On Tuesdays, They Played Mah Jongg (4 page)

My mother moved to Newport News right after World War II to work for the newly formed Department of Defense at Langley Air Force Base. Ironically, her parents had also moved to Newport News to retire and be near my mother’s maternal grandmother, who was still alive at the time. That is where she met her first husband, my father, Adam Bern, in 1956. I never knew my father. In 1962, while my mother was six months pregnant with me, he was struck and killed by a runaway golf cart. They say I look like him.

My mother married Bart Shimmer in 1969, and it was love at first fight. I never liked him, so I never took his name. Besides, who wants to go through life as Michael Shimmer? Oy! Bart died from a massive heart attack in January 1985 on the 18
th
green of King’s Mill Golf Course in Williamsburg, Virginia. It happened right after he sank his last putt.

Nobody liked Bart, and he was the most disagreeable person I ever met. It was an absolute chore to be in his presence. At the graveside, I was sitting next to my mother, and the entire time the rabbi was talking about the wonderful life Bart led, all I was thinking was “Am I at the right funeral?”

Do you know that a rumor spread around town that I had killed him? People were saying that I knew he was ill and insisted he go play golf. The man needed no insistence to play golf. He lived on the golf course. I was going to graduate from college soon, so I really did not care whether my mother was married to him or not.

His funeral was a graveside service at Rosenberg Cemetery in Hampton, Virginia. It seems like just yesterday. I can still see my mother’s friends sitting there. All of them were wearing black and trying their best to look sad, except for Rona Sapperstein. Rona was wearing a bright red dress and a very large, red hat with a veil. One could always count on Rona not to hide her true feelings.

Rona had bright orange hair that was worn short on the sides and back, but piled high with curls on top. Her mouth had more teeth than the entire Osmond family, and it was framed with much more than the proper amount of hot pink lipstick. Rona also wore large glasses that had multicolored, square, plastic frames and tinted pink lenses. She was tall with a slim figure, which made her one of those women who could wear anything and look good in it. I was told she was a model in her youth. But with that mouth — it must have been a Leslie Caron thing. My mother always joked that God asked Rona if she wanted a great figure or a great face, and Rona chose the figure.

Rona always kidded about her small endowment and said that before her husband would come to bed, he would first feel-up her padded bra, which was hanging in the bathroom, considering that foreplay.

She was also the loudest of my mother’s friends with an equally loud laugh. Her husband was Morton, and they owned Sapperstein’s Delicatessen.

Rona was one of the first people my mother met when she moved to Newport News. My mother was living with her parents at the time, and my grandmother would send her down to Sapperstein’s Delicatessen every Friday afternoon to pick up a whitefish. After a few weeks, my mother and Rona hit it off, and soon they would go to movies together or my mother would stop in for lunch while Rona was working.

For the funeral, my mother looked elegant as ever in a simple, black dress with pearls. It was one of the few times that she was not wearing costume jewelry. As usual, her hair was dyed shoe polish black and worn in a style called a “visor,” a short style that is parted on one side, teased very high in the back and combed forward in what looks like a cross between Liza Minelli and Florence Henderson. It was a stereotypical, menopausal, Jewish woman’s hairstyle at the time. She was a tall woman, around five-foot-ten, and she had the darkest eyes. She always wore a bit too much makeup though. Deep down, she always hoped to be discovered by a big Hollywood producer, whenever one happened to drive down Jefferson Avenue and come to the same intersection where she was waiting for the light to change in her orange, 1979 Ford Fairmont.

Next to my mother was my godmother, Florence Kennof. All four of Florence’s marriages ended in divorce, so she never had the pleasure of attending a funeral as a widow. Of all my mother’s friends, Florence was my favorite, and she was the opposite of my mother. She was four-foot-eleven with light brown hair that always mirrored whatever style Elizabeth Taylor was wearing at the time. She had a great figure with really large breasts. Florence loved having her picture taken in a bathing suit, and she looked great in one. Sadly, Florence had some serious issues with prescription drugs.

Florence was also the worst driver among the girls. My mother told me a story about one of the few times she let Florence drive. Florence made a left turn onto Warwick Boulevard, and when she looked in the rearview mirror, she said to my mother, “Look at that crazy bus driver. He is up on the sidewalk,” and my mother responded, “That is because you just ran him off the road!” Her cars always had dents in them, and for some reason, all her accidents happened while she was going in reverse.

My mother met Florence when they first joined the Temple Rodef Sholom Sisterhood. It was 1952, and Betty Lerner picked them up in her new Oldsmobile. Florence was already in the car when Betty pulled up to my mother’s home. Florence said the first thing she noticed was this tall woman in a very large hat. My mother stepped into the car and realizing her hat was too large, she slumped down in the seat the whole way to the synagogue. They immediately hit it off, laughing during the entire drive.

When they arrived, they learned that all the newly inducted members of the Sisterhood were to sit at the dais. My mother was seated on one end, and Florence was seated at the other. As they made their way through the buffet line, my mother realized that if she looked down, her hat would tip off balance, so she stood straight up and was careful not to bend her head.

I am not sure why, but apparently, they served small individual pizzas as the main entrée for the luncheon, which I still find strange, as I would expect kugle, whitefish salad and stuff like that. Since my mother could not look down, she did not notice that her pizza had slipped off her plate at some point between the buffet line and the dais.

When they returned to their seats, she looked down and saw an empty plate. She looked to the other side of the dais at Florence to get her attention, and when Florence looked her way, my mother mouthed silently, “I lost my pizza.” Florence did not understand what she was saying, so my mother mouthed it again.

Frustrated, Florence said out loud for everyone to hear, “You lost your what?”

And, my mother, throwing caution to the wind, said a little too loudly, “I lost my pizza.”

The room grew silent, and then a well-dressed woman in her 30s, who also happened to be a friend of Florence’s, pulled the pizza out of her own large hat and said, “I found it.” The room burst into laughter, and Hannah made another friend.

Seated next to Florence at the funeral was Rona, and next to her was Arlene Feld. Arlene was my mother’s fat friend and also the well-dressed woman whose hat caught my mother’s pizza.

Everyone needs a fat friend. She wasn’t enormous fat, but compared to the sticks my mother and Rona were, she looked rather large. Arlene had reddish brown hair with a blonde streak that she wore in a teased flip that looked a bit dated even then. Regardless of her hair, Arlene looked like an overweight Lucille Ball. When Arlene removed her beige, plastic-framed glasses, one could see that she and Lucy had the same face. Arlene and her husband William owned Feld’s Department Store.

Next to Arlene was Doreen Weiner. How does one describe Doreen? Let’s just say that not only does everyone need one fat friend, but also one tramp for a friend, too. Funny thing is the tramps are never the most attractive ones. Don’t get me wrong. Doreen was not ugly. As a matter of fact, none of my mother’s friends were ugly. With all that makeup, how could anyone be ugly? Doreen, however, was sort of funny looking. She had a curvy figure, but it was not fat. She was shorter than average, and her face had aged more quickly, but she did not look old, just sort of droopy.

Her hair was the most interesting thing about her. Doreen was the wealthiest of my mother’s friends, yet she never changed her hairstyle. Apparently, when Vidal Sassoon was an unknown, he styled her hair while she was vacationing in southern California. The style was a reverse flip that framed her face, and she liked it so much, she never changed it. She even kept the same frosty blonde color, too. I have noticed that about the very wealthy. They never change their hair. Doreen’s hair reminded me of the actress, Dina Merrill, who also never changed her hair.

Doreen’s marriage to Sammy was a financial arrangement, and in keeping with the Newport News tradition of giving one’s business a creative and catchy moniker, he named his company Weiner’s Real Estate.

Doreen’s mother and my maternal grandmother were childhood friends, and when my mother moved to Newport News, Doreen was one of the first people to give her a call to see if she wanted to go out. Before my mother met Florence, she was usually socializing with Rona and Doreen. However, soon after she met Florence, it was apparent they were going to be best friends.

I looked over at the five women and noticed that Doreen had started to fan herself with a
Kaddish
card. I could not believe she was warm as it was around 30 degrees outside. Then, Florence pulled a small, battery-powered fan out of her purse, turned it on and aimed it at her forehead. Rona soon pulled up her veil and reached for Florence’s fan, but Florence was too quick for her, so Rona gave her a dirty look and proceeded to fan herself with the glove she had just removed from her hand. At that moment, Hannah started to unbutton her coat and wave the collar while sweat poured down the side of her face. I had read about how women who spend a lot of time together cycle together, but I never witnessed a group hot flash until that cold day in January. These women were closer than they realized.

Arlene looked at the four other women and smiled because her personal summers were becoming less frequent.

After the funeral, everyone came over to our house for lunch. I loved those get-togethers, walking around making small talk and answering the same question over and over again — “What are you going to be when you graduate from college?” Liberal arts majors have it tough, so I came up with a stock answer. With a straight face, I would say, “I am going to have a sex change operation.” At first, their mouths would drop, and then they would giggle nervously as they hurriedly walked away. I never once cracked a smile.

I think I was the first person to come out of the closet in our town, and back then, everyone thought all gay men wanted to be women. Florence thought I was hysterical.

Eventually, everyone except Rona and Florence went home, and we started cleaning up.

~~~~~

Michael stopped for a moment, and Dr. Mikowsky took off his glasses and looked up. He waited a few seconds confident that his patient would continue, but when the moment stretched over a few minutes, he was compelled to speak.

“Michael, what happened while you were cleaning up,” he asked.

“Oh, nothing really. I was just wondering if you are ready for this?”

He gave Michael a puzzled look.

“Am I ready? What do you mean?” Dr. Mikowsky asked Michael.

“Well, sometimes the anticipation is enough, but when the fantasy comes true, it could be too much to bear,” Michael said.

“Michael, we are not having sex,” Dr. Mikowsky said. “You are just telling me a story.”

Michael felt assured by the doctor’s answer, so he took a deep breath.

“OK. Then, here goes,” Michael began. “I am going to tell you a story about five menopausal Jewish women and one strange year.”

~~~~~

Hannah was standing at the front door of her house on Dresden Drive saying goodbye to the last of her guests. She closed the door and turned around. She walked in front of the mirror in the foyer and stopped to check her hair and makeup. Hannah never walked by a mirror without looking at herself. She absolutely loved the way she looked.

She turned around and walked into her living room, which was decorated in oranges, greens and yellows, in a style left over from the late 1970s that she refused to update.

~~~~~

“You know, Doc,” Michael said. “My mother thought she had the best taste of any of her friends, and strangely, they often sought her advice. But frankly, I thought that if anyone ever broke into our house, rather than take anything, they would redecorate.”

~~~~~

Hannah walked around the living room and picked up the dirty ashtrays and made her way to the kitchen with its orange countertops and wallpaper with large sunflowers.

~~~~~

“To this day, I have a fear of sunflowers,” Michael said.

“What happened in that kitchen?” Dr. Mikowsky asked.

“Oh nothing,” Michael assured him. “I was just having a
Sybil
moment. You know ‘the kitchen with the sunflower wallpaper, the dishtowels. Not the dishtowels!’” Michael was holding his hands up as if he were recalling some childhood abuse, but the doctor rolled his eyes.

“Michael, if you are going to joke around, what is the point of telling me the story?” Dr. Mikowsky asked.

“You are right,” Michael answered. “I will do my best to be serious.”

Dr. Mikowsky was used to Michael’s humor, and he smiled at his patient as he continued with the story.

~~~~~

Rona and Florence were in the kitchen finishing up the dishes. Rona was washing while Florence was drying. Hannah handed the ashtrays to Rona, who poured a little water into them before emptying them in the trashcan as people did back in the day when guests were allowed to smoke indoors. She then washed the ashtrays and handed them to Florence to dry, and none of the women said a word.

Hannah poured herself a cup of coffee, adding one Sweet-n-Low, and sat down at the kitchen table, with its high-back chairs upholstered in a yellow fabric with the orange birds of paradise pattern. She had framed a three-foot square piece of the fabric and hung it on the wall over the buffet thinking it was chic. Hannah watched as her two friends finished the dishes.