night bertha had had to choose, there were no more shelters to find,
no more dollars to be conjured up out of menial work or thin air, no
more friends to take them both in, no more nerves in her body not
raw and sick from worry and hunger, no more hope of a tomorrow
with enough money to feed them both, is it ever possible to choose
another life above ones own? human even, is it ever possible? bertha
smelled the russian alleys, the german showers, the gas coming up
enveloping choking smothering, bertha delivered her dog, her own
eyes, into the ovens, years later, walking on the Lower East Side, the
relentless sadness alone moving through her, she thought she saw
her dog in the back of an open truck with 2 other german
shepherds—expressionless, still small and thin, in chains.
as she kissed his neck, nausea rose up in her. was it a Christian neck
or a secular neck? steak broiling, wine half emptied from beautifully
formed glasses, even now did he smell her blood flowing anticipate
the moment of opening every vein with his penis, was it a Christian
penis or a secular penis, wanting to take back everything that had
been taken from her she tried ripping off his penis with her bare
hands, he lay twisted up in agony at her feet, was it a Christian agony
or a secular agony, pulling him by his neck the flesh nearly crumbling in her hands she dragged his body into the hall, spit on him, looked at her hands, empty, knowing she had gotten nothing back at
all. it wasnt Jewish nothing because those boys had the Law. it was
female nothing, secular, aged pure grief, raging nothing, murderous
nothing, unrelentingly sad.
8
the slit
In these delicate vessels is borne onward through
the ages the treasure of human affections.
George Eliot, Daniel Deronda
she was slit in the middle, a knife into the abdomen, his head rose up
from the bloody mess, indistinguishable from her own inner slime,
this was his birth, success at last, her 40th birthday came and went.
at first she had been sick, like the last time but not so bad. nausea,
food welling up, dizzy, weak, embarrassed, annoyed, ashamed, no
cramps, like when she wasnt pregnant, thank God for that, 9 months
of freedom, it didnt seem mythic, she was fat and she would get fatter, well, that was ok. her blood, sharing it. some glob of mucous membrane eating it up. remember, egg and sperm, egg and sperm,
not a glob, egg and sperm, not like the last time, this wont be like the
last time.
she taught voice, how to use it and what it was, to young actors,
how to stand, how to breathe, how to pretend, how to convince, be an
ocean, she would say as she pressed in on the bellies of ripe young actors, be an ocean, she would say. presumably a person who could be an ocean could be anything.
she had become pregnant this last time on the Continent, his
name, she would not say it, who he was, she would not say it, why or
where or how, she would not say it, who he was, no, she would not
say it. short and sordid, she seemed to say. unimportant, she wanted
to believe, bitter, was the truth, contempt, abrupt and brutal, was
the truth, the one she loved had not been the father of that child.
her own father was dead, she had killed him herself, her only gift
to her mother, killed him and left her Scottish home, a small cold
house on the wet Scottish earth, taken the pills and put them in his
whiskey, at the behest of her mother who would never again look her
in the eye. at the behest of her mother who would spit out, look how
hes suffering, as she cleaned up his slop and excretion, this mother
of hers who was hard and shriveled, this mother of hers who was big
and fleshy, this mother of hers who had lost son after son in miscarriage and who had succeeded with her at last.
this mother of hers, what was her life, what had it been, laundry, it
had been laundry, rough clothes soaked in a tub, then rubbed and
rubbed by those driedout muscular hands, food it had been food,
always made in one large pot, everything thrown in together,
potatoes and greens, sometimes with a little lard or meat, cooked on
a small flame from morning until evening when he came home, wash
and scrub and clean, it had been that.
her life before she had married him, blank, she had been a
schoolgirl once, but not for long, had her mother ever played a game,
or laughed at a joke, she tried to remember, she remembered
nothing, only that bitter grimace, only that mouth full of criticism
and orders, do this do that be quiet fetch and carry and clean and
comb sit still, there must have been something else, was it possible
that a woman could be bom, only for this, she remembered only one
kindness, the penny for candy, for candy not meat, it must have been
more complicated of course, she must have done it for a reason, m arried him. there must have been some hope or promise of hope, there must have been some light or promise of light, but the poverty had
worn her mother down, year after year, until there was no outer sign
of inner life, by the time she was old enough to know or notice her
mother as someone separate from herself, there had been only that
bitter, quiet, hard woman who scrubbed and cleaned and cooked
and gave orders, leam to fetch and carry be quiet be good do whats
expected.
after her father died, her mother left that house, she went to the city
and got work, first cleaning and scrubbing, then as a saleslady in a
department store, her mother bought a new dress, wore lipstick,
bought a hat. after a few years, her bed-sitting-room had plastic
flowers and a sofa, a table for eating, an old television set. this is a
better life, she seemed to say, quiet and neat, but still her mother
would not look her in the eye.
she had killed her father for her mothers sake, he had been sick for
so long, his lungs weak and scarred, his digestion wrecked, for over a
year he had lain on that bed vomiting, shitting, drinking, always
drinking, look how hes suffering, her mother would say.
the doctor would come once a week, hes got to stop drinking, the
doctor would say. her mother would say nothing, just look at the
man on the bed in a stony silence, give him these pills, the doctor
would say.
after the doctor left, this man who was too weak to rise from his
bed to shit would suddenly bolt up and stumble out the door,
whiskey, he was strong enough for whiskey.
she thought that her mother agreed, she put the pills in his
whiskey, drink this, dad, she said, here, drink this, he had fallen
asleep and then he had died, mercy killing they called it. mercy for
the living.
her mothers expression did not change, did not soften, did not
harden, there was no grief, there was no relief, there was nothing, except that her mother would not look her in the eye.