“What is the result?”
“You are now living in the middle of Ohio and he’s running around the house shouting, ‘Why is he having his appendix out in a hospital five hundred miles from home? There aren’t hospitals in New Jersey to take out an appendix? The best hospitals in the world are right here in this state! What is he doing out there in the first place?’ Fear, Marcus, fear leaking out at every pore, anger leaking out at every pore, and I don’t know how to stop either one.”
“Take him to a doctor, Mom. Take him to one of those wonderful hospitals in New Jersey and get them to find out what is wrong with him. Maybe they can give him something to settle him down.”
“Don’t make fun of this, Markie. Don’t make fun of your father. This has all the earmarks of a tragedy.”
“But I meant it. It sounds like he should see a doctor. See somebody. It all can’t fall on you like this.”
“But your father is your father. He won’t take an aspirin for a headache. He won’t give in. He won’t even go to see the doctor about the cough. People coddle themselves, in his eyes. ‘It’s smoking,’ he says, and saying that settles it. ‘My father smoked all his life. I’ve been smoking all my life. Shecky, Muzzy, and Artie have smoked all their lives. Messners smoke. I don’t need a doctor to tell me how to cut a shoulder steak, and I don’t need a doctor to tell me about smoking.’ He can’t drive in traffic now without blowing his horn at everybody who comes anywhere near him, and when I tell him there’s no need for the horn, he shouts, ‘There isn’t? With madmen out driving cars on the roads?’ But it’s him — he’s the madman on the roads. And I can’t take anymore.”
Concerned as I was for my mother’s well-being, disturbed as I was to see her so shaken — she who was the anchor and the mainstay of our home, who, behind the counter of the butcher shop, was every bit the artist with a meat cleaver that he was — I remembered from listening to her why I was at Winesburg. Forget chapel, forget Caudwell, forget Dr. Donehower’s sermons and the girls’ convent curfew hours and everything else wrong with this place — endure what is and make it work. Because by leaving home you saved your life. You saved his. Because I would have shot him to shut him up. I could shoot him now for what he was doing to her. Yet what he was doing to himself was worse. And how do you shoot someone whose onset of craziness at the age of fifty wasn’t just disrupting his wife’s life and irreparably altering his son’s life but devastating his own?
“Mom, you’ve got to get him to Dr. Shildkret. He trusts Dr. Shildkret. He swears by Dr. Shildkret. Let’s hear what Dr. Shildkret thinks.” I did not myself have a high regard for Shildkret, least of all for his thinking; he was our doctor only because he’d gone to grade school with my father and grown up penniless on the same Newark slum street. Because Shildkret’s father was “a lazy bastard” and his mother a long-suffering woman who, in my father’s kindly estimation, qualified as “a saint,” their moron of a son was our family doctor. Woe unto us, but I didn’t know who or what else to recommend other than Shildkret.
“He won’t go,” my mother said. “I already suggested it. He refuses to go. There’s nothing wrong with him — it’s the rest of the world that’s in the wrong.”
“Then you see Shildkret. Tell him what’s happening. Hear what he says. Maybe he can send him to a specialist.”
“A specialist in driving around Newark without honking the horn at every car nearby? No. I could not do that to your father.”
“Do what?”
“Embarrass him like that in front of Dr. Shildkret. If he knew I went and talked about this behind his back, it would crush him.”
“So instead he crushes you? Look at you. You’re a wreck. You, as strong as a person can be, and you have become a wreck. The kind of wreck I would have become had I stayed with him in that house another day.”
“Darling”—here she grasped at my hand—“darling, should I? Can I possibly? I came all this way to ask you. You’re the only one I can talk to about this.”
“Could you possibly what? What are you asking?”
“I can’t say the word.”
“What word?” I asked.
“Divorce.” And then, my hand still in hers, she used both of our hands together to cover her mouth. Divorce was unknown in our Jewish neighborhood. I was led to believe it was all but unknown in the Jewish world. Divorce was shameful. Divorce was scandalous. Breaking up a family with a divorce was virtually a criminal act. Growing up, I’d never known of a single household among my friends or my schoolmates or our family’s friends where the parents were divorced or were drunks or, for that matter, owned a dog. I was raised to think all three repugnant. My mother could have stunned me more only if she’d told me she’d gone out and bought a Great Dane.
“Oh, Ma, you’re trembling. You’re in a state of shock.” As was I. Would she? Why not? I’d run off to Winesburg — why shouldn’t she get a divorce? “You’ve been married to him for twenty-five years. You love him.”
Vigorously, she shook her head. “I don’t! I hate him! I sit in the car while he’s driving and screaming to me about how everybody is in the wrong except him, and I hate and I loathe him from the bottom of my heart!”
By such vehemence we were both astonished. “That is not true,” I said. “Even if it seems true now, it’s not a permanent condition. It’s only because I’m gone and you’re all on your own with him and you don’t know what to do with him. Please go see Dr. Shildkret. At least as a start. Ask his advice.” Meanwhile, I was afraid of Shildkret’s saying, “He’s right. People don’t know how to drive anymore. I’ve noticed this myself. You get into your car these days, you take your life into your hands.” Shildkret was a dope and a lousy doctor, and it was my good luck that I had come down with appendicitis nowhere in his vicinity. He would have prescribed an enema and killed me.
Killed me. I’d caught it from my father. All I could think about were the ways I could be killed. You are odd, you know. Very odd. Odder than I think you realize. And Olivia should know how to spot oddness, should she not?
“I’m seeing a lawyer,” my mother then told me.
“No.”
“Yes. I’ve already seen him. I have an attorney,” she said, the helpless way one would say, “I’ve gone bankrupt” or “I’m going in for a lobotomy.” “I went on my own,” she said. “I can’t live any longer with your father in that house. I cannot work with him in the store. I cannot drive with him in the car. I cannot sleep beside him in the bed anymore. I don’t want him near me like that — he’s too angry a person to lie next to. It frightens me. That’s what I came to tell you.” Now she was no longer crying. Now suddenly she was herself, ready and able to do battle, and I was the one at the edge of tears, knowing that none of this would be happening had I remained at home.