They said, Really?
My father wanted to begin as soon as possible. For God’s sake, he said, you can talk to the kids later. Now, listen to me, send them out to play. You are so distractable.
But Pa, I said, Mama never knew anything about cream. I did not say she was famous for not taking care.
Forget it, he said sadly. But I must mention squinting. DON’T SQUINT. Wear your glasses. Look at your aunt, so beautiful once. I know someone has said men don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses, but that’s an idea for a foolish person. There are many handsome women who are not exactly twenty-twenty.
Please sit down, he said. Be patient. The main thing is this—when you get up in the morning you must take your heart in your two hands. You must do this every morning.
That’s a metaphor, right?
Metaphor? No, no, you can do this. In the morning, do a few little exercises for the joints, not too much. Then put your hands like a cup over and under the heart. Under the breast. He said tactfully. It’s probably easier for a man. Then talk softly, don’t yell. Under your ribs, push a little. When you wake up, you must do this massage. I mean pat, stroke a little, don’t be ashamed. Very likely no one will be watching. Then you must talk to your heart.
Talk? What?
Say anything, but be respectful. Say—maybe say, Heart, little heart, beat softly but never forget your job, the blood. You can whisper also, Remember, remember. For instance, I said to it yesterday, Heart, heart, do you remember my brother, Grisha, how he made work for you that day when he came to the store and he said, Your boss’s money, Zenya, right now? How he put a gun in my face and I said, Grisha, are you crazy? Why don’t you ask me at home? I would give you. We were in this America not more than two years. He was only a kid. And he said, he said, Who needs your worker’s money? For the movement—only from your boss. O little heart, you worked like a bastard, like a dog, like a crazy slave, bang, bang, bang that day, remember? That’s the story I told my heart yesterday, my father said. What a racket it made to answer me, I remember, I remember, till I was dizzy with the thumping.
Why’d you do that, Pa? I don’t get it.
Don’t you see? This is good for the old heart—to get excited—just as good as for the person. Some people go running till late in life—for the muscles, they say, but the heart knows the real purpose. The purpose is the expansion of the arteries, a river of blood, it cleans off the banks, carries junk out of the system. I myself would rather remind the heart how frightened I was by my brother than go running in a strange neighborhood, miles and miles, with the city so dangerous these days.
I said, Oh, but then I said, Well, thanks.
I don’t think you listened, he said. As usual—probably worried about the kids. They’re not babies, you know. If you were better organized you wouldn’t have so many worries.
I stopped by a couple of weeks later. This time he was annoyed.
Why did you leave the kids home? If you keep doing this, they’ll forget who I am. Children are like old people in that respect.
They won’t forget you, Pa, never in a million years.
You think so? God has not been so good about a million years. His main interest in us began—actually, he put it down in writing fifty-six, fifty-seven hundred years ago. In the Book. You know our Book, I suppose.
O.K. Yes.
Probably a million years is too close to his lifetime, if you could call it life, what he goes through. I believe he said several times—when he was still in contact with us—I am a jealous God. Here and there he makes an exception. I read there are three-thousand-year-old trees somewhere in some godforsaken place. Of course, that’s how come they’re still alive. We should all be so godforsaken.
But no more joking around. I have been thinking what to tell you now. First of all, soon, maybe in twenty, thirty years, you’ll begin to get up in the morning—4, 5 A.M. In a farmer that’s O.K., but for us—you’ll remember everything you did, didn’t, what you omitted, whom you insulted, betrayed—betrayed, that is the worst. Do you remember, you didn’t go see your aunt, she was dying? That will be on your mind like a stone. Of course, I myself did not behave so well. Still, I was so busy those days, long office hours, remember it was usual in those days for doctors to make house calls. No elevators, fourth floor, fifth floor, even in a nice Bronx tenement. But this morning, I mean this morning, a few hours ago, my mother, your babushka, came into my mind, looked at me.
Have I told you I was arrested? Of course I did. I was arrested a few times, but this time for some reason the policeman walked me past the office of the local jail. My mama was there. I saw her through the window. She was bringing me a bundle of clean clothes. She put it on the officer’s table. She turned. She saw me. She looked at me through the glass with such a face, eye-to-eye. Despair. No hope. This morning, 4 A.M., I saw once more how she sat there, very straight. Her eyes. Because of that look, I did my term, my sentence, the best I could. I finished up six months in Arkhangel’sk, where they finally sent me. Then no more, no more, I said to myself, no more saving Imperial Russia, the great pogrom-maker, from itself.
Oh, Pa.
Don’t make too much out of everything. Well, anyway, I want to tell you also how the body is your enemy. I must warn you it is not your friend the way it was when you were a youngster. For example. Greens—believe me—are overrated. Some people believe they will cure cancer. It’s the style. My experience with maybe a hundred patients proves otherwise. Greens are helpful to God. That fellow Sandburg, the poet—I believe from Chicago—explained it. Grass tiptoes over the whole world, holds it in place—except the desert, of course, everything there is loose, flying around.
How come you bring up God so much? When I was a kid you were a strict atheist, you even spit on the steps of the synagogue.
Well, God is very good for conversation, he said. By the way, I believe I have to tell you a few words about the stock market. Your brother-in-law is always talking about how brilliant he is, investing, investing. My advice to you: Stay out of it. (...)
I’ll go in a minute—but I have to tell you something, Pa. I had to tell him that my husband and I were separating. Maybe even divorce, the first in the family.
What? What? Are you crazy? I don’t understand you people nowadays. I married your mother when I was a boy. It’s true I had a first-class mustache, but I was a kid, and you know I stayed married till the end. Once or twice, she wanted to part company, but not me. The reason, of course, she was inclined to be jealous.
He then gave me the example I’d heard five or six times before. What it was, one time two couples went to the movies. Arzemich and his wife, you remember. Well, I sat next to his wife, the lady of the couple, by the way a very attractive woman, and during the show, which wasn’t so great, we talked about this and that, laughed a couple times. When we got home, your mother said, O.K. Anytime you want, right now, I’ll give you a divorce. We will go our separate ways. Naturally, I said, What? Are you ridiculous?
My advice to you—stick it out. It’s true your husband, he’s a peculiar fellow, but think it over. Go home. Maybe you can manage at least till old age. Then, if you still don’t get along, you can go to separate old-age homes.
Pa, it’s no joke. It’s my life.
It is a joke. A joke is necessary at this time. But I’m tired.
You’ll see, in thirty, forty years from now, you’ll get tired often. It doesn’t mean you’re sick. This is something important that I’m telling you. Listen. To live a long time, long years, you’ve got to sleep a certain extra percentage away. It’s a shame.
by Grace Paley, New Yorker | Read more:
Image: Henri Cartier-Bresson/Magnum
