Being Esther Page 11

  “Leave him alone,” Esther scolds. “He’s explaining something.” Smiling, she turns to her son-in-law.

  Lenny hunches his shoulders and rises as he begins to stack the dishes.

  Esther reaches over, sets a hand on his to stop him. “I’ll help with that,” she says.

  “No!” Ceely snaps. She fishes the car keys from her purse. “Lenny can do them.” Then, atoning for her outburst, she says, “Besides, you must be exhausted.”

  “Not really.” Esther sits up straight, sets her hands in her lap, and smiles, an obsequious child hoping to stay up past her bedtime.

  “Well, I’m tired,” Ceely sighs, jingling the keys, as if Esther were a baby in need of pacifying. “Even if you’re not.”

  Esther consults her watch, Marty’s old Timex with the expandable band and the big numbers. It’s early. She looks at Ceely, her golden child who morphed into an angry teen and then an officious adult. The adolescent rage is gone, but so are the soft contours. If Ceely were a chair, she’d be hard, unyielding. Utilitarian. “Perhaps you should see a doctor,” Esther says.

  “A doctor?”

  “If you’re so exhausted.” Esther folds her napkin and places it to the left of where her plate had been. At least Ceely doesn’t use paper. She sets out her good dishes, cloth napkins. “It’s not even eight o’clock,” Esther says, as she presses the napkin with the flat of her hand. “Besides. How can you be tired when you didn’t cook?”

  “What did you say?” Ceely’s nostrils flare; her face flushes. She flings her purse over her shoulder, and turns to exit.

  Esther looks at Lenny, beseeching him for support, but his head is bowed as he busies himself with the dishes. Then she turns to Ceely. “Stop,” she says. “I merely said that you shouldn’t be tired, given that you didn’t cook dinner.” She smiles ruefully. “Remember the old joke?”

  “Joke?” Ceely’s face falls, resistance yielding to resignation.

  Esther, stifling the urge to tell her daughter to put on some lipstick, says, “You know. The one about the reservations?” She turns to Lenny. “I’m sure you’ve heard it.”

  Lenny glances at Ceely, who shoots him a warning look.

  “I’m sure Lenny’s heard it,” Esther insists.

  “Heard what?” Ceely sinks into a chair, letting her purse drop to the floor.

  “The joke about the reservations.”

  “Tell me,” she sighs.

  “Never mind. I’m sure you’ve heard it. It’s old as the hills.”

  Ceely jackknifes out of her chair, grabs her purse, and rattles the keys. “Will you please just tell the fucking joke, so we can get out of here?”

  “Ceely!” The dishes in Lenny’s hands crash to the table. He glares at his wife. “That’s enough.” Turning to Esther, who is folding and unfolding her napkin, he says, “We’ll clear up, Esther. Then I’ll drive you home.”

  Esther, fighting back tears, nods, then turns to Ceely. “Reservations,” she whispers. “It’s what a Jewish woman makes for dinner.”

  To Lenny she says, “You have work to do. Ceely will take me.”

  Esther tossed and turned that night. She wanted to blame her restlessness on Mr. Yee’s free hand with the MSG. Or perhaps she should have rejected that second cup of tea. Whatever the reason, she lay in bed unable to erase from her mind the image of Ceely buttoning her coat, jangling the car keys, rushing her out the door.

  Esther doesn’t want to live with her daughter. Even worse is the thought of living with her son and that malingering wife of his, Sheila, always in bed with a bad back. Doped up, too, with Barry’s help. Esther is as sure of that as she is that one day Barry Lustig, DDS, will lose his license for pushing drugs. No. She doesn’t want to live with any of them.

  She thinks of old Mrs. Abelson, who lived with her son and daughter-in-law and their four children, one of whom had been Ceely’s best friend in grade school. Esther has long forgotten the girl’s name, but she remembers the girl’s mother.

  She still can picture Faye Abelson on the front porch reading when Esther stopped by to collect Ceely. Faye, barely glancing up from her book, inclined her head toward the door, and said, “I think the girls are inside.”

  Once, Faye was reading Light in August. Esther, who had been reading one of those books recommended for the beach, wondered if she should go back to school like Faye, who was studying for an advanced degree in English literature. But Marty would only dismiss the idea, find some way to make her feel even smaller than she did standing on the Abelson’s sagging porch wishing she had the time to sit in a wicker rocker reading Faulkner. Just as she started to berate herself for caving in to Marty’s bullying put-downs, a shriek erupted from somewhere inside, followed by a barrage of Yiddish and English, and then a slamming of doors. “My mother-in-law,” Faye drawled, as if enervated by the heat from that fictional Mississippi place whose name Esther never could pronounce. Faye gave the slightest nod toward the screen door, which had been aggressively clawed by the cats, and repeated that the girls were inside.

  Esther was wondering whether to knock, walk right in, or ring the bell, which she suspected might be out of order, when Faye shouted, “Ma!”

  In a flash, old Mrs. Abelson appeared in the doorway, wiping her hands on a print apron. “Damn dog,” she hissed. “Ate the rolls.”

  “Did anyone remember to feed him?” Faye asked, without enthusiasm. And then, “Are the girls still inside?”

  Mrs. Abelson held up a finger and said, “Wait,” as if otherwise, God forbid, Faye might have to pull herself up from the chair and go in search of the girls. After the old woman scurried away, Faye slumped deeper into her rocker and sighed. “That woman is a whirling dervish. She doesn’t know the meaning of the word sit.”

  Esther understood from her own mother’s twice-yearly visits—at the high holidays and at Passover—that Mrs. Abelson was afraid to sit. These older women knew their place, staying tucked away, fading into the background. Mostly, they tended the kitchen, where they learned to make themselves indispensible.

  Whenever Esther’s mother came to visit, she’d charge around the kitchen in a pink sweat suit, rubber gloves, and pursed lips, cleaning the refrigerator, tossing out empty cereal boxes, and rearranging the pots and pans. She consolidated the dregs of Cheerios, Rice Krispies, and Frosted Flakes into one box, which inevitably led to an uproar at breakfast when the stale mixture tumbled into the children’s bowls. All her efforts backfired. By the third day, Marty was fuming and Esther was promising that her mother’s next visit would be even shorter.

  Esther would never interfere with Ceely’s kitchen. She certainly wouldn’t accept an invitation to move in. Still, it would be nice to be asked. She imagined Ceely saying: “Ma? You know that extra bedroom?” Then Esther could reply, “Thank you very much. I appreciate the offer, but I can take care of myself.”

  Sometimes Esther wondered whether Ceely would have turned out differently if she hadn’t panicked all those years ago. But Barry was only six months old, Marty had just opened the drugstore on Touhy Avenue, and twice a week she was helping with the books. Then Helen had an idea. “What you have to do, Esther, is take a hot mustard bath. Then you ride the Bobs.”

  “A roller coaster? Are you crazy?”

  “You asked my advice. That’s my advice.”

  Esther remembered the way Helen gripped her hand as they approached the top. And when they plunged back toward earth Helen shrieked and laughed like she was drunk on champagne. She was eager to ride again, but Esther felt light-headed and woozy. For days, she kept running to the bathroom, checking for blood. A week had passed when she reported to Helen, “Nothing. Not even a speck.”

  “In that case, you’re stuck,” Helen said. “Stuck is stuck.”

  Esther never breathed a word of this to anyone, not even to Marty. Still, over the years there had been times when she’d wondered if somehow Ceely knew. There was that time when Ceely ran away, though Esther had secretly blamed Marty f
or their daughter’s rebellion. Now, Ceely has been touting that assisted living joint, as if it were her turn to try and get rid of Esther.

  Esther loved Ceely. She’d loved her from the moment the nurse placed the swaddled infant in her arms and said, “Esther, here’s your baby.” Esther’s love never wavered, not even when Ceely disappeared to that commune in Vermont and returned all of Esther’s letters unopened. If anything, Esther’s love bloomed in those days, expanded to fill the void created by the pain of her daughter’s rejection. Oh, how she’d loved her. But had she ever said so? How easy it would have been to whisper I love you while kissing her daughter good night, or ushering her out the door on a school morning. I love you. Yet it was possible that in all these years she’d never said so, not in so many words. But Ceely knew. She had to know. A mother loves a daughter, even if you can’t say so out loud.

  Isn’t that what Esther had learned from her mother, who warded off the evil eye by rapping her knuckles on the table three times, or muttering “poo, poo, poo,” whenever she spoke her children’s names? Keep your good fortune to yourself or you’ll invite disaster. Say anything good to or about your children, and the evil spirits will find them. That had been Mrs. Glass’s motto. How different from today’s mothers, showering their children with praise for every little effort. Even breathing! Esther is certain that nothing good can come from such unrestrained veneration.

  Esther’s mother, on the other hand, had been as blatant with her disapproval as she was withholding and stingy with her praise. Not that she articulated her disdain. Mrs. Glass had other ways of expressing displeasure. Pursed lips. Narrowed eyes. Silence.

  Her silence could be deafening. Especially when it came to the coat. During the long stretches that she was in Florida, Mrs. Glass stored her mink with her son and daughter-in-law. Upon her return visits to Chicago, before Esther had pulled out of the airport parking lot, Mrs. Glass would say, “Tomorrow, we’ll go for the coat.”

  The next day, Esther and her mother would drive to Harry and Clara’s to pick up the coat, and for the duration of Mrs. Glass’s visit, the coat moved in with Esther and Marty. Then, on the day before Mrs. Glass returned to Miami, the coat went back to Harry and Clara’s.

  It was on one of those drives to return the coat that Esther heard herself saying, “What does her closet have that mine doesn’t?” The words, brittle and harsh, caught Esther off guard. Though a cold rain was falling, she cracked the window open, hoping to rid the air of all her hurt feelings and anger. But her words loomed in the silence, hovering like the gray November clouds that dampened the day.

  Mrs. Glass, unruffled by Esther’s outburst, sat erect, her gaze fixed straight ahead, as if she’d been assigned to scout the horizon for marauders and took her job to heart. The coat rested on her lap, cocooned in a garment bag left over from the days when her husband ran a dress and fur shop. Her gnarled hands, freckled with age, were planted firmly on top of the bag.

  The women rode in silence, the only sound coming from the rain, which earlier in the day had been forecast as snow.

  At a red light, Esther broke the silence. “I asked you a question,” she said, her voice sounding eerily controlled. She glared at her mother’s profile, willing her to turn and address her.

  “What was the question?” Mrs. Glass asked, her eyes fixed on the road.

  “You heard me,” Esther snapped.

  “Oy, please. What do you want from me?” Mrs. Glass shifted in her seat, then ran her hand across the garment bag, as if she were stroking a cat.

  “Look at me, Ma,” Esther pleaded. “I’m talking to you.” But her mother stared steadfastly ahead, stiff as the mannequins in her husband’s dress and fur shop.

  Esther’s favorite had been the ginger-haired model, which looked like a replica of her mother. When she was very young, she loved to run up and hug it. Once, she nearly knocked it off its stand, and her father scolded her. Then he laughed and patted her behind and sent her to the back room, where Mrs. Rothstein, the seamstress, gave her scraps of fabric to play with. Esther loved the store. Then one afternoon—she must have been in the fourth grade—she came upon her father undressing the ginger-haired mannequin. He spoke in hushed tones as he unbuttoned her blouse. “Wait till you see what I’ve got for you,” he murmured. “Something red with navy-blue piping. You’re going to love it, tsatskeleh.” Tenderly, he stroked the dummy’s cheek, then ran his hand over her ginger hair. Esther, sensing that she’d stumbled upon something too dark to comprehend, fled and avoided the store for weeks.

  At the next light, Esther turned to her mother, searching for the woman who’d held such erotic sway over her father. Then, like pentimento, the young, glamorous Mrs. Glass emerged through all the layers bestowed by age. Once again, she was that pretty woman with a labile mouth and the springy, ginger hair that enjoyed straying from its tortoise barrette.

  “Green light, Esther,” Mrs. Glass barked, breaking the spell. “You should look where you’re going.”

  Esther stepped on the gas and, in her frustration, shouted, “Did you hear me?” She had dinner to prepare. And Barry’s teacher had scheduled a meeting, something about stolen hall passes. Or was the last meeting about the passes? Barry was always in trouble. But first, Esther had to transport the coat.

  She felt like tossing it out the window. She wanted to beat it with her mother’s handbag, which rode on the seat between them like another passenger. Instead, she repeated the question that had already poisoned the air. “What does her closet have that mine doesn’t?”

  “Close the window, Esther,” Mrs. Glass said. “People will hear.”

  “Nobody can hear,” Esther shouted and rolled down the back windows, letting cold mist spray into the car. “Besides, nobody’s listening. Nobody cares. Just please answer my question.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Mrs. Glass drummed her fingers on the garment bag. “What is this closet you talk about? I don’t understand.”

  “You know perfectly well what I’m talking about!” Esther hated the desperation in her voice, but she couldn’t stop. “I just want to know what’s wrong with my closet?”

  The light changed and the car behind Esther’s honked. “Hold your horses!” she yelled. Over the shouting she thought she heard her mother say, “You can eat off her floors.”

  It was true. Clara’s floors sparkled. Her beds were made before breakfast. Her well-appointed rooms were cool in the summer, warm in the winter. The bathroom towels were always fresh. Clara never ran out of Saran Wrap or paper napkins or rice. Clothing hung in her closets on cedar hangers, arranged by color and function, as they might have appeared in Esther’s father’s dress shop all those years ago. Twice a year Clara went through her closets and made a pile for Goodwill.

  Clara was the daughter that Mrs. Glass would have raised. If it bothered Mrs. Glass that Clara never invited her to spend the night, never offered to pick her up at the airport, never invited her to dinner more than once per visit, she didn’t let on.

  As soon as Esther pulled up in front of Clara’s place, her mother unfastened her seat belt and reached for her handbag. “Wait,” Esther said. She was gripping the steering wheel, afraid that if she let go her hands might do something regrettable. Staring straight ahead, she said, “I asked you a question.” Again, her voice registered eerie control. “Please say something.”

  “Oy, Esther.” Her mother leaned over and pressed a hand on her daughter’s arm. “What do you want I should say?”

  Esther looked down at the hand that had flown through a kitchen restoring order, baked bread, chopped onions, diapered babies. Now it was crooked and spotted with age. She averted her gaze, only to catch a glimpse of her mother’s feet. They barely touched the floor. Esther reached across the seat to lay a hand on top of her mother’s, but Mrs. Glass turned and pressed her nose against the window, as if yearning for whatever lay beyond. “What do you want from me?” she whispered.

  Tell me you love m
e, Esther wanted to say. At least let the coat hang in my closet. Tell me my closets are good enough.

  Esther’s mother never relented. For as long as Mrs. Glass made the trip from Miami to Chicago, her visits began with the same instruction. “Tomorrow, we’ll go for the coat.”

  “I bet you enjoy dancing.”

  Esther looks up from her magazine and follows the voice across the room to where Dr. Levenson’s receptionist is stationed. “Were you talking to me?”

  The receptionist scans the empty waiting room to suggest the answer is obvious. “I asked if you dance.”

  “’Fraid not. I lost my dancing partner not so long ago.” Esther shrugs and holds out her hands, as if they might at one time have held the lost partner.

  “Oh.” The receptionist frowns.

  “Besides, I’m not so steady on my feet anymore,” Esther confesses. Then she looks down, hoping to be proven wrong, hoping that her feet might spontaneously burst into a fandango. But there they sit, two swollen lumps of unmolded clay, cosseted in old brown leather pumps. It’s hard to believe that they ever had danced, that they’d ever tripped lightly after Marty onto a dance floor. Cha-cha. Rumba. Waltz. They’d done it all.

  Esther extends her legs and lifts her feet a few inches off the floor, as if the receptionist might want to see for herself. “My feet are swollen,” she says.

  “That’s too bad,” the receptionist replies. She begins filing her nails and Esther returns to her magazine. After reading and rereading the same paragraph, she realizes that she has been tapping her feet—one, two, cha cha cha. She smiles. Her old feet remember. But when she glances down, she sees the same homely wallflowers, and unless her eyes are playing tricks on her, the flesh is beginning to spill over the edges. Why hadn’t she worn a softer shoe? And why hadn’t the receptionist, still fussing with her nails, kept her questions to herself? Do you dance? Look at her, with that tiny gemstone winking off the side of her nose. And those hands! So smooth and competent, wielding an emery board with such ease. Do you dance? She wouldn’t even know the dances that Esther’s feet had burned up the rug with. Burned up the rug. She wouldn’t know that, either. Suddenly, Esther feels as if she is seated on the other side of an impossible divide. She’s drowning. How would she describe this feeling to Lorraine? How would she measure the space that engulfs her? What would she say? If you took all the people in the world and laid them end to end . . . yes, something like that, something so implausible, yet vivid enough to convey the enormity of it all, the feeling that she could never make it to the other side where the receptionist sits shaping her pearly nails into perfect ovals. Esther glares at the young woman. If she hadn’t been so nosy, Esther could be finishing that article about some town in Oklahoma that was rebuilding after a tornado. Instead, she is sitting here obsessing about the condition of her swollen feet.