Ariga: Poetry: Frishman: A short story by Rochelle Mass

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F R I S H M A N

A short story

By Rochelle Mass

My mother's been in Oregon for the last eight years. Just divorced her third husband. When I can't fall asleep, I think about how she's been married and divorced three times. Who knows how many men were in between? And I'm sleeping with my first live-in lover. After my father died in the Six Day War, she went wild, that's what Aunt Leah says. Once she lost your father, she lost herself, she told me.
That's the only Mother I remember - the one who lost herself. I remember my father, but not in sharp detail. He had a loud laugh and large hands. He'd dance with me and tell me stories before I went to sleep. They had lots of friends, I remember that in the summers they'd sit on the porch, drink cold juice. People were always on the porch. I thought they were my father's friends, but my mother seemed happy, too. Then he died. Then she lost herself. That's when she left the kibbutz and married Kobi, he lasted a few years, had two daughters Racheli and Ahuva who were loud and mean. Taller and older than me. It wasn't easy. Kobi was a pilot at El Al and he took mother on trips. Racheli and Ahuva's grandmother came to look after us when they were away, I remember trying to stay out of their way. I had my own bedroom and I kept my door closed most of the time. Grandma Dvorah was a good cook, especially her kneidlach. Good cooking is part of a home, that's another reason why I love Amir.
After one of the trips mother came home and announced that Kobi and the girls were leaving. That was it. No tears, much silence. Men came and went. Amnon was one - a tennis player. He bought me a racquet, gave me a few lessons. Every time Amir straightens out the hall closet he finds it. I keep hoping I'll play one day. Mother and I often went to the Center in Ramat HaSharon to watch Amnon. Sometimes he gave lessons to school children. "They're the future of the country," he'd say. "All kids can play, blacks and whites." I never saw kids in Israel as black and white, but I understood what he meant. "You don't have to be rich," he always said. "Once kids get into white shorts, nobody knows where they're from." I liked Amnon. Mother seemed to like him too. They went folk dancing, like when my parents danced in circles in the kibbutz dining room. One day Amnon stopped coming.
Mother didn't say anything. He just didn't come again. There were others. For some, I closed my door, like with Racheli and Ahuva. Mother worked on a project for a new Pediatric Wing at the Bellinson Hospital. I started hearing about Seymour, a doctor who initiated projects between Israel and the States. I met him after mother had gone to Portland and come back with him and a diamond ring. "This is Seymour," she said warmly, never letting go of his arm.
I was already living on Frishman. I invited them for lunch. It was winter - the floor heater with two coils was fine for me but it was either too close or too far from the table and even the new soup bowls didn't make it a great visit. I heard how very much mother loved Portland, and I kissed both of them and wished them well. A few weeks later she wrote that Seymour and she were married in the Schara Tzedeck synagogue in Portland. A small wedding, barely a hundred people, his colleagues from the hospital, community people and friends. A small wedding, mother repeated, underlining it, to soften the blow, I thought. The hundred people didn't include me. "I didn't know if you could get away from work. We decided at the spur of the moment. We served figs and wines from the Golan." She thought the menu would calm me, that I'd be pleased she'd included Israel in her happiness. Strangely enough it did. I thought the menu was great, but the truth is - I wasn't there. Her only child, her only daughter. My eyes burned. I couldn't see past the fact that I wasn't there. Took me a while to think about her happiness. For a long time I only thought about not being there.
Last week she came for a visit. This was the first time she met Amir. She was delighted: "Why didn't you tell me he's so ...handsome?" "I'm sure I did," I said defensively. Why wouldn't I boast about Amir! He was the most handsome man I'd ever been with. "Why didn't you tell me he was so tall?" she circled him. "I'm sure I did," I said, continuing my defense.
We brought in mother's bags and kept waiting for Seymour to arrive, or at least news of Seymour. Finally, I interrupted mother's cooing over Amir. "He's very busy, you know." "I'm sure," I answered, "he always was." "Now more than ever," she said sadly. Something had happened.
"I'm going to make tea," I said. "Amir brought fresh mint and we've got a new raku pot. Makes great tea." Even before the kettle had come to a boil mother told us that she and Seymour were divorced and "here I am" she shouted, opening her arms. They were open in Amir's direction not mine, but that wasn't clear until days later. The next Friday I ran home from my morning swim, red-cheeked, soggy haired, my robe dragging. We were going south to the caves at Bet Govrin after lunch, but now mother was swaying to Matti Caspi and Ricki Gal singing: 'Is this love?' I stood in the doorway. She didn't say a word. Her face was flushed. She looked nervous. "Casserole's in the oven, honey!" said Amir, then kissed my cheek as he always did. "How was your swim?" "Fine," I stammered. I didn't look at my mother. Amir reached for my robe as he always did. "I'll hang it up myself," I said.
We ate lunch. The bulgur was wrapped around forest mushrooms Amir had picked in the Galilee. I'd bought olives at the Carmel Market the day before and the Reisling was as fine as always, but no one spoke. We ate too fast. No one wanted dessert. Amir had baked pears in cognac and seemed disappointed. I'm usually so grateful for Amir's cooking, but not today. I just thought about myself.
I felt like when they told me that my father was dead, when Amnon suddenly didn't teach me tennis anymore, about Kobi, even Seymour who I really didn't know. I was surprised I didn't think very much about my mother. She'd always been there, yet never been there. She should have been the link to these men. She should have kept the memory of my father with us, but had 'lost herself' as her sister Leah said. She'd lost me too. I felt lost as Amir gathered up the dishes.
"Well, tell me about Beit Govrin," my mother asked bravely. She rarely asked me to tell her anything, and certainly never traveled in Israel when she came. She was with a man each time, or else was looking for one. That was her focus. Men were her field of interest. I'm going to change," she said as though deflecting my silence. She wore a silk blouse with flowing pants. I looked at my cotton shirt and jeans, practical but certainly not romantic. Why couldn't I learn from her? I didn't have to dress in stiff fabrics all my life. I left the table.
Mother's cosmetics and jewelry were piled in the corner. How had she managed to sleep on our sofa after the opulence of Portland? I really hadn't thought about it. I'd been so appreciative that Amir welcomed her and her three pieces of matching luggage, that it didn't bother his sense of order. I hoped she'd be comfortable in my home, that I could be the 'mother', look after her. Now it all looked different. While I was breaking waves in the Gordon Pool, something had happened. My head banged with questions.
I never criticized her, never reproached her. There'd been so much to say all the years. I felt nauseous. My eyes ached. "Have a cup of tea, honey." Amir placed a steaming mug in front of me. He left the room. My mother put her hand on mine. "Listen, dear." I didn't want to listen. She'd had my father and two husbands after him. What about Amnon and all the others? Amir was the only one I had. Not even my husband. My first real lover. Had she taken Amir? She had three husbands. I only had Amir.
"Dear... dear ..." she repeated trying to get my attention. "Please listen to me." I didn't say a thing, just closed my eyes like I used to close my door. "I realized something this week. You have something I want. I tried to take it from you. But I know that Amir is yours, that he loves you. I understand that. I was excited by his youth, how handsome, how loving he is. I always want good things for myself. I realize he can't be mine, that he's yours." She kept holding my hand, but her head hug over her chest. "I'm jealous. Please forgive me."
"Jealous?" I mumbled. "Of me?" " Shula, you have a man who loves you in a way I've never had. You have a home that I've never had, you're a loving woman." She leaned over and kissed me. I couldn't speak. Didn't know what to say. My mother said I was a loving woman. My head was beating. I struggled not to cry. She whispered: "I'll go out for a while. You and Amir have a lot to talk about." I didn't look up till I heard the door close.

*

Dozens of banners proclaimed the country and the Golan are one. The Golan Heights is a big issue. That's when I first saw Shula. She was at one end of a Golan banner. From time to time she screamed in the direction of the podium. She's short and the banner pole was tall and awkward. Each time she shouted: the people won't relinquish the Golan, her side of the banner trembled.
It was January. A scarf wrapped round her neck and shoulders. Between shouts her free hand slipped into her jacket pocket. She was short and spirited. I like energetic women who have something to say. I watched her for most of the evening. "Got your eye on someone?" Erez kept asking. I didn't answer. He certainly wasn't concentrating on human rights or the return of the Golan. I openly support the Peace Process, but I'd even forgotten why I was there with my neck pulled into my jacket and my hands in my pocket. Erez offered to buy coffee. "I'll be over there," I said, nodded in the direction of Shula's end of the banner. "I'm not surprised," said Erez and gave me a heavy slap on the shoulder. "Good luck!" He went towards the Tumarkin pyramid.
Erez and I have been buddies since we were born in a small kibbutz in the Upper Galilee. There were ten kids in our group, seven were boys. We went from nursery right through high school graduation together. We were more than brothers. Erez had the girls. I accomplished things. I planned activities and wrote controversial articles in the kibbutz paper. Eventually my plays were produced in the kibbutz, then in the region and now the Kibbutz Theater in Tel Aviv has one in the current season. I was the thinker, Erez had the girls. We always stayed friends. Seems we were parts of a package. He read my writing before I sent it out and I'd hear about the girl last night.
Sometimes he'd find a girl for me, but she was usually quiet and heavy. Somehow he thought these were the types I wanted or needed. I wasn't afraid of personality. I wasn't afraid of beauty. I was just hesitant to go and do it for myself. Women in the kibbutz liked me: the older ones, the married ones, usually. Yael was the heart of culture there and she was interested in me, or at least my writing. That's what she said. She had three children and a husband who drove a tractor. From the day I returned from the army, there she was suggesting I attend seminars she went to. She was like my agent, giving my work to directors and producers. Because of her my play got to the Kibbutz Theatre. "It's time for something avante garde about the Kibbutz and the Russians," she said with confidence. "Your play is perfect!" Before we both knew it, the director began casting.
Older women like me. I feel good with them, but I never really know what to do. When Yael comes too close, her perfume creeps over me, I can hear her bracelets. "Doesn't she excite you? She's so sultry! Give it a chance!" was Erez's advice. She is sultry, all right. But each time she brushes my face, a profile of her husband comes to view. He's a big guy, wide shoulders that fix tractors and pull bales of hay. I can't get involved with Noam's wife. I can't separate the two of them. Closing up after Friday night's movie, Yael and I often find ourselves together when the crowd has gone home and the night is quiet. She closes the light and pulls me into the back of the projection room. "Don't tease me," she murmurs. I just can't separate Noam and his tractor from Yael's hands pulling at my pants. Her mouth gets more provocative every time. She harasses me to a certain extent. We're the committee - Yael made sure of it, and I consented. At least it seems that way. "Sleep with her, you jerk," scolded Erez. "You a homo?"
I laugh. I want to sleep with her. When she puts my hand in her blouse I can hardly wait to bend down and take the nipple in my mouth. She moans. I indulge my beating body for barely a moment, and then I'm terrified. I force her buttons closed and turn away. I decided to leave the kibbutz, at least for a year. Seemed a solution. I left Yael a note saying I was going to Tel Aviv. She called to say - when you have a phone and an address, I want it. She wants me. She thinks being together in Tel Aviv is a great idea. She's persuasive. I thought about her in Tel Aviv. I thought about her breasts far away from her husband, far away from his tractor. "I'll call you soon," I promised, thinking my plan had changed. I had planned to go to Tel Aviv as a release from her, and now she's part of it.
Erez has an apartment. Actually, one room. Two other guys share the other room. He let me spread out on his floor till I got settled. He lives on Bloch, works as a driver at the Kibbutz Offices around the corner on Dubnov. "I meet more girls that way," he said, explaining why he took the job. "There's an opening in the Cultural Department - not many solid types with your experience. I'll put in a good word for you." He'd only been there a month and already he was able to pass on my name. That was Erez. Seemed to find a place or a girl wherever he went. He's always satisfied, always has plans. Wants to do the same for me. He's a real friend. I got the job. They were impressed with my play. Some of the staff had been to the casting and said it showed great promise, that I'd brought current problems to the surface. They said Yael had been asking for me. Of course everyone knew her and they watched me as I put the note with her number in the bottom drawer of my new desk, hoping I could keep it there.
I'd been sleeping on Erez's floor for weeks when I saw Shula. Although I'd had three years in army tents, and camping all through high school, my back wanted a real bed. And there I was at the demonstration, hopping from foot to foot to ward off the chill that curled up my neck, then slid down my leg. That's when I noticed Shula. I was amazed when she let out a curdling promise that the country won't let go of its grip on the Golan. She shouted about occupation, possession, subjugation and ended with a throttle about enslavement. Her end slipped. I ran in her direction. I grabbed the pole as it hit the ground. My hand landed on hers and that's when she noticed I was there. "Hi!" she answered. I didn't expect her to be friendly.
"Now I can look for kleenex," she said, laughing, and searched in one pocket after the other. I liked her laugh. Then she stretched her arm, making large circles in my direction. I had to pull back. "I've been holding it for hours. Thanks for coming!" She looked right up at me. "Hard to be slogan-slinging and banner-waving at the same time." We both laughed. Yael laughs a lot also, I thought, then reminded myself that I wasn't bringing her to Tel Aviv.
"My name's Amir." "Mine's Shula." There it was, easy enough. Amir and Shula. By the time the politicians stepped off the podium, and the crowd began to filter out of the square we'd decided to go for coffee. "I'm new here," I said. "When did you come?" she asked while she rolled up her end of the banner and passed it to a woman at the other end. She turned back to me quickly. "Been here for about a month, three weeks, that is." I had such a compulsion for honesty. That was another one of the problems between me and Yael. "I'm a real old-timer, then. About three years." She looked proud of that. I like proud women. Before I knew it, Shula and I were sleeping together.
It just seemed right to merge our salaries and share her apartment. I liked the way she lived. I'll have to arrange her pottery stuff, that was the first thing I thought when I saw her kitchen. She stacked her dishes haphazardly. Usually pulled out the one in the middle. The others were on the verge of chipping or falling. Hardly a week went by without an addition to the collection. I'll build her a shelf. I'll stack her dishes according to size and function. That'll be my contribution, I decided. I put up the shelf and brought my stuff over.
"You scored," said Erez, "all on your own! You made the team!" He gloated over me like a trainer. "You've just arrived in the big city and you're already doing it!" "It's not that." I walked away shaking my head. "Then what is it?" he asked. "I'm not sure," not wanting to admit that I was more than just enjoying myself with Shula. We were making a home together. It was too much to admit over pita and coke. I wasn't sure Erez would even understand. He was so busy scoring. I wasn't sure this would rank that way. Would probably indicate I was naive, that I was living with the first woman I'd dated in Tel Aviv. Wouldn't be a good indication of 'making it'. Guys weren't supposed to settle down so quickly. If Erez was an example, they were supposed to roam, conquer and then continue roaming. "The girl I met last night," he boasted, claiming another trophy. "Yah?" I inquired. "Ravishing," I heard him say. I thought about the fun I was having with Shula and yet 'ravishing' brought back images of Yael's open blouse.
Shula's mother is with us this week. Finally I get to meet the woman who really has been living with us. Shula's overwhelmed by the woman. She's had the courage to leave the kibbutz, lives on her own, has her own apartment, earns a living and manages to pay her bills but she's still influenced by her mother. Burdened is more exact. It's as though her mother has embezzelled her daughter's life, wasted it, then deserted her.
Shula was out protesting for the rights of the Golan when her personal rights were the ones she should have been representing. Finally I met 'the' woman, as Shula said. The most sensual, most womanly, most feminine is what I've been hearing since I met Shula. Actually on the first night after she rolled up her banner and we went for coffee, one of the first things she told me was that her mother had just married for the third time. "And, your father?" I asked. Seemed too soon to talk in such detail when I really just wanted to look at her, but we were into it immediately. "Died, during the Six Day War," she said and before I had the chance to offer condolences she was back to her mother. That woman had a real hold on her. She talked of her mother's men in a narrow, calm way. I was amazed that she wasn't embarrassed. She squeezed out one scene after another. This could be a play, I thought to myself, but as I began to notice her lovely skin, watched how she pulled her hair back, I forgot about scenes and characters.
She wore no jewelry and told me how decorated her mother was. With no lipstick, she described her mother's flamboyant use of makeup. All this before we'd finished our first coffee. We ordered cheese cake; we liked the same cake - another discovery. "What kibbutz are you from?" I asked trying to push her mother aside and give Shula a chance. "In the south. I grew up with winds, sands and flat lands. You?" "The green Gallilee." "Different worlds," she said, picking up the last crumbs with her finger. "No desert winds." "No, but as many greens as you can count," I said, sounding like a campaign. "I like green," she said.
Even before she started to tell me about the different winds I knew that I wanted to be with her. "Some winds bring red dust. We used to call that fire dust when we were kids. It's like flour, clogs machinery, gets into the locks of rifles. Like fog. They say it comes from the Sahara." She hesitated. " Am I boring you?" She folded and unfolded her napkin. "Go on," I said, touching her hand. The fanned napkin dropped to the floor. Neither of us looked down. "Dust storms come in three shapes." At least her mother had dropped out of view. "The screen, the debkah and the pillar. In the first you can't see the horizon. In the second it flies around you like a circle of dancers and in the third the desert looks like it's sculpted out of bronze. That's the one we called fire-dust when we were kids." When I reached for my wallet, she insisted on paying her share. "That's the way I do things." I liked that.
Her mother always felt frantic during the fire-dust times, she told me as I walked her home. Her mother continued with us till we got to the corner of Dov Hoz and Frishman. The mother was some big lady in her life. What a problem, I thought to myself, as I kissed her on the cheek. "Want to go for a pizza and a walk tomorrow night?" I asked. "Sure," she answered, taking my hand. "I'll be here at 7:00. Okay?"
Her mother is with us this week. Shula is nervous with her around. Most of my attention goes to deflecting the mother's compliments by giving them to Shula. Everyday I tell her how special her daughter is, how loving, how giving, how wonderful to live with. Imagine a mother saying: 'who wouldn't be with a great guy like you to come home to.' Sounds like a match when I answer: 'wonderful to come home to a lovely woman like Shula" and things like that. If I was writing a play it would have sounded like farce, but this was Shula's life and it was pretty sad.
On Friday Shula went swimming, as she always did. I began cooking lunch. I don't know what happened, don't know how it happened. Her mother had been giving me a lot of attention. "What wonderful arms, what strong shoulders, etc." Suddenly she was all over me, like a cat, just like Yael. Her tongue was in my mouth, her hands pulled at my jeans. I tried so hard not to bring Yael to Tel Aviv and for all my decent efforts here I was with Shula's mother in our bed. She purred, scratched and sucked. I resisted, cowered, then slowly I realized her hips and her breasts were very much like her daughter's. Their skin had a certain mellowness to it. Her hands were larger than Shula's, but moved over my legs in the same way. She was taller and more encompassing, but she was very much like her daughter. Without makeup and jewels, mother and daughter were very much alike.
"My plain little girl is very lucky to have you," she whispered. "She's simple, a little ordinary, but she's very lucky," she purred, licking my chest. Homespun and a little bland, but she's netted the prize," she continued, as she moved down. "Your garden variety," she mumbled, breathing heavily over my loins. "Ungarnished," she said, teasing me with open lips. "Natural and unaffected, but she's got you." Her hands worked up and down my body while she described her daughter. "Not fancy, not elaborate, not fussy." ''Spartan simplicity'' was the last I heard as she climbed over me. "My daughter's got something her mother's never had. She's got a wonderful lover and a wonderful home. She should be proud of it," she said, lying back. "She is... we are.." I said, climbing out of bed. "I'm ashamed of myself," she confessed, "I really am. But I'm used taking good things for myself."
"I love your daughter very much," I said slowly, watching her get out of bed. I couldn't believe what had happened. She'd come at me. Ruthless and conniving. Fiendish.
I mumbled about making lunch, hoping I'd calm down by the time Shula came home. I had to find a way to tell her that they were so much alike, except that Shula was genuine. Compared to her mother, Shula was the real woman. I had to find a way to tell her. I hoped she would believe me.

This story originally appeared at The Paumanok Review

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