Page 54 - WTP Vol. IX #9

Housewidow (continued from preceding page)
My father piled pastrami and sauerkraut between two slices of rye bread and bit into his sandwich. “Mmm, that’s good.” He winked at me. “I’m teaching Sharon to respect her elders.”
“You’re teaching our daughter to be a doormat. Teach her when it’s okay to get angry.”
Dad used a heel of bread to wipe up the sauerkraut juice he’d dribbled. “I have a slow fuse, Perl. Isn’t that why you married me?”
While I helped my mother wash the dishes, my father put Al Jolson on the record player. Quietly, so it wouldn’t wake Reva. Then I sat on the couch watch- ing my parents dance. Even at eight, I thought Jolson was schmaltzy, but my folks played him over and over until I thought Mrs. Sullivan would complain. That night they replayed his newest hit, When You Were Sweet Sixteen, until I was ready to complain. Still, I knew why that song was their favorite. My parents met when they were sixteen and married right after high school. Neither had ever dated anyone else. Nothing, not even Mrs. Fiona Sullivan, could keep them at odds for long.
~
I was glad when school finally started. Spelling was still my favorite subject. Mount Pleasant had spelling bees at three levels: class, grade, and school. Who- ever won the school bee in the spring went to the state competition in the summer. I was pretty sure I could win the weekly class and monthly grade bees, and maybe even the school bee in May. By the end
of September, I’d already finished the third-grade words: double consonants (apply, better); double vowels (beet, root); and contractions (can’t, doesn’t). My teacher gave me the fourth-grade list. I liked the odd spellings: burglar, not burgler; sandwich, not sandwitch. Better yet was learning new vocabulary words. My favorite was “indignant,” which was how my mother felt toward Mrs. Sullivan.
Best of all was discovering compound words: base- ball, bedtime, goldfish. I loved them like my parents loved Al Jolson. There was no limit to how many words you could make, and the new word made you think about the meaning of the two making it up. That’s why I found myself thinking about “landlady.” It didn’t fit Mrs. Sullivan. For one thing, she owned a house but no land, unless you counted the tiny yard. For another, she wasn’t a lady, although my mother called her a royal pain in the tuchus. So I made up my own word. Mrs. Sullivan was a “housewidow.”
On the Friday after Rosh Hashanah, the Jewish New 47
Year, my father announced that 5708 would be extra sweet. He waved his paycheck under Mom’s nose.
“A real raise!” Construction was booming after the war, people were buying and fixing up houses, and the hardware store was thriving. Dad filled his and Mom’s glasses with Manischewitz and gave me a drop, adding about a gallon of water. Everyone was giddy until my mother served the brisket. She made it like always, the Hungarian way with paprika, which is how her mother, my bubbe, had taught her.
Dad pushed the slice of meat around his plate. “I miss my mother’s brisket.”
Mom shot back. “Then tell her to cook it ...” Her hand flew to her mouth. Dad put down his fork. I felt my face turn as red as the paprika. That bubbe was dead. My mother wrapped her arms around my father. “God. I’m sorry. Me and big mouth. I know how much you miss Reva.”
At the sound of her name, my sister banged her spoon and babbled unspellable words. Dad lifted her out of her seat and swung her around. “Not you, silly. You’re gonna live to see your grandchildren. Isn’t that right, Mommy?” He smiled at my mother.
“It is,” she said “Sholem bayess, peace in the home.” We raised our wine glasses and drank again. Then Mom said she had an announcement of her own. “I’m pregnant. Sharon and Reva are going to have a baby brother or sister come April, in time for Passover.”
Dad gave Mom a big smooch and called for another toast. My glass was empty; I didn’t ask for a refill. In- stead, I looked at my baby sister and asked, “So soon?”
My father made googly eyes at my mother. “We’re making up for lost time.”
Now her face turned red. “With Daddy’s raise,” she told me, “we can afford it.”
You didn’t know about his raise before you got pregnant, I thought, but kept my mouth shut. I didn’t want to spoil my own news. “I have some- thing to announce too.” I said. “I won the class spelling bee, which qualifies me for the third- grade bee.” I waited for them to propose another toast, but Mrs. Sullivan barged in without knocking or waiting to be invited inside.
The landlady wore a fur coat, even though it wasn’t that cold yet. She walked up to Dad without so much as a “good evening.” “Rake the lawn. Clear the leaves out of the gutters. And fix the glass door before win- ter.” She left as suddenly as she’d come, without so