On Tuesdays, They Played Mah Jongg (17 page)

No sooner had Karl moved in that I became more determined to leave, so I saved every penny I made, in order to fund my move to California. I figured it would take me about four months to save enough money to fly out, put a deposit on an apartment and get settled, but I wondered if I would last that long.

I would spend my days in my room typing away and my evenings working, so I had little contact with either my mother or Karl.

My mother would always give him money, as he would have some excuse or another for not having any cash on hand. She had a few bucks in the bank from Bart’s life insurance, but I knew it would not be long before that was gone, since Karl insisted on playing golf every day. My mother apparently had a thing for golfers. I figured she liked the fact that a golfer was guaranteed to be out of the house for at least seven hours a day. But, playing golf every day is expensive, and why she continued to enable this hobby of his was beyond me.

Karl established a routine, leaving early in the morning, returning home early in the afternoon, and asking if anyone called for him. He always asked this as if he were some big shot. If my grandmother were still alive, she would have called him a
shtocha
. I was home most of the day, and I can tell you that no one ever called for him.

As the weeks passed, no one called for my mother either.

Except for the weekly Mah Jongg games, my mother never spent any time with her friends anymore. None of them liked Karl. None of them liked Bart Shimmer either, but they tolerated him, for as annoying as Bart was, he never drank too much or insulted them. Karl, on the other hand, had managed to alienate everyone so much that the girls could not even tolerate him long enough to spend time with my mother. Just as quickly, the husbands grew sick of Karl, too.

Florence sometimes felt guilty because she insisted Karl date my mother, and now she regretted it. How could she have known? Karl had a knack for being a total charmer at first to everyone he met. The only other exception was me. I never considered him charming, and I knew deep down that he could not be trusted.

Karl also had a nasty streak that made my mother look like Miss Mary Sunshine. Whereas she would insult you without your realizing it, Karl would say whatever he wanted about you, right to your face. He called me fat and lazy for working as a waiter while pursuing my writing. He tried to give me lectures about my career or my “lifestyle” as he put it, as if he had any career of his own or knew anything about being gay. He did not hesitate to make snide remarks about gay people either.

His favorite thing to do was use my admiration of TV stars as fodder for his cruel humor. I was a big fan of Lucille Ball, Carol Burnett and Mary Tyler Moore at the time, and he would pick on me constantly about this. I never understood why he was so concerned about my taste in actresses. What difference did it make to him?

My mother never objected to the way he treated me. Sometimes she would laugh at his jokes, and I did not know why I was sticking around. The only person I could talk to was Florence, and she asked me if I wanted to move into her condo, but I declined, thinking that would put Florence in an awkward position.

Then, there was the drinking. Anyone who tells you Jews do not drink, never met Karl Stein. I had never been around a raging drunk before. Oh sure, I had friends in college who partied until they passed out, but none of them were really nasty, and we all chalked it up to typical college behavior. Most of them were funny or just annoying when they drank. I was never much of a drinker. I got drunk once, and I was so sick the next two days, that I decided never to drink more than one drink in a 48-hour period again. I have stuck to that rule. I think I am the only person in Hollywood who has never tried cocaine either.

It only takes one bad experience to make up my mind about anything. It’s like the way I pay cash for everything. It once took me two months to pay off a credit card, and I vowed never to use one again, and I haven’t.

Karl was different. He would come home from the golf course drunk more often than not, driving himself half the time. One night my car broke down, and I called my mother to see if she could pick me up. Instead, she sent Karl to pick me up after his poker game, and he was plastered. I called my mother and insisted she come and get me, and she told me to get in his car and not make a scene. My safety was of no concern. What everyone else thought was her only concern. My own mother actually told me to ride in the car with a drunk driver. She was willing to put my life in danger to avoid any gossip.

Fortunately, one of the other waiters offered to drive me home, and Karl sped off in a huff. I knew I should have taken his keys, but he had a violent temper that I did not want to incite, and secretly, I was hoping he would kill himself.

I had been living with this situation for about a month when I came down to breakfast one morning and discovered Karl sitting there with my mother. “What? No golf?” I thought, but I did not dare say anything out loud. It was then that I realized I was living in fear in my own home.

My mother was sitting there reading the paper with her usual cigarette and coffee, and Karl was also reading the paper. I poured myself a cup of coffee and sat down at the table. Karl asked me if I wanted a section of the paper, and I told him I did not.

Somehow, Karl had developed this perception that I was not interested in current events and never read the paper, and he would make an issue of this every opportunity he had. Who was he to judge me? He did not know anything about me. He did not know that I would arrive at work at 4:00 pm, do my side work for an hour and then read the paper during my break before the dinner rush. But, I never told him that because I did not think he deserved an explanation for my behavior. He was not my father.

It became painfully clear that he was annoyed that I did not want a section of the paper.

He pointed to a paragraph and made this sarcastic comment, “Look, Mary Tyler Moore is going to be on television Monday night.”

I looked at him, wondering what my mother saw in this jerk. Then, I pointed to a section of the paper he was reading, and I said, “Look, there is an Alcoholics Anonymous meeting on Wednesday night.”

~~~~~

Michael stopped talking. Dr. Mikowsky looked up, and he could see Michael was breathing heavily, and his heart was beating so fast that he could actually see it through Michael’s shirt.

“Michael, do you need a break?” he asked.

Michael’s voice started to shake, and he said, “No, if I don’t continue, I never will.”

The doctor watched him and tried to breathe as quietly as possible, for he knew Michael was drumming up the courage to continue.

Michael then took a deep breath and exhaled slowly.

~~~~~

After I said that, Karl looked at me with such rage in his eyes that for the first time, I actually feared for my life.

He jumped up from his chair, ran around the table, grabbed me by my T-shirt and pulled his fist back to punch me. My mother yelled, “Karl, NO!”

It was too late.

He swung so hard that he knocked me out for a few seconds. When I opened my eyes, his fist came at me again and landed on my face one more time. There was blood everywhere. I tried to get up, and my mother kept shouting at him to stop. But, he grabbed me by my shirt, lifted me up and threw me against the wall, and that was when my mother stepped between us.

Karl started yelling, “You mother-fucking faggot! Who the fuck are you to call me a drunk? All you care about is your TV stars and your girly-ass writing, you useless little prick!”

My mother kept yelling for him to shut up, and I ran up to my room and locked the door.

My mother never came after me.

She just kept yelling at Karl to calm down. Within a few seconds, he stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind him.

I looked in the mirror above my dresser. My nose and my left eye and cheek were swelling up, and I was covered in blood. I grabbed a T-shirt out of my dresser drawer and used it as a rag. After about 15 minutes, I opened my bedroom door and went to the bathroom to wash my face. After I cleaned up my face, I decided I needed to go to the emergency room because my nose would not stop bleeding, and it was obviously broken.

I walked downstairs, and my mother was just sitting there staring out the window and smoking a cigarette.

“Mother,” I said, trying to get her attention, “You need to drive me to the emergency room.”

She turned around and looked at me. There I was, her 22-year-old son. Her only child, her flesh and blood was standing in front of her with his face bruised and swollen and his nose bleeding uncontrollably.

She took a puff of her cigarette, looked at me with disgust and said, “Why did you have to say that to him? What is the matter with you? Are you stupid? Do you only care about yourself? You make me sick.”

I could not believe it. She was defending him. This drunk had just beaten up her son, and she was defending him. I was shocked, and I did not know what to say.

So, I said nothing.

I turned around, went up to my room, got dressed as quickly as I could, grabbed my wallet and my car keys and left.

Instead of driving to the emergency room, I drove over to Florence’s, who started crying the minute she saw me. When I told her what happened, she wanted to call my mother and yell at her, but I told her that would be of no use.

Florence drove me to the emergency room, and when the doctors asked me what happened, I decided to tell them the truth. They called the police, and the nurse took pictures of me. I then went to the police station to file a report.

Florence stayed with me the entire time, yet my mother did not call anyone looking for me. Florence offered to come home with me, but I thought it would be best if she not come as I did not know what my mother, or Karl, if he were there, would do if either of them saw her.

When I went home, my mother was sitting in the living room watching television. I walked straight up to my room and locked the door.

The phone rang, and I heard my mother answer it. After she hung up, she left, and I watched from my bedroom window as she drove off.

I found out later that the police found Karl in a bar in Williamsburg and arrested him on assault and battery charges. My mother had apparently gone to bail him out.

While she was gone, I packed everything I could and left. I drove back over to Florence’s and said goodbye to her, for I thought it would be the last time I would ever see her. I asked her to tell Doreen, Rona and Arlene goodbye for me, and I drove over to Donald’s. I had considered staying at Florence’s, but I did not want her to be more involved. With Karl bailed out, I also feared what he would do if he found out I was there.

That night, I decided to spend the night on Donald’s couch, and the next morning, I left for California.

~~~~~

Michael stopped talking, and Dr. Mikowsky had stopped writing some time before Michael finished telling his story. He never expected it to end like this.

Michael’s breathing had returned to normal, and he continued to stare motionless at the ceiling. For 19 years, he had kept this story bottled up inside him, and the doctor knew that the next few hours, maybe days, were crucial.

Michael sat up and swung his legs around and faced the doctor, and for the first time, Dr. Mikowsky really saw his patient — a vulnerable young man, who only wanted to be loved by his mother.

Neither of them spoke. Michael looked down at the floor for a second, and then he looked at the doctor again.

“Don’t you want to ask me something, Doc?” Michael asked.

“Just one thing Michael,” the doctor said. “Did you ever speak to or see your mother again?”

“No, I never saw her again,” Michael answered.

Michael asked to be excused to go to the bathroom rather than just announcing he was going, which Dr. Mikowsky would have found odd in any other patient, but Michael was the model of politeness.

When Michael returned, he resumed his position on the couch, sitting up this time. The doctor told Michael he wanted to continue for another 90 minutes, as this was a crucial point in their therapy. He also did not want his patient to leave without discussing a few more issues.

Although Michael did not ask, Dr. Mikowsky poured him a cup of water from the cooler and handed it to him before he sat down in his chair.

“Michael, how do you feel?” Dr. Mikowsky asked.

Michael took a sip of water and replied, “Would it be a cliché to say I am relieved, Doc?”

“Not at all,” he answered.

“I am a little spent, too,” Michael said, “I have not talked about that day in December 1985 since it happened.”

Dr. Mikowsky jotted down a few notes and looked up at Michael, who placed the empty cup of water on the table. He asked if Michael wanted more, but he said he was fine.

The doctor asked, “Did something happen to you around April of this year to make you ask Dr. Sylvia Rose to recommend a therapist?”

“What do you mean, Doc?” Michael asked.

“Michael, I have a feeling that something happened around the time before you first came to see me, probably in April, that you are not sharing with me,” the doctor said.

“Me? Not share something? Don’t be absurd,” Michael said with a smile, which was the first time he had smiled since the beginning of the day’s session.

Michael changed his mind and wanted more water, so Dr. Mikowsky picked up the cup and walked over to the cooler.

No sooner had he pressed the button to release the water when Michael blurted out, “Florence died.”

Dr. Mikowsky dropped the cup.

He turned around to face Michael, who was no longer looking at the doctor but staring over his right shoulder at the window. Recovering, Dr. Mikowsky pulled out a fresh cup and filled it with water for Michael. He returned to his chair and placed the water on the table in front of his patient.