the Sabbath presence let us welcome
their mother in the Master Bedroom would be an attempt at a prayer impossible to translate, which she sings to herself in a language she only half-knows, hums, then mouths without sound, kicks her slippers under the bed to sleep there with their innumerable sisters and shoes, as she sits on the bed to unburden her blouse and then again rises to step from her skirt.
Her hand she stretches out to the distaff, her palms support the spindle
She still has to make the salad, too, she remembers: artichoke hearts are what she’d forgotten, they’d be on the middle shelf of the fridge. What else, listing mundane. Standing naked in front of the mirror, which is nude itself, motherwide and as tall as all fathers, it’s hard, she thinks, even in this shadow, to feel, what’s the word? resplendent, to even ape resplendence, what’s that; she exhales her belly cheek, tracing the elastic waves made by the panty waistband, those raggedtoothed, scarry wavelets breaking cuts into a flurry of small widening rivers, stretchmark tributaries veined swirly and tidal from her thirteen pregnancies now, is it that many, has it been; cutting a fingernail through the watery grain of her vanity, cedar topped by tile, its dust if you can believe despite Wanda (where’s the nail broken, she looks but can’t find it, not really, forget it, that’s not what I do). Is it still there, though, and if so will it fit? and, then, what is It? all, the marriagebedclothes, the one or two items of clothing she owns for a life lived between the swellings of kinder, the workout apparel she’d bought for that one month fitness jag back a year ago now, the lingerie he’d once bought her, a year or so before their first, so long ago she thinks at the mirror, at herself in the mirror, thinking of resilvering, too; the intrusion on intimacy of practical life, the practicable, dusts: on this great expanse of wood taking up an entire wall — if there’s light enough naturally and not that of those bulbs above kept glareless and silent from hum, upon whose turns she doesn’t want to break her eyes in her forgetting of them over the Sabbath — a few hairbrushes, combs toothsome, tangled up with the week’s losses, mostly grays from her true hair, some six variously styled wigs beneath, shaytels you say, she says sheytels, one for each day and then the Shabbos’ kept under the kerchief of sky, snooded with a tichel, worn tight: straight, wavy, curly corkscrewy, crowned and banged, nipped in the nape, tapered and layered, the Asiatic silky and the synthetics, hitech faux, the Maxi, the Micros and Euros, the Rachel Gold, Leah Plus; these wigs over wigs under wigs she wears, auburning over a chocolate base over her own unadulterated hair, that natural brilliance, all lightening shades of the One True Shade: the naturally lightened if still a little dyed henna of aged dusk, of the olden night dawning in strands, to pluckout if too light to gray or white or to tuck behind the ears, the fall of horizon; then, an odd handful of pins: bobbies, safeties, and straights to prick her with the impractibility of it all, the girlishness; what a fool to fumble among the drawers open and quickly shut again upon another nail, finger, slit hand, for her old tiara, a souvenir from an occasion forgotten, a kitschy wedding or barmitzvah, given away as a favor to another’s celebration — she’d saved it for home, plastic and glittery littering why in its own plasticbag in its own bottom drawer. She rises from her knees to the mirror to try the thing on, sits it askew on her head then turns to look vain over a shoulder, profiling its shadow, holds herself steady at the lip of the vanity while feeling shakes from her belly, from the floor’s carpet a rattle and without her slippers or shoes, fingers for a hold the holes for her earrings removed — hears life coming up from the diningroom below, holds a smile.
Safeguard and Remember. In a single utterance.
And soon, she’s talking with the mirror.
Queen or Bride? she asks, she hasn’t yet chosen, it’s the source of such confusion: who was I last week? her left brow rising, littling slightly her pose, impatience in its patient oncoming.
As silent as a mirror is, and is judging — I think the queen, and so this week the bride.
It’s so simple to forget, isn’t it? like receipts, recipes…tonight, though, the mirror’s agreeable.
To forget like I forget hair things in my purse with the tiny round mirror — to reflect with it my reflection: the Bride, it must be the Bride — how could I forget. Write it down or you’ll forget, I always say. A gumstick, a sucker. It must be, another list…check the Bride, strike through the Queen with a line. Her mouth talks back to her and her eyes, she’s crying — you want an argument? He wouldn’t know, or is it a she, the mirror? her husband would’ve forgotten. Should I wait for him? she asks as she polishes, lowing her shoulder as if trying to palm herself flatter, so less light’s scattered into incoherence, less muddle more flattened slim, dark: licking a fingertip, then rubbing at the mirror as if trying to wipe away its blemish, betrayal.
One day, one Sabbath night, she’ll be the Queen-Bride, she of compromise, the Bride-Queen — she’s tucking her hairs, those of the wigs, some gray naturally, some unnaturally even, if only for the sake of appearance, authenticity, modest verisimilitude, behind the nubby, knobby earlike exudations of the eyeless, mouthless, but kinkily with noses, the brittle, chipped foam, plastic, and plaster busts that are the stands for her wigs, their holders, the heads she has spare, with all of even them thinking the better of waiting for him, Hanna nodding them shook with her hands almost strangling their bases under their chins in the permissive affirmative; and so Bride she’ll be, they’re in agreement, though their noses still snobby, held in the air.
She bumps a leg on the endtable next to her bed at her side as she goes to the phone, dials with half a nail lost to one of Israel’s work numbers — ext. 13, that’s the private, but there’s no answer and so she tries another, 1 through 12…maybe Loreta’s still there.
Hello, your Majesty…she begins to talk before she realizes it’s his answering service, the hiss, that strain of falsity laid over the voice he had even back then, when he’d call from the city out to her on the island, (212) to (516) to here and now Joysey she leaves him a message, telling him he’s the Groom like you’re it.
He’ll want to be King though, that’s the trouble, hangs up with a halfhour in which to try again, and then Shabbos.
What it is, is revelation: the hairs in the drain, clogging, the bald white tub and the showerhead above still adjusted to the morning height of her husband. An opening — it’s the type of translucent slidingdoor that Israel in his early haste hauls off it tracks every now and again, doesn’t quite pay to have someone schlep out here and take a look at it, it’s his temper that requires that service; but now as always for her in her caution at the tangling hair, which is both his and hers, and her beware of slips and falls it slides with efficiency, and Hanna steps over the edge of the metal. Tile surrounding, walling, is patterned in hexagonal agglomerations the same as the pattern of the tile in the kitchen, blue, white, highlighting similar flecks in the carpeting of the den. Or, you know how it is, she’s the only one in the family to call the Livingroom such, a source — seemingly a fourwalled, lowceilinged cell — of major domestic misunderstanding when Israel says Livingroom and she thinks he means what she calls the Familyroom when what he really means is what she calls the Den, take a breather. There to what, replace a lightbulb, water the plants, not too often, not enough. Just as Upstairs to Hanna is the floor closest to the frontdoor, at the level of the grounding earth, and below what Israel calls Upstairs that’s known to Hanna as Upstairs-Upstairs, just as the Basement below them both is called by Israel the Basement and by Hanna Downstairs, usually, to herself, her daughters and Wanda, or else to Israel she occasionally defers, resigns to calling it Downstairs-Downstairs, as the last Israel was down there was when, she can’t remember, for what.