The Bridge Ladies (13 page)

My mother is already wearing her black apron with the red, yellow, and green pepper decorations when I arrive. No sooner am I in the door than she starts muttering to herself about getting it right as she bustles around her kitchen. The ingredients cover the countertops, and two enormous stockpots are on her electric stove, which looks like a rectangle of black ice.

“Really, Mom, after all these years you don't have any confidence about getting it right.”

“That's right,” she says, and “Okay, make a prayer,” and then with some added vim, “Let's rock and roll.”

If you say so.

She begins to paw through the packages of fish. This year, miraculously, a young man named Brion (she notes the spelling of his name) at the A&P has done a magnificent job filleting the fish.

“He should live and be well,” my mother says, an expression of her deepest gratitude.

She looks up at me from her work of separating the packages of fillets, fish skins, and heads. “I wanted to tip him. Do you think I should have?”

“I think everyone appreciates a tip.”

“But is it appropriate?”

It's the word that guides my mother's life. The breath she takes between every thought and action. In this case, I know what she means. Tipping at a supermarket—is it done?

Brion has marked every package with its contents. Apparently, no one has ever done this in the entire history of the world. “I'm going back and tip him.”

The fish has to be dry. To that end my mother rolls out fields of paper towel and pats the fish down. Then she starts the great hunt for the recipe; it's either stuck inside a cookbook, her basket of papers—some of which date back to the mid-1960s—or in a folder tucked away somewhere.

“Here it is,” she says, proud of the record time with which she has located it inside a FedEx envelope that has been raggedly torn open with the word
RECIPES
scrawled on one side. The recipe looks like a panel from the Dead Sea Scrolls: stained many times over with fish grease, darkened with age spots like the back of an older person's hand, annotated with figures for doubling the recipe, and a smattering of unidentified
schmutz.
At the top:
From the Kitchen of Sylvia Cohen.
This is Bette's mother, universally acknowledged throughout New Haven and its environs as one of the great all-time cooks.

“Now we take out the eyes,” my mother says with too much gusto. And then without warning she raises a knife, Norman Bates–style, and plunges it into the eye of the fish. A wave of nausea moves through me, and I feel like I might faint. I run
into the den, plop down on the couch, and pull out my phone while my mother continues her gouging. I know she has moved on to the next step when I hear the whirring of the Cuisinart's blade.

“I'm grinding the fish,” she calls out.

“It smells disgusting,” I maturely offer, coming back into the kitchen.

“Then go home.”

My mother cranks open a window, tacit acknowledgment of the fish stink.

“You take a handful,” my mother says, reaching into the fish and matzoh meal mixture, “and pat it like so, into balls.”

Ground, the fish looks like brains. “There's no way I'm touching that.”

“Why don't you go home, you look exhausted,” my mother says, though I have clearly exhausted her patience. I know this was supposed to be some big bonding opportunity and I want to get into the spirit, but it's too artificial. We both know I'm not going to make gefilte fish, it's doubtful I'll even make a seder. A big part of why she goes to all this effort is so that my daughter, half-Jewish and half-Catholic and not raised in either religion, will have an experience of Judaism. She is nervous that Catholicism with its Christmas gifts and Easter bunnies will win out. I'm not sure how she thinks she stands a chance with gefilte fish and plagues, but nevertheless every year she rolls out the Haggadahs and seder plate.

“Now the moment of truth,” she says, undeterred in her work. Will the layers of fish balls fit atop the heads, bones, and skins at the bottom of the pot? She layers them like bricks, right up to the top of the pot. She consults the recipe, biting her finger, and says, “Oh yeah,” then sprinkles two teaspoons of sugar
around the edges, gently urging on the fish, “come on, come on.” Then she turns to me and says, without a flicker of irony, “Now, we pray.”

We stay in the kitchen until the pot boils, at which point she will reduce the heat. My mother stands over the stove, fiddling with the knobs on the control panel. “This goddamn stove.”

I know I should get going, get back to work. But I linger, plop down in “my chair” at the kitchen table, where I sat for every family meal. Eventually she joins me.

“I really can't believe you're still so insecure about making the fish.”

“I'm insecure about a lot of things.”

“Such as.”

“Well, I never feel I'm smart enough.”

“Like when?”

“Well, I always felt very insecure meeting people from good schools. Of course in my old age I realize that many of them are horses' asses.”

Tru dat.

“And I never appreciated CCNY, which was called the poor man's Harvard. If you must know, I feel like a little gray mouse most of the time. It's only recently that I've started to speak up.”

Then she remembers taking a Rorschach test in college. Her friend, a psychology student, administered the test and declared that she was either a genius or an idiot.

“That's quite a range,” I say.

Only then my mother confesses that she lied, which “might” have skewed the results.

“Why would you lie on a Rorschach test?”

“Well, a lot of the pictures looked phallic. If a flower looked like a vagina, I wasn't going to say that in front of my friend.”

“I guess that would skew results,” I say, dumbfounded. Who lies on a Rorschach test?

Then the lid on the pot starts to dance, and steam rises like a volcano.

“Now we're getting somewhere,” she says and jumps up. “This is just right.”

Then liquid pours over the side and sizzles like hot oil on the stovetop.

“Shit, I knew this was going to happen. This goddamn stove, do you see what I'm talking about?” She says this as fish juice continues to cascade down the sides.

When the crisis abates and my mother sits back down, I ask her whom she thinks I take after.

“Oh, your father,” she says with no hesitation. “Don't you think, your work ethic, your humor?”

“Well, what did I get from you?”

“I don't see many qualities.”

“What about writing?”

“I never wrote a word. I just wanted to.”

“Why didn't you?”

“Fear. I never wanted to expose myself.”

“What about your generosity?”

She poo-poos this.

I remind my mother that she pays for her grandchildren's private school tuition, that she lavishes them with shopping trips and Broadway shows in New York. She buys them cars when they graduate! The ladies joke that they wish she were their
bubbe.

“Maybe, I suppose. It's funny how you have to fish it out of me.”

“What about your ethics, your morals. Don't you think you gave us that?”

She isn't sure, or at least not willing to take credit.

My mother always emphasized the mitzvoth, the 613 commandments Jews are supposed to observe, in short: good deeds. When she brings a meal to a sick friend or writes a check to the synagogue, she thinks of these acts in the context of the mitzvoth. But for her these acts of kindness are based only in the belief that it's the right thing to do, not because God commanded. You didn't do good deeds because you would be punished if you failed to, but because in your own heart you knew it was right. It was this she taught us, by example.

I want to leave, but I'm stalling. What do I want? What am I waiting for? Who is this person with her fish show, her crazy apron, and sneakers the color of gravy? My mother tells me to scram; we're done. She wants me to be home when my daughter gets back from school.

“Mom, she's sixteen.”

“What difference does that make?”

My mother goes back to the stove, shifts her weight from foot to foot, and adjusts the heat, grumbling to herself the entire time.

“Mom, are you talking to the fish?”

“Really,” she says. “Hit the road.”

I suddenly feel achingly sad sitting in my mother's bright kitchen, in my designated chair. Everything so familiar: the late-afternoon sun striking her metal cabinets painted canary yellow, the wide pass-through from our kitchen to our den, which often doubled as the bar or buffet when my parents had parties, now piled with magazines and books, the White Pages and my mother's monthly calendar. The white boxes are crowded with notations of doctors' appointments, lectures, plays, lunch and dinner dates, and her standing weekly nail appointment with her Russian manicurist Fania. And every
Monday, as if she wouldn't remember, written in her beautiful script:
Bridge.

When my father died, my mother made it her policy to accept every invitation extended to her. These keep her afloat, but it's the parties she lives for, the bar mitzvahs, weddings, and graduations, these milestones like a string of lights, a bright constellation in an empty sky.

When I finally get up to leave, we are awkward as always. I give her a peck on the cheek at the door, then she suddenly and uncharacteristically pulls me close and hugs me like a normal person, the way I hug my daughter. The way you might expect mothers and daughters to embrace.

“Whoa,” I say, “let's take this slow.”

“If I had my druthers I would smother you.”

“Why don't you?”

She steps back, gives this question a moment's thought.

“It's not appropriate.”

We laugh a little at this, The Duchess of Protocol and me.

“All right, get out of here, I've got to check on the fish.”

From my car, I can see my mother tottering down the hall to finish her voodoo over the gefilte fish. I know the downstairs freezer is already filled with matzoh ball soup in massive Tupperware containers, brisket and kugel wrapped in foil. She has all this preparation down to a science. Once, she looked a little hurt when my husband innocently asked if she ever eats fresh food. Months ahead of a Jewish holiday, she'll randomly exclaim, “Well, my brisket's in the freezer.” And I tease her about this, too, her mania for freezing holiday dishes, never truly appreciating the amount of work it takes. She's eighty-three and makes every dish for every holiday by herself. When I ask what I can bring, she always says the same thing: a salad and your marvelous dressing (oil and vinegar). I suddenly feel as if I should
have paid more attention to the cooking lesson instead of acting like a child.

I remember watching my mother emerge from her bedroom on a night when she and my father were going out, all dressed up in heels and hose, a skirt or dress that cinched her waist, her pearl choker like a ring around the moon. I'd watch her from my perch in the kitchen, walking trancelike as she fastened the back of an earring. I'd like to be small again, just for a little while, and feel close to her. I never really appreciated my mother. I never appreciated myself.

When I repeat Beginner One, I recruit a friend who also happens to work in the same building as the Bridge Club. When Matty arrives, like me, he is astonished to see this whole subculture and is amazed that it exists just a few floors below the publishing company where he works. I feel a little anxious having lured him here after he expressed only mild interest in Bridge at a dinner party. He seems a little nervous and takes a handful of M&M's while we wait for the teacher. I have no idea if it's going to be Barbara or Jeff (who I learn are married), or someone else. I'm hoping for someone else. I want to start fresh, and I promise myself that this time I will read the book we've been given, that I will study the handouts, and try to come to the supervised sessions to practice.

Ellen blows in as if on a breeze. She is light on her feet, with a flowing scarf and zeros in on us as her new pupils. We introduce ourselves and she tells us another woman will be joining us. She
asks if we are a couple, and we quickly disabuse her in that embarrassed way when you are incorrectly paired.
Us
,
married? No!
She urges us to sit as she disappears to get some coffee. I can tell Matty is nervous. We joke that we'll be able to play in the old-age home. We wish our spouses would learn, but they show no interest. Ellen returns and looks at the clock. Our third has not yet arrived, “Let's give it a few more.”

I immediately feel comfortable with her. She has short white hair, a raspy voice, and a cough that sounds like an engine starting. Most important, she doesn't seem world-weary at the prospect of teaching beginners. When she asks why we want to learn Bridge, Matty, noncommittal, says he always thought it would be interesting. When I confess that I am repeating Beginner One, she says that's good, that lots of people do. This makes me feel infinitely better.

Finally, the third arrives somewhat frantic. She immediately launches into a litany of all the ways in which public transportation failed her. She struggles with her coat, her hair gets caught in her necklace. Then she drops her bag and some of the contents spill out. Ellen tells her to take her time, that it's okay. When she finally sits down, still muttering about the train, we introduce ourselves, and she says she is Emily. She looks roughly our age, has red hair that might be natural; her fingernails seem embedded in her fingertips. I don't have a hand fetish per se, but playing bridge does draw the eye, and I can't stop looking at her little shell fingernails.

Matty concentrates as Ellen goes over the basics: how many points to open, how many points to respond. Emily makes a series of quiet baby sucking noises as she listens. I simply like the sound of Ellen's voice. It's musical and warm. She has a New York accent, but I can't quite place the borough. She stops frequently to ask if we follow. As she explains, I finally see that bid
ding is like working a combination lock. You and your partner take turns bidding in an effort to ascertain the combined worth of your hands (which is expressed in point count and the number of trumps). She mentions the number twenty-six, which is the number Barbara put on the board the first night. Now, I get it: ideally we want to have twenty-six points
between
us. With twenty-six points and eight pieces of trump, we are well positioned to win the number of tricks necessary to fulfill the contract, in this case ten tricks or “game.”

Ellen emphasizes that we simply have to memorize these numbers. No way around it. Not only did I fail to memorize my equations when I was in elementary school, I failed a second time, quizzing my daughter with her flash cards.

Emily retrieves a beginner book on Bridge from her bag and starts to consult it as Ellen speaks. It's not clear if she is trying to check Ellen's accuracy or what, but it's distracting and annoying, even disrespectful. Ellen finally asks her to put it away. Emily mumbles something like it's okay and keeps reading it. Matty and I exchange glances. Is she for real?

Ellen tells her again to put it away. We're going to play a hand.

We fumble through a round of bidding with the help of Ellen's instructive prompts and begin to play the hand. When it's Emily's turn to discard she draws her knees up to her chest and twists her torso as if she were Houdini about to escape the confines of a safe. Matty and I can barely look at each other.

After a reasonable amount of time, Ellen says, “Play a card, see what happens.”

Emily is still struggling mightily and enters into a staring contest with her cards. I've witnessed this before. It's not good.

“Just play it,” Ellen says. “We're learning.”

Emily doesn't respond.

“Why don't you try the queen of Hearts?”

Emily glares at Ellen. She has not yet figured out that Ellen knows exactly what is in our hands.

When Matty trumps the queen, Emily gets upset.

“I knew I shouldn't have played that.” Her voice is rich with accusation.

Matty has the deeply satisfied look of a person who has discovered the power of trumping.
Take that!

“I love ruffing,” Ellen says with gusto.

“Ruffing” is another term for trumping. This is when you are void in the suit that's been led and can win the trick by playing a card from the trump suit. In order to do this successfully, and not be out-trumped, you must also keep track of the thirteen cards in the trump suit, especially the honors. I can tell that Matty is picking it up. Numbers are his friends. Ellen also sees that Matty has potential. He need only make a mistake once and then is able to correct it the next hand.

When the lesson is over, Ellen gives us handouts with little quizzes. She tells us it takes time, asks if we had fun.

A collective yes! Though we all look exhausted from concentrating so hard, heads swimmy, Bridge brain.

“Good,” she says. “That's all that matters.”

Then, as Matty gets up, Ellen puts her hand on his shoulder and says, “You have card sense.”

Matty, humble, says, “Really?”

“Yes, you definitely do.”

What about me? I thought I had card sense. Okay, this game is kicking my ass, but my father had tremendous card sense, and since I resemble him in almost every way, doesn't it follow that I also have card sense? Mingy, I tell myself that Ellen only complimented Matty so that he would keep coming, though I know she's right.

Matty, Emily, and I get into the elevator in a dull silence. Then Emily wonders aloud about her train, and I see that she is one of these people oblivious to how little other people care about the mechanics of her life. When she shuffles off into the night, Matty and I are like, whatever.

The night air feels good.

“What did you think?” I ask.

“I liked it, I think.”

In addition to the lessons, we are meant to come to the Bridge Club for at least two sessions of supervised play; these are part of the package. I never made it during my first round of lessons, though we were reminded that we wouldn't improve with lessons alone. When I arrive, people are already parked at tables, some eating lunch from the buffet. Why, at fifty-three years old, is it still so hard to say: Excuse me, is anyone sitting here?

I sit by myself. The room fills and grows noisy. No one joins my table and I start to feel desperate
.
Just then the Keebler Elf arrives. Happy day! He waves and bounces right over. We both confer on how nervous we are to play, then giggle with our anxiety. Two more men come over and ask if they can join us. Yes! Yes!

The younger man, thirtyish, is wearing a leather jacket and a high school insignia ring with an amber stone. He has a crew cut, a cleft chin, and a day's stubble. In an effort to make chitchat before the session begins, I ask why he's learning Bridge. He answers, without making eye contact, that he codes and that people have suggested he might like the game. He volunteers that he spends too much time alone playing video games; he is “forcing” himself to try something more social, though from
his rigid body language it looks as if he'd prefer to be at home with his joystick.
Why am I always seated next to the Travis Bickles of the world?

The other man is older, has a big hard stomach, and seems oblivious to all the cookie and pretzel crumbs that gather on its shelf. He has a classic Jewish name from a bygone era like Al, or Lou, or Hen, and I loved him for that alone. He reminds me of the butcher at the Jewish deli in New Haven who gave us free pretzel logs when my mother shopped there, his apron stained with the blood of kosher meat and a box of marbled halvah crumbling on the counter. I don't know what percentage of Bridge players at the Manhattan Bridge Club are Jewish, but let's just say it seems like a lot.

Ellen brings a stack of duplicate boards to each table and tells us to start. Then she recognizes me and says hi and nods encouragingly. She seems glad that I've heeded her advice and come to the session. At any point we are allowed to call her over and get advice on bidding or playing the hand. She floats from table to table, responding to a nearly constant string of questions. Our table is more reserved. I wonder if it's a guy thing, men not being able to ask for directions.

We start slowly, taking our time with bidding. The Elf and I are partners and neither of us have enough points to bid and happily pass. Travis and Pupik arrive at a bid of four Spades. I know this means they have to take ten tricks (which is called “game”) and that the trump suit is Spades. Travis Bickle becomes frustrated when it's the Elf's turn to discard. He wiggles from side to side and hums as he tries to figure out what to throw. Travis eggs him on, prompts him with rudimentary questions: Can you follow suit? Can you trump? The Elf touches one card after another, slightly yanking each one, as if to discard it, then taps it back and starts pondering what card to throw all over again.
Then Travis does the unthinkable. He leans over, looks at the Elf's hand, points to a card, and says, “That one.”

When the Elf doesn't immediately comply, Travis circles the table with his eyes. He is looking for some kind of acknowledgment from the older man and me that this situation is untenable. I want to stick up for my partner, but I'm afraid of Travis. His leg is jackhammering beneath the table, the floor rumbling like the telltale signs before an earthquake. Then, without warning, Travis reaches back over the Elf, dangles his hand like a mechanical claw over his cards, snatches the card from his hand, and slaps it down on the table. I'm in shock. It's worse than rude. Under any other circumstances, this behavior would likely get a player expelled. But when I look over at the Elf he's shoving a chocolate chip cookie in his mouth whole, happily relieved.

When it's Travis's turn to discard, he tilts his seat back, legs spread wide, and flicks a card into the center of the table as if he were an outlaw, gun cocked, ready for a shoot-out on a dusty main street. In other words, the guy's a douche, but I find him fascinating. He's a classic New York loner, strangely extravagant, and always good theater, so long as he doesn't attack me for throwing the wrong card or making a bad bid. Next to the Elf I probably look like Omar Sharif.

Later, when I blow an easy hand, he asks me if I am an English major.

“Yes,” I say. “How did you know?”

He looks away in disgust and says, “Figures.”

Over time, I meet all kinds of people at the Manhattan Bridge Club, though one of the things I like most about playing here is the relative anonymity preserved around the Bridge table. In
most New York settings, what you do is who you are. And from there a million tiny judgments fall. Not so much at Bridge. The only thing you have to impress other people with is how well you play a hand. In doesn't matter if you are a math teacher or a banker. You could be playing with the secretary of state or the replacement drummer for Mötley Crüe. The size of your portfolio is inconsequential if you fail to pull trump.

I once played with a woman with Louise Brooks–style bangs and Philip Johnson spectacles, round and black as tires. Her partner was dressed completely in leopard prints including her ballet flats, her eyebrows were plucked in the shape of the golden arches. They could have been extras in
Gatsby
. I imagined they would be flamboyant, but they were quiet, efficient players, showed almost no emotion win or lose, flat-liners, all their energy spent concentrating. The social aspects of the game didn't interest them very much. My partner that day could have been Coco Chanel's younger sister, or an Italian screen star. Her accent and age were impossible to pin down. Her clothes were made of crinkled silk, her rings were as big and bright as jelly candies and swam about on her thin fingers, her knuckles like horse knees protruding with age. When she liked her hand, she folded the cards into her palm and “innocently” looked around the room, as if she hadn't a care in the world. When she didn't like them, her lips gathered in a pouch of disgust and she stared into the center of the table.