Brooklyn Story (21 page)

As I stared at the flickering lights on the Christmas tree and the menorah ablaze, I wished as I had many times before that Mom and I had had a more normal life. But she had continued on her path of self-destruction ever since I was a toddler. When things had gotten worse for us financially, her destructive habits had gotten even worse and then her health deteriorated, too. She had even resorted to taking things out of Grandma's jewelry box and pawning them. I recalled the time when she made me shoplift that expensive shampoo and conditioner she loved at the drugstore. I was only twelve at the time. Then of course it escalated into shirts and pants and anything else she would want off the avenue, until we got caught. No charges were ever filed. By thirteen I would have been getting charged for theft. Thank God she had the sense to stop. Once again she returned to the church with a vengence to repent for what she made me do as well as for herself. I often wondered why she couldn't just get a job, but she claimed she was way too sick to work, the welfare was fine, and I had to deal with it. I had always had other plans.

I knew Mom had been ill for a long time, but I felt that her lack of positive energy and her negative attitude were what kept her from getting well. No wonder she hadn't had any stable men and drifted from one lowlife to another, I thought. I swore I would not wind up with any man just for the hell of it and I would make my own money as a writer. I would never give up. Besides Tony, that was all I had, a dream, my dream.

I glanced at the book in my lap,
Understanding Shakespeare,
which I'd picked up in the library but with which I was not making a great deal of headway. My mother was of no help with such things, of course, so I had read and reread the lyrical phrases to myself, enjoying the swell of the phrases, trying to understand the words, while Mom sat on the couch and smoked a cigarette. I was distracted watching my mother pull the smoke into her mouth and send it back out in perfect white rings that traveled across the room, lost their shapes, and disappeared. Didn't she know how bad smoking was for her? I always asked myself. It just never seemed to matter to her. Almost every morning since I was about fourteen she had spit up horrible mucus that was bloody sometimes. How could she do that to herself? I wondered. My poor grandma and I just never knew what to do about Mom's behavior. Every year that passed I knew that her demons were getting to her more and more. Sometimes I felt as though it wasn't her, my beautiful mother from my birth, but rather a beaten-down, worn-out woman who didn't care about anything, never mind her health.

I knew that when she saw me with Tony all she could see was a reflection of herself with my father and her countless beatings. She didn't want that for me and no matter how much I reassured her, she never trusted it and sometimes I didn't either.

It was the first Christmas since Mom had converted to Catholicism that we Bontis were not cooking dinner in our small kitchen. Pamela had made good on her promise and had invited us to spend the holiday at her house. Mom and Grandma had agreed and decided to have a breakfast of cheese blintzes and applesauce and then exchange presents in the living room before we left for the Kroon residence.

When Grandma walked into the living room, she wrinkled her nose. “Put that out, willya?” she said to her daughter. “It's one thing if you want to keep smoking and kill yourself, but Sam has a good long life ahead of her. She needs a working pair of lungs.”

Mom rolled her eyes, took two long pulls on her Marlboro, coughed, and stubbed it out in the ashtray. I put my book down and got up to hug Grandma. “Merry Christmas, Grandma,” I said.

“Same to you, honey,” she said, and then frowned at the Christmas tree. “Even if it
is
about things I don't believe in.” She smiled beatifically at the menorah before nodding her head and sitting beside her daughter.

“Let's just open our gifts, Ma,” Mom said. She'd heard it all before, over and over again. “Then I need a little nap before the party.”

“Here,” I said as I picked up a large package. “Let's start with this. It's from Tony for all of us.” I placed the present on their laps.

“It's so heavy,” Grandma said.

I giggled and set the gift on the floor as I knelt in front of them and opened it myself. Inside the professionally wrapped department store box was a red and black Oriental rug, a runner that would fit perfectly in the short entrance hall. I was delighted when I saw my grandmother smiling.

“Isn't it beautiful, Mom?” I asked.

Mom's eyes narrowed. “Why would Tony give us a rug?” she scoffed. I pursed my lips. It looks like she's going to be her usual bitter self, I thought, instead of the pleasant, regular person she had been a month before. Mom poked the box away with her foot. “What does he think, that we can't afford one ourselves?”

“We can't,” Grandma said.

“Well, we can't keep it,” Mom said.

Leave it to her to have an attitude about a rug she knew damn well she couldn't afford. I steamed. “Why not, Mom?” I barked. “I think it's a wonderful gift. Of course we'll keep it.”

“Don' get fuckin' loud with me,” Mom said.

“Hey, no swearing,” Grandma chided. “It's a holiday.”

Mom screwed her face. “Yeah, but not your holiday.”

“That doesn't matter,” Grandma said. “At least he remembered us.”

“I remembered you, too,” I said. I jumped up and grabbed two small square gifts, nudged Mom and Grandma apart, and snuggled into the space between them. “Make room for Santa,” I said with a big smile. I handed a box to my mother. “This is for you, Mom,” I said, and pecked her cheek. “Merry Christmas.”

“Oh, Sam, it's wrapped so pretty!” Mom said, and pulled the paper off the black velvet box. She opened the lid, looked down, and took the beautiful silver cross into her hand. “It's so beautiful,” Mom said. She thought for a second and then her face darkened as she looked at me. “Tony gave ya the money for this, didn't he?” I said nothing as my head and shoulders slumped.

“The boy's serious about her,” Grandma jumped in. “He's courting her.”

“Courting, my ass,” Mom said. “That's how her father started with me.” I fought back tears, got up, and ran out of the living room.

Grandma found me on my bed, crying. She sat beside me and gave me a hug. “Why is she so mean to me?” I asked through my tears. “Tony is a nice guy.”

She took a hand-embroidered handkerchief out of her housecoat pocket and wiped my eyes. Then Grandma held it on my nose and said, “Blow.” I did as I was told and forced a smile.

“That's what I like to see,” Grandma said. “You got a smile that could stop traffic. Now where's my gift?”

I was still clutching the second box. I straightened the orange bow and handed it over. “Happy Chanukah,” I said.

Grandma opened the gift and saw a silver Star of David on a thin silver chain. “Just what I wanted,” she said. “Now help me put it on.”

I clasped the chain around Grandma's craggy neck. “Do you really like it?” I asked.

“Oh
bubelah,
it's so pretty. Your old granny never had anything so nice.”

“Really?” I asked.

“I would never lie to my little Sammy.”

“It's just so hard, Gram. You get a star, Mom gets a cross, and I get all the
tsuris
when you two are fighting about religion.”

“Faith isn't something to get aggravated about, Sammy.”

I thought of the Blessed Mother and knew Grandma was right. “Faith is a good thing, Grandma, but I also believe in myself. In case you want to know, I didn't get the money from Tony. I saved some of my pay and I paid for the gifts myself.”

“Why didn't you tell your mother that?”

I blew my nose again. “'Cause she'd never believe me.”

“Your mom knows you're no liar,” Grandma said. She caressed my forehead and stroked my hair. “Do you want your gift now or should we wait?” she asked.

My face brightened. “Now, please,” I said.

Grandma went to her side of the room, opened the middle drawer of her dresser, and took out a large package that she gave to me. I sat up, opened the box, and beamed when I saw a classic trilogy by Robert Louis Stevenson that she had bought for me.

“Now, no more crying,” Grandma said. “That was my last clean hankie. You'd better shower and get dressed while your mother rests. We have a party to go to at your nice boyfriend's house, right?”

I smiled. “Right.”

“Good. What are you wearing?”

“I haven't decided yet.”

Grandma kissed my forehead, left our room, and left me alone with my thoughts. I was nervous, but it had nothing to do with my mother or what I was about to wear. It was all
about Tony's mother and the rest of his family. I hardly knew Pamela and Philip, Katrina hadn't wanted any part of me, and I'd never met any of his other relatives. I prayed we would all get along and that my family wouldn't embarrass me. Most of all, I didn't want to embarrass myself.

I thought about why I was so afraid of the Kroons as I took my time in the bathroom and got dressed for the party. They were not pure-blooded Italians any more than the Bontis were, but they had so much more money and lived a hell of a lot better than my family did. Tony had reassured me that his mother would make my family feel welcome but I was not convinced, especially when I thought about how loud my grandmother talked and recalled that Janice had told me that Richie said Pamela did not like Jews.

I put on a wool skirt that wasn't too short and matched it with a sweater that my mother had bought for me at Filene's Basement. I pulled the sweater down to make sure it covered my waist and turned to see how it looked from behind before I rejoined Mom and Grandma in the living room. We headed out the door to a waiting cab—a rare convenience but one I had treated us to that day.

My anxiety increased when we arrived at the Kroon home and found it decked out like a Hallmark Christmas card. Large, humanlike statues on the front lawn evoked a Charles Dickens tale. Hundreds of tiny white lights lined the walkway to the front door and climbed the front steps, while a multitude of red and green bows surrounded the windows. When we entered their home, my oh my! It was like a fairy tale.

The tree almost touched the ceiling and filled an entire corner of the living room where it stood. It was decorated so meticulously, so perfectly, and an abundance of gifts beneath it covered the plush pile carpet. They were all professionally wrapped with silver-speckled red and green bows. Mouthwatering aromas of ham, roasted turkey, freshly baked bread, and
steaming lasagna—without which no Bensonhurst Christmas was complete—finished off the perfect holiday scene. How could they afford it all? I asked myself.

I placed my gifts among the others under the tree. I had wrapped them in newspaper and had fashioned bows from swatches from Grandma's old red housecoat. All in all, they looked pretty damn creative, I thought, but it sure showed off my lack of funds. And although the gifts inside were humble, I felt guilty that I had spent more money on the Kroon family than I had on my own.

When Tony smiled and came over to hug me, however, I felt better. He was acting like the host with the most when he greeted Mom and Grandma as if they were long-lost members of his family. Pamela joined in the act, sidling up to us in her gold lamé jumpsuit with a rope belt that was much too tight. Large reindeer earrings dangled beneath her high, teased hair. Pamela's figure had seen better days, and her clothing accentuated every curve and the extra pounds she had put on. But I could see that she must have been a real looker when she was younger.

Pamela extended a hand and greeted us graciously, then pulled me in for a hug as if we were best friends. I yielded and played the game, hugging her back, but it was all a ruse, because Pamela had never seemed happy to see me. When she shook Mom's hand, however, and pretended not to be flustered by Grandma yelling hello in the background, I was grateful. At least Pamela put up a good front, I thought.

Tony looked toward Mom and Grandma. “Lemme get youse some wine,” he offered. “It's homemade.”

“Oh yes,” Pamela added, “sit and enjoy.” She gestured to an empty couch. “My husband will get youse sumthin' ta eat.” Grandma winced and began to mumble under her breath about Pamela's heavy Brooklyn accent, which matched her son's. “He loves a house full of people,” Pamela finished.

The three of us occupied the couch and looked over at Philip Kroon, who was sitting in his green leather armchair, talking to no one, his eyes on the floor. I tried not to stare at the painfully thin, salt-and-pepper-haired war hero. If I didn't know better, I would have thought he was sleeping. Whatever he was or wasn't doing, he didn't look like he was anxious to serve anyone or enjoying a house full of people at all. In fact, if Pamela hadn't pointed him out, I might have mistaken him for someone at the wrong party. I had never met anyone quite like Philip, but like his wife, when he got up and shook hands, at least he was making an effort to welcome us into his home.

Grandma offered a bakery box she had been holding to Pamela. “This is for you,” Grandma said. “A nice sponge cake.”

I cringed. Sponge cakes were so Jewish, usually for Passover.

“Well, Grandma Ruth, thank ya so much,” Pamela said as she bent over to take the white box, which made her bloodred fingernails stand out even more. “And don't worry, the people here'll eat anything I give 'em, even if it's Jewish.”

I was speechless while Grandma muttered a Yiddish expression under her breath. Actually, I didn't blame her for doing that.

Tony reappeared with two filled wineglasses and handed them to Mom and Grandma. Then he turned to introduce his sister, who had come over from the dining room, where she had finished setting the table.