Storytelling

Heeb‘s critically acclaimed Storytelling series presents Jewish stories from an ever-changing crew of performers across the country. We now give you Heeb _Storytelling in its online incarnation. Check back here each Thursday for a new story. This week’s installment is “That Lady” by Suzanne Dottino._

The phone in my parents’ bedroom rings. I jump. It is someone from the outside. I blush. The last time someone from the outside tried to come in my brothers Josh, Adam and I were watching the Magilla Gorilla cartoon in our TV room that has green paneling and two narrow French doors with leftover Christmas lights dangling along the frames of the windows which were, for some why-ask-why reason, slightly opened that day. My brothers were sitting in their rocking chairs in front of the TV eating boiled hot dogs from a plate, and I was sitting on the blue tapestry couch behind them. It was close to 4 o’clock. Adam slammed an empty Coke bottle against the TV table. I leaned my head against the side of the couch and stared at the TV.

Just as Magilla Gorilla tried to disguise himself as a baby by squeezing himself into a baby carriage, three streaks of black and white fuzz invaded the television screen. “Oh Jesus,” Josh said from his teetering rocking chair. “Oh sh… shh… it,” Adam stuttered back as he hurled himself under the round wooden table that the boxy television sat on. Adam emerged from the underside of the table waving the sea green Coke bottle over his head, and wearing a mischievous grin—something was going to happen. I clamped my jaw shut and waited for it to happen. My legs dangled faster over the side of the couch, and I thought I wanted to scream.

A faintly perfumed breeze trailed under my nose and caused me to turn my face to the door. A tall lady with jet-black hair pulled elegantly back into a low bun stood behind the door. The late October sun shone brilliantly behind her. I lowered my eyes and felt my face grow hot. My neck prickled. I wanted to scratch it, but I didn’t dare move. I wasn’t used to people looking in on us like that. She must have seen me there. She must have seen me look at her and then look away. She knocked three times. I put my hands under my thighs and wished that she would go away, _just go away_.

Adam smirked and under his breath said, “Another mmm… mm… maid.” Josh tipped back in his chair and looked straight at her, “I give her a week.” Adam pushed the Coke bottle with his ripped high-top sneaker and let it roll towards the door. He followed it with his eyes and then looked up at her, “I ggg… gg… ggg…ive her a dd… dd… ay.” Maids came and went, but I hoped she might stay longer than that. I liked her. The episode on the TV was ending with the song, “_Buy him. Try him. Take him home and fry him. Gorilla for Sale_.” With the show over and five minutes to go before the next one began, it was safe to say that anything could happen. I looked at the lady.

The lady opened the half-opened door and took one step into the house. She knocked again and smiled, bravely, I thought. I looked at her white sneakers and her white tote bag. She wore a gray skirt that was cinched at the waist with a macramé belt. Her dark eyes sparkled. She raised her eyebrows at me as if she were expecting something. What did I have to give her? She wrinkled her forehead. Her cheeks drooped over the sides of her jaw. She was old. She smiled. I blushed.

“Is your mommy home?” Her voice was surprisingly warm, like the librarians’ at school. The other women who came to see if they could help my mother clean, do laundry and help with dinner were usually tubby and talked like parrots. I wondered if that lady was foreign, from another town or something and didn’t know about us. I wanted to make a good impression, you know, be nice to the nice lady. I stood up. “Is your mommy home?” she asked again. I stared back at her. I bet her house was neat and tidy with lots of colorful knickknacks thoughtfully arranged on her shelves. I saw her eyes take in the left over Christmas lights, the clumps of dog hair that bobbed around like tumbleweed and the spattered ketchup on the faux Persian rug. She was piecing things together. I thought she might turn around and go away. She could have, and if she did, that would have been fine with me. Who needs these people who come and go like it’s nothing? Who needs to hear how too much it is, thank you and good luck. She clutched her bag and took another step into our house. Maybe she was all right after all, I thought, maybe she wouldn’t mind us. She spoke, “We arranged to meet at 4:30. There are no cars in the driveway. If she is home, can you get her?” she asked.

I gravitated towards her with my chin down, like I was on one of those moving sidewalks in _The Jetsons_. I stopped in front of her. She looked down at me. She smelled. Her perfume was too much, not right. It didn’t fit. It was cheap. Woolworth’s cheap. I bet I knew which counter she bought it from too, because if I’ve been to one Woolworth’s, I’ve been to them all. If I were someone else, if I were someone else who didn’t have to keep so many secrets, I would have told her that she made a perfume mistake and that it was not the kind of item they let you return. She crossed her arms in front of her chest. She was waiting for me to say something. I guess. I looked up into her face. She had a faint black moustache and large pores on her nose. She was wearing a gold and yellow sunflower pin on her lapel and it was pinned crooked. I smiled, comforted at the imperfection of her pin placement. Maybe her life was not so perfect after all. I poked her tote bag with my index finger and then turned around and started to walk away.

I felt her hesitate for a moment. The boys were fooling around with the channels and oblivious to the lady. Outsiders didn’t faze them one way or the other. They probably didn’t even consider the possibility that an outsider might have access to the world beyond our driveway, and that they wouldn’t mind taking me along with them. As I walked past my brothers and to the door leading to the kitchen I thought, I bet they never even considered that possibility. I turned around and there she was! The nice lady had followed me. Somehow she knew to follow, she was all right! I led her into the middle of the kitchen and pretended that she didn’t see the cabinet doors that weren’t, couldn’t shut, the garbage overflowing, the flies, the cat on the counter, the messy dog dish, the spilled O.J. or the stack of dishes piled high in the sink. I didn’t want her to go, not yet. A small saucepan sizzled on the stove. The whole room stank of boiled hot dog. She looked at me. I looked at her. She went over to the stove and looked around for a towel. Fat chance, I thought. She wrapped her tote bag around the handle and brought the pot to the sink and filled it with water. A stray hot dog rose to the top. “Really,” she said with deep concern. I liked the way she said that. I wanted her to say it again and again. I put my hand over my eyes and pretended there was something in them by rubbing them. I didn’t want her to see my smile.

The phone rang. She looked at me. I looked at her. She looked behind me to see where it was coming from. She crossed her arms over her waist and exhaled. “Is someone going to get that?” she asked. I looked away. “It could be important,” she said. I scratched my elbow and kicked my foot in front of me. The phone rang and rang. She looked into the TV room, no action there. She looked back at me. I shrugged my shoulders. The phone stopped, she exhaled. “Look, is your mother home? I could come back.” Uh oh, she was getting upset. I twirled around like in ballet class and did a pas de chat towards the dining room. “What? Is there something in there? Is there…” I waited for her to follow me and she did. Electric guitars started playing loudly. She looked up at the ceiling, which was smart of her because that was where the music room was, and that was where Peter and Joseph were playing their guitars. They played “_Stronger than dirt, doo, doo, doo, do, do do,_” over and over again. I crinkled my nose. She looked down at me, “Ahem, you wanted to show me something?” I looked at the bottom doors of the hutch. I looked up at her again to see if she really wanted to see, make sure she wasn’t pulling my leg. She bent down and let her tote bag rest on the dirty floor. “What is it?” she said loudly. I pretended I didn’t hear her. I wanted to hear her say it again. “WHAT IS IT?” She said louder and slower. She really, truly wanted to know, or else that’s what it seemed like. I wanted to show her my room next. I wanted to show her my drawings and my fish tank.

I opened the bottom door of the hutch and pulled out a thick, heavy scrapbook lined with gold. “Yes?” she said impatiently. I almost felt like putting the book back. But, she didn’t mean it in a bad way. I put the book on the table and opened it up. I looked up at her and then to the seat on the bench next to me. She sat down next to me. I opened my mother’s scrapbook, and there she was! There was my mother—thin, happy, beautiful and on Pointe. Her picture was in newspaper clippings from all over the world. Playbills and cast photos with celebrities, opening night telegrams. “Is this your mother? A ballerina. Interesting. Beautiful. And then she had all those children. God bless her.” Yup. There was my mother. There was my mother before she had us.

“Gimme the bottle,” Josh screamed from the TV room. I heard a body being slammed against the wall. It must have been a commercial break. It must have been 5 o’clock. Glass shattered on the floor, I guess the Coke bottle broke. “Well, now,” the lady said in a voice higher than when she first came. “I think it’s time to go. It’s late. And I thank you for showing me this. Your mother is very beautiful and…” She stood up and walked into the kitchen, past my brothers and out the door. I followed her across the slate patio and to her small gray car. I watched her drive down our long driveway. I didn’t like her anymore. I hated her. That lady.

What do you think?