HAPPY THANKSGIVING. Selfish and I are baking a pie and catching up on homework.
Bernstein said no more hypothetical questions. The class applauded, but I was disappointed. I enjoy them, as crazy as they are.
Instead, we had to make a list of things we’re thankful for. That’s almost as good as writing about your summer vacation.
My list: I am thankful that...
1. I do not live in a mud village in India.
2. I do not have AIDS.
3. Even though Selfish is thirteen, he still seems healthy.
4. We were invited to the Goldburgs so that Thanksgiving will not be a total wreck, and I have given myself permission to eat all I want. (Besides, I read that feasting occasionally speeds up your metabolism, thus enabling you to get more out of dieting.)
I didn’t write that I was thankful for nice smile and great eyes, because that’s private. I didn’t write that sometimes when I look in the mirror, I think, not bad.
With the money I made from raking leaves, I bought baking ingredients, coffee, a carton of cigarettes for Mom, and a ball of yarn for Selfish. He’s a bit confused about its purpose, though. He keeps sitting on it, like it’s an egg.
I check the pie. It looks incredible. The secret is to whip the eggs until they’re practically meringue and to make the pumpkin smooth. The butter for the crust has to be really cold when you start.
I pour a mug of coffee for Mom. I can’t remember when she last left the bed.
There was a time when I enjoyed her mood swings, at least the highs. We would stay up all night and watch old movies. Or we would drive to the beach and look at stars through the telescope. Once, when she got fired from the A&P, we toilet papered the store manager’s house in the middle of the night.
But the next day I’d have to go to school and I’d be exhausted, while Mom would go back to bed.
I guess my attitude changed when I started to care what my future might be, to consider what other people thought of us, to wish there were groceries in the fridge. I started feeling embarrassed by the piles of laundry, the greasy carpet, the cigarette butts on the floor and the burns on the coffee table, the way she would corner people and talk, while they told her they were in a rush and had to go.
Things are getting so much worse. I don’t know what to do. The electric bill is due. I wonder if she’s paid the mortgage. She promised to go to social services and apply for aid, but that would mean getting out of bed.
It’s embarrassing. The kids at school who have new cars, laptops, cell phones, and designer clothes don’t have a clue what my life is like, thank God. They think I dress the way I do because I’m eccentric, a theater geek. What was it Reenie called me? Retro. No one around here can imagine anybody poor.
I put in applications at CVS, Cumberland Farms, Job Lot, Bread and Comfort, Starbucks, and about ten other places. That’s the only solution to the immediate problem: get a job.
I go in Mom’s room and open the blinds. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
Mom covers her eyes. “Close those.”
“God, Mom. This room is a mess.”
I hand her the coffee and prop up her pillows. She sips it like an invalid. “It’s noon, Mom. We’re supposed to be at the Goldburgs’ at one, so you’d better shower.”
“I can’t be around people right now.”
“For once, don’t disappoint me.”
“You can go without me. You love those people. You think they’re God’s gift. Besides, I hate turkey. Their feet look like the claws of wicked old ladies. They have these jowls like the chins of old men.”
“That’s how they look when they’re alive!”
“Then they put the stuffing in that place, the cavity. Why is it called that? Like something you get in your tooth. Normally, with meat, they disguise the names, so you don’t know what you’re eating. Like pork or steak. Turkey, they call turkey. There’s no disguising that.”
It’s starting. The transition from zombie to madwoman. It always begins like this, with her saying eccentric things that will get crazier as the week goes on.
“Look. All you have to do is eat and not say much. Right? Especially the ‘not say much’ part.”
“Miriam Goldburg used to be my friend.”
“She’s still your friend. That’s why you were invited.”
“We strolled you and Vern together. We got hot fudge sundaes. Later, Miriam would only eat fruit or have a Diet Coke. That was annoying. She’s always been slightly overweight with a big butt. Do you remember?”
“Right, I remember everything about being one.”
“What’s that smell?”
“Pumpkin pie.”
“It smells like screeching tires.”
“Okay, you win. I’ll just go for an hour. I’ll tell them you don’t feel well, then I’ll bring you home a plate of food.”
“I’m going.” She swings her legs off the bed. “You’re not spending a holiday without me. I’m your mother.”
“Please.” I grab her arm. “Just behave normally.”
“Don’t I always?”
Sophie greets us at the door. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
“Hello, beautiful,” I say.
“I’m not beautiful. People keep saying I look like Anne Frank, like that’s a cheerful thing. Did Vern tell you I started Yeshiva last week? Now I truly feel like I belong.”
“So you’re not going to Goddard any more?”
“The kids made fun of me there, because I said prayers before I ate and was kosher and stuff like that. Mom didn’t want me to go to Yeshiva. She says I’m too obsessed with religion.”
“You can never be too obsessed with God,” Mom says.
“I agree,” Sophie says. “That’s a nice dress, Mrs. Priestly.”
“I used to have a pink dress but I can’t find it.”
Vern and Mr. and Mrs. G. descend, shower us with hugs, tug us into the warm house, and hand out drinks. The table is set with a gold tablecloth, pumpkin-colored napkins, and a centerpiece made of acorns, pinecones, and ribbons. The china is black with gold trim. It’s like walking into Martha Stewart Living. “This is so beautiful.”
“Not as beautiful as your pie,” Mrs. G. says.
“I’m salivating.” Vern loves my baking.
Before dinner, Sophie says a prayer. I always love the Hebrew prayers. Maybe it’s because I don’t understand the words.
“I’d like to add a prayer,” Mom says loudly.
“By all means,” Mr. G. says.
“Hail Mary, full of Grace,” Mom begins. “The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Jesus is our Lord and our God—”
“That’s good, Mom,” I interrupt.
“Very nice,” Mr. G. says. “What a nice prayer.”
“Thank you.” Mom beams. “I’m not really a Catholic anymore, but that was our Catholic prayer when I was little.”
“Oh?” Mrs. G. says. “What are you?”
“Just a straight Christian, Miriam. Nothing between me and God.”
Dinner goes pretty well for the first fifteen minutes, probably because everyone is so busy eating.
Mr. G. and Vern chat about football. Sophie shares her plan to become a rabbi. Mrs. G. talks about being a public defender. “When I was on my own, I had the most trivial cases: a couple who wanted to redefine their property lines, personal injury suits that amounted to me settling with insurance companies, a man who got a chicken bone stuck in the side of his mouth and wanted to sue the restaurant...”
“She won him a six-hundred-thousand-dollar settlement and he didn’t even have to go to the doctor,” Mr. G. brags.
“Now I’m representing a homeless man who was beaten by the police, a woman who ran over her husband after she caught him cheating, and this man who went into a nursing home and started shooting.”
“This is really cheerful stuff for Thanksgiving, Mom,” Vern chides.
“Five people saw him do it. The physical evidence is insurmountable. But the guy thinks I’m the enemy for trying to get him to make a plea bargain.”
“You know who the real enemy is...,” Mom offers.
“Who?” Mrs. G. asks.
“Gravity.”
Everyone laughs, and I silently pray that this is as wacky as she gets.
“I’m not kidding,” Mom says. “You look in the mirror and everything is drooping.”
“More wine, Eve?” Mr. G. offers.
“Why, yes, thank you, Peter. You’re a lovely host.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s been so long since we socialized that I forgot just how wonderful you are.” Mom stares at him.
“Can you believe our kids are graduating this year, Eve?” Mrs. G. says. “I remember when they used to run around the yard for hours, playing imaginary games.”
“And Vern used to get himself all in a tangle,” Mom says. “Wasn’t that funny? He’d just fall and his arms and legs would be every which way.”
“No,” Mrs. G. corrects. “He did that on purpose. He didn’t fall. He was just phenomenally limber.”
“I wanted to be an acrobat in the circus,” Vern says.
“Those days are gone,” Mrs. G. says. “Now all we think about are college applications. Vern’s been working on his essay for two months! I read an article somewhere that said that fifty percent of college applicants do not write their own essay. Can you believe that? Fifty percent.”
“I read an article about teens,” Mom says. “It’s about rainbow parties. Do you know what that is?”
Vern’s eyes go wide.
“Mom!” I warn.
“It’s where a bunch of girls wear different colored lipstick and then they go in the bedroom with a boy and—”
“Eve!” Mrs. G. nods toward Sophie. “Can we please not talk about that right now?”
“Of course, Miriam. You always have liked to be in control of the conversation.”
“Where are you applying, Sage?” Mr. G. asks.
“Uhm, I don’t know.”
“Mrs. Priestly,” Vern says. “How’s your car running?”
“I often wonder about that, Vern, because it’s so old. But God keeps it running. He fills up the gas tank, too.”
Vern smiles. “I thought I heard a squeaking sound when you drove up last night. Was that the windshield wipers again?”
“No. There are mice in my engine.”
The Goldburgs laugh.
“It’s not funny. They nest in there. They think it’s warm, but it’s only warm after it’s been driven. They haven’t figured that out yet. People don’t think about mice that much, but they are destructive and ill-intentioned creatures.”
“Vern and I will take a look at the car,” Mr. G. volunteers. “Right, Vern?”
“Sure.”
“You’re a very nice man,” Mom tells Mr. G. “You always have been. Miriam, do you know you’re married to a nice man?”
“Yes, Eve.”
“Mom!” I glare at her.
“What is the matter with you, Sage? You keep saying ‘Mom’ but then there’s nothing else. Teenage girls. They’re always so embarrassed by their mothers, aren’t they?”
Mrs. G. smiles. “Teenage boys, too. When they’re young, they want all of your attention. Once they’re past twelve, they want to hide you in the attic.”
“I wouldn’t hide you in the attic, Mom,” Vern jokes. “It’s too cold. Maybe in the den.”
“Thank you, dear. That’s comforting.”
“Here is a joke,” Sophie volunteers. “There’s this guy and he’s driving around a parking lot for an hour looking for a parking space. He’s got an interview for an important job, and he’s getting frustrated. So he makes a deal with God. He says, ‘God, if you’ll just find me a parking space, I’ll never do anything bad again.’ At that very moment, a parking space opens up right in front of him. ‘Never mind, God,’ the guy says. ‘I just got a spot.’”
Mom clears her throat. “When you say ‘God,’ do you mean Jesus?”
“Uhm. No.”
“Because God forsook his only son to die for our sins so that we would be saved for all eternity.”
Sophie wrinkles up her face. “My God would never do that to his son. What kind of parent does that to their child?”
“And it was you Jews who killed him.” Mom says it nonchalantly, like she expects everyone to nod and say, Good point.
“I don’t see how you can say it was us Jews who killed Jesus.” Mrs. G’s voice is tense. “It’s not like we were there. That’s like saying, You Germans exterminated us. I mean, you have German blood, don’t you, Eve? Wasn’t your father German?”
“Yes, he was.”
“I think it was the Romans who killed Jesus,” Vern says. “If my history is correct.”
“Besides,” Sophie adds primly. “Jesus was Jewish.”
Mom looks around the table. A hand goes up to her mouth, so that at least she has a clue she should keep it shut.
“Seconds, anyone?” Mr. G. says.
No one answers. I study the gold rim on my plate, and wonder if there will ever be a day in my life that I don’t want something that someone else has: a normal mother, a job, a husband (Roger), children, my own house and dishes—they don’t have to have gold on them, but maybe they could match.
All of a sudden, Mom stands up and rushes from the room like she’s just remembered a vital appointment, then out the front door. We hear her footsteps on the walkway, then the car squealing out of the driveway.
There is a phrase in theater: a pregnant pause. It’s a silence that says more than words.
“It’s not the wipers that are squeaking.” Vern finally breaks the silence. “I replaced those. And besides, it’s not raining.”
“The brakes, maybe,” Mr. G. says.
Do not cry. Do not cry, I tell myself.
“I wonder where she went,” Sophie says sadly.
“Maybe she had an errand she forgot,” Mrs. G. says.
All of them are trying to make me feel better, which has the reverse effect. My papier-mâché face dissolves, and I start sobbing onto the beautiful tablecloth, the gold-rimmed china.