horse. And I canât be Joeâs wife. All because Iâm Jewish.
CHAPTER 14
Sundays always start out well enough. For breakfast, my father buys rolls and bagels and lox and cream cheese at Irvingâs delicatessen on Avenue P. He buys The Brooklyn Eagle , which is fat and soon covers the floor all around my fatherâs easy chair. He buys me Greek black olives which, though I canât say why, I love although my mother makes an awful face when she tastes one. Theyâre quite disgusting for many reasons; they have slippery, oily skins, theyâre soft and wrinkled. They are not only salty and black, but they have a hard pit in each one. Thereâs the usual problem of pits; you can choke on one if you swallow it; you can break a tooth if you chew hard on it, or it can just take you by surprise if you forget itâs in there, and shock you by being a rock in your mouth when you expect ordinary chewable feelings.
But, disgusting as they are, I love Greek olives; my father calls them something like misslinnas . They make my tongue curl. I have to drink three glasses of water afterward. But thatâs how I am. I love them.
My mother canât understand me. When I love something she hates, she looks at me as if Iâm not hers. I look right back at her because although I may be hers, I am not her . My father does not expect me to be him, Gilda does not expect me to be her, but my mother wants an exact copy of herself. My mother has decided The Screamer is exactly thatâa copy of her. The Screamer likes what my mother likes and hates what my mother hates. I have seen my mother chew meat for her and put it with her fingers from her mouth into The Screamerâs. Liver she chews especially long and hard for her, whereas I always had to chew and gag on my own. The Screamer is the one who naps with my mother now, when her headaches are bad (and they are very bad. They are worse than they ever were). No one thinks to invite me to nap anymore; does she think I donât get tired? Does she forget what wonderful times we used to have, napping together, each one of us with a wet washcloth on her forehead?
Today is Sunday, a day when Gilda has no noisy customers running up and down the stairs, a day when the papers are spread in a colorful circle at my fatherâs feet, a day I have a greasy container of olives all to myself. Sundays always start out this wayâpeaceful and full of promise.
My mother says she canât read the papers because of her headaches, but I notice she can read music without any trouble. She plays the piano on Sunday. Sometimes she plays too loud, and she plays too long; I have learned ways to close my ears to her music. When sheâs finished, my father always says something nice, like âVery nice,â and then he looks at me, and I say it also. âThatâs nice, Mommy.â She plays her Chopin, and she plays Stephen Foster songs, her boogie-woogie, and she always plays âOh, Danny Boy,â to which my father howls along like a dog. She likes to tell the story of how, when she was seven years old, her father bought her a piano because he knew she had musical talent. âBut Gilda had none,â she says. âShe wanted a violin, but he wouldnât buy her one. He knew she had no talent.â
My father never lets this pass: âBut if he never bought her a violin, how could he know?â My mother throws him a look that says he is not only not like her, but also stupid. I know that lookâwe all know that look. I suddenly understand that my mother has always hated Gilda just as I hate The Screamer; I feel a sudden rush of likeness to my mother. We are the same, I am her, but in ways she just doesnât recognize; we are both good hatersâmaybe the best.
On this Sunday, in springtime, we have the windows open, and warm, lilac-laden air is coming in on a hot breeze. We begin to discuss what we will do today. Even though we appear
CHAPTER 14
Sundays always start out well enough. For breakfast, my father buys rolls and bagels and lox and cream cheese at Irvingâs delicatessen on Avenue P. He buys The Brooklyn Eagle , which is fat and soon covers the floor all around my fatherâs easy chair. He buys me Greek black olives which, though I canât say why, I love although my mother makes an awful face when she tastes one. Theyâre quite disgusting for many reasons; they have slippery, oily skins, theyâre soft and wrinkled. They are not only salty and black, but they have a hard pit in each one. Thereâs the usual problem of pits; you can choke on one if you swallow it; you can break a tooth if you chew hard on it, or it can just take you by surprise if you forget itâs in there, and shock you by being a rock in your mouth when you expect ordinary chewable feelings.
But, disgusting as they are, I love Greek olives; my father calls them something like misslinnas . They make my tongue curl. I have to drink three glasses of water afterward. But thatâs how I am. I love them.
My mother canât understand me. When I love something she hates, she looks at me as if Iâm not hers. I look right back at her because although I may be hers, I am not her . My father does not expect me to be him, Gilda does not expect me to be her, but my mother wants an exact copy of herself. My mother has decided The Screamer is exactly thatâa copy of her. The Screamer likes what my mother likes and hates what my mother hates. I have seen my mother chew meat for her and put it with her fingers from her mouth into The Screamerâs. Liver she chews especially long and hard for her, whereas I always had to chew and gag on my own. The Screamer is the one who naps with my mother now, when her headaches are bad (and they are very bad. They are worse than they ever were). No one thinks to invite me to nap anymore; does she think I donât get tired? Does she forget what wonderful times we used to have, napping together, each one of us with a wet washcloth on her forehead?
Today is Sunday, a day when Gilda has no noisy customers running up and down the stairs, a day when the papers are spread in a colorful circle at my fatherâs feet, a day I have a greasy container of olives all to myself. Sundays always start out this wayâpeaceful and full of promise.
My mother says she canât read the papers because of her headaches, but I notice she can read music without any trouble. She plays the piano on Sunday. Sometimes she plays too loud, and she plays too long; I have learned ways to close my ears to her music. When sheâs finished, my father always says something nice, like âVery nice,â and then he looks at me, and I say it also. âThatâs nice, Mommy.â She plays her Chopin, and she plays Stephen Foster songs, her boogie-woogie, and she always plays âOh, Danny Boy,â to which my father howls along like a dog. She likes to tell the story of how, when she was seven years old, her father bought her a piano because he knew she had musical talent. âBut Gilda had none,â she says. âShe wanted a violin, but he wouldnât buy her one. He knew she had no talent.â
My father never lets this pass: âBut if he never bought her a violin, how could he know?â My mother throws him a look that says he is not only not like her, but also stupid. I know that lookâwe all know that look. I suddenly understand that my mother has always hated Gilda just as I hate The Screamer; I feel a sudden rush of likeness to my mother. We are the same, I am her, but in ways she just doesnât recognize; we are both good hatersâmaybe the best.
On this Sunday, in springtime, we have the windows open, and warm, lilac-laden air is coming in on a hot breeze. We begin to discuss what we will do today. Even though we appear
Similar Books
