SHELLY
The floor shimmies, the wheels screech. I hang on the subway strap, seething.
Your mother would turn over in her grave. Like hell, you stupid, self-righteous old fart. I’m breathing so hard, the person next to me steps away. Standing still is impossible, so I stride down the aisle and, ignoring the rules, throw open the forward door and hop the gap to the next car. I keep going, one, two, three, all the way to the front, where I can stand at the window and watch the blazing headlights bore holes into the black tunnels.
Losing my temper was not part of the plan but, God damn it, no one gets under my skin like that sanctimonious old bastard. The train swings around a sharp curve and I’m bumped against the wall. He’s done this to me all my life. All my life, as if everything I do is wrong, watching, checking up on me, keeping count. Ma excused him. “It’s not mean. He’s trying to look out for you.” I told her if he wanted to look out for someone, let him get some kids of his own.
Another shimmy. This time I brace a hand against the window. In a jolt of sudden brightness, we shoot into the milky winter of the Manhattan Bridge, the wheels clattering over the East River, brown and ugly beneath us.
God, I hope I didn’t blow it. Who knows what he might do now that he’s mad. I bang my fist on the glass window. If only my smug lawyer of a husband hadn’t bullied me. I suck deep breaths, willing myself calm. Panic won’t help anything. What’s done is done. If this turns into a battle…well, whatever Howie’s failings, he’s good in the trenches. At least I can count on him for that.
The train rattles into Jay Street and the doors swish open. I scurry home to Rector Street and throw open the apartment door. “Howie?”
He’s standing in the living room, his face veiled in caution. “Hi Hon, we forgot. It’s Mom’s birthday.”
From the couch, a grey-haired head slowly turns in my direction, my mother-in-law Ida, her livid face a sinkhole of reproach.
It’s too late to cook, so Howie orders in Chinese. We choke down the wonton soup and egg rolls under Ida’s litany of rebuke. “I sacrificed my life for you and this how you treat me? An afterthought, a nothing, a piece of garbage.”
Howie is a broken record. “I’m sorry Mom, really sorry.”
It’s so relentless, one could almost feel sorry for him. Almost, because at least she’s not going after me. I keep my mouth shut and my head down until, from out of my fog I hear her carp “I bet Michelle wouldn’t treat her family this way.”
Something flits across Howie’s beleaguered face. “Frankly, Shelly’s got her own family issues. She’s selling her mother’s building.”
From deep into the moo goo gai pan, Ida’s head shoots up. “Doesn’t her fagele uncle own a store there?”
Lights flash. Sirens scream. Bombs explode. I signal him to shut up, but Howie is too busy placating.
“That’s why we lost track of your birthday. She was preoccupied about dealing with him.”
Ida’s face goes full sneer. “I should have known it was her fault.” Her beady bird eyes scour over me. “Some nice girl you married. She treats me like dirt and chisels her own family.”
I glower across the table, but his eyes skitter away.
He coughs, wiping the sweat off his upper lip. “Ready for your fortune cookie, Mom?”
Bam, my fork slams onto the table. Seizing the empty plates, I storm into the kitchen, turning the faucet on full to drown out the sound of their voices. I stay there the rest of the night, until Ida’s nastiness runs out of steam and Howie takes her down to find a cab. I stomp to the bedroom, throw on a nightgown and scuttle under the covers—on my side, face to the wall.
We were in a lousy motel in North Carolina his first furlough out of Basic, the knotty pine walls, the stinkbugs slamming against the window screen of that Southern sweat box. Lying in bed, his fingers tracing the sweat dripping between my breasts, my professional man, my lawyer with a future, he made promises. You and me, Shell. Watch. Together, we’ll conquer the world.
I don’t move a muscle as he comes into the room. The closet door slides open. I hear the slush of his pants against the floor, the rasp of a hanger on the metal rack. The mattress bends under his weight. I tug the blanket tighter and move away.
* * *
Morning. He’s working a Windsor knot into his tie when I stumble into the bathroom. Our reflections regard each other in the mirror. He puts up his hands, gesturing surrender.
“I grant you, it wasn’t my finest hour.” But Perry Mason is never far away. “In my own defense—we did forget her birthday. And you know as well as I do that arguing with her only makes things worse. I admit that I may have been overly conciliatory, but what else could I do? She’s my mother, Shell.” He straightens his shoulders and sucks in his gut, “Anyway, I acknowledge that I could’ve done better by you.”
Good lawyer words, but I know the truth. It’ll be the same next time…and the time after that.
“What do you say, Shell? Can we move on?” He gives me the Groucho Marx eyebrows. “You could fill me in on your visit with Irving. I know it got lost in the shuffle.”
Click, click, click. I tap a fingernail on the edge of the sink. A distant strain floats up from memory, the Hester Street yentas out on their stoops. So, he has a few faults. What man doesn’t? But such a good provider. A man like that, you never have to worry where your next meal is coming from.
Who knows? Maybe that’s the price you pay.
“It’s late, Howie. You better get to work. I’ll tell you the whole story tonight.”
“That’s a deal.” He pecks my cheek and prances out, mistaking my answer for forgiveness.