The Silents

17

CHAPTER 17 My FATHER did not watch Steve Allen. There was too much talking, he explained, and the few magic or dancing acts on the show weren't enough to keep them up late at night. Talking on TV-like talking in the movies-was a waste oftheir time. But there was plenty ofaction on TV. All he had to do was turn the channel to find something: an old western, cartoons (which were difficult to explain to Mama), baseball games, and the news. He also read the Tribune to her. His fingers flew constantly. When he was at work, she did the cleaning and cooking. A few more specialists were consulted throughout the year. Expensive doctors in fancy offices at downtown addresses. Her condition remained unchanged. Adelaide didn't worry. Zadie didn't worry. The aunts didn't worry. But Mrs. Goldberg worried . She called one afternoon while I pounded on the typewriter , my attention on the invoices before me, oblivious to Mama's world. "I don't wish to bother you," she said, "but I don't hear her in the house. It's quiet." "You're not bothering me, Mrs. Goldberg. It's all right. I'm glad you called. She's probably napping. Believe me, she didn't walk out of the house to go shopping." "Would you mind, Charlotte, if! took her to the store?" Where are Rosie and Sarah? I wondered. "That would be nice, but Mama would hate to bother you." "It's no bother. I'll tell your father to make a list. If he tells her I'm coming, she'll open the door for me. I have to 144 knock hard sometimes before she comes. She could use the walk. " "That's sweet of you, Mrs. Goldberg, but Adelaide can do it when she comes home from work." "1 want to do it. 1 don't like her staying in the house all day." She hung up. Papa would probably call her a busybody, 1 decided, mistrusting those who weren't like him, but 1 made myself a note to convince him that it was a good idea. DINNER WAS all prepared when 1 got home. Ai had broiled steaks and baked potatoes. But 1 had no appetite. "You have to keep up your strength," he said, looking ridiculous in my frilly apron. The colors clashed with his navy suit and plaid bow tie. "You sound like my father. Meat and potatoes. The only healthy food. 1 can't eat it. Truly. My stomach won't take it." "The baby needs it." "The baby isn't due for a long time." "Then try this," he offered, pushing a bowl of steamed vegetables in front of me. 1 retched at the sight of it. The EI clattered by outside, shaking the apartment and making my stomach queasier. 1 ran to the bathroom to heave the bitter stuff. "When can we leave this dump?" 1 asked, falling into the open sofa bed. "Have to save up enough money first. Here, take the wet towel and put it on your forehead. It'll cool you off." "I'm not hot. I'm sick to my stomach." "When are you going to tell our parents?" he asked, propping a pillow behind my head. "When I'm sure this one is real. When I'm not surprised by another knock on the cheek." Puzzled, he looked at me. "Another family joke," 1 explained. "One day I'll tell you, but right now I'm feeling miserable." 145 "You and your family jokes. When are you gonna let me in?" I smiled, "I didn't think you minded. You're a good fingerspeller . Slow, but you'll get all the business that goes with it. Lots ofknocks and raps and looks and, oh, too much to explain now." I pulled the pillow from under my head and covered my face with it. My eyes were open, and I envisioned a snow-covered mountain-white and serene and ice cold-wetting the insides of my mouth like an ice cube. I pulled the pillow away from me. "Go ahead and have your dinner. I'm not hungry." He sighed and went back to the cubicle we called our kitchen. When he stood in the middle, everything disappeared: the stove, the fridge, the small counter, everything. Just his back, his black hair, and his rolled-up...