Page 58 - WTP Vol. IX #9

Housewidow (continued from preceding page)
“She’s never asked you to help her. Don’t give her a reason. Show her you’re not a patsy like your father. Shame her into paying him for everything he does, which will add up to more than a measly twenty-five bucks.”
I bent and rolled up my pants to avoid looking at Mom. “I can’t ask her. She’s a widow.”
“For Pete’s sake, Sharon. I’ll ask Fiona myself. Better yet, I’ll tell her. Wait here.” She started for the door, but Emil began to cry so she turned back. I fled while I had the chance.
The landlady stood on the porch and pointed to where I should unload the flats. When I finished, she got in her Caddy without thanking me and parked
the car in the garage. As I headed inside to wash up, I heard her come in the back entrance, prop open the glass door, and climbed upstairs. Less than a minute later, the door slammed shut. I looked at the new tiles in the hallway. The house looked spiffy. So would the scruffy front yard once the flowers were planted. That door, however, was beyond repair. Only a new one would solve the problem.
Mrs. Sullivan was waiting outside when my dad got home, and followed him into our apartment. My mom was putting dinner on the table. “Fix the glass door,” the landlady said. “Now. Before you eat.” My father said nothing. Neither did my mother. I was teaching nursery rhymes to Reva. We grew silent. Even Emil stopped whimpering. Dad kissed Mom on the cheek and us kids on the tops of our heads. He went into the bathroom and I heard him wash his hands.
When my father came out, he was smiling. He walked to the back door. I followed him, wondering if he’d let me help him fix it again. My mother fol- lowed me. Dad flexed his hands. Then, in one swift motion, he ripped the glass door off its hinges. He carried it up the winding staircase. My mother ran after him, hanging onto his shirttails. “Leo, opshtel.” Over and over, she pleaded with him to stop, first in Yiddish, then in English and Hungarian. There was a loud crash in Mrs. Sullivan’s apartment. My father came downstairs, still trailed by my mother, kicking shards of glass out of his way. “Perl, take the chil- dren into the living room,” he told her.
While we watched from the doorway, my father strode to the kitchen and got the knife my mother used to slice brisket. Then he slashed a big “X” in every linoleum tile in the kitchen, dining room, and hallway. When he was done, he came into the living room, turned on the radio, and plopped himself down on the couch with a beer. From then until the baseball
game ended, he listened to the Cleveland Indians play the New York Yankees. Cleveland lost, but my father continued to smile as he calmly walked to the bedroom and went to sleep.
~
On Sunday morning, the five us stood on the street with two suitcases, waiting for a cab to take us to Bubbe’s house in Glenville. We’d stay for a week; I didn’t know where we’d go after that. Mrs. Sullivan had given my parents until Wednesday to move our furniture and the rest of our clothes. My dad looked worried, but not sorry. In fact, the smile that flickered across his face was the same look he got when he’d finished repairing something. Relief after solving
a problem. But what problem in this case? Was he simply happy to stop worrying about everyone else and satisfy himself for a change, even if it was only for a little while? Was he glad that with the landlady out of his life, he’d removed a source of tension with my mom? If so, they’d be closer than ever.
My mother chewed the nails on her left hand and clutched Emil to her chest with the right one. It was the first time I’d seen her look scared and only the second time she was speechless.
I wasn’t scared. My parents had always taken care of us, and would find a way to do so now. But I was upset. Since we no longer lived here, I couldn’t
be a student at Mount Pleasant Elementary and represent them at the Ohio Spelling Bee. I kept
this thought to myself, not from fear my parents wouldn’t say anything again, but because they would. Something like, “We have more important things to think about.” Then they’d turn their backs on me and huddle together.
I climbed onto the porch, where the flowers waited in their flats. They resembled daisies, but bright red, like the housewidow’s hair. I yanked a flower from
its pot and plucked the petals, one at a time. “They love me, they love me not.” The cab pulled up before I could finish.
Epstein’s awards include a Pushcart Prize nomination for creative nonfiction, the Walter Sullivan prize in fiction, and an Editors’ Choice selection by Historical Novel Review. Her novels are On the Shore (2017), Tazia and Gemma (2018), A Brain. A Heart. The Nerve. (2018), and The Great Stork Derby (2021). Her stories, creative nonfiction, and craft articles appear in North American Review, Sewanee Review, PRISM International, Ascent, The Long Story, Saranac Review, The Madison Review, The Minnesota Review, Pas- sages North, and elsewhere. In addition to writing, she has a PhD
in Developmental Psychology and MFA in Textiles, which shape the content and imagery of her work.
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