But he never got over it. He’s got a nice wife, good kids, lives near me. You know we all still live downtown, don’t you? Sure you know. So now Sonny comes in the apartment, a friend is sitting on the couch, he looks the situation over, jerks his head in the direction of the bedroom, says, I gotta talk to you; my friend starts laughing. But that’s it. We don’t really share anything. He comes over, gets analyzed, goes home. Larry? He’s 240 pounds now. Got a girlfriend, but he still lives in the old apartment on Essex Street, she shouldn’t think he’s getting involved, he’s only been with her six years. Davey! Don’t you want to know how Davey is? Davey’s wonderful! Who would have thought my baby brother would turn out spiritual? But he has. He’s spiritual .”
I nearly said, “That’s ridiculous.” Stopped just in time. But I couldn’t let it go, all the same. Silent throughout the recital on Sonny and Larry, now I felt I had to speak. “Oh, Dorothy,” I said, very gently I thought, “Davey’s not spiritual.”
Dorothy’s eyes dropped to the table, her brows drew together. When she looked up again her eyes were very bright, her mouth shaped in an uncertain smile.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“If Davey had left Essex Street at eighteen he wouldn’t be spiritual today,” I said. “He’s looking for a way to put his life together, and he’s got no equipment with which to do it. So he turned religious. It’s a mark of how lost he is, not how found he is, that he’s a rabbi in Jerusalem.”
Dorothy nodded and nodded at me. Her voice when she spoke was unnaturally quiet. “I guess that’s one way you
could look at it,” she said. I laughed and shrugged. We dropped it.
On we went, falling back repeatedly to stories of the bungalow colony. Dorothy did most of the talking. As the hours passed Dorothy did all the talking. She talked faster and faster, the sentences tumbling one after another. A mosaic of emotional memory began to emerge: how she had seen me, how she had seen my mother, how she had seen my mother in relation to her mother. I began to feel uncomfortable. She remembered it all so vividly. She had been so intent on us. Especially on my mother.
She laughed heartily as she spoke, a strong rocking laughter. Suddenly she turned full face to me and said, “You never really enjoyed it like we did. You were always so critical. For such a little kid you were amazing. It’s like you knew you were more intelligent than anyone else around, and you were always seeing how silly or pointless or ridiculous—your favorite word—everything was. Your mother, also, was so much better than anyone else around. And she was, she was. Your father adored her. She used to walk beside him, his arm around her and she holding on to him, God, did she hold on to him, holding on for dear life, clinging like to a life raft, and looking around to make sure everyone saw how happy she was with her loverlike husband. It was as though she wanted to make every woman there jealous. And my mother? My father came up once during the whole summer. She used to cry over your mother: ‘Look how good he is to her, and look how Jake treats me. She’s got everything, I’ve got nothing.’”
Dorothy laughed again: as though she was afraid to speak without laughing. “My mother was kind,” she said. “She
had a kind heart. Your mother? She was organized. My mother would sit up with her own kids when they were sick, and she’d sit up with you, too. Your mother would march into the kitchen like a top sergeant and say to my mother, ‘Levinson, stop crying, put on a brassiere, fix yourself up.’”
More laughter, by now the taste of iron in it. Dorothy struggled with herself to stop, to get off my mother and her mother. Abruptly she took her memories back to a time before my time, and began to tell us of the Jewish mystics traveling around on the bungalow-colony circuit when she was eight or ten years old.
I nearly said, “That’s ridiculous.” Stopped just in time. But I couldn’t let it go, all the same. Silent throughout the recital on Sonny and Larry, now I felt I had to speak. “Oh, Dorothy,” I said, very gently I thought, “Davey’s not spiritual.”
Dorothy’s eyes dropped to the table, her brows drew together. When she looked up again her eyes were very bright, her mouth shaped in an uncertain smile.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“If Davey had left Essex Street at eighteen he wouldn’t be spiritual today,” I said. “He’s looking for a way to put his life together, and he’s got no equipment with which to do it. So he turned religious. It’s a mark of how lost he is, not how found he is, that he’s a rabbi in Jerusalem.”
Dorothy nodded and nodded at me. Her voice when she spoke was unnaturally quiet. “I guess that’s one way you
could look at it,” she said. I laughed and shrugged. We dropped it.
On we went, falling back repeatedly to stories of the bungalow colony. Dorothy did most of the talking. As the hours passed Dorothy did all the talking. She talked faster and faster, the sentences tumbling one after another. A mosaic of emotional memory began to emerge: how she had seen me, how she had seen my mother, how she had seen my mother in relation to her mother. I began to feel uncomfortable. She remembered it all so vividly. She had been so intent on us. Especially on my mother.
She laughed heartily as she spoke, a strong rocking laughter. Suddenly she turned full face to me and said, “You never really enjoyed it like we did. You were always so critical. For such a little kid you were amazing. It’s like you knew you were more intelligent than anyone else around, and you were always seeing how silly or pointless or ridiculous—your favorite word—everything was. Your mother, also, was so much better than anyone else around. And she was, she was. Your father adored her. She used to walk beside him, his arm around her and she holding on to him, God, did she hold on to him, holding on for dear life, clinging like to a life raft, and looking around to make sure everyone saw how happy she was with her loverlike husband. It was as though she wanted to make every woman there jealous. And my mother? My father came up once during the whole summer. She used to cry over your mother: ‘Look how good he is to her, and look how Jake treats me. She’s got everything, I’ve got nothing.’”
Dorothy laughed again: as though she was afraid to speak without laughing. “My mother was kind,” she said. “She
had a kind heart. Your mother? She was organized. My mother would sit up with her own kids when they were sick, and she’d sit up with you, too. Your mother would march into the kitchen like a top sergeant and say to my mother, ‘Levinson, stop crying, put on a brassiere, fix yourself up.’”
More laughter, by now the taste of iron in it. Dorothy struggled with herself to stop, to get off my mother and her mother. Abruptly she took her memories back to a time before my time, and began to tell us of the Jewish mystics traveling around on the bungalow-colony circuit when she was eight or ten years old.
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