On Tuesdays, They Played Mah Jongg (16 page)

My mother and Florence were wearing jeans and long-sleeve sweat shirts, my mother’s with a gold butterfly on the front and Florence’s with Betty Boop, but Rona still had on her robe, which she had clasped right up to the top button. On her feet were a pair of gold, high-heeled slippers with fuzzy tassels that one usually saw in movies from the 1930s.

Rona obviously had been crying as her eyes were red and swollen, and for the first time since I could remember, she was not wearing her large, multi-colored pink tinted glasses. She was holding a Kleenex in her hand, and the sight of her distress made my mother and Florence each pull a tissue from their sleeves.

When did they have time to re-supply their sleeved tissue dispensers? When I was little, I would stare at my mother’s arms looking for the hole where the endless supply of tissues was kept.

“What did the doctor say?” Florence asked.

Rona told us that Morton had a massive heart attack and that the next few hours were critical. They were running tests to see the extent of the damage before they made a decision about surgery.

My mother suggested I go home, but something in my gut told me to stick around, so I did. I asked Rona what happened, and my mother asked me why I ask stupid questions. Florence patted my knee as if to understand. I didn’t think it was a stupid question, and neither did Rona, as she began to tell us.

“It was my fault,” Rona began.

“Oh no! You told him you were having an affair?” my mother interrupted, and I thought, “Now, who is asking stupid questions?”

“Hannah, shut up and let her finish,” Florence told my mother as she looked over at me and winked. That was the first time I heard Florence tell any of the girls to shut up. I was so impressed.

“He really does love me,” Rona said, and she started to cry again. We patiently waited for her to continue.

“We were getting ready for bed, and Morton was acting strange,” Rona said.

“Strange, how?” Florence asked.

“He was acting romantic,” Rona answered.

“Morton was acting romantic?” my mother asked.

“He suggested we go to bed, so I went upstairs to change into something sexy,” Rona continued. “He turned off all the lights and brought some candles into the bedroom.”

“Morton?” my mother asked.

“Yes. Morton,” Rona said.

“Oh my God,” Florence interrupted.

“So, I came out of the bathroom, and the bedroom was lit only by candlelight, and Morton was on the bed … naked,” Rona said.

“Oh my God,” Florence interrupted again.

“Morton, on the bed, naked,” my mother pondered.

For me the sight of Morton Sapperstein naked under the glow of candlelight would be enough to cause my own heart attack.

“Believe me, girls, no one else looks like a naked Morton,” Rona continued. “He had a look in his eyes that I have not seen since we were newlyweds.”

“Oh my God,” Florence again said.

“Then what happened?” my mother asked obviously asking another stupid question.

“I slowly walked over to the bed, and I removed my robe, and the look of lust turned into a look of pain,” Rona told them. “At first, I was humiliated.”

“Oh my God,” Florence said again.

“Then he clutched his chest, and I realized he was having another heart attack, so I called an ambulance,” Rona said as she cried again.

My mother and Florence put their arms around Rona, as she cried quietly. For a loud woman, she cried so softly. As she wiped away the tears, she lifted her head up, and she asked them, “Do you want to know the worst part?”

Each of us said, “Yes.”

“The worst part was that when the ambulance arrived, I answered the door like this,” Rona said as she stood up, turned around to face us, and unfastened her robe, letting it drop to the floor.

There she was. Fifty-seven-year-old Rona Sapperstein was standing in a crowded waiting room wearing a red lace bra and panties, and gold, high-heeled slippers with fuzzy tassels. Amazingly, this chain-smoking, middle-aged woman had the body of a 30 year old.

A group of college kids who brought in one of their fraternity brothers with alcohol poisoning were sitting a few feet behind us, and when they saw Rona disrobe, they applauded and whistled. Rona took a bow, put her robe back on, and sat down.

I had to hand it to Rona. There she was faced with the possibility of her husband’s death, and she still maintained her sense of humor. I think she liked the attention from the fraternity brothers also.

“So you see, girls,” Rona said. “He really does love me.”

“You always knew he did, Rona,” Florence told her.

“Yes, but now that I know for sure, I might lose him,” Rona responded.

Florence asked Rona where Myra was, and we were told that Myra was flying back from her vacation in Greece. She also told us that her son was on his way home from college.

The tests revealed that Morton had substantial blockage in his arteries and would need a quintuple bypass. They performed the surgery the following morning, and he slowly but fully recovered.

However, Morton never did completely quit smoking.

~~~~~

“That is where the story ends, Dr. Mikowsky,” Michael announced, “So now you know why I could not finish it.”

Dr. Mikowsky put his pencil and pad on his desk and took off his glasses, placing them on the desk as well. He looked at his patient, who had a look of satisfaction that belied the doctor’s assessment of the situation. Michael looked at his watch and seeing that his time was up, stood up, pulled a check from his wallet as usual, handed it to the doctor, and walked toward the door.

“Michael,” the doctor called out, and Michael turned around. “You know that is not where the story ends, and when you come in next Tuesday, you are going to tell me the rest of the story.”

“OK,” Michael responded with a sigh, and he left.

“What? OK? No protest?” The doctor thought. He expected Michael to tell him he was wrong and that there was nothing else to tell. “OK,” as if he knew his therapist did not believe that was the end of the story.

Both of Dr. Mikowsky’s afternoon appointments had cancelled, so after lunch, he decided to read through his files on Michael from the last two months. He was not sure what it was he was looking for, but he knew that after hearing what he believed to be only half the unfinished story, and probably all that Michael had written before experiencing the writer’s block, his previous sessions could possibly shed some new light on what made Michael Bern tick.

Michael had relayed to the doctor the stories of Rona, Doreen and Arlene, revealed how Florence was closer to him than his own mother, and disclosed how Donald was his first and only love.

Dr. Mikowsky flipped through his notes in reverse order.

He found it. In his first session with Michael, the patient declared, “I am not going to pay you to listen to me talk about my mother for an hour. She is not the reason I am here.”

The doctor suspected then and was sure now that Michael’s mother was the central subject of the unfinished part of the screenplay. He was also sure that during the next session, they were going to talk about the one person whose story Michael had not fully told — Hannah Shimmer’s. For this reason, Dr. Mikowsky completely cleared his schedule that following Tuesday.

17

As usual, Michael arrived ten minutes early for his next appointment. Dr. Mikowsky opened the door to his office and said, “OK, Michael, come in.”

Michael walked past the doctor and took his usual seat on the couch. That day, Michael was wearing jeans and an orange T-shirt that hugged his body too well, the doctor thought, and Dr. Mikowsky, who was wearing his usual uniform of flat front kakis, blue oxford shirt and lace-up, black shoes with white socks, sat down in his chair.

The doctor picked up a legal pad and a freshly sharpened pencil and looked at Michael, wondering where to begin.

“Michael, when you left the other day, you said that was the end of the story, yet we both know it is not,” the doctor began. “My guess is that where we left off is where the writing stopped, and that is the place where you experienced the 19 years of writer’s block.”

Michael stood up and walked over to the window, looking down on the street before turning around and leaning on the sill. He crossed his arms in front of him, and Dr. Mikowsky studied the expression on Michael’s face.

“Yes,” Michael said.

“That’s it?” the doctor asked, “Yes?”

“That is where I stopped, and I cannot seem to get further than that point in the story,” Michael answered.

“Michael, I am going to guess that the part of the story you cannot write is about your mother,” the doctor said.

“I would like to give you credit for that amazing feat of deductive reasoning, but isn’t it obvious?” Michael said.

Dr. Mikowsky was not insulted by Michael’s sarcasm.

“Michael, when you first walked into my office, you said you would not pay me to talk about your mother for an hour. Remember that?” he asked.

“Yes,” Michael stated.

“Well, Michael, that is about to change,” Dr. Mikowsky said. “I think your relationship with your mother is at the center of everything that has happened to you, and that you have been avoiding the subject for too long.”

“Do you know what my mother would say, Doc?” Michael asked. “She would say, ‘Look up psychology in the dictionary and it says blame the mother.’”

“Do you believe that?” he asked his patient.

Michael quit leaning on the windowsill and walked back over to the couch and sat down. He looked at the doctor, and in an unusual move for Michael, he turned, pulled his feet up and lay down on the couch, resting his head on the cushion and looking up at the ceiling. In all the times Michael spent in this office, he never once lay down on the couch.

Dr. Mikowsky looked at the tall figure, who barely fit on the couch. He had chosen a seven-foot sofa on the chance that he might have a patient who was over six feet tall, and now his purchase was validated.

“Dr. Mikowsky, you have been patient with me all along — if you will excuse the pun,” Michael said. “You always knew there was a lot I was not telling you, yet you did not press too hard about any of it. I, too, have been thinking a lot about our sessions, and I have made a decision.”

“What is that?” he asked.

Michael sighed and continued to stare at the ceiling.

He finally broke the silence and said, “I hope you have enough sharpened pencils because I am about to tell you everything you wanted to know about my mother.”

Dr. Mikwosky glanced over at his desk and saw three other sharpened pencils just like the one in his hand. He was ready.

~~~~~

After I graduated from college, I started working as a waiter in the evenings while writing this very story during the day. I pondered whether I should stay in Newport News or move to California and pursue a career as a screenwriter. Before I knew it, almost six months had passed, and during the first week of November 1985, Karl Stein moved into our house.

Sammy had warned my mother and so had Rona and Morton, but she ignored all of them and continued to see Karl. Florence, however, was tougher than all of them. In the months since rehab, she had gained an enormous amount of self-confidence, and for the first time in her life, Florence was not afraid to dole out advice. This was ironic because for years my mother was the one who was always telling Florence how to run her life.

Since Florence had taken on a part-time job and went to more ballroom dancing events, she had expanded her social circle, no longer needing to spend so much time with the girls. To her credit, Florence was always good at making friends and enjoyed going out and having a good time — more so now that she was sober. However, being out and about, Florence witnessed first-hand Karl’s behavior in public, away from Hannah.

One night at the Huntington Club, Florence ran into Karl, who had just stepped out from one of the backroom poker games. From what she overheard, he had apparently lost a bundle of money, and he had also been drinking heavily. Florence walked up to Karl to say hello, and he looked at her with disgust and started yelling at her.

According to Florence, he said something like, “You and your friends don’t give a shit about Hannah! All you care about is your goddamn Mah Jongg. Who the fuck needs any of you?”

Florence was shocked, and then Karl threw his drink at her and shouted, “That is what you get for puking on me, bitch!”

Karl then grabbed a bottle that was sitting on the bar and got on the elevator. He proceeded downstairs, and when he located Florence’s Camaro in the parking lot, he poured the contents of the bottle on her car and then smashed the windshield with it.

The following day, Florence told my mother what happened, but she did not believe her. Hannah was convinced that Florence made the whole story up because she was jealous.

Their friendship never recovered, but my relationship with Florence grew stronger, since I would spend more time at Florence’s as my mother spent more time with Karl. In spite of her friends’ warnings, she was determined to be with this man, rather than be alone.

Karl’s lease was up at the end of October, and he approached my mother about moving in. My mother never consulted me. She just told me one night as I was headed for work, timing it so I would not have time to react, since I was never late for work, nor called in sick. The next day, Karl arrived with his suitcases.

I asked when we were to expect his furniture and other belongings, and he gave me some story about how his apartment was furnished when he rented it, and all he had were his clothes.

I could never get a straight answer out of Karl, and I did not believe him for a second. He apparently retired from a real estate business, so why was he living in a furnished apartment in Newport News, Virginia? Why was he driving a 12-year-old Chevrolet Caprice? When I asked my mother any of these questions, she told me to mind my own business.