That Said (22 page)

syllables of pure pleasure:

 

combinations of Pungs, Chows, Kongs,

and pillows, pairs of East Winds or Red Dragons,

making a Dragon's Tail, Windfall, LillyPilly,

Seven Brothers, Three Sisters, Heavenly Twins,

making a Green Jade, Royal Ruby, White Opal,

Red Lantern, and Gates of Heaven...

 

Why did my mother deny herself?

Once when I asked her, she confessed

that she never really enjoyed business.

I think that my mother

didn't much like mothering, either.

It scared her, too, the closeness of every day.

It was easier to fold my clothes

than to touch me. Even as she was dying,

she shut me out, preferring to be alone.

Now, she's like the West Wind in the empty chair

opposite me, the absent one we skip over

because we are playing with only three.

 

Emma shouts, “Mah-jongg!”—she's won her first game.

Joyce is so thrilled, she forgets

we're not playing for money.

Rummaging in her purse, she pulls out

a dollar bill and crushes it into Emma's hand.

 

We reshuffle the tiles. Twitter the sparrows—

all peacocks, dragons, flowers, seasons

hide under their black blankets of night.

Reflecting us, the dark window blurs our hands

then brightens into all the other hands I saw

around card tables set up under shade trees

during those long hot afternoons

in Rockland Lake, New York.

Babies napping, husbands away at work,

all the other mothers playing—

happy, sipping their iced drinks,

happy, smoking their cigarettes.

I'll forgive and I'll forget, but I'll remember.

—Yiddish proverb

 

For Emma

Have you read
The Story of O?

Will Buffalo sink under all that snow?

Do you double-dip your Oreo?

Please answer the question yes or no.

 

The surgery—was it touch-and-go?

Does a corpse's hair continue to grow?

Remember when we were simpatico?

Answer my question: yes or no.

 

Do you want another cup of joe?

If I touch you, is it apropos?

Are you certain that you're hetero?

Is your answer yes or no?

 

Did you lie to me, like Pinocchio?

Was forbidden fruit the cause of woe?

Did you ever sleep with that so-and-so?

Just answer the question: yes or no.

 

Did you nail her under the mistletoe?

Will you spare me the details, blow by blow?

Did she sing sweeter than a vireo?

I need an answer. Yes or no?

 

Are we still a dog-and-pony show?

Shall we change partners and do-si-do?

Are you planning on the old heave-ho?

Check an answer: Yes
 No

 

Was something blue in my trousseau?

Do you take this man, this woman? Oh,

but that was very long ago.

Did we say yes? Did we say no?

 

For better or for worse? Ergo,

shall we play it over, in slow mo?

Do you love me? Do you know?

Maybe yes. Maybe no.

Because she wanted it so much, because

she'd campaigned all spring and half the summer,

because she was twelve and was old enough,

because she would be responsible and pay for it herself,

because it was her mantra, breakfast, lunch, and dinner,

because she would do it even if we said no—

 

her father and I argued until we finally said

okay, just a little one in the front

and don't ask for any more, and, also,

no double pierces in the future, is that a deal?

 

She couldn't wait, we drove straight to town,

not to our regular beauty parlor, but the freaky one—

half halfway house, half community center—

where they showed her the sample card of swatches,

each silky hank a flame-tipped paintbrush dipped in dye.

 

I said no to Deadly Nightshade. No to Purple Haze.

No to Atomic Turquoise. To Green Envy. To Electric Lava

that glows neon orange under black light.

No to Fuchsia Shock. To Black-and-Blue.

To Pomegranate Punk. I vetoed Virgin Snow.

And so she pulled a five out of her wallet, plus the tax,

and chose the bottle of dye she carried carefully

all the car ride home, like a little glass vial

of blood drawn warm from her arm.

 

Oh she was hurrying me! Darting up the stairs,

double-locking the bathroom door,

opening it an hour later, sidling up to me, saying, “Well?”

For a second, I thought that she'd somehow

gashed her scalp. But it was only her streak, Vampire Red.

 

Later, brushing my teeth, I saw her mess—

the splotches where dye splashed

and stained the porcelain, and in the waste bin,

Kleenex wadded up like bloodied sanitary napkins.

I saw my girl—Persephone carried off to Hell,

who left behind a mash of petals on the trampled soil.

Coming home late, I'd let myself in

with my key, tiptoe up the stairs,

and there she was, in the family room,

one lamp burning, reading her newspaper

in her velvet-and-chrome swivel chair

 

as though it were perfectly natural

to be wide awake at 2
A.M.
,

feet propped on the matching

ottoman, her orthopedic shoes

underneath, two empty turtle shells.

 

Like a mummy equipped for the afterlife,

she'd have her ashtray and Kents handy,

her magnifying mirror,

and tweezers and eyeglass case,

her crossword puzzle dictionary.

 

Glancing up and down, she never

appeared to be frisking me, even when,

just seconds before, coming home

from a date, at the front door,

I'd stuck my tongue into a boy's mouth.

 

I'd sit on the sofa and bum her cigarettes,

and as the room filled up with smoke,

melding our opposite temperaments,

we'd talk into the night, like diplomats

agreeing to a kind of peace.

 

I'd feign indifference—so did she—

about what I was doing out so late.

When I became a mother myself,

my mother was still the sentry at the gate,

waiting up, guarding the bedrooms.

 

After her funeral, her chair sat empty.

My father, sister, husband, and I

couldn't bring ourselves to occupy it.

Only my daughter climbed up its base

and spun herself round and round.

 

In the two years my father lived alone

in the apartment over their store,

I wonder, did he ever once

sit down on that throne, hub

around which our family had revolved?

 

After my father died, the night

before I left the place for good,

the building sold, the papers signed,

before the moving vans drove away,

dividing the cartons and the furniture

 

between my sister's house and mine,

a thousand miles apart,

I sat on the sofa—my usual spot—

and stared at the blank TV, the empty chair;

then I rose, and walked across the room,

 

and sank into her ragged cushions,

put my feet up on her ottoman,

rested my elbows on the scuffed armrests,

stroked the brown velvet like fur.

The headrest still smelled like her!

 

Swiveling the chair to face the sofa,

I looked at things from her point of view:

What do you need it for?

So I left it behind, along with the blinds,

the meat grinder, the pressure cooker.