Splinters Redux (1)
Dedications In Memory and Recognition of My Brother Norman Douglas Teitelbaum Who Truly Existed on Earth However Briefly In Loving Memory of Ken Briller Best Friend, Surrogate Brother, and Mentor With Love, Respect, and Thanks to My Husband Larry Who Tolerates My Absurdities Fondly and with Respect and Admiration to Dr. Sam Chapter 1 THE OTHERS My father was a physically insignificant man, whose slight stature and gaunt physique made him appear brittle-boned. A thick pitch-black mono-brow extended across his high forehead that was always furrowed as though constantly immersed in deep thoughts. His face was sculpted, with protruding high cheekbones and a hawkish nose looming over his thin pale lips. He always kept clean-shaven and possessed a shock of thick black hair. His overall appearance was distinctly Eastern European, but his facial characteristics were unique and often cynical. The tongue-thrust-into-cheek made me most irritable. It implied a myriad of thoughts: disgust, disappointment, anger, betrayal, and the pondering of �higher issues�. Zelig was a self-proclaimed scholar. When he was not reading The New York Times, he sat for hours with his index finger and thumb supporting his head, listening to classical music. How that guise irritated me. It is a wonder that such magnificent strains had any effect upon that soulless man. He could love the music so much that it carried him off with its beauty and, yet, he could not love me. I shall never know my crime; perhaps it was just being born. Following the divorce of my parents, leaving me alone with my mother, Ruth, in the Bronx,, Zelig, permitted no one in his family to know where he was living. If pressed, he parried that questioning made him ill. His two sisters, and two nieces and his nephew tortured themselves with visions of him living alone in squalor with no one to care for him. His demeanor and constant allusions to secret health issues escalated their fears. I used to say, �One day, he will be found dead on the D Train�. They found no humor in that remark. There was endless speculation on every possibility from his being gay, to being a long forgotten Communist Mole, to having re-married a shiksa. None of us was prepared for what was to come, nor could we have conjured up the strangers who faced us on the cemetery upon his demise. SURVIVAL I am. That is good they tell me. I beg to disagree! They do not walk my path. Peaks and valleys rule me. Chemicals control me. The beast within wants out. They do not know its wrath. I am. I never should have been. An accidental traveler racing through time; Bending space, Hurtling toward my death. Chapter 2 Coney Island Strangers occupy the apartment on 27th Street in Brooklyn where his sisters once lived. The house on 29th Street, owned by Zelig�s widowed brother-in-law, was a three-family abode. That dwelling is long gone leveled by bulldozers years ago. The widower lived in the basement apartment. One niece and her family, and the nephew with his family, lived in the first and second floor apartments. Zelig�s second niece and her husband lived in Maryland, and later Southern New Jersey, where they eventually raised two adopted children. She was a superficially generous woman who housed a heart of stone and a soul of ice. In the early years, they were frequent visitors to the house in Coney Island. Zelig�s older brother and his wife had moved to Florida, largely at his sister-in-law�s behest. The rest of the family despised her; she was clearly a cut above them all, educated and sophisticated. They had one daughter who eventually married a successful lawyer. The Coney Island contingent revered Zelig, although his life was a failure and he never lived up to the high expectations they all had for him in his young days. The women in Coney Island treated the nephew like a cripple, keeping bad news from him, doting on him, and ringing their hands because his wife would not bow down before him (or them). My mother was the crazy one, oh yes, certifiable! How they all detested her; though quite mad, she was bright and well educated. I fancied I could hear her laughing at Zelig�s funeral when the truth came out and revealed him publically. During the years while his sisters were still alive, Zelig would often let them know, after the fact, of hospitalizations for one sub rosa �procedure� or another. They were the family criers, imparting information to the rest of the clan. I count myself out of the group since, obviously, he did. They were his family; I was just the daughter. My communication with him, following the divorce, was limited to reaching him through a call to my aunts. Zelig was quite the dutiful brother and uncle, communicating daily with his sisters, nephew and nieces by telephone. Of course, they could never reach out to him as he kept his whereabouts secret even from the most favored. How they agonized! How they bemoaned the situation! What would become of him? How did he eat? I could not have cared less, but my curiosity was nonetheless great. When he deigned to visit his sisters, a Saturday ritual that continued for all the 45 years from my birth to his demise, they made a profession of getting him to �Eat at least a little something�. He would say he was �limited�, but never explained why. He was restricted to cottage cheese, a bissle boiled chicken, and a cup or two of coffee. What huge fights would ensue if one or the other had neglected to buy the cottage cheese. One would think a murder had been committed. In the later years, he would only partake of the coffee and eat nothing. How they wept! His act never changed. He arrived with the New York Times folded in a plastic bag, his eyeglasses stashed in his shirt pocket with a pen. The nieces, nephew, and cousins flocked to his sisters� apartment to capture even a half-hour of his precious time. Perhaps they would hear a pearl of his wisdom. The divine uncle Zelig whose advice they accepted as manna from heaven and took as though proffered by God Him/Herself. How they fawned and simpered! How they managed to overlook the miserable excuse for a father he was. One afternoon, my aunt received a telephone call from a young woman who announced herself as a friend of Zelig�s. She bore bad news; Zelig had passed away. She had found him dead on the floor of his apartment. He had been hospitalized and released, evidently, for unknown reason, In complete shock, it obviously did not occur to my aunt to exclaim, �You found Zelig in his apartment? You knew where he lived; where did he live? Who are you?� ad infinitum. I only wish I had gotten that call but, of course, that was not Zelig�s wish. This strange woman had spoken with him only days before his passing whereupon he made a full revelation of his life to her. He announced he had a family. He instructed her that in case of his death she was only to notify his sister and/or his younger niece (may those bitches rot in hell). Zelig admitted to his �friend� that he had a sister whom he had kept secret all the years �Because she was quite ill�. Even on his deathbed, still a pathological liar to the end! He then admitted to having an entire family, and oh yes, by the way, a daughter. One by one, the family was receiving the news of Zelig�s death. When I returned home from work that evening, one of my second cousins who is not close with me, called to let me know. She was crying. She said, �I don�t know any other way to say this so I�m going to come straight out. Your Father is Dead! I am so sorry!� I was silent and not at all moved. My cousin was so emotional. I decided on the spot not to make any pretenses that she would have instantly seen through. My non-relationship with Zelig over the years was no secret to anyone in the family. Though my cousin would never admit it, she knew exactly how I felt about him and why. At some level, I believe she understands but, for her mother�s sake, she keeps up the bullshit. My cousin told me about the mystery woman and that everyone was very confused and �didn�t exactly understand who she was�. �No Shit�, I said to my cousin. �Wait, if she found him, that means she knows where he lived. Where did he live?� My cousin came back with the typical family-style, Coney Island illusive response; �No one knows anything�. She advised me to call Brooklyn (my aunt�s apartment) and speak with her mother. My cousin said, �our aunt is hysterical and threatening to jump off the roof if anyone tries to come into the apartment except for her two nieces�. What was I chopped liver? Was I not her niece too? Wasn�t Zelig my father, and only uncle to the others? I was thinking, �Let her jump, the bitch�. I had taken a back seat for too many years to the entire family. That was the downfall of my mother: giving the family its power by not taking her own husband under control When I called Brooklyn they plainly stated, �Stay away and no one knows anything�. The said �Mystery Woman� was coming later that evening to the apartment and would reveal whatever there was to know (but not for my ears). Apparently, �MW� was an attorney who would afford some professionalism in an otherwise subjective and (excuse me) fucked up situation. I said that I would call later to speak with her but that conversation never took place. They informed me that she had already left. I will never cease to regret not going regardless of their pleas for me to stay away. It would have prevented the cosmic shock yet to come. The two nieces and my stricken aunt took care of all the arrangements without ever consulting me. They notified me after the fact of the logistics of the burial. There would be a graveside service, the Rabbi was already selected and I should just, �Arrive at 1:30�, according to Zelig�s younger niece (damn her eyes). Had I listened to her, the entire ritual would have passed without me and Zelig would have been buried with dignity and respect since the service actually began at 10:30 a.m. Even in the finality of death, he still denied me! My husband, children, and I arrived at the cemetery at 10:00 a.m. The body was already there and so was the funeral director, Mr. J. When I introduced myself to him, the man paled. In his conversations with my cousins the night before, there had been no mention of a daughter. He was mortified! He instantly realized that if he knew nothing of my family, that the Rabbi was equally unaware of our existence. Confused and quite shame-faced, Mr. J. hurried off to find the Rabbi. Before taking his leave, he told us that to his shock, he had personally known Zelig for many years but never knew of me. By the time the Rabbi arrived, most of my family were there and the �lines� quite markedly drawn. My �good� cousins were surrounding my family. The bitches were huddled together, perhaps surprised to see us �too early� for their liking. The Rabbi approached us immediately and took aside. His face was ashen. He confessed at once his confusion and embarrassment. Only the night before, he met with Zelig�s nieces and his hysterical sister who never told me, my husband and my children (Zelig�s grandchildren). They gave him a eulogy filled with accolades about Zelig, his loving, devoted and giving nature, his familial ties, and plenty of other bullshit. The Rabbi queried us for quite a while and we were unabashed in responding. We went on to attempt explanation of the possible reasons for my aunt�s and cousins� lies and omissions of the previous night. What we could not explain was the presence of a rather large group of �strangers� appearing to be somehow involved in the day�s events. The Rabbi having listened intently to all we said told us �I can not, in good conscience, deliver the eulogy I originally prepared that speaks to the loving nature, kindness, and humanity of Zelig�. He recorded our names in his book and excused himself to compose his thoughts. It was then that �MW� approached me for the first time. My family sat on the bench beneath a tree where the Rabbi had left us. At first, I was cautious. Then I rose to my feet, trembling. �Are you my sister�, I asked with tears springing to my eyes. �No�, she replied. She pointed to an older couple standing across the lawn and identified them as her parents. �MW� recounted that, for over sixty years, her parents had been close friends of Zelig�s. To her, he had been Uncle Zelig �all her life�, and she was 38 years old. That meant that she, and her family, knew Zelig while he was still married to my mother! I had only one other question for her, �Where did he live�? She declined to answer and explained that he lived with her aunt, to whom he was married, who was extremely old and ill and could brook no shocks in her life. It was evident that she was telling the truth about the aunt being ill, given her absence from the cemetery. Despite my cajoling and promises not to disturb her aunt in any way, she was steadfast. To this day, I do not know and never shall where Zelig spent his last twenty-one years, nor the name of the woman with whom he spent them. She, her family and these friends had been his real life. It was clear that he was married to this other woman, whether by common law or otherwise. Zelig was a bigamist! Remarkable! Unspeakable! In of a state of shock, I approached the people �MW� had identified as her parents. Probably of Russian or eastern European decent, they were a nice looking older couple. Zelig was born in 1909 in Russia-Poland. Somewhere around 1916, he and his family immigrated to the U.S. According to �MW�, it was while they all attended NYU that they struck up the original friendship. That leant accuracy to her assumption of the relationship dating back sixty years. Standing before this kind looking couple, I could read the confusion and yes, sorrow in their eyes. I spoke, my voice barely audible, �I understand you knew Zelig for sixty years�. It was the man who answered, �Yes, that�s right�, he said. Unable to hold back the tears I blurted �Did you ever know he had a daughter? Did you know that I existed?� The woman turned her face aside to hide the grimace overwhelming her pretty, chiseled features. The man grasped her hand to steady her and simultaneously replied, �No�. I fainted on the spot. Chapter 3 Eternal Child Dark twisted threads weave through the blackest segments of my life. I do not necessarily view my entire life as dark and depressing. Au contraire! Given my mania and delight in high drama, the painful times often provided pure pleasure. Proof that life was not worth surviving and excellent reasons to off myself. SPLINTERS Tiny shards of light pierce the veil Glimpses of sunsets and sunrises Splinters of clarity Shades of sanity Reality�s hammer strikes the brain Unrest, unbalance, disillusion Malediction waxes, Depression Oblivion soothes the soul Black kid gloves stroke the brow Beyond thoughts, fast asleep Silent Dreams. Seeking my fate in the proverbially fast lane, anything normal becomes mundane. Plodding along on a quiet desirable path is as loathsome to me as life itself. The unattainable beckons me as the songs of the sirens, and for that I can always muster up energy. Strangely, I have often attained exactly what I wanted against all odds. Some incredible coups have been won through my efforts (I prefer to think of it as magic) over the years. My utmost secret self harbors a belief that no matter what, things will work out in the end. Despite all logic, I hold to that faith. �Damaged people are dangerous because they know they can survive.� Painstakingly I weave the tattered web, which requires constant introspection and running of old tapes. Forcing myself into reflection and thereby depression the thread runs on, and runs me. Ultimately and always, it is resentment. I queried my children about experiencing resentment. They used to respond in the negative so I knew they were full of shit. They are older now and matured. More capable of honesty they are free flowing fonts of all their resentments and anger. Indeed! Seems to me they have less reason than I do which, of course, is a matter of perspective. What in the world have I to be resentful of you ask? We have four �normal� children and three delicious adoring grandchildren. Their unconditional love and respect for me is a constant source of amazement. Having no personal frame of reference, their pursuit of my affection and attention is confounding. I who never bonded with my own parents am clueless as to how to accept or react to their adoration. My parents were nightmare figures and I went lengths to avoid and eventually dismiss them from my life. It would be years away from those hideous dreams of childhood before I would comprehend the depth and breadth of their dysfunctional syndromes. The instincts of children are keen and somehow I always knew that, in order to survive, I would have to do so alone. Like Topsy�, I just growed�. Alone Secret niches I can find Amongst the mazes in my mind Not a soul may enter there To seek me in my dark despair. Narrow paths so dimly lit Lead to an ever-deepening pit Lofty hedgerows damp with dew Shelter me from any view.
Copyright © 1999 Louise Friedman |