by Iris N Schwartz
sparkling white wine
I didn’t tell you this before? You’re
sure?
At 5:00 p.m. every Friday, after
slogging through his civil service job in Manhattan, my father would ride two
subway trains and one bus to South Brooklyn. At about 6:30 p.m. he would open
the front door to our home.
On this particular Friday he stealthily
crossed the linoleum floor toward my mother.
Mommy didn’t hear him. She faced the
kitchen sink and was running hot and cold water, scrubbing and butchering five
to ten reasonably priced whole chickens, the parts of which she encased in
plastic bags for storage in the freezer.
Daddy pantomimed shushing me and my
sister Rochelle, holding one index finger in front of his pursed mouth. He
tossed his trench coat over the back of a kitchen chair. I don’t know if my
sister noticed that Daddy was carrying a pocket-size box in his right hand.
You would have seen it. You spot
details.
I watched as he — then his lips — neared
the back of my mother’s neck; she spun around so swiftly he had to step back
from the cleaver she wielded. My father stumbled and almost fell, but righted
himself and managed to capture the little box, too.
I lifted my chin in Rochelle’s
direction, pointed at the domestic drama in progress; she shook her head back
and forth, raised both palms. Returned to her textbook. (Unlike me, Rochelle spent
considerable time studying. Which is why she garnered high 90’s or 100
percent on most exams. Which is why I didn’t.)
Yes, I know. Focus: father, mother,
sister, Brooklyn kitchen, gift.
I heard Mommy chide my father: “Louis, not in
front of the kids, please!” So he didn’t kiss my mother then, but he did open
the lid of the tiny box to show her what was inside.
“Oh, Louis, you shouldn’t have!”
I think my father was still smiling.
“This must have cost a small fortune.
Why did you spend so much money on me?”
Daddy’s mouth: a straight, horizontal
line.
Later that night I examined the present
where Mommy had left it, on the living room coffee table: it was a pin
consisting of multicolored gemstones atop long gold “stems.” This bejeweled
bouquet didn’t look expensive to
me. It was, however, very pretty. I passed the box to Rochelle, who waved it
away in order to concentrate on homework.
One Saturday afternoon not long after
the flower pin debacle, the four
of us sat in foldable chairs on our front porch. My sister was taking photos of
Mommy and Daddy. One week later as we passed the pictures around I noticed that
my mother’s hands were entwined with my father’s.
I must have told you this: the first time I lifted my
face to yours and closed my eyes, nothing existed but your lips and mine.
Maybe it was like that for my mother and
father – when Rochelle and I weren’t around.
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