Anna in Chains

ANNA IN CHAINS

MERRILL JOAN GERBER

Dzanc Books
1334 Woodbourne Street
Westland, MI 48186
www.dzancbooks.org

Copyright © 1998 by Merrill Joan Gerber

All rights reserved, except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher.

The first eight stories in this book were previously published in
Chattering Man
(Longstreet Press, 1991). “The Leaf Lady” first appeared in
Crosscurrents
. “Mozart You Can't Give Them” and “Comes an Earthquake” first appeared in
The Sewanee Review
. “The Blood Pressure Bunch and the Alzheimer's Gang” first appeared in
Amelia
. “Starry Night” first appeared in
Phoebe: A SUNY Women's Studies Journal
. “Hear No Entreaties, Speak No Consolations” first appeared in
The Chattahoochee Review

Published 2012 by Dzanc Books
A Dzanc Books r
E
print Series Selection

eBooks ISBN-13: 978-1-938103-18-6
eBook Cover Designed by Steven Seighman

Printed in the United States of America

The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author
.

For Cynthia Ozick

CONTENTS

“Rad, Man”

The Leaf Lady

Mozart You Can't Give Them

The Blood Pressure Bunch and the Alzheimer's Gang

Comes an Earthquake

Starry Night

Tickets to
Donahue

The Next Meal Is
Lunch

Wheel of Fortune

Hear No Entreaties, Speak No Consolations

Anna in Chains

ANNA IN CHAINS

On the TV screen some thug with long blond hair named Hulk Hogan was wrestling some other hooligan wearing leopard-skin jockey shorts. Their grunts, as they hit the floor, sounded to Anna like a hippopotamus in labor.

Anna's grandsons, Abram and David, leaned forward on the couch, staring at the screen without blinking—two complete morons. At each sound of a human head hitting the canvas, a burst of unintelligible speech came out of Abram's mouth and his bare, tanned knees came up as if he were having a fit. (Despite the fact that it was December, he was wearing some garish flowered shorts that had cost Carol thirty dollars.) He leaned over suddenly and punched his brother who cried out, “Rad, man! Rad!” Then the two boys proceeded to punch each other violently for about twenty seconds.

Carol was calmly reading the paper and drinking her coffee at the table. Either she was deaf, or dead, to ignore the carnage taking place here. How could her daughter, how could
anyone
, live like this? These boys weren't civilized human beings. They were cave men just out of the bush. The sounds that came forth from these children's mouths were unbelievable (and not only from their mouths). Anna felt sorry for Carol, but what could she do? She was supposed to mind her own business no matter how bad things got around here.

She scrutinized her older grandson. He was just fifteen and was six feet three inches tall. His good looks were no fault of his. Plus he was adopted, and God only knew what else would turn up in him. He held in his lap a soup bowl piled with eight scoops of Heavenly Hash ice cream and raised to dangerous heights with swirls of fake whipped cream shot from a can. Anna had noticed that he'd emptied into his dish the entire ice cream carton and the entire can of whipped cream which her daughter had just bought yesterday at the supermarket. He'd only stopped his frantic squirting from the nozzle when the last blurps had spat dots of cream all over himself and the couch. And this was right after he'd eaten a gigantic dinner—three burritos with red sauce (whatever was in them Anna should never know from it). The food in this house didn't last twenty-four hours after Carol dragged in two hundred dollars' worth from the car, bag after heavy bag. And did the boys help her carry in the groceries? No, they were too busy watching TV. “Later! I'll do it
later!
” was their refrain—a reflex wailed constantly, whether or not anyone was asking them to do anything. (“Goodnight,” Anna would say, and they'd yell, “I'll do it later!”)

Anna had addressed them many times (both in and out of their mother's presence) in the two weeks she'd been recuperating here. She had told them, speaking very slowly, in a way that even a total retard could understand, that they only had one mother in this life and she was the only one they were ever going to get and they had better treat her with respect. She wasn't going to last forever and at the rate they were wearing her out she wasn't even going to last another week.
Especially
with no father around to keep them in line. By the way their eyes went blank, Anna knew she should have saved her energy. It all went in one ear and right out the other. As for Carol, if she were listening to Anna give her speech, her eyes got small and hard in a way that made Anna's heart skip a few beats. But she wasn't going to be intimidated. She had her piece to say and she was going to say it; maybe it wouldn't sink in till ten years from now, and maybe never, but at least she could feel she'd done her part.

Now Abram stopped gobbling ice cream long enough to pull off his shoes and socks and toss them at Mr. T, the dog. Between the smells that came from both ends of the animal, and those that came from Abram's feet, it was no wonder Anna couldn't eat here, was nauseated all the time. The instant she got better from her fall, she would be out of here and back to her own apartment like a shot. In fact, as soon as she got home to LA, she planned to start a lawsuit against the high school where she went to her night classes—whose pothole she had fallen in and thereby broken her foot. She couldn't
wait
to get home. God save her from the day she would ever have to live with either of her two children—this arrangement was no good and what's more it could only get worse.

“Time to light the Chanukah candles,” Carol announced from the table. “Also time to rewind the movie, boys, because we have to return the tape to Leo's before nine.”

“This is a
rented
movie?” Anna asked her daughter. “I thought this was just regular TV junk.”

“It's only ninety-nine cents to rent a movie on a weeknight, Mom,” Carol said. “It's no big deal.”

“Why is it that everything they do has to cost money? Didn't they ever hear of reading a book?”

“They can't learn everything from books,” Carol said. “They get plenty of that in school.”

“They can learn something from baseball cards?”

“Yeah,” Abram interrupted, “especially from baseball cards. Hey, Mom—I need money for another pack. You promised. Brian got Peewee Reese, the lucky dog.”

“I know exactly what they learn from TV,” Anna said. “They learn how to murder drug pushers and how to throw someone out a window. But what talents do they get from baseball cards?”

“Well, for one thing,” Carol said, “they trade and sell them. They learn about the realities of the market place.”

“Reality! This is reality? VCRs, video games, new bicycles, new skateboards—they think it all comes to them at the snap of a finger.”

“My children know more about reality, Mom,” Carol said coldly, “than anyone their age should ever know.” Anna knew exactly to what Carol was referring; her daughter was going to use that as an excuse to spoil her sons for the rest of their lives.

“Rad!” breathed Abram toward the TV screen. The gorilla in the jockey shorts was now spinning the blond guy over his head like a helicopter's blades. Anna closed her eyes till the thump occurred and only opened them when she was sure the body had hit down. Abram swung his long arm forward and hit a button on the VCR. The screen began to flutter and show the wrestlers doing everything backwards. They rose up from the floor like ballerinas.

In actual fact Anna was not against Carol's spending money on the boys for cultural purposes—music lessons would have been fine, even
English
lessons! But Hebrew lessons? That was going too far. The way the kids fought Carol, who literally had to force them into the car twice a week to go to
shul
, was a disgrace. Why was she wasting her time? Did she think these hoodlums of hers were going to turn into little rabbis? Again, on this issue, Anna had plenty to say, but maybe this wasn't the right moment.

“Now let's do the candles,” Carol said firmly. “Then we'll go to Leo's.”

“I don't want to go,” David said. “I'm busy.”

“I'll only go if you take me to Big Five first,” Abram said. “I need new tennis shoes.”

“Not tonight,” Carol said. “You just got new tennis shoes.”

“I didn't
just
get them. Besides, Mr. T chewed holes in them.”

“That's because you throw him your shoes as if they're meat bones,” Carol said. “Now—whose turn is it to light the candles?”

“His,” both boys said, each pointing at his brother.

“All right, you do it tonight, David. I think Abram did it last night.” Carol went to get the matches from a high shelf. As she reached for them, Anna saw how thin her arm was, how lank and frail she seemed. To handle boys like this, a person would need to have the strength of an ox. To do it all without a man to help—that was the real tragedy.

On the counter between the kitchen and the family room sat the menorah which had belonged to Anna's mother. It was made of tin. Her mother had paid five cents for it in 1910 in a grocery store in Brooklyn. Anna, having long since had enough of Jewish nonsense herself, had asked her daughters a few years ago which one wanted the family heirloom. She didn't have the heart to throw it out. It was so lightweight Carol had had to steady it on the counter with the end of one of Abram's small barbells. The tin was embossed with the image of a real menorah: brass—heavy and authentic. The tin cylinders which held the swirled, colored candles were deformed, pressed out of shape by time. Each night that the boys had been forced by their mother to light the candles, Anna had felt something close in her throat, some soundless gasp escape her. Her own Abram had been observant; he had lit the candles seriously, said the prayer. To whom? For what? What had his prayers got him but leukemia at fifty-five? And left her here, lost in this life without him, an intruder in her daughter's household, an extra person who belonged to no one.

“Where's the box of candles?” David demanded. He had a voice like a hog-caller. Words didn't exit his lips, they exploded forth. “I don't want two yellows next to each other. They look gross. Who put them in like that?”

“I did,” Carol said.

“What are you, some kind of retard?” David accused her.

“Don't speak to your mother that way,” Anna said.

“But she is,” Abram defended his brother. “Mom's just out of it all the time. She's a total nerd.”

This boy who was now addressing Anna and insulting his mother was the child who bore Anna's husband's name and
wasn't even from their genuine family
. She didn't believe in adoption and now she had doubts about personal childbirth as well. Even her other daughter's children—college girls now—were not always to her taste, to say the least. Their genes, of course, were diluted by the father. In every birth, unfortunately, there was always a father in the picture. In the case of her grandsons, she didn't know which boy was worse—the one related to her by blood or the one not. She decided she might take both boys out of her will as soon as she got home. David, who had the genes of her ancestors as well as hers and her husband's and Carol's, also carried the weird genes of his father, the madman who had killed himself with a vacuum hose and carbon monoxide from his car exhaust. No one Anna knew was acceptably related to her—not purely, not in a way she could tolerate. No one satisfied her but herself.

In a flood of indignation, she began to berate the boys despite Carol's warning look. “You children are hateful, disrespectful, rude, loud, and ungrateful.” She hit them with her powerful vocabulary. “You are thoughtless, demanding, greedy, and inconsiderate.” Then she added “Dirty.” Then, “Filthy.” Finally, directed at Abram, “Smelly.”

Abram muttered something. Could Anna have heard right? With his handsome head bowed, could her grandson actually have said the unforgivable to her, “
Fuck off
“?

Anna thought she could possibly faint now that she had lived to see this day. She closed her eyes while the room spun. When she opened them, the Chanukah candles were lit, and Carol was reading from the side of the box the end of the prayer in English. “…Blessed art thou, O Lord our God, King of the Universe, who has kept us in life, and hast preserved us, and enabled us to reach this season…”