most austere, his most self-righteous, dominating, searching, disapproving look. It was far less an ordeal to return home first. And yet, beside this imposed need to return, Rita often truly felt she wanted to come home, she wanted to be part of her family. Time has a way of indulging memory. The mind turns from the unpleasant, the difficult, until one day, the qualm is no longer extant, and seeming pleasantness alone remains. This morning, Rita had awakened and felt the warmth and want of family love. The same warm blood that ran through the veins of Father and Mother and Randy surged through her, warming her thoughts until she had decided to return. She allowed their disagreement might be her fault, and perhaps they could try once again. Time's indulgence of memory may be barbed, however. Rita had been allowed to forget, but her parents had not forgotten to be. Rita contemplated how she might tactfully leave early and return to the peaceful, unenforced happiness of her own apartment.

“Is that what you're doing?” asked Father, thoughts of Randy's words having gnawed at him sufficiently, “… out fooling around all night, wasting your time?” He paused. “I don't want to be hard on you.” He groped gracelessly for warmth and sincerity.

Rita had experienced his attempts at warmth before. She knew they were always emitted to sway her to his will.

“I just want you to settle down, … to get set in life, … get a husband.” He shook his head, completely crushed by his daughter's imprudence. He was disgusted, sorrowful, and he didn't know how to convince her she was all wrong.

“There's that nice Marty Rosenstein,” Mother added. “His mother was telling me he has a nice job in television. They're nice people. His father just bought a new store. You should come home and meet nice boys.”

“Sonny Cashman still asks for you,” added Randy.

“Another nice boy. Come home, meet these boys. You'll change your mind about those terrible people in the Village. Ughh, … they give me the creeps.” Mother shivered with distaste.

“Look,” Rita pleaded, “… I didn't come home to get fixed up. Please let's forget about it, … be happy and enjoy.”

“That's all, Rosie, … forget it,” Father ordered, his anger and annoyance mounting. “Bbbbbrrrucccck.” He belched blatantly, raucously.

Rita absorbed the sound and cringed. Her stomach turned.

“I'm gettin' a nervous stomach on account of you,” Father threatened, leaning toward Rita. “You know that?”

“You're probably getting a nervous stomach on account of yourself. Maybe your girl friend is giving you a hard time.” She had to lash out for protection. She was immediately sorry she said it. She didn't want to hurt Mother.

“Maybe that's so,” replied Father, his headlong attack grinding to a halt. He did not flinch, however. Often he purposely spoke of a girl friend as a topic of family conversation. He had found that the most daring, obvious way was the easiest way to confound a weak person like his wife. He purposely provoked the ultimate question he knew she would not ask. Of course, supposedly, he was joking when he spoke this way. Yet he did have a girl friend. He kidded about her and kept her, and whenever a thought of her real existence was brought to the fore, he substituted the old joke for the real and his wife couldn't tell one from the other without creating an embarrassing scene. It frightened Mother to face the world alone. Father smiled at the age-old joke, but Rita knew it was an embarrassed smile.

“But I'll tell you this,” Father started ahead again, “I want you to stop this nonsense, and stop it soon, otherwise you're going to be sorry. That's all. I don't want to hear any more. Just remember, you're all mixed up now. You don't know what you want. I know it's tough. All this stuff you think now—this acting, and dressing up in those creepy clothes and the rest of the junk—it's just a passing fad. You'll forget it. But I want you to forget it soon. How'd'ya think I feel when people ask me where my daughter is? I'm ashamed to tell them. Me, … I'm ashamed of my own daughter.” He gritted his teeth in a contorted grimace of anger and mortification.

“Take it easy, dear. Don't get yourself upset,” Mother urged consolingly. “What do you want for dessert?”

“I don't care … anything … I'm so disgusted.” He turned angrily from Rita.

Rita absorbed all he had said silently. Her mind exploded with disgust and loathing and hate. She hated them all, all of them. They were ashamed of her—ashamed!—because she wanted to be herself as they had made her herself. They couldn't cope with the strength they had unknowingly infused into their monster. They refused to admit there was anything on the other side of the Brooklyn Bridge, anything past the corner of this very block. Ashamed! They didn't care about anything but themselves.… They weren't worrying about Rita, they were worried for themselves—only themselves—and not even themselves, only what other people would think about them. Angered thoughts flashed and re-flashed through Rita's brain.

Mother served the dessert, a small pound cake on which she had turned back the cellophane so that it hung on the cake like a woman's drooping stockings. Rita hated the slovenly, lazy way Mother served food, the laziness of her entire existence. Rotten pound cake from the delicatessen! Night after night she served the same things, and if a disparaging remark was made, Mother was as offended as if a sumptuous banquet she had created had been criticized; and for Mother, perhaps, the pound cake was the farthest outpost of her creative ability.

Father began to chomp his cake and suck his coffee with the same “oooszp” he had used on his soup.

Rita braced herself and shuddered at each repulsive sound. She was hardly able to contain her disgust.

Father lifted his cup, and poured some coffee into the saucer. He lifted the saucer and began sucking from it. Rita stared dumbfounded. Realizing she was staring, Father lowered the saucer from his mouth and turned to her inquisitively.

“You're kidding, aren't you?” Rita asked.

Father chuckled, cognizant of his indelicacy. He was a bit embarrassed. “That's the way I like to drink my coffee. Isn't that the way they do it in the Village?” He chuckled more defensively.

“Jesus Christ! If you aren't the most unmannerly person I have ever had the misfortune of eating with. That goes for the whole bunch of you,” Rita lashed out, sweeping the others with her eyes. “Noises … belches … drinking from saucers …”

“Un, hahh, … Miss Prim,” said Randy with a mocking lilt.

“Randy, go inside,” Mother implored, wanting to shield him from the imminent violence. Mother looked dumbly to Father. Father stared at Rita, his anger mounting. Randy walked to the door, turned and stood watching, enjoying the spectacle.

“This is my house,” Father thundered. He pounded the table with his palm. The cups and dishes jumped. “… and I can do what I want in my house.”

“Well, if you want to be a God damn pig, go ahead,” Rita exploded, “… but don't tell me what to do if you don't know what you're doing yourself.”

Father chuckled again—an embarrassed chuckle. “If I didn't think you were kidding I'd slap your teeth out.” He watched her eyes. He didn't want to have to cope with this scene either.

“I'm not kidding,” Rita said flatly, challenging him. “My friends in the Village might not have as much money or put on as big a show as you and your friends, … although you wouldn't know that because you've never even been in the God damn Village in your life, … but they're a lot more mannerly and less hypocritical if you're any ruler to measure them by.”

“Why, you ungrateful little bitch. I've given you everything you got … everything you wanted.… What am I supposed to do now? Am I supposed to sit here and listen to you tell me that the creeps and whores you hang around with in the Village are as good as my friends?” He stared at her with angered eyes that had not yet decided on a course of action.

Rita stared back boldly, defiantly. “I don't know what you're supposed to do,” she answered. “Why don't you make up your own mind for a change?”

His hand whipped, smacking Rita's face. Tears began to flow between fingers of the hand she raised to her face. Father gaped at her, perplexed, angry yet sorry that he had hurt her.

“Go ahead, … go ahead, … you God damn animal, … hit me again. I expect as much from you, … you big, strong, … pig.” She pushed away from the table, her chair falling to the floor. “That's all you know.…” She stood away from the table catching all of them in her view. Father glared at her. Mother didn't know what to do. “A smack in the mouth, … just like the animal you are, … that's all you know. Too lazy to think about life … beat it to death … but that won't eliminate the things you're afraid are true, the inner voice … and you know it. One of these days somebody ought to smack your teeth out. Maybe you'd like that, hanh? You ill-mannered …” Rita was so angry she couldn't speak. She tried thinking of something to say, but her mind overflowed with rage. She turned and bolted into the hall, picked up her coat from a chair, and ran to the front door.

“I hope she suffers, that tramp. I hope she suffers like she's making me suffer. I'm so humiliated I can't even face my friends,” Father screamed.

Rita's teeth ground with anger. She twirled and ran back to the kitchen. “So long, … you unmannered animal.” Her hurt strength flowed into her farewell through sobbing gasps. “I hope you and your friends are very happy together … I hate you … I hate you … I hate you,” she screamed as loudly as she could, venting her rage, wanting to repay the hurt.