{"id":21535,"date":"2021-04-20T13:50:18","date_gmt":"2021-04-20T17:50:18","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/lilith.org\/?post_type=articles&p=21535"},"modified":"2021-04-29T17:05:15","modified_gmt":"2021-04-29T21:05:15","slug":"still-life","status":"publish","type":"articles","link":"https:\/\/lilith.org\/articles\/still-life\/","title":{"rendered":"Fiction: Still Life"},"content":{"rendered":"
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MICHAL GAVISH, 1918, 2020; COURTESY OF LAMINA PROJECT; \u00a9MICHAL GAVISH<\/p><\/div><\/blockquote>\n

IDA NEVER SAT for dinner. She ate standing over the counter as she filled bowls of chicken soup and plates of brisket and potatoes for her family. She moved from stove to table with second helpings, to replace dropped forks, to refill glasses, to clean up the smashed plate with the food her husband Morris said was drek<\/em>.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou know, it\u2019s against Jewish law to eat standing up,\u201d her brother the rabbi would say.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt must be against Jewish law for men to help in the kitchen then, too,\u201d Ida countered.<\/p>\n

\u201cHmph. As if you\u2019d let them.\u201d<\/p>\n

The husband is dead now. Good riddance. The four children escaped from this two-bedroom trap on the Lower East Side, one in a coffin. This used to be where the immigrants lived, the Jewish ones escaping the violence spreading across Eastern Europe. Ida came in 1929. Forty years later, a man has walked on the moon and Ida hasn\u2019t moved. Now, the neighborhood is full of young pishers<\/em> with beards and bupkes<\/em> who think tenement living is exotic. There was one of them in the supermarket earlier today, standing in front of the dairy section. Just staring. Blocking traffic.<\/p>\n

\u201cHey, can you get out of the way?\u201d Ida said.<\/p>\n

When he didn\u2019t answer, Ida took her cart and gently, just a touch really, pushed it against the back of his knees. It was barely a tap. But the shmendrick<\/em> started screaming.<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat\u2019s wrong with you, you crazy old woman?!\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNothing some cream for my coffee won\u2019t fix,\u201d Ida answered, grabbing the carton and stalking off down the aisle.<\/p>\n

Now, Ida takes a tuna fish sandwich to the table. Her gnarled fingers run through the grooves of the worn oak surface. Here is the dent from when her Yosele tripped and smashed his mouth into the edge. Here is the patch worn smooth by her first-born Saul\u2019s restless fingers, a habit that made Ida want to reach into his belly to calm his quivers. Here is the stain from Esther\u2019s tears when her fianc\u00e9 was killed in the war, the second one. Here is where her baby Deenah knocked over her father\u2019s whiskey and the hole made by the knife Morris stabbed into the wood shouting, vilde chaya<\/em>, wild animal.<\/p>\n

On the sideboard, is an arrangement of objects like the still lifes on the postcards her sister, the first to flee the pogroms in Lithuania, used to send her from London. The tureen, which Ida filled with matzoh ball soup on Friday nights, has a small chip from the rough seas that brought her to Ellis Island. It looks like an urn, a place for ashes. Perhaps she should ask her children to cremate her (another Jewish law broken), to place her burnt self in with the ghosts of all those chickens. Would they argue over whose mantel she would adorn or would they toss her around like a poison pill?<\/p>\n

A blue enamel bowl holds the pins, needles, thread, and thimbles of her trade. Ida can no longer see well enough to sew her perfect stitches, but the dish remains. Why bother moving it? A small green bottle once held a tonic her doctor prescribed for something, she can\u2019t remember what. Later, it held her hatpins.<\/p>\n

Three paper flowers on long wire stems are a gift from a grandchild. Aside from the school portraits, Ida has few mementos to show for being a grandmother to eight. They all live in the suburbs now, where each child has their own room, and gefilte fish, chopped liver, and kishke don\u2019t sully the counters with their immigrant stink.<\/p>\n

Saul visits every other Sunday, always alone, never with the wife or the kids who are reserved for viewing on Passover or Rosh Hashanah. Before he takes his coat off, he pulls an envelope from the pocket and places it on the sideboard. Her allowance. On the last visit, he asked what she did with the money.<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ve been saving it,\u201d Ida said, her chin lifted but her lips pouting\u2014the adult in her battling with the child she always feels like with Saul.<\/p>\n

\u201cFor what, Ma. Don\u2019t answer that. I don\u2019t want to hear about how you don\u2019t trust banks, and what do you need the money for anyway because the union took good care of you and isn\u2019t America great with its social security. Where do you keep all that money anyway?\u201d Saul got up and started rifling through drawers and cabinets.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou have no right to go through my things like that,\u201d Ida said, following Saul around the apartment like a little girl afraid her father will find the Halloween candy she hid. The fact was, she couldn\u2019t remember where she put the money.<\/p>\n

\u201cUnder the couch cushion, Ma? You think that\u2019s better than a bank. But this isn\u2019t all of it.\u201d<\/p>\n

Saul continued his search. Ida followed behind him, her hands picking at his sleeve, begging him to stop. He found an envelope in the freezer, one in the soup tureen, another under the rug in the bedroom. \u201cOh, Ma.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI thought if a burglar came\u2026\u201d Ida began but didn\u2019t want to concern Saul any further. \u201cCome sit down. I\u2019ll make some tea and maybe you\u2019ll have a bissell<\/em> piece of honey cake.\u201d<\/p>\n

When Saul came the next time, he placed the envelope in the top drawer of the sideboard, was satisfied that the other envelopes were there, and started to remove his coat.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou have a loose button. Let me get my sewing kit to fix it.\u201d Ida still feels as if she has to prove to Saul she hasn\u2019t lost her mind so she turns to her talent as a seamstress.<\/p>\n

\u201cIt\u2019s okay, Ma. Susan can do it.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou don\u2019t want her to prick one of her precious fingers, do you?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cMa, don\u2019t start. Can we just visit? Did you make some of your honey cake?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou don\u2019t like my honey cake. It\u2019s too dry, you said the last time.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cJust that once. Please. Let\u2019s have tea and talk.\u201d<\/p>\n

Saul sat at the kitchen table while Ida bustled back and forth with cups, a teapot, lemon slices, sugar cubes for sipping the tea through, the honey cake, plates and forks. She told Saul the story about the idiot in the supermarket, although she leaves out the part about coming home and finding she already had two unopened cartons of cream in her refrigerator.<\/p>\n

\u201cYou\u2019ve got to be more careful, Ma. It\u2019s not like it used to be when you knew everyone on the block.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat am I supposed to do, stay inside all day?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI\u2019ve suggested more than once that we find you a new place out near us.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cNo. This is my home. Besides, at least when I\u2019m here, I can make excuses for you and your sisters hiding your lives from me, but when I\u2019m ten minutes away from you in some white-walled box with empty sidewalks and no stores nearby, what am I going to tell myself when the ayniklakh<\/em> still don\u2019t come to see me?\u201d<\/p>\n

After Saul left, Ida washed the plates, cups, spoons, and forks and stacked them in the dish drainer, where they would remain. Ida has learned its best to keep the dishes where she can see them rather than searching for the plate that ended up in the cabinet with the pots and pans or the utensils that she sometimes found in the drawer with the placemats.<\/p>\n

IDA REACHES A dead end in her ruminations and is surprised when she sees the uneaten tuna fish sandwich in front of her. She doesn\u2019t remember wanting it or making it. She takes it to the counter and stares at the familiar traffic lights\u2014green, yellow, red; green, yellow, red. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat. Her eye is caught by a man holding an infant to his chest, kissing and stroking its crown. It\u2019s the man from the supermarket. Ida thinks it must mean something that she remembers him. That their meeting was bashert, meant to be. She puts on her coat and goes downstairs. She\u2019s wearing her black, lace-up orthopedic shoes but in her mind she is a young woman tripping down the stairs in high heels.<\/p>\n

\u201cHey, mister, mister.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat?\u201d the man says as he turns to see who is calling him.<\/p>\n

Ida notices his honeyed skin, the chocolate of his eyes. There are flecks of paint on one cheek and under his fingernails. For a moment, she can\u2019t speak. \u201cI\u2026I\u2026 Wait. Don\u2019t walk away. I\u2019m sorry. I\u2019m not a crazy old woman. At least, I don\u2019t think I am. If I\u2019d known you had a baby. The times I fell into an exhausted stupor in front the dairy case or at the butcher or on the bus. Ach. Too many times to count.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah. Well thanks for that,\u201d he says. \u201cWe\u2019re late for an appointment so we\u2019re going to go.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cCan I walk with you?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWhat? You don\u2019t even know me. You can\u2019t go asking strange men if you can walk with them.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYou sound like my Saul. Who else am I going to talk to around here? Everyone is a stranger to me. All you artists think it\u2019s so great to live here.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHah. You misunderstand us. Not great. Just cheap.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYeah. This place was all we could afford too. Why I\u2019m still here. No. That\u2019s not true. My Saul would pay for me to move out near him in the suburbs. Feh. This is my home. I\u2019m Ida by the way.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cYusef.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI had a son named Joseph. We called him Yosele. He died before he had a chance to be a dad. Does that mean I was his mother or am I still?<\/p>\n

\u201cStill, Ida. Still,\u201d Yusef says as he lays the baby in the carriage. Ida admires the round face, the eyes like his father\u2019s, the skin a paler shade that Ida knows will ripen. She saw it in the skin of her own babies as they turned from pink to olive.<\/p>\n

\u201cHis name is Ali.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cAli. What a sweet boy.\u201d Pooh, pooh, pooh. Ida pretends to spit three times.<\/p>\n

\u201cHey, why are you spitting on my kid?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cI didn\u2019t actually spit. It\u2019s to ward off the evil eye ready to curse what you admire too much.\u201d<\/p>\n

Yusef pulls a necklace that was hidden under his shirt with an amulet of an eye set in blue on it. \u201cI guess we all have our superstitions about the evil eye. You know, we don\u2019t really have an appointment. I wanted an excuse to get away from you.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cHaha. My kids would sympathize.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cLook. I really do have to get home soon. It\u2019s time for Ali to nurse and my wife is waiting. Let me walk you home.\u201d<\/p>\n

Ida remembers when her breasts were round and full of milk,
\nleaking each time one of her babies cried.<\/p>\n

\u201cIda? Would you like me to walk you home?\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cOh, sorry. No, no. I want to think.\u201d<\/p>\n

\u201cWe can walk in silence and we can both think.\u201d<\/p>\n

What Ida thinks as they walk doesn\u2019t take the form of actual words. She listens to the snippets of music coming from open apartment windows, whatever it is that children shriek on the playground, the accents and intonations of foreign languages. She smells the yeast from the remaining bagel shop mixed with spices she will have to learn the names of.<\/p>\n

She pictures Yusef coming to tea with his wife and Ali. She would be sure the honey cake was moist. She\u2019d get a little present for the baby. Maybe a rattle. And she\u2019d rearrange. She\u2019d put away the tureen. Replace it with the tea set her sister left her when she died. The blue bowl would look pretty on her dining table, now bare of any adornment. She would throw the green bottle away and replace it with the crystal vase Saul gave her one year for her birthday. Ida thought it was too swanky for her, but now she would spend some of the money Saul gave her and get real flowers for it to replace the pretend ones from the granddaughter who seemed less real than little Ali. And she would tell Yusef that she was an artist too, take out the portfolio of clothes that she had designed. She knows they will never get made but she can feel the silks and velvets and wools against her skin as if they were real.<\/p>\n

The next morning, Ida has no memory of Yusef or Ali. The soup tureen and paper flowers remain in their place. The dust on the portfolio remains undisturbed. But Ida\u2019s body remembers that yesterday was different, that she still had a life. Her legs remember the flow of blood as she walked, her lungs the air she inhaled, her cheeks the heat of the sun. She puts the plates and glasses in the dish drain away, all in their proper places. She takes some money from one of Saul\u2019s envelopes. Puts her coat on and goes outside. Today, she will buy something beautiful.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n

Judith Hannan is a writer and teacher. She leads workshops for those affected by illness, trauma, and social neglect. She is a writing mentor at Memorial Sloan Kettering Cancer Center and is on the boards of the Children\u2019s Museum of Manhattan and Romemu, her synagogue.<\/em><\/p>\n

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When he didn\u2019t answer, Ida took her cart and gently, just a touch really, pushed it against the back of his knees. It was barely a tap. But the shmendrick started screaming. “What\u2019s wrong with you, you crazy old woman?!\u201d<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":21536,"comment_status":"closed","ping_status":"closed","template":"","tags":[1131,953,1903,2058,395,2605,1695],"acf":[],"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/lilith.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/articles\/21535"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/lilith.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/articles"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/lilith.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/articles"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lilith.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lilith.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=21535"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lilith.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/21536"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/lilith.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=21535"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/lilith.org\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=21535"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}