Up From Orchard Street (13 page)

“How can a woman look intelligent?” my mother wanted to know.

“Her face wasn’t pretty, only lively. Her eyes were intelligent.”

The service, repeated twice, once in Hebrew and again in English, was our first wedding in which several non-Jews were among the guests. As soon as the rabbi announced, “You are now man and wife,” Dr. Koronovsky stomped on the glass under his foot and some of us called out, “Mazeltov.” The non-Jews applauded.

Immediately the chairs were whisked away and we gathered in the dining room. On the highly polished table were two crystal candlesticks and Bubby’s wedding challah between them. At the right, piled high on china platters, were the dessert pastries. To the left, a waiter presided over a turkey. Before attending to the bird, he swiftly cut wafer-thin slices of the challah, then cut these in thirds. In my own lifetime of watching my grandmother wield a French knife, I had never beheld such swiftness and dexterity. The minuscule bites of challah were passed to everyone, together with flutes of champagne. I was given ginger ale in a champagne glass.

Bernie Frankel of the big tummy offered a toast, “To Mordy and Phyllis. As the Duke of Windsor said when he gave up his throne for the woman he loved, ‘At long last.’ Many years of joy to them and a huge mazeltov. But I have equal luck because after all of these years I finally persuaded Mordy to come into practice with me. So let’s toast to a wedding and a new prosperous career.”

Guests nibbled at the challah and sipped lots of champagne. The waiter sliced the turkey—I heard one of the sisters remark, “God knows if it’s kosher”—and everyone lined up for slices of turkey to place on their challah. The champagne flowed freely and I took a sip from Bubby’s glass.

Another toast was proposed by the woman in the print dress who had mistaken Bubby for the mother of the bride. “It’s an honor to be here among this company,” she said in a quavering voice. “Phyllis is the head of our medical library in the nominal sense and in the spiritual sense. So I am happy to tell you that she will be returning to work right after her honeymoon and we hope for many years to come.” Her colleagues called out, “Hear, hear.”

Dr. Frankel, happily tipsy, kissed every woman on the lips and that included me. He said Bubby was a ravishing creature and he kissed not only her mouth but her hands. “That’s some challah, that’s some nut cookie.”

Then the wedding cake was brought out, covered with hardened white icing. The bride and groom stood beside it, Phyllis holding the knife, and a flashbulb went off once, twice, six times. The same waiter, who could have cut strips from tissue paper, he was so deft, cut the wedding cake. It set my teeth on edge with its sweetness but it had no flavor, not even as much as a slice of Drake’s cake. But no one had time to finish the tasteless wedding cake before Bernie Frankel, the sergeant-at-arms, called out, “The cars are downstairs. They’re waiting.”

“Tell them we need ten minutes.”

Dr. Koronovsky came from behind the table to introduce his bride: “This is Manya and her granddaughter.” Phyllis smiled at me. Her pointed face and large intelligent eyes were luminous. “I have heard so much about both of you,” she said. She took both of Bubby’s hands into hers. “We hope you and your family will come to visit us in our new apartment.” The photographer snapped a picture of Bubby and me with Phyllis.

The speedy waiter whom I nicknamed Kid Lightning brought Phyllis a package wrapped in several layers of pink tissue paper and tied with pink, white and yellow ribbons. “It’s your strudel, Manya,” she said to us. “We’re taking some of it to the
Ile de France
. We’ll eat it on the way to Paris.”

Her father, who stood behind her, held up a small white box tied with white cord. “Manya, I couldn’t resist the strudel. There’s a whole carton in the kitchen. I hope you don’t mind. We helped ourselves.”

Guests started to rush out of the front door to find seats in the cars and taxis that would take them to the pier. Half of the challah and most of the cookies and rugulach remained untouched. Dr. Koronovsky stepped back inside. “Manya, thank you for what you did for my wedding, and so much more,” he said, giving her one last hug, and faded from view.

Instantly his sisters let out piercing wails. They stood at the kitchen door, crying and keening. Bubby went to comfort them. My heart fluttered at the sight of the untouched rugulach with their glistening apricot eyes, the cookies, the half-moons of white, brighter than the bride’s suit. “I’m going to the bathroom,” I called out.

Ordinarily, I would have washed my hands with Dr. Koronovsky’s fancy soap, wiped them on his embroidered towels and remarked to myself on the depth and splendor of his bathtub. Except that now I headed straight for the bedroom. Luck was on my side. There was an empty shoe box on the bed, along with wads of tissue paper and ribbons of every color. I tiptoed into the dining room and filled the entire box with rugulach. They couldn’t all fit into the box but there were enough to appear that Bubby’s heroic efforts were not in vain. I wrapped the box in tissue paper and tied it with ribbons.

The cookies were trickier; they crumbled. Leaning over the table so that the white superfine sugar wouldn’t get on my polka-dot dress, I gobbled up as many nut cookies as I could. It hardly made a dent in the platter. No doubt a paper bag could be found in the kitchen, but I couldn’t risk having Bubby see me. I returned to the bedroom, put several layers of tissue paper together and filled them with cookies. A decorative, shiny, elongated bag abandoned on the bedroom floor rescued me. Miraculously it had a handle of twisted cord. I slipped the box of rugulach and the cookies inside and covered the opening with ribbons. My heart—the one with the leak after rheumatic fever—might have sprouted another leak because I moved so quickly, fearful of being caught, but in minutes the danger passed.

I entered the living room with racing pulse. The two sisters and my grandmother, deep in conversation, didn’t notice the bag hanging from my wrist. Etta said to Bubby, “You want your schwartze to have that wedding cake? He should come and take it. To me it was poison.”

“It’s Sunday, he went somewhere. He’ll come tomorrow, first thing.”

“Then we’re throwing it out. And the turkey. A goyishe turkey in a Jewish home.”

Bubby paused, formulating her words, “Der leben gayt nisht glach.”

Life doesn’t go in a straight line. The thought sent the sister into fresh paroxysms of tears. As we walked out, Bubby glanced briefly into the dining room.

We left the building and emerged on Grand Street. Passersby yelled, “You went to the wedding? A good wedding?” Or, “Manya, you’re a regular swell. So how come you’re walking, not by a taxi?”

My grandmother remained self-absorbed. We walked hand in hand, not talking. Her beautiful satin shoes were not intended for the long walk home, but it’s doubtful that she minded the discomfort. At the corner of Grand and Orchard, Abe Abramovitz spied us in his taxi. “Hey, ladies, hop in. I’ll take you right to your door.”

“It’s only a few more blocks,” Bubby started to protest. I pulled her inside the cab.

“So how was it? Fancy by the kikes?”

“Everyone said Bubby was the most beautiful woman there and also the bride took the strudel with her on the boat, to Paris. Wrapped in pink paper for the ship. Bubby’s strudel.”

In front of our building, my grandmother reached into her purse but Abe stopped her. “Hey, mark this one on ice.” As he came around to help Bubby out of the cab I dashed upstairs and hid the bag in my mother’s closet. The neighbors came pouring in. “Nu, nu, how was the affair?”

“They took Bubby’s strudel with them on their honeymoon, all the way to Paris.”

That story made the rounds, not merely that day but for years to come.

9

The Young Doctor

AT NINE O’CLOCK on a Saturday morning two weeks after Dr. Koronovsky’s wedding, while he was still on his honeymoon in Paris, our phone rang. Jack had begun to wash his hair over the kitchen sink. Bubby poured warm water from a tea kettle over his hair while he lathered it quickly with Palmolive soap and rinsed it equally fast. Then she wrapped a clean towel over his head.

I loved my father’s hair, its natural wave, its black color tinged with dark auburn. In the manner of the day, he parted it on the left side, wet his fingertips with water and dipped them for an instant into a Vaseline jar. When he slicked back his hair the watery Vaseline kept it in place. His hair was sleek, always with a perfect trim, cut slightly long in the back to avoid the appearance of a fresh haircut. During our bitter winters, Bubby contrived a tent from an old sheet to guard her son carefully as he washed his hair. Heaven forbid, there should be a breeze that could bring on a cold that would threaten his lungs.

My mother answered the phone. She had became more articulate since she started to sell coats at Palace Fashions, and she expressed herself with greater ease. But she still grew flustered if a question posed to her was out of her realm. After listening intently, she furrowed her brow and replied, “You’ll have to speak to my husband.”

With the towel over his head, Jack came to Lil’s rescue. “Listen, whatever your racket is, we’re not interested,” he said.

We thought my father would hang up, but the speaker at the other end of the line managed to catch him off guard.

“You want us to have free examinations and Dr. Koronovsky gave you our number?” I could see he was listening impatiently, drying his hair with his free hand. “We’re all fine, never better.” He knocked wood on the telephone table. “No, we’re not available right now. My wife and I are getting ready for work. Sunday? Listen, sonny, what did you say your name was? Scott Wolfson? Listen, Wolfson, whoever you are, you haven’t been on the Lower East Side or you would know that the most business we do with the uptown trade is on Sunday. My day off is Friday. Sure, sure, we’ll wait for you. But what is this Columbia Pres? Oh, Columbia University Hospital? I have a cousin who goes to Columbia, but I don’t have time to talk.”

My mother had no curiosity about the conversation, but Bubby did.

“What did he want? He’s a friend of Koronovsky? Did you ask if he’s already a doctor? Maybe Koronovsky wants him to take his place down here?”

“How could a man named Scott make it as a doctor with Jews? Scott. It’s a last name, like Randolph Scott the cowboy actor.”

My father flew to the door, dapper in a gray double-breasted suit, white shirt, blue tie with small gray squares. “Ma, spit on my two dollars for good luck.”

Then it was Lil’s turn to wash up and dress. Willy hid in the bedroom to avoid the perfume of Coty’s powder and Chanel No. 5, which started him wheezing. We said in unison as she left, “Knock ’em dead.”

Although my mother had set up two card tables with white cloths before she left for work, I hoped the lunch business would be slow, and I settled myself at the kitchen table with my notebook and pencil. I had gone through two or three notebooks since Dr. Koronovsky gave me my first one. They sold two kinds at Harber’s—one with very rough paper whose sheets contained wood pulp, the other with a mottled black cover and smooth sheets. When I bought the cheap one out of guilt, Bubby insisted that I return it. “What’s cheap always costs more in the end,” she advised me. “For an extra few pennies you can write on good paper.”

My contentment that day derived from a brand-new notebook and the smell of Bubby’s brisket of beef; it remained our best seller. By then I had learned how Bubby prepared every one of her dishes, but unlike my mother, we were not required to set a table or clear dishes. Willy was exempt because of his awkwardness and I because Bubby wanted to indulge me.

Willy camped out in the bedroom playing Geography and I was writing rapidly when Mrs. Feldman barged in. The neighbors didn’t knock. I glanced up briefly and sensed her anger.

Mrs. Feldman identified herself as Orthodox and thus unable to violate the prohibition against using the phone on Saturday. She treated me and Willy as if we were Shabbas goyim, able to carry out her demands while she kept her piety intact. But today, instead of saying what she really came for, she lashed out at me in a harsh voice. “Do you know why you got sick with scarlet fever, why now you have a bad heart? God is punishing you for writing on a Saturday. It’s a sin. God may strike you dead.”

Bubby dropped her cooking fork. “What are you saying to my grandchild? Your son keeps his fancy fruit store open on Saturday. Your Shirley takes lessons on Saturday.”

“But writing is different. It’s in the Torah—you can’t write on Shabbas.”

My grandmother opened the door and literally pushed Mrs. Feldman out.

Crying, I ran to Bubby. My pencil and notebook cascaded to the floor.

Bubby said soothingly, “You know Mrs. Feldman. She’s a fahbissener. She’s mad at Yussie, he hasn’t been here for over a month, she screams at you. How many times has she seen you writing on Saturday? Now all of a sudden she’s telling you these crazy things.”

“But Bubby, she said it was a terrible sin.”

Bubby carried me to the kitchen chair and held me in her lap. “Listen to me. God has plenty of things to do. He has business all over the world. Do you think it bothers him that a little girl holds a pencil on Saturday? If you were Catholic, living in Little Italy, a few blocks away, you could write from morning until night, it wouldn’t be a sin.”

“But we’re not Catholic. We’re Jewish. And a sin is a sin.”

Just as Bubby didn’t believe in shandas, I don’t think she believed in sins. She and my mother always kissed the stale bread before throwing it out, an ancient ritual in which bread was considered holy. A woman who calls her son’s occasional infidelity “a nosh” is hardly likely to insist that writing on Saturday is a sin.

Yet I could not be consoled. I knew about atonement from Yom Kippur and having my name inscribed in the Book of Life. Did writing stories on Saturday mean that my name would be withheld from the Book of Life, that some disaster would befall me?

Bubby rocked and kissed me, sang hoarsely about the golden calf that brought presents to children. Still I kept weeping, insisting that I would not hold a pencil in my hand on Saturday again. Finally Bubby suggested, “If you want to tell yourself it’s a sin, I can’t stop you. But I have very broad shoulders and I will take the sin on myself. You go into the bedroom and write, this Saturday, next Saturday, all the Saturdays of your life. It won’t insult God.”

The twists and turns in logic, especially that Bubby would accept a punishment in which she had little faith, eventually calmed me down, though my pencil remained untouched. Bubby went back to her brisket. I fell asleep in my parents’ bed.

The phone rang. I leaped up to answer. It was my mother, who shrieked, “You’ll never guess what happened! A customer of mine gave me two tickets for
Du Barry Was a Lady,
a musical with Ethel Merman, Daddy’s favorite. Two orchestra tickets, my customer can’t use them, she has to leave for a Philadelphia wedding. And guess what else? Mr. L. has his wife’s short mink in the store, to put it in storage for the summer but he’s letting me wear it tonight. I said to him, I said, ‘Who wears a mink in May?’ He answers, ‘Women who own minks wear them over their dresses in July. A mink goes anywhere anytime.’ It’s a mink with a shawl collar. Just stunning. Tell Bubby we’re going straight from work to the theater. Wait up for us.”

My mother’s happiness made me forget Mrs. Feldman, made the three of us as excited as if we expected to see the musical ourselves.

As soon as the sky darkened, we played cards, casino, at the kitchen table. I hated it when I drew an ace for fear that I would lose it when I built a five and an ace for a six of hearts that I held in my hand. Also I cheated, because Bubby couldn’t see too well and couldn’t tell the difference between a jack and a king. She’d ask me, “Is this an old one or a young one?” If I needed the king for myself I would say, “That’s a young one.”

Whether my brother perceived that I lied about the jack and the king, I didn’t ask. He lapsed into himself, distracted in midgame, losing focus. Bubby threw her cards to enable him to win, if not the game, at least some points. Soon enough, he wandered off by himself into the living room to play the radio that he loved and to practice whistling the latest tunes. He fell asleep by pulling two chairs together and resting on them in the dining room.

Bubby busied herself by baking a yeast coffee cake while waiting for my parents to return from the musical. As a hardened insomniac I had no problem staying up until midnight. By 11:15 we started listening intently, in case the show had let out early. Maybe they made the subway train immediately or walked from Canal Street station in a hurry. A few minutes later we heard a car door slam, heard my mother singing, and as if by magic she turned on every light on every floor of the building.

She swept into the kitchen twirling in the short blonde mink coat, her blonde hair flying, a golden top, spinning around and around until she was out of breath. Then she and my father said in unison, “What a show, what costumes, what music!” My mother looked ten years younger than when she left that morning, perhaps as young as when she first came into Bubby’s living room at age sixteen. We warmed ourselves in her glow.

Once she caught her breath, the two of them sang in harmony, “It’s friendship, friendship, such a perfect blendship.” When my mother hesitated at what came next, my father carried her along: “When other friendships have been forgot, ours will still be hot.” They burst out laughing, then sank onto the kitchen chairs.

“How did you get home so fast?”

“Abe Abramovitz. He drove us right from Division Street to the theater.”

“And he was waiting for us when we got out, right there in front, and the other taxis and swell cars behind him. Ma, what a thrill to have a taxi waiting.”

The fact that Abe’s cab was full of dents, its front end straightened out by a crowbar, meant nothing to Lil. The Cole Porter songs rang in her head and she announced with confidence that she had memorized most of the dance steps. During her nonstop account of the dazzling outfits in the audience, she didn’t remove her fur coat. It transformed her into a shimmering presence until she suddenly slipped it on Bubby’s shoulders. “Oh, Ma, with your white hair it’s so becoming!”

Bubby removed it and wrapped me in it. “All the girls in the family need mink, even Elka,” she said. We laughed and laughed at the sight of skinny me trailing golden mink on the linoleum kitchen floor.

Finally, we rolled out the beds and Bubby lifted Willy onto his narrow cot. He had slept through the festivities.

The following morning my mother remained asleep, but the three hardened insomniacs—Bubby, my father and I—remembered the workaday world. On Sunday, Bubby cooked blintzes and stuffed crepes, relying on the brisket of the day before if anyone asked for meat. No one did. The blintzes invariably sold out.

Happily Clayton showed up early on Sunday. He folded the bedclothes, rolled the beds into the alcove, sprinkled the rug with kosher salt and blew up dust with the frenzy of his sweeping. Willy retreated to the bedroom to avoid an asthma attack. Clayton wiped the dining room table with oil and set up the card tables while my mother dressed. After we sang out, “Knock ’em dead,” my mother went off to work until dark, and my father returned the mink when Palace Fashions opened.

Clayton had started to smoke, and puffing on a Camel, he whispered to us that he had had sex all night, twice with women, once with a man. A man? Yes, a man. Willy and I were too shocked to speak and wondered how we would ask Bubby about it. “Don’t get me wrong,” Clayton explained. “I love titties and long legs, but a dick between my legs ain’t bad at all.” He began scrubbing the kitchen, neither explaining nor apologizing for his absence the day before. “Bubby,” he cried, “blintzes! Will you save one for me?” “For you I made three extra.” She studied him closely. “Too much schtupping and not enough eating.”

“There’s no such thing as too much schtupping,” he answered and took the scrub brush and bucket to the toilet in the hall.

There wasn’t a minute to ask Bubby about Clayton’s daring revelation about sex with a man. Business was unusually brisk: we sold all the blintzes, the gefilte fish from Friday, the brisket from the day before. Lots of dollar bills lay under the Odessa candlestick—Bubby didn’t have a moment to place the money in a knot in her stocking.

On this golden Sunday when there wasn’t enough room under the candlestick for all the dollar bills, Bubby remained in an extravagant mood. She prepared fresh blintzes for my parents when they came home from work and what she called “a false beet borscht,” without meat, just grated beets, sour salt, sugar, a beaten egg and at the last minute sour cream. For dessert, she bought fresh strawberries. She had just started on the dough for sponge cake to serve with the berries when we heard Yussie Feld.