word of advice. The woman has a
reputation. It's not the first time. Just don't make any rash mistakes. I
personally am willing to forgive, and I want you to know that I'm still
expecting you for dinner tonight."
He had forgotten. Luckily, they were always reminding him.
Harriet Bernstein came out of the bathroom.
"Same time?" he asked the voice on the phone.
"Of course. I made a special stuffing. You want maybe
I should get some wine?"
"I'm not a drinker."
"Just don't aggravate yourself. I'm sure you're not
going to let it happen again."
He did not respond. Harriet watched him. Then he hung up.
"Another one?"
"They've been so nice to me."
"Why not?"
"I'm no big deal."
"To you, you're not a big deal. To Sarah, maybe you
weren't such a big deal. To the yenta widows of Sunset Village, you're a big
deal." He watched her. She held herself straight, gathering her own sense
of dignity.
"A single man is hard to find," she said sadly,
shaking her head. "In a few more months, you'll be so spoiled, you'll
become a selfish quvetch."
"Me?" It was an idea so contrary to his own
self-image that he smiled. It was the first time since Sarah had died that he
had smiled publicly, although he knew he had smiled to himself last night.
"Then you'll get so fatumilt, you'll probably settle
down with one of us. It's not so easy to break old habits.... "She pointed
a finger at her chest. "Believe me, I know."
She started for the door, hesitating.
"And you'll be a celebrity. You'll be the big story of
the week."
"Me?"
"Who else?"
He wanted to call her back, to have her explain further
what she meant. He went to the window and watched her cross the street, staying
there long after she disappeared. I'm alone, Sarah, he implored, knowing his
lips had moved. What should I do? he asked aloud. He paused, listening.
"Do I always have to tell you what to do?" He
imagined he heard her voice, listening closely for any additional advice. Then
the phone rang. It was Minnie Schwartz...
"I'm willing to forgive and forget," she said.
"For the time being..."
"Good" he said. "I was getting hungry."
He heard her mumble something, then the phone clicked dead, and he sat on his
chair waiting for her to arrive.
POOR HERMAN
She had first noticed him from across the huge card room of
the main clubhouse, a side view, faintly familiar, but it did not cross her
mind again until she sat at the little dressing table in the bedroom of her
condominium rubbing off her make-up. She had always mused, daydreamed,
fantasized in front of the mirror while putting on her make-up or taking it
off.
Sometimes she would suddenly make a wrong dab, which would
recall her to herself. That was what she did that evening, as she rubbed the
cleanser a little too vigorously and got some into her eye. It was then that
she realized the connection between the profile in the card room and her memory
of Heshy Feinstein. The shock of recognition made her hands shake briefly and
she found she could not continue efficiently with the removal of her make-up.
She looked at her face, ravaged by age--by living, she told
herself. But she could not identify it at all with the vivid image of Heshy
Feinstein in her mind. For this memory of Heshy was not at all lost in the mist
of more than fifty years. It had been retrieved so often, an oasis of joy in
the arid desert of what her life had become, that it still had retained its
shimmering intensity. Heshy Feinstein! He had been the one unalterable
condition of her inner life, her secret life--although once she had confided to
her daughter, Helen, that there had been a man, a boy really, who had made her
body ache with longing for him.
She could remember exactly because, at the time, they were
sitting shiva for Herman, only seven years before. Herman with whom she had
spent forty-five faithful years of marriage, of coldness, too, although her
children would never ever know that. Only Herman knew, because he suffered from
her indifference since
reputation. It's not the first time. Just don't make any rash mistakes. I
personally am willing to forgive, and I want you to know that I'm still
expecting you for dinner tonight."
He had forgotten. Luckily, they were always reminding him.
Harriet Bernstein came out of the bathroom.
"Same time?" he asked the voice on the phone.
"Of course. I made a special stuffing. You want maybe
I should get some wine?"
"I'm not a drinker."
"Just don't aggravate yourself. I'm sure you're not
going to let it happen again."
He did not respond. Harriet watched him. Then he hung up.
"Another one?"
"They've been so nice to me."
"Why not?"
"I'm no big deal."
"To you, you're not a big deal. To Sarah, maybe you
weren't such a big deal. To the yenta widows of Sunset Village, you're a big
deal." He watched her. She held herself straight, gathering her own sense
of dignity.
"A single man is hard to find," she said sadly,
shaking her head. "In a few more months, you'll be so spoiled, you'll
become a selfish quvetch."
"Me?" It was an idea so contrary to his own
self-image that he smiled. It was the first time since Sarah had died that he
had smiled publicly, although he knew he had smiled to himself last night.
"Then you'll get so fatumilt, you'll probably settle
down with one of us. It's not so easy to break old habits.... "She pointed
a finger at her chest. "Believe me, I know."
She started for the door, hesitating.
"And you'll be a celebrity. You'll be the big story of
the week."
"Me?"
"Who else?"
He wanted to call her back, to have her explain further
what she meant. He went to the window and watched her cross the street, staying
there long after she disappeared. I'm alone, Sarah, he implored, knowing his
lips had moved. What should I do? he asked aloud. He paused, listening.
"Do I always have to tell you what to do?" He
imagined he heard her voice, listening closely for any additional advice. Then
the phone rang. It was Minnie Schwartz...
"I'm willing to forgive and forget," she said.
"For the time being..."
"Good" he said. "I was getting hungry."
He heard her mumble something, then the phone clicked dead, and he sat on his
chair waiting for her to arrive.
POOR HERMAN
She had first noticed him from across the huge card room of
the main clubhouse, a side view, faintly familiar, but it did not cross her
mind again until she sat at the little dressing table in the bedroom of her
condominium rubbing off her make-up. She had always mused, daydreamed,
fantasized in front of the mirror while putting on her make-up or taking it
off.
Sometimes she would suddenly make a wrong dab, which would
recall her to herself. That was what she did that evening, as she rubbed the
cleanser a little too vigorously and got some into her eye. It was then that
she realized the connection between the profile in the card room and her memory
of Heshy Feinstein. The shock of recognition made her hands shake briefly and
she found she could not continue efficiently with the removal of her make-up.
She looked at her face, ravaged by age--by living, she told
herself. But she could not identify it at all with the vivid image of Heshy
Feinstein in her mind. For this memory of Heshy was not at all lost in the mist
of more than fifty years. It had been retrieved so often, an oasis of joy in
the arid desert of what her life had become, that it still had retained its
shimmering intensity. Heshy Feinstein! He had been the one unalterable
condition of her inner life, her secret life--although once she had confided to
her daughter, Helen, that there had been a man, a boy really, who had made her
body ache with longing for him.
She could remember exactly because, at the time, they were
sitting shiva for Herman, only seven years before. Herman with whom she had
spent forty-five faithful years of marriage, of coldness, too, although her
children would never ever know that. Only Herman knew, because he suffered from
her indifference since
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