On Tuesdays, They Played Mah Jongg (9 page)

“Yes,” he replied.

“So, I am guessing it is around March 1985, but I have to be honest with you. Although your mother and her friends are colorful, there is really nothing unusual enough in what you have told me that I can see as a cause for you not to be able to finish this screenplay.”

Michael leaned forward and looked the doctor in the eye and said, “As a storyteller, I wanted to introduce all the characters first, give you a taste of their personalities and let you see how they related to each other.” He leaned back and waited for the doctor’s response.

“OK,” the doctor said. “I do have one question, however, where do you come into the story?”

Michael did not expect this question, or at least so soon into the telling of the story. He was hoping the doctor wouldn’t ask him where he fit in until later … much later. He thought long and hard about a response because he knew that the answer he gave would either elicit a series of questions or stop the doctor cold.

While Michael was thinking, Dr. Mikowsky was convinced that what he was not being told was more important than what was being shared. This was the typical case with Michael, who in the short time the doctor knew him revealed how reluctant he was to share any aspect of his personal life or his past. He also knew that a patient who refused to speak about a pivotal year in his life until now could not be expected to completely open up, but he had to ask the question.

He waited, allowing Michael all the time he needed. Now that the story had begun, he was convinced it would be finished. No longer did he need to tiptoe around the subject in order to get his patient to talk about the real issues.

Michael got up from the couch still pondering an appropriate response that would allow him to continue the story without having to discuss his role in it 19 years ago. He walked around the couch and sat down again, put his elbows on his knees, looked down to the floor and then up again.

Michael said, “I come in much later.”

Dr. Mikowsky gave himself credit for trying. He was not surprised by the response, but at least he knew that Michael did fit into this story and was not merely an observer. He grabbed a freshly sharpened pencil, looked at his patient, and said, “Fair enough. Where were we?”

Michael leaned back put his hands behind his head.

“I haven’t told you about Myra yet,” Michael said.

Dr. Mikowsky flipped through his notes until he found Myra’s name. “She was the woman who was having an affair with Sammy, right?”

“Yes, but there is much more to it than that,” he answered, and the story continued.

~~~~~

Myra and Sammy carried on an affair for over five years — five years of clandestine meetings, dinners in dark restaurants and short trips to a cabin in Gloucester. No one was surprised that Sammy was having an affair because he and Doreen both were known for their infidelities. What I always found disturbing was that these miserable people would rather stay in unhappy marriages that were based on lies and mistrust than get a divorce. I think that is one of the reasons why Florence was my favorite of my mother’s friends. If she didn’t like him, she left him.

Arlene and William always fought about money, which he had and she could not get her hands on. Rona and Morton always fought about sex, which she wanted and he would not provide.

Ironically, I have noticed that the more people try to keep secrets, the more their private lives become public.

That is so true with southern Jews. We appear more genteel, demure, and guarded, but we always know each other’s business down to the dirtiest of details. We are always whispering. Ask a southern Jew how someone died, and the disease will only be uttered with a whisper: “She had …
cancer
.” We also use the whisper to relay gossip: “She is pregnant, which is a surprise, since …
her husband had a vasectomy three years ago
.”

Unfortunately, we do not have the noise of a big city to drown out our conversations, so we can always hear what everyone else is whispering about, and as a result, we know everything we are not supposed to know.

The only things we southern Jews do not hide are our eccentricities. We put them right out there for everyone to see because in the South, no matter what our ethnicity, we pride ourselves in having craziness in our midst, and a family is not complete unless there is at least one nut in the group. Have you ever noticed that the nuttiest politicians come from the South?

~~~~~

“Michael, you are doing it again,” Dr. Mikowsky said.

“Doing what?” Michael asked.

Dr. Mikowsky put his pencil down, took off his glasses and said to Michael, “You are going off on a tangent. You started off telling me about Myra, and now we are talking about southern politicians.”

Michael smiled at the doctor and wondered why the doctor stopped him whenever he strayed off subject, yet he never probed Michael for the reasons behind his babbling. He often wondered if Dr. Mikowsky really was a good therapist since he just sat there and listened, and they really made little progress as far as the unfinished script was concerned. However, Michael knew this situation worked best for him because he rarely if ever opened up to anyone, and if the doctor was satisfied just listening to Michael tell his stories, then that was just fine.

“OK, Doc, I will tell you about Myra,” Michael said.

The doctor put his glasses back on and picked up his pencil. He considered asking Michael why he was talking about southerners and their craziness, but he chose not to pursue it any further.

~~~~~

Doreen and Sammy Weiner’s marriage was a financial arrangement. I never understood the exact particulars of the arrangement, but I knew it enabled Sammy to start his real estate company and kept Doreen in a lifestyle to which she had grown accustomed. But after almost 30 years, the marriage grew tiresome for both of them.

They shared a bedroom for the first few years. Then, they moved to separate wings of their house. Doreen had numerous lovers over the years, while Sammy only had three. The first was his secretary, Brenda, whom he was with for almost ten years until she married someone else — a woman. He then carried on with Mindy, the wife of a friend of his for almost seven years until the friend caught them together in a hotel in Yorktown.

My grandmother told me that his mother’s doctor would have her come in once every two weeks for a “vitamin shot” because his father was always catching something from a hooker. Talk about naïve. I guess the apple really does not fall far from the tree.

Doreen and Sammy often wondered — separately of course — if they could carry on like this for the rest of their lives. Each knew that the time would come when they would no longer be desirable enough to the opposite sex to carry on an affair without some form of payment. For Sammy, it came sooner rather than later. Myra was half Sammy’s age, and if it were not for the condominium at Hampton Club, the Chrysler Le Baron convertible and the designer wardrobe from La Vogue, she would not have stayed with him this long. Call it whatever you want. She was essentially a highly paid call girl.

For Doreen, the time for her to pay for pleasure had not come yet, but she wanted out before it did. She had a tiny bit more pride than Sammy. And, when Doreen came to that realization, she decided it was finally time to take matters into her own hands.

Doreen was sitting in the back of the Huntington Club dining room for only a few minutes when she saw the familiar figure working her way toward the table. One could not miss Myra. When she entered a room, men noticed. Hell, women also noticed. She had a walk that was set to music and a figure any woman would be proud of with gentle curves in all the right places. To make matters worse, she was wearing a one-piece sweater dress that was neither too tight nor too loose, falling just below the knee with a low scoop neckline and long sleeves. She only wore small diamonds in her ears and a gold chain with a large diamond pendant around her neck. On her shapely legs, dark stockings leading to black sling-back stilettos completed the look. Her bright orange curly hair was worn down that day, allowing it to sway as she walked, catching the light perfectly.

She slinked down into the seat across from Doreen and took off her large sunglasses, revealing a pair of clear, bright, green eyes. As usual, her makeup was tastefully applied, and even her bright pink lipstick was the perfect shade. The site of her caused more than a few of the men in the room to squirm in their seats.

Normally, Doreen would have felt inadequate seated with such a young beautiful woman, but she took the time to choose the most flattering dress she owned, a peach silk one piece Diane von Furstenberg, two strands of pearls and matching earrings. She also made sure she was wearing her largest diamond ring, the one my mother called the “Frigidaire.”

Doreen always thought Myra was accidentally switched at birth with an Irish baby, and somewhere, there was an Irish family with a skinny, brown-haired, Jewish girl with large teeth and a cigarette dangling from her mouth.

Doreen waited for all the men to quit staring in Myra’s direction before she signaled the waiter. She ordered a Manhattan for herself and a chardonnay for Myra.

Myra spoke first saying, “I was wondering why you asked me here. My mother racked her brain trying to figure out why you would want to meet with me.”

Doreen responded, “I am surprised she didn’t have you wired. It isn’t like her to miss out on anything.”

She knew this would be awkward because she not only knew Myra since she was an infant, she was also Myra’s godmother.

She started the discussion by telling her, “Myra, I have loved you like a daughter since I first held you at your baby naming 34 years ago. I have shared my best times with you, but I had no idea that some day I would end up sharing my husband with you.”

The ever-confident Myra said, “That’s old news. Is that why you called me here today, to discuss my relationship with your husband? Well, in case you are worried, it is going just fine.”

Not surprised at her glibness, Doreen knew that was what Myra was going to say.

“But you always said that you wanted Sammy to be happy,” Myra continued. “And who is better to make him happy?”

Doreen pressed, “Isn’t there anyone else that you ... make happy these days, Myra?”

Myra recounted how Sammy was the only man in her life as she had become a little too old to depend on her
talents
. Sammy, she said, was one of the few who did not prefer them too young.

“Besides, he keeps me comfortable,” she assured Doreen, “I have a new Chrysler convertible, and just last week, I moved into a new condominium at Hampton Club. I have a good deal going, and I just can’t take a chance on losing it. I couldn’t get married in this town. Everyone here thinks that I am a whore. I am not a whore. I am an opportunist. There is a difference you know.”

Doreen looked at her in amazement.

“Besides, I have already slept with every married man in this town,” Myra said.

Doreen asked, “Including William Feld?”

“Please. I do have my standards,” she replied.

Doreen realized she created Myra. After all, her goddaughter was just as she was 35 years ago. “I think I may have taught you too much,” she told the younger woman.

“You always told me that whoever says money can’t buy happiness doesn’t know whom to fuck,” Myra said.

“And I see you have inherited your mother’s mouth,” Doreen replied.

So, as Myra told her, she had no choice but to continue seeing Sammy. If she broke it off with him, she had no career or money of her own.

But, Doreen would have none of it, as she had a purpose.

“Dear, you may have noticed that your mother and I are no longer young women,” Doreen began. “And, well, I am not the sex kitten I used to be either.”

“You’re telling me,” Myra interrupted.

Ignoring her, Doreen continued, “You know Dr. Lawrence Eidleman?”

Myra nodded.

“He is getting married next week. Yes, that is true, Myra. I am going to be alone, so I have decided to rekindle the flame that was supposed to be a part of Sammy and me at one time.”

Myra listened but did not say anything as Doreen continued.

“We can’t go through a divorce. It would be too complicated and drawn out, and I don’t want to spend the last years of my life alone,” Doreen said.

For the first time since the conversation began, Myra felt a little sympathy for her godmother, but she also was in a hurry. “Please get to the point, Aunt Doreen. I have an appointment with my decorator in an hour.”

“Simply put, I want you to stop seeing my husband.”

“That is impossible,” Myra stated.

Doreen said, “Anything is possible.”

“But, I can’t afford it,” Myra said.

“I will give you $100,000,” Doreen offered.

“I have insurance payments on that convertible outside,” Myra countered.

“$150,000,” Doreen said.

“And, not to mention a condominium to furnish,” she told Doreen.

“$250,000,” Doreen continued.

“Clothes and food,” Myra insisted.

“$350,000,” Doreen offered.

“Hairdresser appointments, analysis, vacations,” Myra went on.

“$500,000. Take it or leave it.”

“Deal!” Myra said.

Doreen reached into her pocketbook and took out an envelope. Myra winked at a man at the next table, who raised his glass to her, and Doreen presented Myra with a cashier’s check.

Myra was not too surprised that Doreen already had a cashier’s check made out to her for $500,000.

Doreen took a sip from her drink, got up from the table, looked at her goddaughter, and said, “I know you better than you think I do. It was a pleasure doing business with you, dear.” And, she left.

Myra said to herself as she pulled a Virginia Slim from her cigarette case and looked at the check, “This is getting easier everyday! Look at this, ‘pay to the order of Myra Sapperstein, $500,000.’”