Ding, ding. Dong.
Not an oven this time, it’s a bell, with someone at the clapper, some tongue.
As it’s rung, the hollow unhallowing dissonance…tinnabulation, as if rippling upon a depth’s faceless surface, it expands, Developmentally extends itself, too far, too deep, rings out to distort whatever’s beneath — a mouthvoid, a pothole, a ditch: drop into drops, as sound into sound, the slightnesses of distance, assimilation, its violation of the still and holying Sabbath…its reverberations illuminating the entryway, in waves that would wear away, after many nights, much night, the door, its frame. The light flicking on, fizzling out. Then, a knock, then three more times, quick, cold and dead cedar. Unconscionable if not unforgivable to interrupt a family and its guests sitting down to their dinner, and at Shabbos dinner of all dinners, but it rings nonetheless, then a knock, and then three knocks again, firmly, no gloved knuckles here; as glasses fall from faces — designer frames all, with one schmuck’s pincenez — fall to the floor under the table, fall silent on the rug, and all of them step on them staring blind one another. A blurring. Those who’ve lost glasses repair to their hands and knees to feel around on the floor, under the table, getting kicked, socked and toed as Hanna’s thinking what guest could it be, counting seats while thinking, too, how as always she’s on her own in all this, gets herself up as risen as any martyr and, her shroudy dress held aside in one hand, hurries for the door — as much as pregnancy might allow. But she’s too late. A daughter’s already opened, the eldest, Rubina, ever her mother’s helper, of late. Growing up.
And at the door is a mensch.
Nu, so you know this joke, too.
As for him, he’s old, at the age when you can’t tell if it’s a woman or not, but it’s a mensch, rest assured, especially if he’s selling pants, door-to-door. How did he get into this privileged neighborhood, you ask? how’d he get past the Gatekeeper then deep into the heart of One Thousand Cedars, especially dressed like that? He did how he did. His mother, obviously long dead, didn’t send him out looking the way he does, don’t blame her — he’s on his own. And standing drenched, a kosher undernourished fivetwo, fivethree at the most, I’d say a 32 short in a puddle of his own making. It dawns apparent, slowly, with the dripping on the mat that, in the diffusion of inside light and, too, his unintended washing, reads Israelien (sh: underneath’s where they keep a spare key)…that and the smell, the heat, the whiteness of the kneecaps as if an oceanic phenomenon — how it’s soon understood, it’s not just any pants he’s selling, he’s selling his own. Also helps that he’s standing there in his shorts. And a dented cap, a sportsjacket, illfitting (38 long), tweed, with elbowpads pleather, once white dress shirt boiled cleanish, argyle socks I’m not sure whether black or blue and scuffed loafers, brown — which is the stain, too, of his shorts, skidded and zipper’s ripped, tornup with holes ostensibly engineered by the Manufacturer of Manufacturers to bare all but his most sensitive parts.
Rubina stares as Hanna stands, removed, at the distance of an arm, her hand to the knob, next to a grandfather clock that’s only halftimed, neglected.
Now, to sell something you have to someone who wants it, that’s not selling. While to sell something you don’t have to someone who doesn’t want it, now that’s selling. But to sell something you don’t have to someone who wants it? There’s a predicament. And then to sell something you have to someone who doesn’t want it? Hymn, that was his stripped existence, the worst of all the worsts day in, day out, and so perhaps the most universal. Funny and not. Working nights.
With a widening smile, which reveals his nine or so gold and silver amalgam or are they mercury fillings, crowded around the tenth, his patinate tongue: loose, frayed threads of bronze, sickly blue, white and yellow, he holds out a pair of gray gabardines, draped over his forearm, pleated with tiny pools across its ribs, here, here, and here around the cuffs, too, onuses, dried into an off crusty residue. That, and the pockets have been long ago cut out. As the mensch’s licking his fingers, trying to rub these blots out and away, he’s shuffling forward, hunching his head into the doorway, foot firmly against the lowermost hinge…his face rising into a squint to gradually assemble, through the middling fallow field of his trifocals, a girl, a woman, perhaps the mothering wife of the house, he thinks, Rubina, hanging onto the handle of the door, her face locked with a frown.
Batya toddles toward them, past Hanna’s hands and between Rubina’s legs to smile beatitude at this latest of guests.
If they keep showing up like this, she’s thinking, maybe there’ll be no bedtime — or, mightn’t his presence sentinel yet another course, she’s hoping a dessert after dessert, perhaps, an eternally refillable treat?
Undeterred, he’s known worse, he asks her is maybe your father home?
You give me…Batya’s holding out a hand sticky with honey and lint, change spared out from under the sofa’s cushions, the couches’ waxwork stems and nesting twigs, she’s insistent — this girl, asking of him again and again a demand, her voice whining from within her tiny fist, shaking out her words of schmutz: You. Give. Me? You! Give! Me!
A hug, love, such dessert — and an endless bedtime story to tell, keep the lights in the hall on all night…
That you can get from your mother…he says in a disappointed whisper, a sigh, hanging his head and chazzaning to the pitch a little prayer of repentance even the Hasids out in Lakewald don’t know, as Batya and Rubina, two daughters the youngest and eldest, just then and whether in his voice or his eyes find in the mensch maybe something, hymn — an incarnation of a forefather known only from the unsmiling frames hung on the staircase’s landings; and possibly Batya only then remembers what her mother’s warnings are regarding talking to strangers: forget it.
Mensch’s confused, pats his breast pocket for his medication: it’s not there, which means he’d taken it, but if that’s so then why doesn’t he remember having taken it? Did it work, is it working, it took? Batya turns to her mother in tears, buries her face underneath her swell, in her crotch, shaking her head in a No to tuck in even deeper, don’t wake me. No thanks. The mensch gathers himself to peep through the doorway, the entryhall through to what he best guesses is the diningroom, leans his miniaturized weight against the jamb, shading his dark over the threshold as Hanna takes Batya’s wrist, slaps it lightly, and Batya, face removed, tots away from her in a fit, kicking at the pedestals and plinths lining the hallway away from the rooms dining and living, family, den, and into the kitchen, bringing their miscellaneously artistic idols and vases stuffed with flowers both lifelike and silklike and all of them real in their ruin down to the floor, crashes with her crying quietly again up the stairs to her room not to be seen or heard from again the whole night. Meanwhile, the other daughters have made their ways to stand behind their mother, passing through the hallway amid its trunks and boxes and packing supplies, mind the scissors, the tape sticking to the fringes of their garments, their trims tangled in twine, with Israel following as if whisked by the wind of their skirts, the guests left to themselves and to Wanda who’s serving — and soon the family entire’s assembled at the door, even her belly’s boy, and Hanna comes calmed, with more assurance, strengthened and safe in her home, frowning from under and staring impassive from over her nose, having gotten a whiff of what to expect, a scent and an eyeful, too, the inclination of an ear: attentive to the chink of mensch inhabiting the crack, and to the drafty drift of the spiel guaranteed now forthcoming.