Have a drink. Lemme get you a soda from the basement. Go get a soda from the basement. Drink something. Please. For me. I have some orange juice in the freezer. I could warm it up for you. A slice of bread? What would make you happy? You’re gorgeous, I’m telling you. Gorgeous! Just looking at you, I’m forgetting everything. I got a tea bag I used last night that’s still good.
I don’t want to take your time, but I’ll tell you about my heart scan, and then we’ll do your business. I’ll tell you about your cousin Daniel. The machine is recording? Your cousin Daniel called from Brown University last night. The machine heard that? He’s making A’s in all of his classes, and two B’s, and he’s going with a girl, not a schwartze. She’s studying – how do you call it? I can’t remember the American word. Anyway, I don’t know what are her grades, but her family lives in Philadelphia and belongs to Congregation Beth David, which is Reform, but that’s none of my business. Her father is a lawyer, and I don’t know what is her mother. This girl, she’s a little overweight, but otherwise very nice. They’ve been on four dates. Over there there’s a picture of her on the refrigerator.
I’ll tell you about the first schwartze I ever saw. Because I was thinking about Daniel, I was thinking about schwartzes, from the one he went with briefly. Remember that one? It was his life, and that’s why I didn’t say anything, but it was my death. I told him, You can fall in love with anyone if you have to, so why mix blood?
When we came over, in 1950, I didn’t even know there was such a thing as a schwartze. Nobody told me. Nobody sat me down and said, By the way, there’s schwartzes. I got off the boat, and I’m holding your mother, and your grandfather, your real grandfather, was looking for our bags, and the first person I saw was a schwartze. I thought maybe he had a disease. What did I know from schwartzes? And then I saw another schwartze, and then another schwartze. It was like seeing green people to me, only with longer arms and bigger lips and, you know, the schwartze-hair. Then, when we opened the grocery store on K Street, that was in a neighborhood that was full of schwartzes. Only schwartzes, I’m telling you, because that was all we could afford at the time. If there had been coins smaller than pennies we would have saved those, too. Money can’t buy you happiness, but happiness isn’t everything. My only point is I don’t have any problem with schwartzes, but I’m happy for Daniel that he found a nice girl, even Reform. Lemme give you a piece of free advice: if you have to wash your hands after going to the bathroom, you did something wrong. I’m talking about number one only.
We knew all the schwartzes that robbed us, and this will be the last thing that I say about schwartzes. They would come in with masks on, and once I said, ‘Jimmy, if you need money, just ask. You don’t have to make a scene.’ And so he asked, ‘Can I have some money, Rhoda?’ I told him not over my dead body. He made to put the gun at my head. I told him I had to refrigerate some cold items, so if he was gonna shoot me he should do it already. He said, ‘I’m not messing around, Rhoda.’ I said, ‘Who’s messing around?’ The schwartzes loved us, to tell you the truth.
I’ll tell you about my heart scan. Have a cookie. I’m not gonna take your time. I got a popsicle in the basement. Your father told me they didn’t find anything. I’m begging you, drink a little Coke for me. I’m not gonna push. I didn’t ask him to double-check. Not even a sip for your grandmother? When the news is that your heart scan is OK, you believe it. I hope you don’t mind me saying that. You’re perfect, but I know things. I told Dr Horowitz that I’ve had the kind of life that Spielberg could make a pretty good movie about. He said he was honored to know me. I’m gonna make to send him a card. I wonder when he’ll be fifty, ’cause I got one of those cards around. Can you drive me to the bank when we’re done with this? And then to the supermarket? And then to the other supermarket? And then to the bakery? There’s a nice Oriental girl there who gives me a discount. She has an ugly face, but that’s her business. Your father would put me in a taxi. He thinks I’m cheap, but he’s the cheap one, because he won’t come out here to get me. It’s good to hold your money in a fist. If you don’t believe me, no one will.
And anyway – you wanna fresh sliced tomato? – some mornings I don’t feel any pain. I’m not complaining. There are worse things than pain. How could I be unhappy with that hair of yours! You probably didn’t appreciate this, but when you were a baby I used to sing you to sleep with the American alphabet. By the time you were two you could speak better than me. That was my Nobel Prize! You were my diamonds and pearls! My revenge!
But then I have pains, I gotta tell you. They start at the ends of my fingernails, almost like little animals biting me. Eventually they spread somewhat. And in the chest. The scan said nothing is wrong, but you think that makes any difference to my chest? Who do you trust? My body isn’t good anymore. What did I expect? With my hemorrhoids it’s OK to be sitting or standing. But even sitting is difficult when I’m making a number two. Can I ask you a personal question? Do you have a list of the serial numbers of your savings bonds? I know it’s none of my business.
How’s your brother? He’s doing great. I think he’s great. I think he’s somewhat lonely. He calls me every day. He thinks I’m lonely. When’s he gonna get married? He needs to meet a nice girl. Such a brain! There’s nothing he can’t do. He’s losing his hair, but that doesn’t matter. Everyone gets older. Whenever I think about you I go crazy. You’re so gorgeous! I’m somewhat lonely in this house. I’ve taken your time. The machine’s working? You think I’m dying. It’s OK. You don’t have to say anything. I know. I know you all have been lying to me. When they bring out the tape recorder, it’s either because of a school project or because you’re dying. And you graduated from Princeton University nine years ago.
So I need you to promise me something. Come close. Somewhat closer. You know that your grandmother never asks anything of you, but this is one thing. I beg you, no matter what happens, no matter where you go in life or how many millions you make, no matter anything, I beg you: never buy a German car.
So wha’d’ya wanna talk about?
Soleil by Vendela Vida
‘Well, looks like Soleil is coming to visit,’ Gabrielle’s mother announced, hanging up the phone. Gabrielle was setting the kitchen table while her father concocted a dressing for the salad.
‘You mean S-s-s-soleil,’ Gabrielle’s father said.
‘Stop it,’ her mother said, but laughed. The orange lipstick she’d worn all day at the bank had faded, leaving only a few vertical stripes in the dry creases of her lips.
‘S-s-s-s-stop it,’ her father said.
Gabrielle’s mother turned to her. ‘Soleil stutters.’
The name Soleil began to collect random anecdotes and attributes from the corners of Gabrielle’s memory. Wasn’t Soleil her mother’s college roommate in Hawaii? Gabrielle had seen a photo of this woman waterskiing while wearing a top hat – it made her look six feet tall and, Gabrielle thought, like a magician.
‘Is she still a hand model?’ Gabrielle’s father asked.
Gabrielle suddenly remembered something else. ‘Didn’t she used to go through your garbage?’
‘No, she’s not a hand model. And it was just one time with the garbage,’ her mother said dismissively. ‘She said it was work-related. ’ Gabrielle’s mom shared a smile with her husband. ‘I think, if anything, she had a little crush on your dad.’
Gabrielle didn’t look at her father – his reaction, she was sure, would embarrass or upset her, though she couldn’t say why. She hoped he wouldn’t stutter again; Gabrielle felt sorry for Soleil, and for anyone with any sort of impediment. Her best friend at school, Melanie, had only four toes on her right foot, and Gabrielle had recently been successful at convincing her she could wear sandals.