Morning Is a Long Time Coming by Bette Greene
7
THE MORNING SMELLS from my Grandmother’s Sunday kitchen drifted into the guest bedroom carrying with them a message of love and well-being. Impossible! Aromas, no matter how devious, don’t go wandering up a flight of stairs and down a long hall to pass through the closed door of a bedroom. And yet, there it was: beef fry frying (Edna Louise once called it Jewish bacon because it’s beef with bacon spices), real honest perked coffee, and the most glorious scent of them all, yeast. Yeast raising bread or bialys or maybe even cheese and onion knishes. My favorite!
As I entered the kitchen, Grandpa looked up from his multisectioned Commercial Appeal which was spread out on the gray Formica-topped table in the breakfast nook. But it was Grandmother who spoke. “So tell us a little something about the rhapsodic dance. And about the boychik—uh ...”
“Marshall Lubin.”
“Yes, Marshall Lubin,” agreed Grandma so rapidly and with such emphasis that it was as though she wanted credit for finally coming up with the right name. “So did he like you?”
Right off, I didn’t exactly love her question. It smacked of: I’m selling something which Marshall may or may not decide to buy. “I didn’t ask him, Grandmother, but I wish ... I wish that you’d first please ask me if I liked him.” At least, if he’s going to show me up as a social klutz by not calling me again, then I’d like everybody to know that the chances are excellent that I’m not going to fall into an extended period of mourning. There’ll be no sitting shiva for you, Mr. Lubin.
“So ... well ...” Grandma was smiling expectantly, as though I were about to confide something that she very much wanted to hear. “Did you like him?”
“Oh ... he’s okay, I guess,” I said, glancing over at my grandfather. “But he doesn’t possess even an echo of Sammy Fried’s charm!”
Grandpa smiled as though fending off flattery while letting Grandma answer.
“For a husband there’s still time,” she said with such haste that I wondered if she didn’t really mean that there was almost no time at all. I know she was only sixteen when she married, but that was a long time ago.
Anyway, I’m too sensitive. I know that. Not many other girls would be bothered by her question or think that they were being pushed into marriage. But I do believe that my own parents, for sure, would like to see me married as soon as possible. It’s as though I’m some kind of disease which can only be cured by legally passing it on to somebody else.
Somehow, my father and maybe my mother too, got this notion that I’m oversexed and that any moment now I’m going to present them with a bastard grandchild. I feel so ashamed for being the kind of person that makes them believe that. Why me? Me, of all people! And yet I wouldn’t even give them the satisfaction of telling them just how pure—speak about your Ivory soap—I am. Where, I’d really like to know, did my father get the idea that I was sexually voracious?
Because if anybody is always oogling up to the opposite sex, it’s him. Not me!
Another thing that I don’t begin to understand is why my mother continues to make routine (and altogether negative) evaluations regarding my attractiveness. Comments such as: “No wonder boys don’t like you. You don’t even bother to curl your hair.” Or her other lament, “Why can’t you put on a little charm for the boys?”
Well, my question is that since she’s so damned aware of how unpopular I am, wouldn’t you think she’d, at the very least, encourage my father to give me credit for purity? I mean being a sexual siren doesn’t quite jibe with being socially backward. Neither in Jenkinsville nor in Memphis in this the year of our Lord 1950.
Now Edna Louise, whom my father has called “a perfect lady,” may look like a cross between Snow White and Shirley Temple, but let me tell you she’s not. No matter how much her parents and even mine may need to believe that. Why, the boys don’t go around calling her “tasty tits” for nothing!
When I reached for my second cheese and onion knish, Grandma smiled as though I had bestowed upon her a great compliment. “They’re terrific,” I told her, just before biting into the most oniony part.
She filled my still half-filled cup with very hot coffee and asked, “You have something planned, something you want to do this afternoon?”
“There’s a concert at the auditorium at two. Yehudi Menuhin.”
Her senses seemed heightened. “Is the boychik taking you?”
Poor Grandmother is about to be disappointed. “Well, no ...”
“Oh, somebody else maybe? Somebody you met last night at the club?”
“Nobody’s taking me, Grandmother. I was planning to go alone.”
I watched her try to hide her disappointment by smiling at me as though now that she thinks about it, going alone is the only really sensible thing to do.
After the concert I walked back down Main Street toward the Fortas Furniture Store where I had carefully maneuvered Grandma’s Buick. I thought about the pleasure she gave me when she pressed her car keys into my palm. She had said simply, “Enjoy.” The act itself seemed to represent those more important things that people never get around to saying—you’re grown, you’re trusted, you’re loved.
I didn’t mention it to her, but I did question the wisdom of letting an inexperienced driver behind the wheel of an unfamiliar car in a still unfamiliar city. Now, I don’t want to pick on her or her judgment. Personally, I don’t think there’s anything wrong with letting me borrow her expensive car, but my father—boy, would he ever have a different idea!
For twenty minutes or so, I followed Jackson Avenue east until I came to the old stone gates with the bronze marker, Hein Park. I made a right turn onto Cypress Drive, driving down the narrow, winding roads heavy with summer foliage, past houses of history and elegance.
At the freshly white Victorian with the yellow-and-white striped window awnings, I executed a skillful turn into the blue asphalt driveway. A place like this had to do more than merely keep a person sheltered. ’Cause inside a home like this, you’d be more than warm and dry, you’d be protected from all manner of things.
Inside the garage, I cut the ignition and sat staring at the wall. I thought about Uncle Ben, Uncle Irv, and my mother, especially Mother. And I got to wondering what was it really like for them growing up in this house. What bothers me is the thought that if my mother had gotten something from this house, from her parents, wouldn’t she be able—wouldn’t she just insist upon giving something back to me?
This was, after all, the place where my mother learned that her spectacular looks were worthy of the world’s homage. And maybe that’s when and why my grandparents became confused and eventually couldn’t tell the difference between Pearl’s wants and Pearl’s needs. Is that why my mother knows so much more about taking than giving?
Just the same my grandparents didn’t mean harm. I know that! Maybe it was only that they tried too hard to protect their sons and daughter from those across-the-Atlantic Polish soldiers and all other evils either known or imagined by man.
And it’s these thoughts that keep burning at me, interfering at times with my feeling for my grandparents. Like last Friday—Thursday, it must have been. I was trying to figure out why their own children didn’t turn out all that well and while I was thinking, Grandmother said something to me and I answered her so sharply that right before my eyes, I saw my own grandmother shrink into an aged child.
I chased away some black sheep thoughts, but they kept edging back. I don’t care what the black sheep says—my grandparents are good people! And they were the best parents that they knew how to be.
And there’s something else you sheep must remember: With people, it’s not just what is given that counts. It’s also how what is given is received.
8
ON TUESDAY, the last morning of my Memphis visit, I walked into the kitchen before eight. Grandmother waved in my direction, but continued to speak directly into the phone. “Wait a minute. Patty just came downstairs. I’ll ask her.”
She held the
She then directed her comments into the phone. “What’s the daughter’s name? ... Yes, Iris ... Iris Glazer ... I’m sure Patty would love to go. ... Such a nice place to make friends.”
Of all life’s possibilities one of the most unappealing, ranking only a hairline notch above being left to drown in a vat of pure castor oil, would be going alone to a stranger’s party. “Let me speak to her, please,” I said, taking the receiver. “Listen, Aunt Dorothy, I really appreciate your thinking about me and I’d really love to go, but I simply must get back to Jenkinsville tonight. But thanks an awful lot anyway.”
Before the receiver reached its cradle, Grandmother intercepted, wearing a look of intense disappointment. “I don’t know why you have to rush back there. Haven’t you had a good time with us? We tried to give you a good time.”
“I had a wonderful time, Grandmother. Honest!”
“So why the rush? What kind of business, Gottenyu, do you have there? Among the goyim?”
I tried to think of something to tell her, something that made sense. “Well,” I said, falling back on the truth, “I do work in the store, you know. Keeps my parents from having to hire extra help.”
Grandma bit her lower lip as though it were a pocket that suddenly needed buttoning. “Let your daddy and mother earn the living.” Then she nodded her head as though to convince herself that she was only doing right. “Let them at least do that for you.”
I knew that she’d paid some sort of price, made some sort of sacrifice for those words and I wanted to reward them. “Okay, Grandmother, if you think I should.”
And from that it apparently seemed clear to her that I was not only going to leave the burden of making a living to my parents, but that I had also contracted to go to the open house tonight. Exactly when and where did I say that?
Grandma was dialing the long-distance operator. “Would you please be so kindly as to put this call through to number seventy-eight in Jenkinsville, Arkansas? ... Harry? ... Hello there, Harry. Is that you, Harry? Good ... Everything good? ... Gott’danken ... You got your health you got everything. ... Is Pearl there? Oh, she’s got a customer. ... So okay, I’ll tell you, Harry. There’s a party here that Patty’s dying to go to, wants to stay over an extra day.”
Moments later, she pressed the phone against herself and gave me an affirmative nod. “Your daddy says he doesn’t care how long you stay.”
We left the house before eleven to do, on this last full day of my visit, all the things we hadn’t as yet done: We saw the shopping center under construction out on Poplar Avenue and Grandma drove over every inch of Memphis State College.
At two o’clock we ate a real pit barbecue sandwich at Leonard’s. People who ought to know say that nowhere else in this country can you get a barbecue like a Leonard’s Pit barbecue. The meat itself is so smokily spiced that it’s practically guaranteed to clear out your nasal passages for life. And if you’re willing to pay the price to be a hero in your own time, then sprinkle the meat liberally with pepper sauce. Volcanic!
About eight thirty in the evening, Grandma brought the car to a stop in front of a long, fieldstone house where (damn the kilowatts and full power ahead) every conceivable light (both inside and outside) burned. There was no stinting with the music either. Everybody all up and down Cypress Drive could hear every note, every word.
Arrivederci Roma ...
Goodbye ... Goodbye to Rome ...
For some moments, Grandma listened with me before leaning over to kiss me goodnight and goodbye. “I know you’ll have a wonderful time at ...”
“Iris Glazer’s,” I supplied.
“Iris Glazer’s,” Grandmother repeated. “Her mother is a close friend of your Aunt Dorothy’s.”
“I know,” I said, wondering how far that could take me, while Grandmother smiled as though already anticipating my “wonderful time.” For wanting that for me, I think I loved her; for pushing me here tonight, I think I hated her.
I dashed up the Glazers’ front walk as though I couldn’t wait to arrive, until I heard the Buick drive off. Then I came to an abrupt stop. Bringing as much Cypress Drive air into my lungs as possible, I adjusted my peasant blouse and my full ballerina skirt before slowly climbing up the three or four terrazzo steps to press a tremorous index finger against the button.
The door was opened by a slim girl with cheekbones like an Apache. She gave me a sort of who-the-hell-are-you look. “Hi, I’m Patty Bergen,” I said, and when her quizzical stare showed no sign of fading, I continued, “My aunt, Dorothy Fried, is a friend of your mother’s.”
“Oh,” she said, opening the door barely wide enough for me to enter the overly air-conditioned house. “I’m Iris,” said Iris Glazer, already moving away to re-enter her tight circle of friends.
Gliding across the highly polished floor of the living room, bobby-soxed girls pressed against brightly shirted boys.
Save your loving arms for my returning ...
Keep the flame of love still burning ...
Within my heart ... Oh, arrivederci Roma ...
As I looked around the room for another single of either sex to join, I felt about as graceful as Bull Durham among the swans. There was something about being a stranger—and maybe even something more about being a single among plurals. I wondered if even old Noah would have known what to do with me. Would he have been able to find somebody to walk with me up that gangplank?
On the buffet table, red candles dripped intricate trails down straw-wrapped Chianti bottles, while a red-and-white-checkered tablecloth played background to some great-looking food. There were cold cuts of all kinds, a chafing dish filled with spaghetti and meat balls, and a Jell-O mold so spectacular that it came in three colors and combined more varieties of fruit than I was able to identify.
As I helped myself to a good-sized helping of it and the spaghetti, I told myself that if I had more pride, I would refuse (absolutely!) to eat where I wasn’t welcome. Umm ... this is spaghetti! But Iris didn’t exactly not welcome me. And there’s nothing wrong with this Jell-O either.
Maybe it was she who was offended when I didn’t follow her over to her encampment. Well, if she had wanted me, wouldn’t she have said, “Come on over and meet my friends?” Or “I’d like to introduce you to ...” You know, Patty Bergen, you amaze me, you really do. You who are always wanting people to be nice to you! Well, why don’t you sometimes try being nice to others? Give to them. Extend yourself. Bread upon the waters and all that.
With my back propped against the wall, I ate slowly while making plans to assault Iris Glazer’s citadel. But how? With some startling piece of information. Such as? Oh, such as: Memphis should have had more people attending Yehudi Menuhin’s concert. In a city of three hundred and fifty thousand, barely two hundred roused themselves to go listen to a world-famous violinist!
Classify that under important, but not generally conceived of as important. Startling! I need something startling. Well, I could comment on the random mix of architecture at Memphis State College and how it gives the place an unplanned, almost haphazard look. I sighed. Use same classification as previously indicated.
At the opposite corner of the room, five people had turned expectant faces toward Iris. “Well, after I refused Melvin a date,” she told them, “for three straight Saturday nights do you know what that jerk did? He sent me one of those mushy greeting cards that said thinking of you. M. That’s how he signed it. Just M.”
At last poor Melvin scores. He makes everybody laugh. Not so much laugh as snicker. Some citadel! This is what I’m so anxious to enter? Damn right! It sure beats standing here all alone. Okay, okay. But where’s all the startling stuff that’s going to pay the entrance fee?
Don’t go thinking I don’t have something that would make Iris Glazer’s Melvin story sound like a retelling of Goldilocks. And
Suddenly I’d be the hub of Iris’s cluster and soon neighboring clusters would swell the original one until everybody here belonged to a single cluster: mine. Each and every single one of them would be burning to know about me. “What’s your favorite weapon? Have you ever robbed a bank? Killed anyone recently?”
I placed my now empty plate on the edge of the buffet table knowing that I would never willingly swap my permanent isolation for instant notoriety. It’s not that I’m convinced that isolation is somehow better or less painful. It’s only that I guess it’s ... more familiar.
As though it were a very natural thing to do, I headed toward the circle that belonged to Iris. Between two guys there was room for maybe half a body, so using my shoulder as a wedge, part of me became very definitely part of the Iris group while more than half of me definitely wasn’t.
When our hostess saw me (and she did see me), I hoped that she’d say something welcoming. Maybe introduce me to her friends, but first we had to wait until the fellow wearing white bucks finished telling his joke about the sailor and the movie star who are stranded alone on this desert island. When that joke finally ended, I laughed with the others. Make believe you’re having a wonderful time. WHEEEeee ... !!!
Then Iris (and I don’t understand how this linked in with the previous conversation) said, “Everybody says that the University of Texas sorority girls are the most beautiful in the world.”
Was opportunity finally knocking for me? “I’m seriously considering,” I told her, “going to the University of Texas. Do you think it’s a good school?”