Prayers for the Living (14 page)

“It hurts you so much to think about it that it brings tears to your eyes?”

“Tears! Not tears. Itches. My eyes itch like crazy. I went to Doctor Mickey, he checks me out, he gives me an ointment. I rub it in. After we eat I'll go home and rub it in. But let me tell you about Manny's itches. Oh, did he get an itch!”

“He fell in love?”

“It was love, let me tell you. They clicked together like two magnets. The letters he wrote to me about her! They were poetry.”

“So it wasn't bad after all? You made me think you thought from the start it was bad.”

“It wasn't bad, it wasn't good. It was what happened. Now if I had been there I could have helped him handle what happened, but who could have turned him away from what was supposed to happen?”

“Stop rubbing your eyes. Sure, my children are the same. They got to school, they get married, they have children.”

“Except for one difference.”

“And what's that? And stop rubbing the eyes.”

“I'm stopping. I'm stopping.”

“And the difference?”

“The difference is the ones that are near don't write, they call, and the far ones don't call, they write.”

“So Manny called you?”

“Well, let me say without too much fanfare that Manny wrote to me every week while he was away. For years he wrote to me. About his school, his studies, his business classes—Meyer Sporen put up the money so that he could also take classes at the University of Cincinnati just down the street from the Union. And Manny never asked but over the years I asked, I asked myself, what does this man want? Years ago he made up for whatever bad feelings he may have had about the accident, but he keeps paying and he keeps paying. So why does he keep paying?”

“Was it that he wanted a nice boy for his daughter to marry? Stop with the eyes, darling.”

“I'm stopping. I'm stopping. If that was what he wanted, then he got it.”

“Ladies?”

“Yes, we'd like to see a menu.”

“Here you go.”

“Thank you. Now Mrs. Pinsker, you look at this. I'm going to show you something else. Some things I brought with me.”

“So what did you bring?”

“Letters I brought. Lucky for you, I carry them with me.”

“Lucky for me so I'll look at them. But first. Here. So how's the fish?”

“The fish is nice.”

“I'll have the fish. Minnie, so you?”

“I'll also have the fish.”

“Two of the fish.”

“Two fish. One. Two. You can always count on the fish.”

“And you can always count on the mother to remember.”

Dear Mama,

It's only a few weeks and I'm settled in already, feeling a lot like home. My room, up on the sixth floor of the dormitory, has a fine view of the river, looking southeast to where the Ohio comes down out of the West Virginia hills and squirms its way past the city, the city of hills as they call it here, comparing it to Rome where I've never been so I can't say. But if the city is supposed to look like Rome, it doesn't sound like it. A lot of people speak German, that's the accent here, along with Southern, something you'll have to hear to believe. The latter I mean, not the former, which you hear all the time in the city. The City. This is not The City by a long shot, Mama. This is a city in imitation of The City. The one thing it's got going for it, in terms of my own needs, is that it's just small enough so that when I talk to Meyer Sporen about what's going on in my business classes I get to hear about the main currents and big deals of Cincinnati commerce, the banks, boat, factory, insurance deals, all that stuff. How could I hear that in New York in our neighborhood?

Anyway, I don't mean to dwell on the business part. My work is going well, Talmud, etc., and I'm taking history classes, something I hadn't done before, world history, I mean. They emphasize a lot of stuff that the old rabbi would consider pure goyish hogwash—almost literally hogwash, Mama, traife. I didn't know how far I'd have to travel from the city to get some sophisticated teachers—there must be some but I never met them, did I? Not the way Arnie will go to Juilliard. I mean, where was the equivalent of Juilliard for me? I'm just lucky that Meyer Sporen kept in touch with us all these years. Otherwise, where would I be? Maybe—I can't write that word anymore without smiling, I'll explain in a minute—I'll still go into business
someday, I'm certainly preparing myself for that, but at the same time I'm enjoying my studies, pushing myself with good results, you'll be pleased to learn, but I'm not hurting myself. I'm eating well, I'm getting plenty of sleep, and think of the exercise alone I get climbing six flights of stairs several times a day to get to my room. It's just like home! Speaking of home, the Sporens feed me once a week, and even if Mrs. Sporen is a little strange she has a cook who makes great Jewish and German meals. Oh, and why do I laugh when I write the word—“maybe,” because, of course, Maby. I'm teaching her Hebrew. She went to good schools here, and she learned Latin and French and German, but no Hebrew. So while Mr. S doesn't want me to feel an obligation, still I do. I volunteered.

I miss you, Mama. And I hope that you don't think that just because I was raving about the Sporens' cook's meals, I don't miss your cooking, because I do. And I miss your company. I miss Arnie, too. You said that he's supposed to play in an army band? Let me know when his mother hears more. And please send me his address.

Well, I've got to run now. I've got a class in modern criticism, that's how to read difficult Biblical texts, and a public speaking class, and an accounting examination over at the University of Cincinnati. And oh yes, and economic history from the ancient Assyrians, our old neighbors, up to and past our own 1929 when American businessmen jumped out of windows, poor fools! Everyone in the dormitory here tells me they don't know how I do it, working in both worlds, as they put it, but I can tell you. I work as hard as I can. That's my secret. I like to think that I've inherited my strong points from Papa. Do you think so? He was that kind of man, wasn't he? And when he worked on the Sabbath he did it for our sakes, I know. And I'm doing the same, aren't I? Joke question: What kind of a Jewish boy would work on the Sabbath? Answer: A rabbi. End of joke. And end of letter. I miss you. I'll see you on vacation. Meanwhile it's off to the races . . .

Your loving son,

Manny

Dear Mama,

I got your postcard. I'm glad that you saw the show on Second Avenue. What a treat, my mother at the theater! I'm proud of your going, and with me away from the city and not eating you out of house and home perhaps you can go more often. I was sorry to hear that I missed Arnie when he was home on leave, but keep me posted as to where he is in Europe and so forth. Here everybody's talking about the war, because it's now on two fronts, and with all of the horrible news that we get about what's happening you feel sometimes that there's not much an individual can do, whether he's a rabbi, a barge owner, or even a soldier or a president. The world out there isn't the fairy-tale Atlantis my father thought it was, is it, Mama? with no disrespect to Papa, may he rest in peace.

I'm off to class.

Your loving son,

Manny

Dear Mama,

I don't know if I can write this, feeling suddenly as bad as I do. It just hit me without warning. I'm so homesick that it's in my stomach, in my chest, in my gut, in my head, in my joints, in my muscles. I was pretending to feel so blase about it all, being away from the city for the first time, and the Sporens watching out for me, making sure that I have everything I need. Sometimes I think, and I don't mean to question his generous impulses, but his son still hasn't come home, and from what I figure he's been away several years. The father and son never got along. I can even remember that from the day of Papa's accident all that long time ago. Maby doesn't get along with him. But she's not close to her mother, either. So she's living sort of out on a limb in her own house, talking to me about going away somewhere to college, but who knows? She can't do it without their permission and
she's sure they'd never give it. She's very smart though and should go to school. I know, I know, you probably think she should marry a nice Jewish boy and make a home . . . who do you have in mind? That's a joke, ha, ha! Seriously, I think it's important for a smart girl to go to college and I am trying to convince her to talk to her parents about it. “Talk to them?” she says. “They never hear what I say.” “Manny,” she says, “I think I'm a changeling, some other kind of creature born of another race and magically transplanted into their household.” “You mean you think you were adopted?” I asked her. Because she had said that more than once to me since I've known her. “No,” she said, “I'm a changeling.” “And your brother? He too is a changeling?” “He's just a mean fairy thing,” she said. “What do you mean?” I asked. “You heard me,” she said. I was shocked to hear a girl talk like that. I never heard things like that even on the street. Sure, Arnie and I used to run around, though not so much because I was working and studying and he was busy with his music lessons, with practicing. And so perhaps our experience was a little more limited than most, but not that limited, and I never heard a girl talk that way about her brother. Or anyone. She troubles me. But also I have to admit she attracts me. Don't be jealous, Mama, but it's true. I don't want you to think I could ever love anyone the way I love you, and I'm not even saying that I'm in love with her. But we always promised we would tell each other the truth and so I'm telling you. Do you think I should still talk to her? I'm still tutoring her, but I don't know . . .