“You are afraid, afraid of everything. Look at you a walking dead man. The wall has more feeling than you.” Her voice would go up to desperate decibels. “Where did all your big promises go? Look at my sister, 4 years younger than me… they have a car… they have a bigger house… they go to the movies… overnight trips… I have to take the bus every day with the kids… why…? Why do you punish us…? Why, tell me why? Talk to me, why…? Just say something. You have a better job than he does… all these degrees… Just tell me why do we live in a one-bedroom apartment? Why, why, why… what’s the difference between you being alive or dead? You say nothing — you do nothing. If I end up in a mental institution, it is because of you. Do you understand… you… you want me to go crazy and leave you alone…that’s what you want…
Her words would escalate into shouts and her shouts into sobs. Was she desperate? Was she cruel? I could not decide. And how could he stand there and say nothing? Was he desperate? Was he cruel? My senses, like Lily our cat lurking at her prey, would heightened to predict my mother’s next move. Alert, vigilant, ahead of her game I would try to anticipate the future. Would she break a vase, the radio, shake the shelves into a book avalanche letting the new 32 volumes of the Hebrew encyclopedia crash down? Would she slam the door and leave with a look of contempt, or rather would she meticulously plan her flight with her black suitcase full, leaving empty open drawers behind looking cold and resolved? Would she stay with her younger sister and drive their beautiful Vauxhall car on an overnight trip, or would she disappear forever.
Either way my dad would look the same: beaten, shrunken, depleted and worn. If I said anything bad about my mother, he would look to a distant place and utter with effort, as if it hurt when he spoke, “she is right, it is not easy for her, you know.”
It was only the previous weekend, on Saturday morning, when my dad asked us to go and play outside and not to come back before lunch. He then shut the shutters and locked the door with a rare look of anticipation and enthusiasm on his face. As we were leaving, my mom’s favorite opera, La Traviata, was playing on the gray phonograph. I could not tell if I was happy or mad. Somehow I could tell that something really exciting was going to happen without me, yet that spark in my dad’s eye made me feel so happy and hopeful. When we came back, their hair was wet, the bed neatly made, and a warm soft silence wrapped around them — so different than the usual one.
I was sure he would get her the car she wanted the next day, a boxy Vauxhall with a mixture of wonderful smells of leather, oil and gas — just like her sister’s – with an ivory steering wheel and gearshift attached. There would be three round dials on the front with phosphorescent green numbers measuring speed, temperature and oil. Or at least he would take her far away on an overnight trip with packed suitcases and dress up clothes leaving us with his mom or sister and ask us to act like big kids who might get a wonderful surprise at the end of their trip.
My mother, still content and fulfilled, stood in the kitchen staring at the Swiss calendar hanging above the table “lets get out of here,” she said as if looking out the window into mirror-like lakes, mountains topped with white icing, wooden houses spread like cherries – and no trace of human presence. “Let’s just pack and go now.” she said it a bit louder while reaching for the cigarette pack in her pocket.
My father methodically collected the dishes from the table, wearing her apron, piling all the leftovers on one dish and washing the rest. My brothers were busy exchanging cards and sneaking food from the table to the dog.
Was I the only one who heard what she just said? I looked at the blue lake and tried to imagine us there; without the harsh sun, without the stone houses, without the big garbage dumpsters on the street corners, without noise — I could tell from the picture it was very quiet without people — only expansive open vistas. It was far, foreign, frightening and so beautiful. I was already packing in my mind, wondering if Stila the dog and Lily the cat were coming too.
But Switzerland, the Vauxhall car, the long trip all dissolved into clouds of blue cigarette smoke while the cozy warm serenity between them was turning into sharp glassy silence. He finished the dishes and she finished her cigarette. He then took the ashtray from the table and asked her in a troubled voice “do you think I should throw these?” Pointing to the pile of leftover salad, chicken bones and watermelon rinds. Ever so slowly, she turned towards him and said quietly “did you just take the ashtray?” He was standing there looking at her like a deer skewered by a beam of light. We all knew he was not going to say anything. “Did you hear me?” She said in a piercing voice holding a cry in. “Tell me did you or did you not?”
She left when we were at school. We came back to a cloud of sweet tobacco smell. My dad was sitting in the living room with the radio on, half a cup of cold black coffee on the edge of the armchair and the long curly pipe in his mouth. “Mom needed to rest for few days”; he murmured holding the pipe with his teeth like I used to do with my pacifier.
I knew better than my mom not to ask questions, especially why questions, like why she can’t rest at home, why are you not going to bring her back, why can’t we buy a car or go on a trip for her, and why, why do you never say anything?
So I left to play in the yard with the ant trap I had made the day before. Circles of salt disguised as sugar would entrap the ants in small areas creating havoc among them. In places where they were brave enough to cross the salt walls I directed them with lines of dry weeds set on fire to a dead end. I remember how they were able to figure out the way out by retracing their steps back. What a relief it was when they made it out.
My mother also found her way back a week later, equipped with a legitimate reason to return. She couldn’t buy a car, couldn’t go on a long trip, couldn’t leave to go to Switzerland, but she could get pregnant.
Although worried, my dad seemed a bit more alive. He ran around the house putting out clean ashtrays, pairing single shoes together, and brushing the dog’s hair mindlessly.
The next month was seemingly quiet. My mother visited the furniture shop. She wore looser cloths and tried to eat more cheese and eggs but ended up staring at the food with a mixture of disgust and boredom. Each morning she pushed the full dish away, lit a cigarette and gazed at the new picture on the calendar. The picture for the month of April was not much different than the one of March and the months before. They all looked clean and cool and bounded by still serenity. My mom would blow the smoke towards the picture as if kissing it or whispering secrets. My father hovered around the house with anxious dexterity. He would open the refrigerator frequently making sure there were at least two full bottles of milk. He fixed the lock on the front door, and glued the crack in their bedroom window, broken in a previous fight. They did not talk much, or rather my mother did not ask much of him and the days went by ominously pregnant.
It was a few days after we turned to a fresh new May picture on the calendar which showed a house with a red chimney, a lavish greed field with numerous black cows and feathery white clouds in the vast blue sky. That day my mom told us to hurry up and go to school then go directly to my grandma for lunch. We all sensed it was a time for absolute obedience.
Late in the evening when we returned she was in bed sleeping. My brothers helped me with my homework and included me in their games. We stuck together in fright. Waiting.
Late at night I heard my mom sobbing, “I killed my child… I killed my child… but how could I bring a child to this home… how bad do I need to be to do that…” Then, I could hear her last whimper “you killed my child… do you hear…” and then, silence.
She stayed in bed for days after. We did not see much of her. When she walked to the bathroom she held onto the walls and looked down at the floor. Dishes of food entered and exited her room untouched. My dad continued to do household chores as before, only his hyper dexterity changed into slow laborious effort. He kept on repeating even when we were very quiet “be quiet your mom does not feel good…”
When Dr. Gampel, our family doctor, came to visit, he stayed in her room for long time. When he came out he tried to be nice to me and asked me if there were any left over red spots from my German measles but I did not smile. He tussled my hair and said, “Your mom is going to be just fine, nothing to worry about – now, go play.”
Soon after, my dad was called to the army reserve for a whole month of service. It forced my mom to function — almost normally. My dad never came back. He died from a bullet in his head. All I knew was that he did not die during combat, that his watch stopped at 9:00, and his ID had a few bloodstains. Some say it was an accident some said it was hard to tell.
It was June. On our calendar the picture showed a path wrapped around green hills with endless red and blue flowers. June 30 was circled and underneath was written in small letters “dad comes home”.