began to wrestle, and one little girl started to cry. Within seconds the classroom had devolved into chaos.
“Itzik.” I placed my hand on the shoulder of one of the fighting boys. “Please go sit with Rena.” Then I went over to Rena, whoadored the rambunctious boy. “Itzik is going to sit with you,” I said, wiping a tear from her face with my sleeve.
I remembered a song Mrs. Kessler had taught me when I was about their age. “Is everyone ready for a round of ‘Father Abraham’?”
I sang about the silent father of seven sons who could only move parts of his body to communicate. Each verse demanded that we wave a new limb in the air, and by the end of the song, we were dancing around the room, swinging our arms, legs, and tongues.
Rena cheered loudly and the others chimed in. “Let’s do it again, Morah Barbara!”
I feigned exhaustion as I sat down against the wall, and in no time, twelve four-year-olds were clamoring for a spot on my lap. When I looked up, the rebbetzin was leaning against the door.
“Mrs. Kessler is right. You sure are a magician with these kids.” She beamed, kvelling, as if I were one of her own children.
I floated home, elated that I’d impressed the rebbetzin. I couldn’t wait to tell Neil, who had taken the afternoon bus from Madison for Thanksgiving break. I opened our back door to find him sitting at the kitchen table, his face ashen.
“You need to go see if Mom’s okay,” he said.
“She’s in the tub,” I said. She always took a bath on Tuesdays.
“I heard noises coming from her room,” Neil persisted. His voice was tight, and he was clenching his jaw. “Crying, I think.”
Maybe Rabbi Schine had caught my mother with the Shabbos goy. The thought of the great rabbi, in his long beard and black garb, finding my mother and a man who wasn’t my father groping each other made me feel sick. But what if something else was wrong? My legs felt rubbery as I bolted up the steps and knocked on my parents’ door. No answer.
“Mom, it’s me. Open the door.”
Still no answer.
I wiggled the glass knob, and the heavy door swung open. The blinds were drawn, and I heard a whimper coming from the bathroom. I burst through the door like Hawaii Five-O ’s SteveMcGarrett during the climax of a chase scene. My mother sat slumped in the empty tub in her slip, a lacy strap falling down her shoulder. Her hair was matted, and the whites of her eyes were so red that her pupils looked green.
She was holding a sheet of notebook paper in her hands. I pried it from her gently, and she barely resisted. I unfolded the letter, my bitterness dissolving like a sugar cube in a cup of hot tea.
November 28, 1973
My June,
I’m moving to Wyoming, for you, for me, for us. I will always love you.
Andy
She sat staring at nothing, her hands resting in her lap limply, a string of mucus dangling from her nose. I’d only seen her so unkempt once before, when I was ten and she caught a terrible flu. My father saw how frightened I was by her feverish moaning and wouldn’t allow me to enter her room until her temperature went down. She was even scarier now. I hadn’t touched her since the day after the mikveh incident, and I hesitated slightly before I waded through her fog and climbed into it with her. Stepping into the tub, I squatted behind her and sat down, wrapping my legs around her. I wiped her upper lip with the sleeve of my sweater and rocked her as I would one of the children in Mrs. Kessler’s room.
“Come on, Mom. Let’s get you out of here.” I maneuvered myself out of the tub.
She shook her head despondently. “I’m fine.”
I managed to lift her and guide her to the bed. I covered her with a blanket and lay down on my father’s side of the mattress. We were facing each other, and her smoky breath warmed my cheeks. She closed her eyes. I waited until her lids stopped fluttering before I got up, ripped the note into a dozen pieces, and threw it inthe trash. I removed the
“Itzik.” I placed my hand on the shoulder of one of the fighting boys. “Please go sit with Rena.” Then I went over to Rena, whoadored the rambunctious boy. “Itzik is going to sit with you,” I said, wiping a tear from her face with my sleeve.
I remembered a song Mrs. Kessler had taught me when I was about their age. “Is everyone ready for a round of ‘Father Abraham’?”
I sang about the silent father of seven sons who could only move parts of his body to communicate. Each verse demanded that we wave a new limb in the air, and by the end of the song, we were dancing around the room, swinging our arms, legs, and tongues.
Rena cheered loudly and the others chimed in. “Let’s do it again, Morah Barbara!”
I feigned exhaustion as I sat down against the wall, and in no time, twelve four-year-olds were clamoring for a spot on my lap. When I looked up, the rebbetzin was leaning against the door.
“Mrs. Kessler is right. You sure are a magician with these kids.” She beamed, kvelling, as if I were one of her own children.
I floated home, elated that I’d impressed the rebbetzin. I couldn’t wait to tell Neil, who had taken the afternoon bus from Madison for Thanksgiving break. I opened our back door to find him sitting at the kitchen table, his face ashen.
“You need to go see if Mom’s okay,” he said.
“She’s in the tub,” I said. She always took a bath on Tuesdays.
“I heard noises coming from her room,” Neil persisted. His voice was tight, and he was clenching his jaw. “Crying, I think.”
Maybe Rabbi Schine had caught my mother with the Shabbos goy. The thought of the great rabbi, in his long beard and black garb, finding my mother and a man who wasn’t my father groping each other made me feel sick. But what if something else was wrong? My legs felt rubbery as I bolted up the steps and knocked on my parents’ door. No answer.
“Mom, it’s me. Open the door.”
Still no answer.
I wiggled the glass knob, and the heavy door swung open. The blinds were drawn, and I heard a whimper coming from the bathroom. I burst through the door like Hawaii Five-O ’s SteveMcGarrett during the climax of a chase scene. My mother sat slumped in the empty tub in her slip, a lacy strap falling down her shoulder. Her hair was matted, and the whites of her eyes were so red that her pupils looked green.
She was holding a sheet of notebook paper in her hands. I pried it from her gently, and she barely resisted. I unfolded the letter, my bitterness dissolving like a sugar cube in a cup of hot tea.
November 28, 1973
My June,
I’m moving to Wyoming, for you, for me, for us. I will always love you.
Andy
She sat staring at nothing, her hands resting in her lap limply, a string of mucus dangling from her nose. I’d only seen her so unkempt once before, when I was ten and she caught a terrible flu. My father saw how frightened I was by her feverish moaning and wouldn’t allow me to enter her room until her temperature went down. She was even scarier now. I hadn’t touched her since the day after the mikveh incident, and I hesitated slightly before I waded through her fog and climbed into it with her. Stepping into the tub, I squatted behind her and sat down, wrapping my legs around her. I wiped her upper lip with the sleeve of my sweater and rocked her as I would one of the children in Mrs. Kessler’s room.
“Come on, Mom. Let’s get you out of here.” I maneuvered myself out of the tub.
She shook her head despondently. “I’m fine.”
I managed to lift her and guide her to the bed. I covered her with a blanket and lay down on my father’s side of the mattress. We were facing each other, and her smoky breath warmed my cheeks. She closed her eyes. I waited until her lids stopped fluttering before I got up, ripped the note into a dozen pieces, and threw it inthe trash. I removed the
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