Cover Art: “Bridge by Night” by Dastid Miluka, ink on paper, 2016, 42 x 30 cm. Private Collection. For inquiries about this piece, please contact us at art@thebrusselsreview.com
“You killed her. You killed your mother.” That’s what Ruben’s father said. “With you, she had a broken heart.”
Ruben arrived early at the Coral Restaurant in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. He checked the acoustics under the canopied courtyard, the microphone at the lectern, counted the number of chairs, felt for the joint tucked in the pocket of his sports coat, and decided he was as ready as he could be. He was going to sing a couple of old songs to honor his mother, who had died eleven months prior—songs that had once endeared him to these people from whom he’d grown so detached. Ruben was the son, born to be the son, with all the duties that come with being the son. This was a time for family, yet somehow it didn’t involve his wife, whom he’d left behind in their Pasadena bungalow. While making plane reservations, he rationalized: Avoid the issue; it’s just for a few days. He convinced himself it was simply more prudent to leave her behind.
The weather was steamy—like butter on a hot skillet. It was going to be a lengthy event lasting well into the evening. The organization, The Holocaust Survivors Social Club of Fort Lauderdale, had put a lot of time and thought into this affair. First, on the patio of the Coral, the ambulance unveiling at four o’clock, complete with benedictions, speeches, cake, and schnapps. Immediately following, a dinner reception in the dining hall, with music and dancing. Then, with dessert, the song stylings of the Amazing Aida. He had never heard of the Amazing Aida, but word had it she was something special. Actually, word had it that the Amazing Ida was something special, Mister Verdi being nowhere in sight. The two cultures had much in common, but this was a Jewish, not an Italian, affair, and everything came with a greenhorn accent.
Ruben, his father Morrie, Ruben’s sister Lee, and her husband Fred arrived at the restaurant at 2:00. Aunt Faye and Uncle Jack arrived next, then cousin Sherrie and her husband. Sherrie used to be the family’s black sheep but had been reassessed when she married an Israeli and moved to Pompano Beach. Ruben recalled her visiting him in California one summer when she was four months pregnant. A vacation away from home and hubby, she said. He loaned her his car to go shopping, and then she disappeared for eighteen hours, arriving just in time for him to drive her to the airport.
“Where the hell did you go? I was frantic. I was gonna call the police.”
“Oh, Ruben.” She sported a Cheshire grin.
“I’m serious, Sherrie. You took my car. For all I knew, you were dead with a camellia in your mouth.”
“Yet, here I am.”
“Jesus, Sherrie, I missed an audition in Malibu.”
“That’s where I was.”
“Where? Malibu?”
She raised her eyebrows. “The nudie beach in Malibu.”
“What are you saying?”
She purred. “You’re really such a child.”
“You picked somebody up at the nude beach?”
“I picked up a lovely somebody at the nude beach.” She patted his cheek. “Now, I’m going to pack my things, you’re going to take me to the airport, and I’m going to send you a nice thank-you note for showing me such a nice time. Capice?”
That winter, cousin Sherrie gave birth to a daughter, then to twin girls a year later, securing her position in the family. She was golden. Now it was Ruben who blemished the tribe by straying from the fold.
Ruben had had an exemplary upbringing. From the age of five, he went to Yeshiva. Early on, it was discovered he had a strong alto that made him a hit at school. At the age of nine, he joined a prestigious temple choir on West 93rd Street in Manhattan, the choir’s youngest singer, and quickly graduated to soloist. Ruben took over the cantorial duties at his Bar Mitzvah, leading the choir and reading his Torah and Haftorah portions. On evenings when the cantor became ill or had laryngitis, Ruben would sub for the cantor and sing the Friday night service. Relatives came from all the boroughs to hear little Ruben sing. All this before his fourteenth birthday, and before his self-inflicted expatriation.
The expatriation? It was during his junior year in high school, the 1963-64 school year: the Cuban Missile Crisis, the Kennedy assassination, the early rumblings of the Vietnam War. News of the world was having a profound effect on him, on his generation—a generation so different from that of his parents and the people he grew up with. He was also spending a lot of time with Karen King, a flaxen-haired folk singer shiksa, a year his senior. She sang and played guitar and introduced him to Joan Baez, Bob Dylan, Pete Seeger, Miriam Makeba, and marijuana. She taught him to play a few chords and took him to hootenannies, where he met other people like him and like Karen. His head was awhirl. God, Ruben would gush, everything was different in the real world. Ruben felt like she’d led him into a sunny Eden after a housebound winter.
His outward rebellion declared itself one morning when he refused to attend Yom Kippur services. When his mother chided him for lazing in bed, and when his father commanded him to get dressed and go to temple, Ruben tucked himself deeper into his quilt, girded himself for the onslaught that was sure to follow, and replied, “I can’t, Dad. I don’t have a mink.”
Ruben wiped the Florida damp from his brow. The first event was taking shape. People arrived slowly and grabbed souvenir programs to fan away the muggy heat. There was much congratulating and hugging and backslapping as they greeted Ruben, his sister Lee, and his father Morrie, who were standing in front of a veiled object along with Mr. Silver, the president of the HSSC. Everyone knew the veiled object was an ambulance, but it was veiled anyway to heighten the drama of the reveal. It had been years since any of them had spent time with Ruben, and many stepped up to remind him who they were, each pinching, poking, or patting an appendage of his body:
“Don’t you remember me? I was at your Bar Mitzvah. That was special, your Bar Mitzvah. We were all so proud of you then.”
And, “Ach, it’s so hot. You’re not used to it, no? In California, it’s hot, too, yes? But it’s a different hot. Not so sticky.”
And, “Say, Ruben, you met yet Sammy Davis in Hollywood? You know he’s Jewish now?”
And, “Ruben, your father is very sad with you. He won’t say this, but it upsets him that you live so far away. This he tells me. Believe you me, he has no better friend than me.”
One woman grabbed him and muffled him in her bosom. “Hmm, hmm, what a boychik you were. Such a good boy. I know you from when you was a baby, you remember?”
Then Uncle Jack said, “Ruben, you talked yet to a lawyer about the doctors? It’s been more than eleven months. Oy, never mind, a plague on our enemies. Ruben, you should come and live with your father now.”
Women asked after his wife, but none could remember her name. “She should be here,” they said, but none meant it. This day was for the tribe alone—the heirs of the Holocaust, the Second Generation. Everyone, it seemed, was eager to stand with the honorees and have his and her photo taken.
Ruben excused himself, made his way to the schnapps and cake table at the back of the last row of folding chairs, and downed several shots before withdrawing to an alley. Out of sight, he lit the joint in preparation for the festive trauma ahead. What went through his mind, as he puffed on his tonic, was the last time he’d come to Florida. It was for his mother’s funeral. The heavens had opened up that day, but his face was wet only with rain. Even as he recited Kaddish over her grave, he didn’t cry. Or couldn’t. What consumed him was the promise his father had extracted from him a few hours earlier:
“Ruben, you have to talk with the doctors. They killed her.”
“Dad… She had a gall bladder operation.”
“An operation, she had. Then after the operation, her heart got poisoned.”
“What do you mean poisoned?”
“In the operation, there came an infection in the blood. It poisoned her heart.”
It was such an apt description of how his mother had died since it was very much how she had lived. The Nazis had broken her collarbone in Bergen-Belsen, the blow delivered by a rifle butt. They experimented on her, forcing her in and out of consciousness through the last weeks of the war. Ruben never quite got the story straight since neither of his parents had been forthcoming with their specific horrors. But what was emblazoned in his mind, what he did remember, was his mother wearing blouses and dresses with high necklines and scarves to cover her wound, even after two operations at Bellevue. She healed eventually, but she could never hide the deep brown indentation below her neck. It was a constant reminder of her ordeal and her loss.
Ruben told his father he was sure the Florida doctors had done all they could for her, but Morrie insisted: “Ruben, you should talk to the doctors. You, they will understand. Me, they don’t listen.”
“Dad, I’m not a doctor. I’m sure they did the best for her.”
“They killed her. They finished what the Nazis didn’t.”
“Jesus, Dad.”
He pointed a finger at his son’s face. “You are the son, Ruben. It is for you to do this. They must pay.”
Ruben stuttered. “Pay? Like what? You mean money?”
Morrie balled his fists. His whole body shook. “They should rot in the ground!” His face reddened. “Those doctors killed her. They should rot in the ground and not my Zosha.”
Ruben hid his head in his hands, but Morrie pulled them apart and forced his son to look at him. “Promise me.”
It had been eleven months since his promise to his father, so this morning, the morning of the memorial, Ruben went to see the chief surgeon at the hospital and left his office with a sick feeling in his gut. If the doctor wasn’t careless, he was certainly heartless. Ruben was told, “Your mother was… of a certain age, a certain history. South Florida is full of sick and complaining retirees. My boy, the procedure your mother underwent was routine. Unfortunately, these things happen.” The chief surgeon addressed a nurse in the room. “Show the young man out, will you?”
As Ruben closed the door, the nurse grabbed his arm and pulled him into a corner. “I was your mother’s nurse for her procedure. I liked her very much. She reminded me of my mother. I know I shouldn’t tell you this, but…” She pulled Ruben deeper into the corner. “I overheard a phone call between one of the doctors and your mother. She called a few days after the surgery to complain of pain in her stomach and chest. I was in the doctor’s office and heard the whole thing. He told her that what she needed more than anything was a good psychiatrist. That didn’t seem right to me. His patient in pain. Anyway, two days later the ambulance brings her here. She died on the way. I just thought you should know. I’m sorry for your loss.”
Ruben was stunned. He muttered a thank you and left the hospital, faced with the decision of whether or not to tell his father and start legal proceedings against the doctors, against Broward Memorial Hospital, against the whole goddamned Florida medical and insurance system. Inhale… exhale. He decided to save the roach for later.
Mr. Silver stepped up to the microphone and asked the congregants to take their seats. Ruben appeared from the alley, smiled dumbly, acknowledged some of the more familiar faces, then sat down in the first row between his father and Lee, his sister. Morrie reached over to straighten Ruben’s tie.
“Are you all right? You are sweating. Your collar is wet. Have you been smoking? Since when do you smoke?”
“Yes, Dad, I had a cigarette. I’m a little nervous, that’s all.”
“What’s to be nervous about? Sometimes you are such a child. Maybe you forgot already the Yiddish for the songs?”
“No, Dad, I didn’t forget. I’m fine.”
“All right, so good. Shush, look, here comes the rabbi. He comes today, special from Miami. In the morning he had a funeral for his own brother-in-law, yet now he is here. Because this is something special.” Morrie teared up. “Everybody loved your mommy.”
The rabbi intoned a prayer in Hebrew, and everyone replied, “Amen.” A representative of Fort Lauderdale’s mayor spoke about the organization’s charity and good works in the community and how they would now have a wider impact, even reaching as far as the Holy Land, which was the ambulance’s eventual destination. He spoke of Zosha Traugutt, a leader in the local HIAS, and B’nai B’rith; a woman who organized fundraisers for the UJA, raised money for Jewish Ethiopian orphans, and held bake sales at Purim, the proceeds going to the temple’s Torah school. “A woman who has no equal and will be greatly missed.” He stepped from the lectern, waved away the applause, and left in a limousine.
Mr. Silver thanked the speaker and mentioned that Morrie’s son, Ruben, would sing a few songs at the end of the speeches. Oohs and aahs were heard. Knowing heads nodded among the crowd. Ruben got up, smiled an acknowledgment, and moved to the back, awaiting his turn. Then Mr. Silver said, “Without further ado…” and the cover was pulled back. The ambulance was revealed.
Ruben had to admit it was impressive. It was an amazing thing, really, equipped with state-of-the-art medical equipment. A fully functioning hospital on wheels. Along its side was a red Mogen David surrounded by a painted ring of barbed wire. Breaking through one end of the design was the inscription: In Memory of Zosha Traugutt, 1917–1984. Donated by the Holocaust Survivors Social Club of Fort Lauderdale, Fla.
Ruben was astounded by what he guessed was the price tag of the ambulance. A hundred thousand? More? The organization had raised the funds, made the purchase, and outfitted the ambulance in less than a year. Ruben was moved by their generosity, in some way in awe of them.
The keynote speaker was the treasurer of the Social Club. Morrie, as Vice-President, usually spoke for the organization. He was a fiery orator but hard to listen to because he often finger-wagged and made the listener feel guilty and responsible for the plight of the world’s Jews. At least that’s how Ruben experienced him. Now, since it was his wife who was being honored, it was unseemly for Morrie to give the keynote.
Mr. Treasurer took his place at the lectern. He was short, with a slight paunch, thinning black hair, an abbreviated mustache, and a brown pin-stripe suit with a wide patterned tie. His voice was high and nasal, but he spoke clearly. He spoke about the Arabs and the Nazis in the same breath. Like the Nazis before them, the Arabs were preparing to exterminate him—them—all in attendance, and the children of all in attendance. He began to shout: “They say they will drive us into the sea. We will drive them into the sea! They want to bury us… We will bury them!”
Ruben was uncomfortable—not just with what Mr. Treasurer was saying. He spoke with a particular angularity, his words clipped, his arms sawing the air.
Ruben sneaked back to his alley, leaned against the brick wall. He loosened his tie and took off his jacket. He peered around the corner, glued to the speaker’s gesticulations: jaw stiff, head thrown back as the words flew, arms crossing his chest as he declaimed his points with certainty. Ruben watched in horror: the style, the rhetoric, the expectation of a response during a pause. All that was missing was “Zeig Heil!”
How was Ruben going to sing after this?
Mr. Treasurer finished to tepid applause, then Mr. Silver took the lectern and cleaned up the wreckage from the previous tirade.
“I thank the Treasurer for his stirring words. I must also add that the ambulance has a humanitarian purpose and will serve and give aid to victims on both sides of the border.”
Ruben breathed easier. Mr. Silver continued, “And now, as the last presenter, here is Morrie and Zosha’s son to lend his voice in tribute to this extraordinary woman and mother.” His hand beckoned Ruben. “Young man…”
Ruben put on his jacket, stepped up to the microphone, and sang in a soft and clear voice. Not that he couldn’t belt out the two songs, but out of respect for the service. He wanted it to be a service, with the kind of religious sweetness he remembered as the best of what he had come to reject. But his thoughts about the doctor and the nurse and his promise to his father kept him from being present at his own performance. He finished, there was applause; everyone seemed to feel he’d done a good job and had honored the memory of his mother. They milled around for a bit, and at six o’clock the doors opened. Everyone went into the restaurant for the dinner and entertainment component of the evening.
***
The restaurant was lit with chandeliers, the walls decked out in blue paisley wallpaper with gold fleur-de-lis and red trim; the fabric on the furniture and the carpet all in blue, red, and gold. There was a newly acquired opulence to the place. A three-piece band—accordion, guitar, and drums—was positioned in front of a white screen. They played standards Ruben had heard all his childhood, sung by Perry Como, Julius LaRosa, Steve Lawrence, and Eydie Gorme. Morrie’s family and Mr. Silver’s family were seated at the head table, the one nearest the stage. The music played, appetizers were served, and drinks flowed.
Jews are not heavy imbibers as a rule, but this night was an exception. Ruben drank lots of schnapps, the only hard stuff available. Midway through the chicken-or-fish entrees, Cousin Jack elbowed Ruben and pointed to a middle-aged woman in a long tan topcoat and mousey brown hair who’d entered the room. She was amazingly nondescript. From around the dining hall, voices proclaimed, “There, over there,” and “Yes, that’s her,” and “Get a good seat. Can you see her?” The woman said something to the maître d’, then disappeared into a side room.
By now, Ruben had all but drunk himself into a swoon and was ready for a break. He excused himself, wove his way to the men’s room, smiled at the occupants, locked himself in a bathroom stall, waited for the room to empty, and lit the rest of his joint. He inhaled. A moment of solitude. A mixture of alcohol, smoke, and disinfectant. Blissful quiet. He closed his eyes, waiting for the whirling in his head to stop, and it stopped when he heard a urinal flush. His heart raced and the room came back into focus. He listened for the bathroom door to open and shut before leaving the stall. When he re-entered the hall, face washed and mouth rinsed, Jack waved him quickly to his seat. “Wait, you’ll see. When Ida starts you’ll see something you never saw before.”
Jack was the macher in the family, the one who got things done, knew all the right people, and got good deals ‘that just fell off the truck.’ He once bragged he could fix a parking ticket. He’d caught Ida’s act in Atlantic City and told everyone Ida was very hot. Ruben correctly pronounced her name as it appeared in the program and got a “That’s what I said. Ida,” in reply.
Then it was showtime. The hall lights dimmed and went to black. The opening strains of Thus Spake Zarathustra played. Then a follow spot revealed The Amazing Ida.
Exclamations arose all around the room. She strode to center stage. She was short, but her heels added six inches to her height; svelte, and buxom, though how much of her was artificial was up for debate. She had long red nails, sported a poofy blond wig, and wore a long form-fitting red sequined gown. She was amazing. She stood in front of the screen that rear-projected slides. The very first projection was a close-up of her face in the same outfit she was wearing, in case the audience missed her entrance. The sound-man punched another tape, and Ida launched into a pop number from the early fifties. It ended with a projection of her in another, bigger hall in Tel Aviv, being cheered by hundreds of people as she was presented with the key to the city. This was a guarantee, proof positive that Ida was a sure-fire star.
The audience at the Coral went wild. So did Ruben, but for a different reason. He couldn’t stop laughing. His father threw him a look that said, You’re embarrassing me. Jack leaned into Ruben with fury:
“You think she is funny?”
But Ruben couldn’t contain himself. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing, that everyone in the room fell for this unmitigated orchestration of their emotions. Ida then shushed the crowd, thanked everyone for coming, and began singing a heimishe leid, a comforting song from the old country. With each song, the technician projected a series of slides augmenting the performance’s effect. Her first set ended after fifteen minutes, and she disappeared into a side room to enthusiastic applause. Her technician put on some tapes of ’40s and ’50s pop music, and the lights were restored.
Morrie was about to reprimand his son when Ruben quickly apologized to him and anyone else within earshot:
“I wasn’t making fun of her. I appreciate her performance. I mean, I know what it takes to perform in front of an audience. I wasn’t laughing at her.”
There was some harrumphing and then acceptance. The situation diffused.
Ruben pointed at the dance floor. “Ah, I see Lee and Fred over there. If you’ll excuse me…” He backed onto the dance floor and cut in on his sister, who was cha-cha-ing with her husband.
Ruben asked, “You don’t mind, do you, Fred?”
“Nah, it’ll be a relief. I got bunions on my bunions.” Fred limped off but was intercepted by Uncle Jack before he could reach the table. Jack was always trying to corral someone, anyone, with sure-fire tips on the stock market.
Ruben looked at his sister, debating whether or not to start this conversation. He should have known better. Lee had an undying fondness for Lladro ceramics, ’60s Keene paintings, and songs by Neil Diamond—things that to Ruben were kitsch. So it was with trepidation that he asked, “Waddya think of all this?”
“Me? Nice of you to ask. I think it’s great that so many people came out to celebrate Mom, that’s what I think. I also think you’re a fucking jackass. Jesus, Ruben, you’re my brother and I love you but—”
“Please, Lee, I don’t need this.”
“You gotta get hammered when you come down here?”
“Come on, Sis—”
“Dammit, Ruben, you are a snob. And why don’t you spend more time with your family? When was the last time you visited me and my family?”
“In New Jersey? Lee, we live in Los Angeles.”
“And why haven’t I met your wife? Beth, is it? Did you invite me to your wedding? Did the invitation get lost in the mail?”
“A small wedding. Three thousand miles—”
“You think it’s easy for Fred to leave his work and come down here? He’s not Jewish either, but he still makes it to Bar Mitzvahs and Passover.”
“C’mon, Lee, look at Fred. Talking to Jack? He’s got more in common with Jack than I ever will.”
“You know what your trouble is, Ruben? The trouble with you is that you look down on your family. And if you continue to act this way, let me suggest you leave for California now.”
“I look down on the family? You’ve got it wrong, Lee.”
“No, Ruben, you do. These people are who they are. Accept it. Accept them.” She waved a dismissive hand. “Better yet, just do everyone a favor and go back to La-La-Land.” It was then that the music stopped. The argument paused. They broke apart as the lights went to half. It was time for the second set.
The house lights dimmed to black, the music started up, and the follow spot found Ida, this time with a poofy red wig, wearing a tight blue dress and yellow high heels. A complete makeover in 15 minutes. Ida was very good. More oohs and aahs from the crowd. Ida continued to sing mostly Yiddish songs, with rear-projected slides. Blatant manipulation, Ruben mused. An insult to the audience, to their intelligence. Ruben’s mind was mush from liquor and smoke. He went from laughing at her to noisily huffing and puffing in his seat. His sister kicked him under the table, but he could not mask his anger and contempt. Her set ended to unanimous, except for one, applause.
In between the second and third sets, Ruben avoided speaking about anything other than his mother. Upon which he was told by Aunt Faye, “How nice of you to mention your mother. But let me tell you, Zosha would have loved Ida. And she’d be ashamed by her son’s behavior.”
This day of memory was becoming something Ruben wanted to forget.
The third set began the same way the other two did: different wig—brown this time—pink dress, gray heels, and fifteen minutes of shameless sentiment. Then it hit Ruben like a slap to the forehead. It was the final song, the third or fourth curtain call that ended with Ida singing Ma Yiddishe Mamma. Ida had placed a babushka on her head, tied at her chin. Then a close-up of an old woman in similar millinery appeared on the screen behind her. Ida looked a lot like who she probably was. Ida had elicited tears from the audience during her three sets, but this was different. She reached into something deep within their communal psyche. People were practically keening. There was such a release of emotion. The set ended, the room erupted, Ida left the stage. The house lights came on.
The audience rose from their seats and hugged one another. They vowed to meet at happier times, made plans for the High Holidays, and to do Chinese soon, while Ruben sat dazed. Images flooded his brain: Mr. Treasurer’s style of speechmaking, Ida’s performance, his parents’ apartment in Queens and later in Florida, floral papered walls, a French Provincial bedroom set, living room furniture covered in plastic where he, except for special occasions, was forbidden to sit.
His parents’ furniture was the furniture the Czar might have had at the turn of the century. Of course, you sat on them only for special occasions. Speeches in the thirties were strident, fiery, even bombastic. Hitler didn’t create the style; it was simply the way you delivered a speech. The art of a song, indeed any performance, was gauged by its emotional impact. Forget subtlety. The arguments he’d had with his family over what was art were suddenly specious and self-serving.
For Ruben, there had always been a great irony in the name of the organization: The Holocaust Survivors Social Club, but these people had undergone a horror forever binding them, inseparable. They went from shtetl to ghetto to concentration camps together. They immigrated to America together, to the Lower East Side of New York together, then to the Upper West Side, then to Queens or Westchester or Great Neck, then to Florida, together. They worked in the garment trade in midtown Manhattan or applied themselves to other vocations. And they prospered.
Even if, every day, they battered and booby-trapped one another with verbal and hysterical explosions, they were steadfast in their place in the world, and that place needed all of them to survive.
Ruben remembered one such explosion during his mother’s Shiva, the eight days of mourning that follows the death of a family member. An argument arose between Aunt Faye and a neighbor in Florida over who had done more for Zosha while she was alive:
Neighbor: “Didn’t I give up my Bahama cruise to be at her fortieth anniversary? Didn’t I lose my deposit money?”
Aunt Faye: “Nobody asked you to give up nothing for nobody. When she was sick with the gall bladder, did she call you?”
Neighbor: “She called me plenty of times.”
Faye: “But not with the gall bladder. And how many times did she come to my house with the headaches—”
Neighbor: “Stop already. Me, you’re giving a headache. To me, she came while you were playing mahjong with your hoity-toity Palm Beach friends.”
Faye: “I asked you plenty of times to join us, didn’t I?”
Neighbor: “I hate mahjong!”
Faye: “So don’t play.”
Neighbor: “So don’t ask.”
Faye: “Shh, not so loud, you’ll wake the dead…”
Listening to that conversation, Ruben had been ready to erupt. They were bellowing in his mother’s kitchen, comparing loyalties, while people were praying for his mother’s soul. Ruben wanted to bellow back; instead, he said nothing. He wasn’t part of this. He was an outsider who happened to have a stake in the death of his mother. There was no shame in how they were acting, and he did not doubt that they were grieving their loss. They were just grieving differently from him. They were a close-knit circle. The outside world was a constant threat to them, as indeed it truly had been. That world simply wasn’t allowed in. These people stayed together regardless of what was thrown at them, and suddenly Survivors and Social Club seemed no longer ironic.
The show ended late by Florida retiree standards, 10 o’clock. The waiters rushed the guests, noisily pulling off the tablecloths and piling upended chairs on top of the tables. Several women carried away centerpieces to freshen their own living rooms. Everyone stopped to say goodbye to Morrie and the guests of honor. Aunt Faye and Uncle Jack kissed Morrie and Lee and said a curt goodbye to Ruben without making eye contact. Cousin Sherrie and her husband followed. She turned to Ruben, smiled, and whispered in his ear, “You’re a putz,” before leaving. His sister Lee kissed him on the cheek and told him not to worry, that they were all invited to Sherrie’s for Shabbos dinner and, by that time, everyone would have different fish to fry.
Ruben balked and mumbled, “I’m leaving in the morning. I got an audition in two days.”
Lee nodded. “Of course. What else is new?” Fred patted Ruben on the shoulder and left with his wife.
Ruben waited in the lobby for his father to finish some business with Mr. Silver. As Mr. Silver was leaving, he put an arm around Ruben. “Be a good son to your father,” he said, and left.
Morrie approached his son. “When did you last say Kaddish for your mother?”
Ruben stared at the ground.
“Oy,” his father said, “I’m talking to a wall.”
“Please, Dad.”
“Not for your mother? And me? Will I have a son to say Kaddish for me?”
“Dad, it’s… it’s not me anymore.”
“Do you even know who you are anymore?”
“Please, can we not do this now?”
“And why is she not here? Your wife?”
“Christ, Dad, it wouldn’t be comfortable for her.”
“For her or for you?”
Ruben searched for something to say, but now was not a time for platitudes. “I’m sorry for spoiling your evening, Dad.”
“Oy, my son. I never could believe I could be ashamed of you.” Morrie pursed his lips, but it was not in his nature to bite his tongue. “It wasn’t the doctors, Ruben. You killed her. You killed your mother. With you, she had a broken heart.”
“Oh, Dad, don’t say that. You don’t mean that.”
“She had no more energy to fight.” Morrie nodded to himself as if saying goodbye. “You wait here. I will get the car.”
Ruben stammered, “No, Dad, I… let me… I want to drive us back home. I’m sorry…” Ruben had always been petrified by his father’s driving and took the wheel whenever possible. Now, what he wanted to do was bang his head against the wall.
Morrie handed his car keys to Ruben and sat in a chair, staring forlornly into the tiled floor.
The stifling day had turned into a nighttime deluge. Ruben watched as rain spilled from the restaurant awning, splashing puddles at his feet. The wind had picked up. Through the light of fluorescent street lamps, the rain appeared to be coming at a 45-degree angle. Wrapping his sports coat tightly around him, he stepped off the curb. He tried to avoid the puddles, blindly hop-scotching from one leg to the other when his foot stubbed on a broken piece of concrete. He wrenched his knee, lost his balance, and landed splat on his rear in a Florida pothole.
Ruben sat puddle-deep, miserable, hurting, soaked. He had gone looking for the car in the wrong direction. He tried to get up, but his knee buckled, and he fell back down. He laughed at the aptness of it all. He had really stepped in it tonight. He looked up, the rain stinging his face, and wondered aloud: “Oh Mom,” he said. “Oh, Mom. Oh… Mommy, how do you like your boy now?”
The street lamps and the rain, the thunder, and the flashes of lightning began to play tricks with his mind. His mother appeared before him. But it wasn’t Ruben sitting in the middle of a deluge, but another Ruben, younger, smaller, who ran to his mother, reached up, and kissed her cheek. Young Ruben morphed into his adult self, packed bag in hand, saying goodbye to her during his last visit. She had tears in her eyes, as she always had when there was any kind of leave-taking. Ruben had said, “Mommy, you look so tired.”
She shrugged. “Life makes you tired.” She held his face in her hands. “I wish you could stay longer. You were here such a short time.”
“Such a short time.” Those were the last words she ever said to him, and they echoed in his ears until they were drowned out by the torrential rain and relentless present.
Just then he looked up and there it was. He hadn’t thought about it since Ida was announced, but there it was. Lit by amber lamplight. The rain battered against its tinny roof, beading against the waxy, new-car finish. Ruben braced his good leg under him and pushed himself up. He limped toward the ambulance, his image reflecting on the shiny surface. It grew larger as he hobbled closer. He started singing Ma Yiddishe Mamma softly, drawing his hand along the smooth metal side, making a path through the wall of water along the outline of broken barbed wire. He stared at the inscription: In Memory of Zosha Traugutt, 1917–1984.
The rain pelted his face.