TheBanyanTree: Life Stories 111

Fri Jan 5 08:13:45 PST 2007

January 5, 2000000007

Dear dear,

	Jdate, that internet Jewish dating 
service, just sent me a new carload of prospects. 
Most of them, I'd seen already.  One looked 
promising, well, relatively promising, and one 
looked iffy.  I'm always baffled by the report of 
the prospective man's zodiac sign.  I guess it 
matters to some people, but it means nothing to 
me.  Seeing my twins born one minute apart living 
such different lives in two such vibrantly 
different souls is enough proof for me that it's 
a crock.  But I know some people take it 
seriously, including our lamented Youngblood who 
lived by the stars.  Nevertheless, it is true 
that I have prejudices about certain signs, and I 
can't sweep that away.  It's unnerving.  My 
father was a virgo, so I stay away from that. 
Why?  Can't people be born in late August and 
early September without being like my father? 
And Sagitarius is the sign of my cousin who did 
her guru hopping while letting her family go to 
hell.  So I stay away from that.  And it's all 
ridiculous.  People are what they are.  It's like 
Dweller's parents being so riled up about an 
intermarriage between a Jew and a gentile when 
the real issue was the intermarriage between 
Dweller and Tobie.  I am an illogical being.  But 
I'm not smug about it, so I don't believe in 
astrology.  Okay, you can write me about it and 
excoriate me for my flippancy about the influence 
of the stars.  Or you can let me be.  Remember, 
I'm a cancer and that means I'm awfully 
sensitive.  Be gentle.

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The way to a boy's heart

	When Meyshe and Feyna were six months 
old, David's ex wife, Vicki, announced that she'd 
found a fella, and was moving from Lafayette, 
just through the tunnel from us, to Chicago, two 
thousand miles away, to be with him.  Alex and 
Ben were shocked.  Everyone was shocked.  She 
further stated that she was going to take Ben 
with her, but leave Alex behind.  Well, none of 
this sounded right to anyone.  The boys were 
thrown into a nervous jumble, at high alert, and 
not knowing how to react.  In the past, any 
irregularities in either of their parents' 
behaviour was the precursor to long drawn out 
legal battles, bad news, enmity, hurled 
accusations and evaluations by the custody 
specialist.  They were not anxious for anything 
to rock the boat, since it usually landed them in 
the water.  The conversation between them was all 
speculation on whether Vicki would really leave. 
The custody specialist had ruled on short notice 
that Ben was to stay here with his brother. 
Their mother's plans were too unstable.  She had 
no place to go, no job prospects, and this 
courtship with the new fella had all happened 
while she was still living with the first fella, 
the one she moved in with when she left David. 
He was supposed to have been David's best pal at 
the time.  Pretty sneaky traffic.

	The topic dominated our lives for two 
weeks while Vicki prepared to leave by kicking 
the first fella out and putting the house up for 
sale.  This was a house they'd bought and put 
sweat equity into while planning their lives 
together.  It was a total surprise to the old 
fella when he found the phone bill with hundreds 
of dollars of calls to Chicago.  He was done what 
his ex best friend was done, and it didn't make 
him happy.

	Ben worshipped his mother and this turn 
of events left him reeling.  What did it mean 
about his mother's love?  He was being abandoned 
but he couldn't say the word.

	"Do you think she'll leave?" he asked me 
for the fourth time.  I finally answered him 
with, "I don't think she'll leave.  She loves 
you.  She won't leave you."  I thought that a 
safe bet, but she surprised us all.  One morning, 
she showed up in her car packed solidly, her new 
boyfriend in the driver's seat.  She'd come to 
take Alex and Ben out to a goodbye breakfast. 
What a sorry scene.  They trudged off to have 
breakfast.  I cannot imagine their appetites were 
working naturally.  It was all pathetic.

	After she dropped the boys off, they were 
in pretty strange moods.  They wanted to do 
something, or they wanted not to do anything. 
There were no tears yet, just shock.  Everything 
was too quiet.  For the next couple weeks there 
were phone calls from their mother.  They would 
each get on the phone and listen, then bleat out, 
"I love  you, Mom."  And what else could they 
say?  I was now the only mother present for them, 
and I was also the mother of infant twins.  My 
time was promised.  I watched Alex and Ben mope 
about the house, bumping into walls and locking 
themselves in their rooms.

	So I did what I knew how to do.  I made 
myself available to them, to talk, to do 
something or nothing together, and I cooked.  I 
cooked something very special, something to knock 
their socks off.  I hollowed out the two halves 
of a pineapple, took the meat and mixed it with a 
pilaf, stuffed two game hens, and roasted them in 
the oven.  I put little paper umbrellas on them, 
stuck at odd angles coming out of the stuffing 
between their legs.  It was grand and comical, 
and the only thing I could think of to show them 
my affections and love.  I set the two 
presentations out in front of them, and they sat 
there, glumly staring at them.  Not even a raised 
eyebrow.  Certainly no, "Thank you."  I know I 
meant well, but it wasn't the time for jollying. 
I just couldn't stand watching them mourn, Alex 
with obvious grief, Ben with anger directed at 
me.  There is a photograph that David took of the 
boys sitting at the table with these festive game 
hens set out before them.  It looks like a 
funeral.  I never learned.

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Guests in our house

	My parents had had another fight. 
Sometimes it was hard to tell where one fight 
stopped and another began.  But this was a rather 
big one.  At the climax of the argument, my 
father proclaimed that he was going off to San 
Francisco to the topless joints on Broadway. 
Carol Doda and her one hundred inch chest.   Live 
nude women dance on stage.  Trixie and her boa 
constrictor.  In your face live sex acts with 
women and men, women and women, two women and a 
man, three of everything.  No cover charge, two 
drink minimum.  Every once in a while, he'd march 
out the front door, shouting the same itinerary 
at my mother, just to twist the knife I suppose, 
and he'd slam the door behind him, twice if he 
thought she didn't hear it the first time.  He'd 
be gone for hours, and would come back late at 
night, smacking his lips, rubbing his hands 
together, spouting news of his adventure, even 
though my mother told him she didn't want to hear 
it.  This time was the night before there were 
out of town guests coming to dinner, friends of 
friends who had been told to look us up when they 
got out to San Francisco.  All of us were 
supposed to be on our best behaviour.  The 
atmosphere was still tense from the fight, and 
the three of us kids knew that anything could 
happen.  If our father was still mad, he might 
make a scene.  We overheard our mother soothing 
him before the guests arrived and asking him to 
behave.  These were strangers, and we needed to 
entertain them, show them some hospitality. 
"Let's forget our disagreement."  In retrospect, 
maybe she shouldn't have used the word, 
"entertain".

	The couple and their two children arrived 
and introductions were made all around.  I put 
away coats in the closet.  I helped bring out 
some hors d'oeuvres.  Then we showed them to the 
table.  My mother sat at one end and my father 
sat at the other.  Either one could have been the 
head of the table.  I sat close to my mother, but 
close to the door so I could make a run for it if 
necessary.  The bowls and plates were being 
passed around, and some innocuous conversation 
was in progress, about the mutual friends.  Then 
there was a pause.  Justin jumped in to tell 
everyone present, "I went to Broadway in San 
Francisco last night."  My mother turned pale. 
We three let our jaws hang open; then we clamped 
them shut, grinding our teeth in anticipation. 
He was going to do this.

	"For those of you who don't know, 
Broadway in San Francisco is where all the 
topless night clubs are."  Chewing stopped.  He 
explained with great enthusiasm and in great 
detail how he'd been to three different spots, 
and he described how big the women's breasts 
were.  The guests shifted nervously in their 
seats, the children looking to their parents for 
explanation and assurance.  My mother, afraid 
always that there might be a scene, even while 
one was obviously happening, interrupted him. 
"Not now, Justin.  Don't tell them this now." 
She tried to sound firm but pleasant.  We always 
tried to act as if nothing were happening.

	"There was one club where there were 
dancers who were almost nude.  They wore only 
G-strings.  They got so close to me, I could see 
their pubic hair.  And I held a five dollar bill 
in my mouth for her to take from me between her 
thighs!  This is all perfectly legal.  We could 
go there after dinner.  Whattaya say?  Mickey 
will take care of the kids."

	The guests didn't know what to do.  There 
was the option of spitting their food out onto 
their plates, saying, "You're a lunatic," 
grabbing their coats and leaving.  There was 
sitting through this tip of the iceberg and 
making pleasantries:  "Oh, really?  I'm sure that 
must have been fun for you."  There was humour: 
"What else did you do at nursery school today?" 
There was sitting in absolute silence, gawking 
and petrified by social inhibition while Justin 
went on.  There was staring longingly at the 
front door.

	I asked, "May we be excused?"  and got up 
to leave, taking Daniel with me.

	"But you haven't heard the best parts, 
Tobie.  Don't you want to hear about the best 
parts?"

	"No," I said, as we crept upstairs.  We 
went to my room to sort things out.  I was 
feeling rotten because I'd abandoned my mother to 
my father's sadistic whim.  Shouldn't I be  there 
for moral support?  But I couldn't stand it.  It 
was another evening with my father at the helm. 
Smooth sailing.

	I don't know what happened with the guests, but they left early.

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-- 

Tobie Helene Shapiro
Berkeley, California   USA

tobie at shpilchas.net