Hello, you have reached zee Izraelienz!
Alive whoever you are, call me back, will you? I hear the dead get good rates on longdistance.
Wanda dials the number as it appears on the screen for ID, and wouldn’t you know it, it’s PopPop, estranged father of Israel, resident of a world that came into being when God said Miami, it was.
Unlike his wife, who died years ago of some strain of neglect, he’s Affiliated, firstborn and so, a survivor.
Hello, you have reached, she says again when he says, About time!
No call for such snarl, she’s just exorcising instructions — Wanda with the cord coiled around her arm, a snake’s helix hissing its orders from beyond the grave that is silence.
Who, a boy, when was He born, He’s survived, how, no one else did, hymn, who am I, who are you…what’s the name, beautiful, Benjamin…nu, no problem, no problem whatsoever, I’m glad to, send Him on down, fine, that sounds great…make sure you lock everything up…do you know if they’ve left a will…guess I’ll have to find a new lawyer…Christ, just give me a call when you get here — then, we’ll talk about severance. Despite that he hadn’t known until presently of his SonSon’s existence, PopPop’s more than willing to assume responsibility, legal if not especially otherwise, for Him whose bris, which though never needed would never happen, PopPop wasn’t invited to, though he would’ve loved to attend or to’ve sent regrets only, an opportunity to stiff the parents on a gift, a check paid to the order of the happily bouncy, as he’d estranged himself from the family, or them from him: the flamboyant, wristflaunted homosexuality not as much the issue as an unwillingness to appreciate, or even respect, an observant life for his son — now Israel then John, according to some accounts, though others hold Jim, which was James. Affiliated’s one thing, nothing too aberrant about that, we don’t have a say in the matter, I am that I am, but observant, God…and then to think he’s presently dead, John Israel my boy, that he’d died for it, of it and me, what a messy martyrdom, from the rebirth that is conversion, who would’ve thought, that one’s blood could be changed by just a prayer, a bath of the glands and a — why’d he have to go get himself switched?
I myself had that surgery, but…
After they brunch on all that’s left in the basement fridge, leftovers intended last night — even suckling the sponges used to wipedown, then leaving the dishes, utensils, and plasticware stacked in the sink for either Adela or nobody, or else herself upon a successful return — Wanda piles Him into the landrover, Hanna’s: meaty black, chromed, and with the power of hundreds of machined horses, its loin of trunk slash backseat packed to obstruct the windows and mirrors with three changes of clothing in a garmentbag (Israel’s clothes, which Benjamin could only hope to ooze into, even if elasticized, Him, them or both, leave the bottommost button undone), and one outsized piece of luggage Ima & Aba had only ever taken with them once, to Palestein, early in the marriage, monogrammed HI and filled with assorted mementos mori nestled alongside a thermos of the juice of the grape. Photographs, birthcertificate, a fountainpen stuffed in a stocking. Wanda horseshoes out of the drive, onto the street, toward the risen sun then south, toward the Gatekeeper’s not yet beset with the blare of sirens (sweeps had begun in the cities, Developments would deal with their own until reserves could get themselves mobilized). As they approach the hut, Wanda begs an indulgence with a smile betraying, her nerve, nerves, her lips and caffeinatedly browned fallen teeth, the heart of the withered Keeper, too, who as if inspired by miracle or only listless, secularly depressed, raises the guardrail and lets her pass with Him hidingly pushed down to the floor of the landrover, to tongue at the mats, for crumbs of loose change.
Many hold this landroving a violation of the Sabbath and if so, what of it: mass death leaving only one infant survivor must satisfy the minimum requirement of an emergency. A situation, most rabbis would rule, to be immensely forgiven. The two of them sealed in together with climate heat Hi, radio locked on the frequency of the news with the volume knobbed way up past conversation, a hand gloves the wheel, the other grips a beverageless beverage holder as if to stay grounded. Out of Joysey, Turnpike south to I-95—the moment they hit the Florida stateline, smash, a dent past the weeping sign, Welcome To — The Sunshine State — No-Fault Divorce—it’s all weather…a snowflake, the ineffable first that falls that night into morning — Sunday, the day after the day that was Xmas — the first that’d fallen in Florida in the lifespan of anyone’s memory, stars their windshield, melts, trickles away into speed. As tradition, as unique and as fragile.
Mortal Beach (say it like you mean it, you know the accent), PopPop Israelien’s retirement facility: a skyscraping tower flanked by two low and white wings that host pools both indoor and out; hedging, wellkempt; the ocean teems just outside. They pull up the lazy drive ranked in palms rubbed together for warmth, then idle. An elderly, unseasonably polyester apparition stoops under a canopy sagging with snow. Him, he’s out of shaped, as if a genital cut into covenant — hung flaccidly, flagging like the form of the state they’re in, dysfunction. Wanda unlocks, helps Benjamin out, approaches with caution, with nothing to say, burdens the luggage about His shoulders and arms with no help from His grandfather, if that’s who he is, who must be when he takes from the pocket of his polyester the rent he’d shylocked last week, a jealous wad, rips from it what feels less than half, best I can do then presses its stack into the palm of the woman to mingle their shvitz: Wanda who refuses at first, as she’d been conditioned, but then, he pushes, understanding the ritual yet hoping for a final refusal, and now and as if a denial or two too early and quickly, Wanda accepts, stuffs the mess down into her dress to lump her another breast between the two that are already abundant, kisses Benjamin distractedly, with only one lip on the fat lip of His forehead, withdraws, hauls herself back into the idling rover, out and through the lot then down the lower drive; slowly going so as to avoid the bodies arrayed, stacked by numbers, floor then unit, corpses asphalted and ready for pickup, under the circling and perch of harbinger birds.
Polaks, PopPop sighs, waving a fist in her wake.
And then, turning to consider Benjamin, raising his voice — don’t slouch, stand straight, chins up, don’t forget to breathe; as the lesser of our prophets advise, enjoy it while it lasts.
A week’s vacation begins with a game, chess, the rules PopPop’s, those of the house, the loser to pay for the delivery they’re expecting, any moment. Miso pepperoni. A large pie topped with anchovy sushi. Carbohydrate with extra cheese. Languorous lo mein. And so he goes easy on Him, slow but not too: there’s no blitz, no other nefarious gambit with three moves to check, four to mate; PopPop relaxing, even offering Him to play white.
In this life, the rules are so seldom explained.
Here, the hope’s to safeguard the King, to protect him no matter the price, even that of the Queen whose room He has, MomMom’s — always and early: pieces are introduced, sent out to allow in the air, pawns like the princes in fairytales He’s never been told, set out into the world in which to find for us their fortunes; then the King, He should shuffle inside, Castling, slamming the heavy door to every heart along the hallway, narrowly longing: needing His solitude, such majestic room or space, crown removed, tarnished, flaking leaf to the ore, only to be cornered in a cloaking nightshirt, gnawing at His nails—thou shalt not removeth thy hand from thy piece…