About the B'nai Bagels Page 2

  I rescued three bagels and took a fourth, coated with cream cheese and soaked in the rest of the tomato juice, to the garbage. Then I sat down to await the conclusion.

  “My mind is closed? Listen who’s talking.” She was conferring with the ceiling again. “Listen who’s talking, will You, dear God? The boy who just said that women should stay in the kitchen thinks that he has an open mind.”

  “All right, Bessie. Let’s discuss this calmly. Just you and me. Leave Him out of it,” Spencer added, lifting his eyebrows toward the ceiling.

  They sat down opposite each other at the kitchen table. Mother propped her chin into her hand and her elbow into a puddle of tomato juice. That began more plip-plipping; I ignored it.

  Spencer sat down, too, and continued. “What, may I ask, do you know about baseball?”

  Mother appealed to the light fixture again. “He’s asking me, Bessie Setzer, what I know about baseball. I, who—whom—who never miss a Mets home game. I, who am practically a walking encyclopedia of baseball facts. He asks me what I know about baseball.” Spencer reached across the table and put his hand under Mother’s chin to lower it. Mother looked at her elder son and said, “Shame on you, Spencer. Shame.”

  Spencer had about as much patience with shame talk as he had with one of Mother’s arguments with me. “So, Bessie, you’re a fan. That’s all you’ve told me. You’ve got a good record of attendance at Ladies’ Day. Nothing else.” Mother began to interrupt, but Spencer raised his hands, palms outward in front of his face. “No, Bessie, you’ve merely told me that you are a fan. In words of one syllable, you are a baseball fan. Not a manager.”

  “Baseball has two syllables, and manager has three,” I said.

  “And you, Mark, you have bad manners,” he snapped.

  “Yes,” Mother said, “don’t interrupt your college brother’s bad manners with your own.” Then to Spencer she added, “You giving him lessons in manners is like you giving me lessons in stuffed cabbage.”

  “Or like you giving lessons in baseball!” Spencer answered.

  Mother got up from the table and standing full height with just the tips of her fingers resting on the table reminded, “Watch it, Spencer, I’m about to lose my temper.”

  “Well, tell me just one thing you know about baseball management, Bessie. Not baseball. Baseball management.”

  Mother looked at me and then at Spencer. “I know where to get lots of free advice.” And out she marched.

  Her toe caught in the last bagel on the floor. She stooped down, picked it up, and zoomed it over her shoulder. It hit the garbage bag square on. Without looking back at it, she smiled to Spencer and to me and marched upstairs lifting her housecoat ever so slightly. Like a queen.

  Spencer yelled after her, “It’s not basketball you’ll be coaching, you know.”

  Mother didn’t answer.

  For a short time following Mother’s announcement there was frantic peace in our house. Almost no arguments. But there was almost no conversation either. Dad was elbow deep in tax accounts; Spencer was finishing a research paper; Mother was attending meetings, meetings, meetings. We seemed to eat out of cans and in shifts during those weeks, but I didn’t especially mind. My thoughts on the subject at that time were: after all, not every guy could have a mother as a manager. Until she had made her announcement, I wasn’t even sure that I’d join the team this year. The B’nai B’rith had been a loser. It had gotten pretty depressing toward the end of the season. The scores sounded more like football: 14-0, 21-3, with us always on the single digit end. We had won two games all year. Both against the Sears Roebucks. One was by forfeit. The Sears manager had a violent disagreement with the umpire and hadn’t remembered until after his first punch that he was supposed to have been teaching gung-ho good sportsmanship. And to take the edge off those wins—the Sears Roebucks had been the next-to-bottom team.

  Actually last season was worse than depressing; it was boring. Our manager and coach were out of town on business over half the time. Our team ended up under the thumbs of the few guys like Barry Jacobs who could handle the ball. Guys like Barry refused to give ordinary type players a break. Myself, being an ordinary type player, resented it. If my mother went to meetings and was made manager this year, I figured I would have a chance. And maybe a little bit better than just a chance. I had visions of helpful practice sessions in our yard before supper.

  During this time, our days of stuffed cabbage and roast chicken were over, and up until the night of the tomato soup, I felt that it was going to be worth it.

  The night of the tomato soup:

  That night for supper I received a can of Campbell’s Old-fashioned Tomato Rice Soup, a can opener, and a note:

  Moshe darling—

  Mother is at meeting. Please split this with Dad. There’s some leftover tuna salad in the refrig. God and Sisterhood willing, I’ll see you and the kitchen, which you’ve made immaculately spotless, sometime around eight.

  Love,

  Mom

  That was nothing unusual lately. Dad and I split the soup. I put some in a bowl for him, and I spooned mine right out of the pot. Dad didn’t notice until he asked for seconds, and I lifted my spoon and began to pour more into his bowl.

  “We’re out of soup bowls?” he asked.

  “No,” I answered.

  “Why then are you eating out of the pot?”

  “Because it saves dirtying dishes,” I answered.

  “Why become a savage? How much more work is it to use one more dish?” He was growing impatient.

  So was I. I was getting fed up, and it wasn’t with good cooking. “It takes only one dish per person to make a stack, and it seems that I’m always elected to clean up the stack.”

  “My dear young man,” Dad started.

  I wasn’t in the mood for that, so I interrupted, “Listen, Dad,” I said, “you’re not going to like this, but… but if you want restaurant service, why don’t you take us to one.” And then I mumbled, “Or fly United.” I lost. He heard it.

  He turned almost as red as Campbell’s Old-fashioned Tomato Rice Soup. “You may finish your soup, Mark, and you may finish your tuna fish salad, Mark. And you may also clean up the kitchen. Then you may go to bed. I don’t want another word out of you.”

  “What about my homework?” I asked.

  “Did I say ‘not another word?’ I’ll set the alarm for six o’clock. In your room. You can do your homework at six o’clock in the morning. Now, not another word.”

  We finished the tuna. I cleaned the kitchen making as much fuss and confusion as I thought I could without bringing Dad out of his office. I figure that I about doubled my work. There wasn’t even any Sara Lee stuff in the freezer. No dessert. The whole night was a loser.

  I wasn’t asleep when Mother came in. What twelve-year-old who hasn’t been bitten by a tsetse fly can be asleep at 8:00 p.m.? Besides, I was sore. You can’t win with parents. They always have reasons. Even if you, their own flesh and blood child, have reasons as logical as theirs, they have more of them. When she came in, Dad was in the fourth bedroom, the one he calls office, Mother calls den, and Spencer and the man who sold us the house call family room.

  “Yoo hoo, Sam, I’m home,” she called.

  “I’m in the office, Bessie,” he answered. “And very busy.”

  “Where’s Mark?” she asked.

  “In bed,” Dad replied.

  “What’s the matter? He have a fever or something?” Mom started up the steps. It’s not even a full-fledged flight. Our house is split level, so she was at Dad’s door in a minute.

  “No, he doesn’t have a fever. It’s a simple case of hot headedness. Not fever.”

  Mother said, “Oh, O.K. I’ll find out about it later. In private.” Those two! They were always having private conversations. You’d think they worked for the CIA or something.

  Mother popped into my bedroom to kiss me goodnight, but I turned over and buried my face in the pillow. I wasn’t in a
kissing mood. That had been happening to me a lot lately. Not being in a kissing mood, I mean. All that my mother’s trying to become a manager meant to me so far was canned tomato soup, doing dishes, and a goodnight kiss.

  As Mother left my room, Spencer walked into the house. You can hear anything that happens everywhere in the house. Or any house on the street. The whole street looks like Monopoly. All the houses alike.

  “What’s for supper?” Spencer asked.

  “I wouldn’t know,” Mother answered. “In this hotel we don’t serve after-theater dinners. The cook leaves at 7:00.”

  Ha! The cook leaves at 7:00. The cook never appears, I thought as I listened.

  “Never mind,” Spencer called as his footsteps went toward the refrig. I could tell that Mother was standing by the door, and I could tell that she had her arms crossed over her chest. Her voice always has the sound of crinkling aluminum foil when she stands like that. And her foot was tapping: another sure sign.

  “Well, Spencer,” Mother began, “I am approved.”

  “Approved? By Good Housekeeping?”

  Her foot was tapping hard now. It set up vibrations. “Spencer, don’t be fresh. At last I was approved by the Board of Directors of Little League.”

  “Congratulations, Bessie. May the best team win,” he said. The last was mumbled. Spencer always did talk with his mouth full.

  “It’s going to be fun. For all of us.” Mother’s voice was softening.

  “Well, it will be interesting. Let’s put it that way. But I’m not so sure Mark will enjoy having his mother as manager.”

  “He’ll enjoy. He’ll enjoy,” she said. Pause. “And so will you enjoy.”

  “Whether I’ll enjoy it or not doesn’t matter anyway. I’m out of it. But I might enjoy observing how you manage to manage.”

  “Spencer, you’re going to enjoy more than that. I promise you. You’ll enjoy more than that. I’ve named you coach.”

  Long silence. Then bang! The refrigerator door. “Bessie, how could you? I won’t do it. I have exams. I have my own social life. I won’t do it, Bessie.”

  “You’ll do it, Spencer. You’ll do it.” Mother’s voice was purring.

  “Bessie!” Pause. “Mother!” Pause. “Mom!” Pause and louder. “I will not. I cannot.”

  “Spencer!” Pause. “Son!” Pause. “Boychick!” Pause and softer. “You will. You can.”

  I heard a chair being pulled out, and from the size of the thud, I guessed that Spencer had just sat down.

  Mother then said, “After all, as the saying goes, ‘The family that plays together stays together.’”

  “Mother, can’t you get anything right? It’s ‘The family that prays together, stays together.’”

  “So, O.K. We’ll do that, too. We’ll pray also.” I could just see her eyes traveling up toward the ceiling. “Spencer,” she continued, “you’ll enjoy coaching. You’re good at telling other people what to do.”

  “Mother, I’ve got school. I’ve got exams. I’ve got a social life.”

  “Yes, Spencer, I hear you. You’ve also got use of the car. You’ve also got a generous allowance.”

  “I need them. How can I commute without them?”

  “And I need you, Spencer. How can I manage to manage without you?”

  “So what you’re telling me is that if I don’t coach your team, you are going to take away the car and the allowance.”

  “Something like that had crossed my mind.”

  “Aw, Bessie, what the heck kind of psychology is that to raise a son?” Only Spencer didn’t say heck; he said the other.

  Mother answered, “Psychology, it isn’t. But it’s one heck of a way to get things done.” Mother didn’t use heck either.

  There was a month between the time Mother got approved, and the time tryouts and practices were to begin. The meetings had stopped, and Mother moved back into the kitchen temporarily. Nothing elaborate, and the desserts were store-bought; still I welcomed the change. I was ready for some fringe benefits. I thought that now my mother could take the time to convert me into the Little League Willie Mays. But the weather wouldn’t warm up; we had a snowstorm late in March. As long as I can remember, Point Baldwin has always had a snowstorm late in March, and people have always called it “unseasonal.” If it happens that time every year, you’d think that they’d call it “seasonal.”

  Early in April we had Passover and Dad was in the worst part of the tax season; both gave him indigestion. We didn’t do a lot of the things you’re supposed to do for Passover like change dishes and get all the non-Passover foods like flour and cereal out of the house. Mother just put all that stuff into a certain closet and put masking tape around the edges. Once in a while she “borrowed” something from that closet, and by the eighth day the tape looked rather puckered around the edges. Whenever she took something from there, Mother would look up toward the light fixture and say, “begging Your pardon.” But we ate matzos instead of bread, which was the most important thing and also the thing that gave Dad his indigestion.

  Also Mother made a big Seder and invited her sister, Aunt Thelma, and her husband, Uncle Ben. All in all, Passover was casual and fun in our house, but between all the special cooking for that and between all of us having to walk on tiptoes to give Dad peace to work on his accounts, the time for my special help galloped away, and Mother had to get ready for try-outs.

  She bought Oaktag and Magic Markers and converted the dining room into a studio. Except it isn’t a real dining room. It’s around the bend in the living room. Mother calls it a dining area, and Spencer and the man who sold us the house call it a dining el because the living room and the dining room space make an L shape. The dining area being the short leg of the L allowed much of the stuff to pour out into the living room.

  The ladies of the Sisterhood came to help Mother. They drank a lot of coffee, smoked a lot of cigarettes, and made posters. One sister marked the margins on the poster board (Lightly, Barbara, lightly. Remember, your lines must be erased.) Another did the lettering, using a template that they bought in the five-and-ten, and a third sister was a specialist in decorating the posters. She drew a boy batting in the upper right and another boy catching in the lower left. (Oh, Lillian, you are so clever!) The ladies complained a lot about the others in Sisterhood. (They certainly want their boys to participate, but they won’t lift a finger—not a finger—to help.) Mother didn’t complain; she made coffee, emptied ashtrays, and smiled a great deal. You’ve got to give credit where credit is due.

  I came downstairs and leaned over their work; the posters looked the same as they had every year since Point Baldwin had Little League.

  ATTENTION

  BOYS AGED 9–13

  TRYOUTS FOR LITTLE LEAGUE

  9–10 years old: Wed. 4:00–6:00

  11–12 years old: Thurs. 4:00–6:00

  HOLY CHILD PLAYING FIELD

  Park and Forest Ave.

  “Watch it, Mark!” Mrs. Jacobs scolded. Esther Jacobs was Barry Jacobs’ mother, Barry being the guy who my ex-best, Hersch, spent his free time with. “The colors aren’t dry yet.” I knew Magic Markers dry instantly. It says so right on them.

  “All I want to do is read it,” I answered.

  “Wait until next week. They’ll be in store windows all over town.” And she smiled and looked at the other ladies, not at me.

  I put the poster down and read it anyway, without touching it. She kept glancing over at me. I didn’t need so much time to read such a little-bitty poster, but I knew that I was making her nervous. I was eating an apple, and I kept taking big crunching bites that sounded as if they’d splat across the whole dining room table. Esther Jacobs turned to look at me and sort-of smiled as I walked around the table. I could tell that I was slowing down production. I left.

  “Such a fine boy,” she said to my mother. Her saying that was curious because Esther Jacobs did not approve of me. A guy knows when he is being disapproved of; having her not like you makes you fe
el tarnished. She approved of Hersch. There were times when I thought that my mother should be more like Mrs. Jacobs, calm and interested in stimulating her son. Mrs. Jacobs pronounced words real clearly, too.

  Before Hersch had moved, neither of us had liked Barry Jacobs much; we both had thought that Barry Jacobs was a guy you just couldn’t get close to. He had such big personality bumps that they would rub you raw. We used to play the sarcastic game about him. Hersch was great at the sarcastic game. Actually, he was talented at it.

  In the sarcastic game we each had our parts—like our friendship. I remember how it went the time that Barry didn’t have his Hebrew homework done, before we were in the Bar Mitzvah business, when we had ordinary Hebrew lessons only twice a week. The rabbi kept saying about how if your parents care enough to send you to Hebrew School, and if he cares enough to teach, we should care enough to do our homework. He finished by saying, “We prepare for the larger future of our manhood by preparing for each tomorrow. And if that tomorrow includes homework, prepare it!”

  Barry answered, “I’m sorry, Rabbi, but I’ve been involved in this science project, and I find it so stimulating that I lose track of time.”

  Everyone knew that Barry had won first prize in the Science Fair in his Crescent Hill school, and he was getting ready to compete in the district Science Fair. Hersch and I sat across from each other, and we exchanged glances. I caught Hersch’s eye and raised my eyebrows. That was a signal for us. I can’t tell exactly what it meant, but back then we each knew.

  Hersch waited for me by the door as we were leaving class, and as soon as we cleared the corridor, we began.

  I opened with, “Now tell me, Hairsch, vy iss it zat you don’t haf your homevork done?” That was my part: the German accent.

  “Well, you see, sir,” he responded, falling right in with it. “I got involved.”

  “Inwolved, yunk man? Inwolved viss vatt?”

  “Picking my nose, sir!”

  “Unt you considair pickink your nose more shtimulatink zan your homevork?”