On Tuesdays, They Played Mah Jongg (6 page)

“He isn’t married,” Morton said.

Alvin replied, “I know, Morton. But if I know Doreen, Rona, and Arlene, he will be married to Florence Kennof in no time. Then if history repeats itself, he will need a good lawyer ... or a pistol.”

Karl asked who Arlene, Rona, and Florence were.

Sammy answered, “Remember Doreen Weiner, the one who told you about this game, you know the little dishwater blonde with a $5o,000 smile and a $50o,000 credit limit, who has been my beloved wife for 35 forgettable years, Arlene, Rona and Florence are her friends.”

William continued, “Arlene is my bundle of joy — a 200 lb. bundle of joy covered in eye cream, wrinkle cream, and every brand of cold cream on the market. She and I own a department store on Warwick Boulevard — Feld’s Department Store.”

Finally, Morton completed the descriptions with, “Rona is the one to look out for. You can’t miss my wife. She is tall, thin, and loud with bright pink lipstick and orange hair. While we are on the subject ...”

“We better warn you about Florence,” Alvin interrupted. “She is a godsend ... to every pharmacist in the Commonwealth of Virginia. My theory is that she has been dead for 100 years, but the pills have preserved her body for the next millennium. She has been divorced four times, and she took her last victim for two million.”

Morton was surprised and said, “No wonder he is living in Argentina now.”

“And, she is here with none of the money,” Alvin responded.

William sat back and said, “I am sure glad that Arlene and I are happy.”

Sammy looked at him incredulously and said, “That’s because you wouldn’t spring for as much as a bus ticket to Poquoson.”

William gave him an angry look.

Sammy continued, “Oh and Karl, you might want to watch out for Hannah. She is tall with dark hair, and gorgeous with great legs. That kind will get you every time.”

“Don’t forget deadly,” Morton said, “She has killed two husbands already.”

“Killed?” Karl asked.

“He meant buried,” Sammy said.

Karl was beginning to have second thoughts about living in Newport News and tried to change the subject, “You have got a regular Peyton Place here. Tell me Sammy, who owns the 1954 Nash Ambassador out front?”

“William does,” Sammy said.

“And, it has the original tank of gas in it, too,” Morton added.

6

Arlene and William were preparing to go to Doreen and Sammy’s for a dinner party, and Arlene was already in her favorite navy blue dress with the gold collar and matching gold buttons down the front. From the top of the stairs, William yelled, “Arlene! Have you seen my wallet?”

“Why don’t you look up your
tuchus
! You probably put it there while you were in the shower, so I wouldn’t be able to get to it,” Arlene answered.

“I found it!” William said. “You know that I keep a conservative financial policy around this house to protect us in our old age.” William descended the stairs, dressed in a blue wool suit. The Feld’s may not have spent a lot of money, but owning a department store kept them very well dressed, and both of them always had very good taste in clothes.

“Conservative? William, you are as conservative as a crab’s ass! And, if you haven’t noticed, we
are
in our old age, unless you plan on using all that money to
hondle
with the Angel of Death!”

William gave her a look as he reached into the closet for his coat. While he put it on, he said, “Don’t push me, Arlene. I have given you the best years of my life and provided you with the best that life has to offer.”

Arlene reached for her coat, and as she put it on, she said, “My luck! I married a man with low standards.”

Arlene opened the door, and William walked outside, opened the Nash’s driver’s side door, and sat down behind the wheel, while Arlene locked the front door to the house.

Rona and Morton were also preparing to go to Doreen and Sammy’s. Rona was standing at the bottom of their staircase while Morton was still getting ready upstairs. Rona was wearing a brown dress with a white leaf pattern embroidered on it and her favorite amber necklace with the matching earrings.

“Morton! Why don’t you stick your finger in a light socket. I think your ticker needs a jolt. You’re running awfully slow tonight,” Rona yelled up the stairs.

“One of these days, Rona, I’ll have another heart attack,” Morton yelled down to his wife, and as he was yelling, Rona was lip-syncing everything he said. “And I will die, leaving you a lonely widow, and you won’t have anyone to pick on anymore.”

“That’s nice,” Rona said as Morton made his way down the stairs, wearing a nondescript dark gray suit.

“What is nice?” Morton asked as he reached into the hall closet, pulled out Rona’s coat and held it for her.

As she slipped her arms into the sleeves, Rona said, “Whatever you said is nice.”

Morton straightened the collar on her coat, and as he reached for his own coat, he said, “Sometimes, Rona, I don’t think you hear a word I say.”

He then opened the door, and Rona stepped outside. She waited while he locked the door, and he slipped his arm into hers as they walked to their Chrysler New Yorker. Morton opened the passenger-side door for her, and waited for her to buckle up before closing it. He walked around the front of the car, opened the driver’s side door, and sat down behind the wheel. Rona looked at him while he put the key in the ignition.

She placed her right hand on his left cheek, turned his head toward hers, and kissed him.

“Morton, I hear everything you say,” she said as she removed her hand from his cheek.

He looked at her and smiled, which was a rarity for Morton. He then started the car and backed out the driveway.

Doreen was in her bedroom wearing a peach silk dress and giving herself one last check in the mirror, as she spun around, looked and frowned.

She walked out of the bedroom and down the first flight of stairs, stopping at the dining room table, which was set with crystal and fine china. She moved a couple of the glasses around and entered the kitchen. There were three servants working in the kitchen, and she stopped to speak to the cook.

Doreen asked him, “Have you seen Mr. Weiner?”

The cook answered, “I think he went into his bedroom.”

Doreen then walked across the dining room and down another flight of stairs and through the den where the girls were playing Mah Jongg just a week before. She opened the door at the back of the room, entering Sammy’s bedroom. Sammy was standing at the window of his room looking outside, wearing his black suit sans the jacket, which was lying on the bed.

“Are you going to behave tonight, or will I have to make excuses for you?” Doreen asked.

“Whatever the hell you want,” Sammy answered.

“What do I have to do to get a civil response out of you?” Doreen asked.

“What do you expect? I come home for lunch and find you in bed with Larry. My God, Doreen, do you have to carry on your affairs in broad daylight?”

“What the hell did you come home for? Tired of having Myra for lunch?” Doreen yelled as she walked toward him.

“That is not the point! I am beginning to wonder how long this has been going on in the house,” Sammy yelled as he turned and leaned his back on the windowsill.

“If you are inferring that I carried on in front of the children, don’t worry. Now that they are out of the house, I don’t feel like sneaking around anymore like some tramp,” she shot back.

“So, now the neighbors get to see you acting like some whore!” Sammy yelled.

“Screw the neighbors, Sammy!”

“You probably already have Doreen! I don’t know why I agreed to marry you in the first place.”

“So this is what it boils down to. Thirty some years after the fact! Well, buster, I wasn’t too thrilled with this arrangement either. If it were not for the persistence of your father ...” Doreen said.

“Your mother wasn’t exactly standing in our way either. If I remember correctly, she thought up this arrangement in the first place!” Sammy said.

“Whoever and whatever doesn’t matter anymore. We are stuck with each other. No one else would have us, especially this late in the game,” Doreen said as her voice got lower. “So you better get used to Larry’s face, or I will pay that little
bumukah
of yours a visit!” Doreen said as she stormed out of the room.

Hannah opened the door for Florence and Alvin, before excusing herself as she went upstairs to finish getting dressed. She was already wearing a black dress, but had yet to put on her jewelry and lipstick. Florence was wearing a red knit dress with a large black belt that made her breasts look even bigger than usual, and she was also wearing her signature black stilettos with four inch heels. Unfortunately, that and her Elizabeth Taylor hairdo only brought her up to five-foot-four that evening, but she was happy with every inch.

“Fix yourselves a drink,” Hannah yelled as she walked up the steps.

“Drink, Florence?” Alvin, who was wearing a blue suit with a yellow turtleneck, asked.

“Yes, but make mine weak. I just took a Xanax,” Florence answered.

“Florence, if you don’t stop it with the pills, I don’t know what I am going to do with you,” Alvin said.

“You are right. I have been doing a lot of thinking, and I don’t think that I am financially capable of supporting my needs anymore. So it’s a choice between the medicine or a face lift,” Florence offered.

“That is a good reason to stop,” Alvin said sarcastically.

Florence said, “
Hocht ta minishken chinek
,” which literally translated means “Don’t bang a teacup in my ear,” but actually means “Don’t bug me.” It was Florence’s favorite Yiddish saying, and over the years, we shortened it to “Don’t be a
chinekman
” whenever someone was bugging us.

Hannah came downstairs fully dressed with her dark lipstick and large costume jewelry, which she bought at Everything’s A Dollar, and said, “What are you two arguing about?” She walked over to the table in the foyer and opened her purse, placing three more tubes of lipstick in it. Hannah would change shades of lipstick several times a day because they quit making her favorite shade,
Pond’s Peaches in the Snow
, in the 1960s. Her life from that point on was centered on finding just the right shade of lipstick, and she never achieved her goal.

Alvin said, “We are talking about Florence’s obsession with her pharmacist.”

Florence said, “All right already. I will quit taking the pills if Alvin quits sleeping with wrestlers.”

“I guess there is no hope,” Hannah said.

~~~~~

“And that, Dr. Mikowsky, should give you some idea of how these people interacted with each other,” Michael said.

“You give an interesting perspective on marriage and relationships,” Dr. Mikowsky said.

“Yea, it kind of makes one shy away from getting involved in either,” Michael said.

The extra two hours had passed, and Michael was exhausted. He had not even reached any of the interesting parts of the story, and he felt as if he had just opened up the floodgates. Dr. Mikowsky sensed Michael’s state and suggested they continue next week at their usual time.

“Doctor?” Michael asked. “Could I come back the day after tomorrow?”

He told Michael it would be fine. When Michael asked if he could have three hours just as he had taken this day, Dr. Mikowsky agreed without even consulting his calendar. For this, he would clear his entire schedule if necessary.

Michael wrote a check for the three hours he was there although the doctor said it was not necessary to pay for the additional time. But Michael, who always lived with a guilty conscience, paid his debts in full. He explained that he would not be able to sleep at night knowing he took advantage of the doctor.

He left the office and walked down the stairs rather than take the elevator. He stepped outside and took in the sunshine and started walking toward his house. As he passed individuals on the street, he thought back to his youth, his days as a struggling writer, the rejection letters, and the unfinished screenplay. He had come so far, yet he was still wrestling with the events of a time so long ago. “Nineteen years seems like a long time when looking ahead,” he thought, “but it seems like yesterday, when looking back.”

As he walked by the couples, families, senior citizens, teenagers, children and all kinds of people one sees on the streets of Los Angeles, he wondered how many of them were still struggling with issues from their youth. How many of them had an unfinished book or play? He wondered if they would ever find the strength to finish that one project.

Then it hit him. What if he did finish the screenplay? Then what? He based 19 years of his life on that one goal. If he finished it, what would he have left in his life? Would he find inner peace? Would he be able to write easily without this burden in his life? Would that be the end? Would the ideas dry up? And, if he sold the finally completed screenplay, what would he wear to the premiere?

~

Dr. Mikowsky cleared his schedule for the entire day that Thursday in the unlikely event that once Michael continued his story, he would want to finish it. He straightened his desk and watered the plants, and for the first time since he began his career as a therapist, he was a little nervous. His hand was trembling, and he felt the sweat dripping down his back. The doctor looked at the clock. Michael’s appointment was not for another ten minutes, so he took a deep breath and tried to calm his nerves.

He opened the door to find Michael already sitting in the waiting room. Michael was always early, never wanting to keep anyone waiting for fear of appearing rude.

He signaled for Michael to come in. Michael neatly put away the magazine that he was reading, stood up, walked into the doctor’s office, and sat down on the couch.

The doctor picked up his legal pad and a fresh pencil and sat in his chair.