Morning Is a Long Time Coming (8 page)

I chased away some black sheep thoughts, but they kept edging back. I don’t care what the black sheep says—my grandparents are good people! And they were the best parents that they knew how to be.

And there’s something else you sheep must remember: With people, it’s not just what is given that counts. It’s also how what is given is received.

8

O
N
T
UESDAY
, the last morning of my Memphis visit, I walked into the kitchen before eight. Grandmother waved in my direction, but continued to speak directly into the phone. “Wait a minute. Patty just came downstairs. I’ll ask her.”

She held the receiver between her breasts. “Patty, it’s your Aunt Dorothy. Her best friend, Lois Glazer, has a daughter your age who’s having an open house tonight.”

She then directed her comments into the phone. “What’s the daughter’s name? ... Yes, Iris ... Iris Glazer ... I’m sure Patty would love to go. ... Such a nice place to make friends.”

Of all life’s possibilities one of the most unappealing, ranking only a hairline notch above being left to drown in a vat of pure castor oil, would be going alone to a stranger’s party. “Let me speak to her, please,” I said, taking the receiver. “Listen, Aunt Dorothy, I really appreciate your thinking about me and I’d really love to go, but I simply must get back to Jenkinsville tonight. But thanks an awful lot anyway.”

Before the receiver reached its cradle, Grandmother intercepted, wearing a look of intense disappointment. “I don’t know why you have to rush back there. Haven’t you had a good time with us? We tried to give you a good time.”

“I had a wonderful time, Grandmother. Honest!”

“So why the rush? What kind of business,
Gottenyu,
do you have there? Among the
goyim
?”

I tried to think of something to tell her, something that made sense. “Well,” I said, falling back on the truth, “I do work in the store, you know. Keeps my parents from having to hire extra help.”

Grandma bit her lower lip as though it were a pocket that suddenly needed buttoning. “Let your daddy and mother earn the living.” Then she nodded her head as though to convince herself that she was only doing right. “Let them at least do that for you.”

I knew that she’d paid some sort of price, made some sort of sacrifice for those words and I wanted to reward them. “Okay, Grandmother, if you think I should.”

And from that it apparently seemed clear to her that I was not only going to leave the burden of making a living to my parents, but that I had also contracted to go to the open house tonight. Exactly when and where did I say that?

Grandma was dialing the long-distance operator. “Would you please be so kindly as to put this call through to number seventy-eight in Jenkinsville, Arkansas? ... Harry? ... Hello there, Harry. Is that you, Harry? Good ... Everything good? ...
Gott’danken
... You got your health you got everything. ... Is Pearl there? Oh, she’s got a customer. ... So okay, I’ll tell you, Harry. There’s a party here that Patty’s dying to go to, wants to stay over an extra day.”

Moments later, she pressed the phone against herself and gave me an affirmative nod. “Your daddy says he doesn’t care how long you stay.”

We left the house before eleven to do, on this last full day of my visit, all the things we hadn’t as yet done: We saw the shopping center under construction out on Poplar Avenue and Grandma drove over every inch of Memphis State College.

At two o’clock we ate a real pit barbecue sandwich at Leonard’s. People who ought to know say that nowhere else in this country can you get a barbecue like a Leonard’s Pit barbecue. The meat itself is so smokily spiced that it’s practically guaranteed to clear out your nasal passages for life. And if you’re willing to pay the price to be a hero in your own time, then sprinkle the meat liberally with pepper sauce. Volcanic!

About eight thirty in the evening, Grandma brought the car to a stop in front of a long, fieldstone house where (damn the kilowatts and full power ahead) every conceivable light (both inside and outside) burned. There was no stinting with the music either. Everybody all up and down Cypress Drive could hear every note, every word.

Arrivederci Roma
...

Goodbye ... Goodbye to Rome
...

For some moments, Grandma listened with me before leaning over to kiss me goodnight and goodbye. “I know you’ll have a wonderful time at ...”

“Iris Glazer’s,” I supplied.

“Iris Glazer’s,” Grandmother repeated. “Her mother is a close friend of your Aunt Dorothy’s.”

“I know,” I said, wondering how far that could take me, while Grandmother smiled as though already anticipating my “wonderful time.” For wanting that for me, I think I loved her; for pushing me here tonight, I think I hated her.

I dashed up the Glazers’ front walk as though I couldn’t wait to arrive, until I heard the Buick drive off. Then I came to an abrupt stop. Bringing as much Cypress Drive air into my lungs as possible, I adjusted my peasant blouse and my full ballerina skirt before slowly climbing up the three or four terrazzo steps to press a tremorous index finger against the button.

The door was opened by a slim girl with cheekbones like an Apache. She gave me a sort of who-the-hell-are-you look. “Hi, I’m Patty Bergen,” I said, and when her quizzical stare showed no sign of fading, I continued, “My aunt, Dorothy Fried, is a friend of your mother’s.”

“Oh,” she said, opening the door barely wide enough for me to enter the overly air-conditioned house. “I’m Iris,” said Iris Glazer, already moving away to re-enter her tight circle of friends.

Gliding across the highly polished floor of the living room, bobby-soxed girls pressed against brightly shirted boys.

Save your loving arms for my returning ...

Keep the flame of love still burning ...

Within my heart ... Oh, arrivederci Roma ...

As I looked around the room for another single of either sex to join, I felt about as graceful as Bull Durham among the swans. There was something about being a stranger—and maybe even something more about being a single among plurals. I wondered if even old Noah would have known what to do with me. Would he have been able to find somebody to walk with me up that gangplank?

On the buffet table, red candles dripped intricate trails down straw-wrapped Chianti bottles, while a red-and-white-checkered tablecloth played background to some great-looking food. There were cold cuts of all kinds, a chafing dish filled with spaghetti and meat balls, and a Jell-O mold so spectacular that it came in three colors and combined more varieties of fruit than I was able to identify.

As I helped myself to a good-sized helping of it and the spaghetti, I told myself that if I had more pride, I would refuse (absolutely!) to eat where I wasn’t welcome. Umm ... this is spaghetti! But Iris didn’t exactly not welcome me. And there’s nothing wrong with this Jell-O either.

Maybe it was she who was offended when I didn’t follow
her over to her encampment. Well, if she had wanted me, wouldn’t she have said, “Come on over and meet my friends?” Or “I’d like to introduce you to ...” You know, Patty Bergen, you amaze me, you really do. You who are always wanting people to be nice to you! Well, why don’t you sometimes try being nice to others? Give to them. Extend yourself. Bread upon the waters and all that.

With my back propped against the wall, I ate slowly while making plans to assault Iris Glazer’s citadel. But how? With some startling piece of information. Such as? Oh, such as: Memphis should have had more people attending Yehudi Menuhin’s concert. In a city of three hundred and fifty thousand, barely two hundred roused themselves to go listen to a world-famous violinist!

Classify that under important, but not generally conceived of as important. Startling! I need something startling. Well, I could comment on the random mix of architecture at Memphis State College and how it gives the place an unplanned, almost haphazard look. I sighed. Use same classification as previously indicated.

At the opposite corner of the room, five people had turned expectant faces toward Iris. “Well, after I refused Melvin a date,” she told them, “for three straight Saturday nights do you know what that jerk did? He sent me one of those mushy greeting cards that said thinking of you. M. That’s how he signed it. Just M.”

At last poor Melvin scores. He makes everybody laugh. Not so much laugh as snicker. Some citadel! This is what I’m so anxious to enter? Damn right! It sure beats standing here all alone. Okay, okay. But where’s all the startling stuff that’s going to pay the entrance fee?

Don’t go thinking I don’t have something that would make Iris Glazer’s Melvin story sound like a retelling of Goldilocks. And what big teeth you have, Grandma! Why, I could tell them about myself. Hear ye ... hear ye! I, a guest of this beautiful house, am about to make a confession of startling consequence, but first lock up your valuables and hide your weapons. Because, ladies and gentlemen, you now see before you—tah-dah!—a genuine, appearing in person ... ex-con!

Suddenly I’d be the hub of Iris’s cluster and soon neighboring clusters would swell the original one until everybody here belonged to a single cluster: mine. Each and every single one of them would be burning to know about me. “What’s your favorite weapon? Have you ever robbed a bank? Killed anyone recently?”

I placed my now empty plate on the edge of the buffet table knowing that I would never willingly swap my permanent isolation for instant notoriety. It’s not that I’m convinced that isolation is somehow better or less painful. It’s only that I guess it’s ... more familiar.

As though it were a very natural thing to do, I headed toward the circle that belonged to Iris. Between two guys there was room for maybe half a body, so using my shoulder as a wedge, part of me became very definitely part of the Iris group while more than half of me definitely wasn’t.

When our hostess saw me (and she did see me), I hoped that she’d say something welcoming. Maybe introduce me to her friends, but first we had to wait until the fellow wearing white bucks finished telling his joke about the sailor and the movie star who are stranded alone on this desert island. When that joke finally ended, I laughed with the
others. Make believe you’re having a wonderful time. WHEEEeee ... !!!

Then Iris (and I don’t understand how this linked in with the previous conversation) said, “Everybody says that the University of Texas sorority girls are the most beautiful in the world.”

Was opportunity finally knocking for me? “I’m seriously considering,” I told her, “going to the University of Texas. Do you think it’s a good school?”

Her eyes checked me over as though I were a raw recruit standing inspection. “That depends,” she answered, while her elbow poked into the ribs of the girl next to her. And the girl, as if on cue, fell into syncopated laughter with Iris. I waited for them to explain further. I waited ... wanting so much to join Iris and her pal inside the laughter.

But instead I watched the two girls as they began supporting each other from the pure debilitating effects. What were they doing? Ridiculing me? People who live in fine houses don’t ridicule their guests, do they? Maybe I accidentally said something funny. Maybe in just another moment, they’ll apologize for excluding me and then explain with real patience and kindness exactly what it is that’s so hysterically funny.

I asked, “What’s so funny?”

“Nothing you’d be interested in,” said Iris while falling into a still more acute attack of snickered laughter. “Nothing at all.”

Face the truth. I am not wanted. That much is clear. I looked directly at her and spoke in deliberate tones. “Thank you for inviting me to your party, Iris.”

Before I turned away, I saw that my hostess had lost every last ounce of her laughter. As I walked through the front door, there were two things I carried with me that kept my humiliation from being complete.

Somewhere above Iris’s haughty cheekbones, I had caught something surprised, almost frightened, by my response. And then there was that other thing: Beneath her pale silk blouse her breasts were flat as matzohs.

When I left the air-conditioned house, the night struck me with its heavy warmth. I walked the narrow parklike turns of Cypress Drive knowing only that I had to be somewhere else. Someplace where nobody could see me ... or call my name.

All I know is that growing up hurts too much. Growing down is what I’d really like to do. Be little enough again so that it would be perfectly natural to be protected from the wind and the rain—and the world.

By the time I crossed North Parkway to enter a restaurant called The Cotton Boll, the soles of my feet were burning because it was well past midnight and I had already walked too long. I bought a pack of filter-tip cigarettes from the cashier and gave the waitress my order for a barbecue (dark meat only) and a cup of coffee.

The coffee comforted me somewhat while the sandwich encouraged me to believe that my ability to enjoy hadn’t been permanently destroyed, but only temporarily impaired. And I think I’m almost steady enough now to lay it all out. Look at what happened tonight and why.

First, I didn’t do anything wrong. Nothing that I’m ashamed of. I wondered if Iris Glazer could make that same statement. Remembering that none of the guys and only that
one girl who was trying hard to be Iris’s mirror-image joined in the attack, I wondered how she could justify it to the rest of them. More important, how can she justify it to herself? ’Cause isn’t it desirable, even for girls with high and mighty cheekbones, to like themselves?

Suddenly I caught a glimpse at what might have been a truth and I wanted to share my findings with Melvin. The Melvin of mushy-greeting-card fame. “Oh, Melvin,” I’d tell him. “You don’t have a thing in this world to be ashamed of.”

With love you reached out for somebody else. Sure, she laughed, but maybe that was only because she understood one thing you didn’t: That within Iris Glazer, there is precious little worth loving.