Broadway Baby (3 page)

Th
en her own face was floating in the glass as lights went out in the store beyond the window; she was looking through a ghostly version of her own face at the toys and realized that it was dark outside. It was night now. How long had she been standing here, lost in dreams? It was night and people were hurrying by in both directions. She was dizzied by the hats and overcoats flowing all around her, the angry traffic. Where had her mother gone? Which building had she entered? She was crying now, bawling, a great big baby, too terrified to care, then out of nowhere her mother spun her around and knelt and, shaking her by the shoulders, said, “Didn’t I tell you not to go anywhere? Can’t you just do what I tell you?”

Mr. Perez appeared behind her. He was holding the hand of a little dark-skinned girl who was staring wide-eyed at Miriam. She had thick black hair that tumbled down over the shoulders of her coat.

“
Th
is is Juanita, Miriam,” her mother said. “Juanita, Mr. Perez’s little girl.”

Miriam wiped her eyes and nose and, still whimpering, shook the girl’s hand.
Th
e girl kept staring at her, saying nothing.

“We’re going to take you kids to a show,” Mr. Perez said
to Miriam.
Th
en he said something to Juanita in Spanish.
His eye closed as he smiled. “What do you say to that? A real Broadway show.”

M
IRIAM HAD NEVER
been inside an actual theater before. Although many shows previewed in Boston before coming to New York, and Bubbie would often talk about taking Miriam to see them, she was always either too busy or too tired, or Zaydie would say they couldn’t afford it. But here she was.
Th
e enormous ceiling and the countless rows of seats, the balconies and the towering red curtains on the gigantic stage—she forgot all about the day and all that had happened. She barely noticed that her mother and Mr. Perez had left them there by themselves until she heard Jaunita whimpering.

“Shhhh,” Miriam said, touching the girl’s arm, which the girl then pulled away. “
Th
e show is starting. You can’t cry here. It isn’t allowed.”

When the orchestra hit the first note of the overture, Miriam forgot all about Juanita. She forgot everything but the world of
Show Boat:
the “Cotton Blossom,” that floating dream of song and dance, and the love of the riverboat gambler Gaylord for Magnolia, the captain’s daughter, and Julie, the singer with a secret past, her Negro mother, and the tragedy that follows, the tragedy and self-sacrifice, all of the bad things converted by the perfect bodies of the beautiful performers, by the voices and the dancing, into a truer life, a richer life—a life that while the show went on obliterated every trace of what went on outside the theater, destroyed it just as surely as the sun destroyed the image of her mother in the window of the train.

Scene III

After New York, there was outside and there was inside. Outside, there was the mess of too many things Miriam didn’t understand, there was divorce and a stylish and scary mother who was hardly ever at home, and grandparents who were kind but old and helpless, and a sad and mostly absent father. But now inside, there was Miss Julie, the mulatto singer who somehow made the mess outside seem far away. Julie would wear only formal dresses and her best shoes. She wouldn’t raise her voice, and she wouldn’t cry; Julie possessed a sorrowful and mysterious air. Julie would never play in the streets, she wouldn’t know from hopscotch or four square or any other game. When they’d ask her why she was this way, all Miss Julie would do was sigh, hold the back of one hand to her forehead and turn away. No one would smile knowingly at Julie or embarrass her with everything she didn’t know—she had lived and seen too much for that. Oh, some of the narrow-minded in her world might scorn her. Let them. In doing so, they only showed how small their hearts were, how little they understood about the terrible things that happen to the purest of the pure. Julie wouldn’t cry or whine, even when those around her said it wasn’t natural—acting like an adult the way she did, a goyishe adult at that, and not a girl. Julie wouldn’t cry even when teased about her father, for Julie had no father. She would sigh and walk away. All day long she’d hum “Can’t Help Lovin’ Dat Man” or “Ol’ Man River.” “What’s wrong with you?” they’d ask. “Why don’t you act your age? Stop acting like some crazy adult. It isn’t right.” But Julie knew right from wrong. No one knew the difference more surely than Julie.

T
HE RABBI’S OFFICE
was in the basement of the synagogue. It was windowless and sunk in books, old books, thick books, a mound of them open on his desk, their onionskin pages torn or dog-eared.
Th
e walls were lined with shelves piled high with folders and more books, the linoleum floor awash in notebooks and loose sheets of paper.
Th
e black-suited rabbi had a long yellowish beard, and his skin, too, was yellow, the color of parchment, his fingertips ink-smudged.
Th
e office smelled of mildew and chickpeas. Directly behind him, two large wooden replicas of the tablets of the Ten Commandments, one in Hebrew, one in English, were hung side by side above a bookcase.

When she entered, he gathered up the books on the chair beside his desk and placed them on the floor. “Come,” he said, “come, sit.” He patted the seat, leaving a palm print in the dust. As she stepped carefully to the seat, she looked down at her shoes, their sheen already dulling.

He said her mother wanted him to talk with her.
Th
e rabbi’s face was kind but grave. He was smiling at her, his dark eyes narrowing to nearly nothing, but his smile was full of sadness.
Th
is was the first time she had ever spoken with Rabbi Mandel­baum, the first time she’d ever stepped foot inside his office. What did he know about her? What had he been told about the trip to New York City?

Suddenly she was back in the train watching her mother’s face adrift there in the window, looking down at her account books while warehouses and vacant lots passed through it. She saw her mother disappearing into a golden elevator with a man Miriam didn’t know—what was his name, Perez? What kind of name was that? And then she saw Miss Julie in the blazing stage lights, looking out into the audience, looking out at Miriam herself, at Miriam and no one else, and singing about all the feelings Miriam didn’t know she felt until she heard them in Miss Julie’s voice. If there was sorrow in that voice, there was beauty, too, and the beauty made the sorrow seem weightless, ghostly, like her mother’s face.

“My mother?” she said. “You mean my stepmother. My poor mother is dead.”

“Dead?”

“Dead, yes.” She sighed. “But it’s better this way; she isn’t Jewish.”

“Isn’t Jewish? How can this be?”

“She’s Negro,” she said.

“Negro?”

“Yes, Negro. I’m mulatto; I’m an outcast, Rabbi. My father . . .”

“But Miriam, dear . . .”

“And my name’s not Miriam, it’s Julie.”

“
Th
is is nonsense.”

“No, Rabbi,” she said. “It’s tragic. It’s a tragic story. I’m going to die a drunkard.”

“Tragic? Die a drunkard?” He took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. “What do you know from tragic?”

He told her that she had her whole life to be tragic in; who knew, God forbid, what lay in wait? If God didn’t want us to be children when we were children, we’d have all been born in suits and dresses; we would be born with bills and mortgages and children of our own. Even Jael, little one, even Sarah, Rachel, Esther, and Ruth, they were all little girls once. It’s a sin not to enjoy the gifts God gives.

“Rabbi, excuse me, but what about Eve?”

“Eve? What about Eve?”

“She was never a girl, was she?”

“And look what happened? Look at the trouble she caused! From playing with dolls, she didn’t suffer!”

Th
ey stared at each other for a long moment.
Th
en his face grew solemn. One hand stroked his beard while the other pointed over his shoulder to the tablets above his head. “Darling, can you read?”

“Of course I can,” she said. “I can read.
Th
e English anyway.”

“Okay, then, dear, read commandment number seven. Read it out loud to me. Read it slowly, darling, please.”

She looked up at the tablets and in her best elocutionary voice intoned, “
Th
ou shalt not commit adultery.”

Her eyes grew wide. “Adultery? It’s a sin to act like an adult?”

“See,” the rabbi interrupted, nodding wisely. “
Th
is is no joke.
Th
is is serious business.”

“I’m an adulterer?” She couldn’t speak. Tears welled in her eyes.

“Don’t worry, Miriam. Go home, God will forgive you. Of this I’m sure. Go home and get out of these fancy clothes and play with your friends. God will forgive you if you play like the Jewish child you are.”

But Miriam wasn’t listening because Miriam wasn’t Miriam—she was Julie, the singer, the mulatto, the drunkard, and now, best of all, the adulterer.

“S
O,
M
IRIAM, THE
rabbi, what did he say?” Zaydie asked that night at dinner.

Miriam didn’t answer. She was studying her plate of food.

“Miriam,” he asked again, “the rabbi, what did he tell you?”

“Are you speaking to me, Grandpapa?”

“A moment ago I was,” he said, lifting a teacup to his lips. “Now, I’m not so sure. Rabbi Mandelbaum, what did he say?”

“I’m an adulterer,” she declared.

Slowly he put the teacup down. Hands over her mouth, Bubbie seemed to be coughing.

“Hoo boy,” he said. “
Th
at’s some big deal.”

“Yes,” she said, wiping her mouth primly with a napkin. “An actual sin.”

“You’re telling me,” he said. “But, kindele, what are you gonna do about it?”

“What’s to do?” she answered sadly. “I’ve been adulterating for so long now, I’m not sure I can stop.”

“Oh no,” he said, “I don’t mean the sin.
Th
e golem I’m talking about. Didn’t the rabbi tell you about the golem?”

“No,” she said. “Who’s the golem?”

“He comes for the little girl adulterers, and he spits on them and they grow old right before his eyes.”

“Older than you, Zaydie?” she asked.

“Older than me and Bubbie combined,” he said. “And all they grow is bald, like a cue ball bald, I’m telling you, and they shrink, and wrinkle, and fall apart like a rag, a shmatta, a good-for-nothing sack of ash.
Th
ey don’t remember nothing.
Th
ey don’t see nothing.
Th
ey mumble to themselves they don’t know what, until all their teeth fall out but one, and that one has a toothache. ”

“Can’t anything be done to help them?”

“No,” he shakes his head. “No, once the golem’s spit is on you, you’re his forever. Go cry to him and all you’ll hear is ‘Miss such-a-hurry-to-grow-up, you want to be an adult? Be an adult!’ ”

She pictured a windowless dark apartment where nobody lived except her and the golem and the women mannequins, all naked and bald and smoking phantom cigarettes. She pictured the golem laughing and cursing in her mother’s voice, as she herself got older and older, walking with a cane first, then a walker, then using a wheelchair, and then confined to bed, a shriveled dummy, shriveled and bald, too weak to roll over or call for help, only the golem’s wicked “You want to be an adult, be an adult” in her ears.

“Is it too late for me, Zaydie?”

“I don’t know,” he said. “But, kindele, go to your room and get your dolls out and play with them. Golem will be looking for Miss Julie, not for Miriam. Play with your dolls and maybe he won’t know she’s here.”

She ran to her room and got down only her baby dolls. She made the baby dolls ga ga and goo goo each other; she made her voice as young as possible, even younger than Baby Snooks, as far away from tragedy as Mattapan was from Manhattan, as the golem was from the little girl she’d try from now on to be.

T
O MAKE AMENDS,
Miriam believed it wouldn’t be enough for her to be a child; she had to be the best child, the most considerate and beautiful child. She had to be liked by everyone, especially the sad, the disappointed, the vexed. She’d befriend the outcasts and the scorned. When Zaydie’s butcher shop went belly-up, and her mother’s business nearly faltered, she ate less so there’d be more food for others. She cleaned not just her own room but Zaydie and Bubbie’s room as well. She cleaned rooms that didn’t need cleaning. And it was during this time of penance and restitution that she tried to befriend Sylvie, the fat girl across the street.

Sylvie had red hair, a dimpled chin, and cheeks that jiggled madly when she talked. She had what Bubbie called a “foul mouth.” She was mean to everyone, as if she wanted everyone to hate her. But Miriam would get through to her. Miriam would change her for the better. Playing with Sylvie would show the golem how good Miriam could be, how far she had come since her days as an adulteress.

She knocked on Sylvie’s door one Saturday. “What do you want?” Sylvie’s mother asked.

When Miriam said, “I was wondering if Sylvie could come to my house this afternoon to play,” Sylvie’s mother said, “You mean it? Seriously?”

Her mother pushed Sylvie out the door. “You girls have fun,” she said. “Sylvie, play as long as you like.”

Th
ey went to Miriam’s house and played dolls in her room. Miriam wanted to play family—mother feeding child, mother cuddling child, mother pushing child on swing. Sylvie just watched scowling.
Th
en Miriam suggested they play
Dancing Lady,
the new musical picture show that had just come to Boston, the new poster for which had just been slapped up on the billboard over Fleischman’s Bakery, and she danced her husband and wife dolls around and around.

Th
en Sylvie said, “Hey, I have an idea. Let’s play divorce,” and grabbing the dolls from Miriam, she banged the husband’s and wife’s heads together, and then picked up the baby, and cried, “Wah wah wah.”
Th
en she picked up the husband again, saying, “Shut up, you little runt, you, or I’ll tear your whiney little head off.”

“Why do you want to do that?” Miriam asked.

“Nobody’s ever played with you like that, I bet. And where’s your dopey father anyway? Probably screwin’ some dirty tramp.”

As if it belonged to someone else, Miriam’s fist flew at Sylvie, hitting her square in the jaw. Sylvie fell back and scrambled to her feet. “You’re just like everybody else,” she screamed, and Miriam felt the floor shake as Sylvie, crying, lumbered down the stairs and out the door.

Later that night, Sylvie’s mother called, asking to speak with Miriam. Fearing the worst, Miriam picked up the phone. Sylvie’s mother wanted to know if Sylvie could come play with her again tomorrow afternoon. Miriam broke another commandment, one she hoped the golem didn’t care so much about: “Sorry,” she said. “I’m busy tomorrow. Maybe next week.”