The Place Will Comfort You (2 page)

Do not knock on a mourner's door, just open and walk in.

Don't say hello and not good-bye. Do not wait to be seated.

Ask for no assistance, offer none. Solicit no instructions. Your presence in itself is sustenance, judge whether more is needed on your own. Take care not to contribute to the burden. If the bereaved engages you in talk, don't laugh, keep the voice moderately pitched, nowhere near loud. Don't force the heavy topic. Wait for the mourner to address her loss, and don't remove the cloth from any mirror.

We found her family name on the mailboxes right away, but stood awhile in the building's entrance hall. A death notice was hanging on the Tenants' Council board, printed with letters in the holy type of prayer books. Each letter in itself was almost booksized, shelved in a heavy black frame:

That had already happened. We didn't go. To see a mother carried high in a white shroud towards the grave, then covered by the earth, is not for children's eyes except an orphan's. Consoling anyone can do who learned the rules.

People were coming down the stairwell, talking.
Broken. Shouldn't know from such.
We looked, each at the other two, to see who could move first. The three of us were here to represent the class. We weren't friends otherwise. A sweaty hand squeaked along a near down banister.
The experience of my brother-in-law, what he witnessed after his young sister, I should say it was a place where the community, I won't besmirch, the west end of Neveh Keedma. She left five children with the man.

Three fathers stood atop the first rise of white stairs. One had an
attache case, one large empty hands, and one a green net grocery satchel, half a loaf black bread caught in the mesh. They stopped their talk and changed their order to walk one behind the other. My two partners in consoling lined up, too. We started on the climb. Each of us passed each of the men. We still had on our uniforms from school. They were in their office clothes.

I thought it would be dark in the apartment. It was light. When we walked in immediately I saw the cat, a red one with gold eyes, hunched in the shade of a consoler's folding chair, nose searching from the gap between two legs in army pants. The father sat on what would be a sofa if the cushions weren't all pulled out, so he was lower to the ground just like the teacher said, his sweater rent just like the teacher said, ruined on purpose, one rough tear over the heart. His face was such a way I couldn't look. In front of him were plates with rolls and hummus, eggplant spread and herring and some cakes, and in a pitcher raspberry squash. Nothing was touched except the fish. Grownups moved slowly or stood still. The cat sprang, landing neatly by a slice of marble cake. A man's hand picked the animal up by the neck. The cat made a quick journey through the air, stood where it fell, then walked off in a hurry, rubbing all along the papered wall. It held its striped red tail like a lamppost, looking back once at all the people in its place. We followed, to the orphan's room.

She was sitting on the tiles, next to a blanket. We got down, too, me on the corner of the blanket when we ran out of floor. We waited, like the teacher said, with not a word of greeting, not a word of pleasantry, no talk, nothing to tax the scant reserves of the bereaved. She started talking right away, but to her cat.

“Here. Here here. Here.”

The cat came closer and the orphan made a grab. She was wearing a gigantic housedress, so her lap looked like a field of pansies grown over two sticks, on which now stood a cat. She held the animal tight; even though the cat had led us here, it seemed to have
another place in mind. But soon it slumped and lay there, front paws pointed towards the orphan's navel. Now she bowed and pressed her forehead to the furry one. Her hair became a covering to both of them, the two heads overflowed by yellow shine, streaming down from that ugly tuftlike liquid from a tap. I saw the cat's eye narrow till it closed. The bigger human eye kept staring, wide and blue. Finally the lashes batted, thick as bristles on a brush. The orphan drew up straight, her hair just hers again, her eyes on us.

“Small eyes is happy,” she said. “Closed is in the clouds. I know about cats. Do you have a cat?” We waited to see who would answer first. Until this day we had never been to where the orphan lives. “Zeessie loves a guest,” she said.

The orphan before being an orphan came to birthdays uninvited and brought stupid gifts. Half a pencil or a notebook with the pages used and then erased. She'd push to be the first in every game. She'd laugh too hard and at wrong times. Whenever she would lose a contest, every single time it was no fair. She'd argue even with the grownups, until someone stuck a favor bag in her hand early, so she'd go. With or without, she always leaves last.

She dragged the animal up from her lap and showed it all around. Its weight stretched out the downy armpits so we could see their suede, the hind legs dangling over every lap of ours, in turn and then around again. The velvety toes spread apart like chicken toes, the claws popped out, each lap wiggled back, and every time the orphan laughed and tossed her hair.

“That's what she does!” she said again and again. “She wants to feel something under her. Here, Zeessie. No, here, Zeessie.” I thought someone should say something. But could your first word to an orphan be, Stop? I knew it could not.

After a while someone came and whispered, “Quiet, girls. Remember where you are.” We couldn't say it was the orphan who forgot.

She set the cat beside her on the blanket, which was baby-sized,
knitted in loopy pastel checks that I could feel through my skirt. The cat took a step towards the door, but stopped, stepped back, looked at a swelled fold in the blanket and gave it thought. Again the paws reached, toes together now, reaching by choice to test the wrinkle, and make sure, and one more time, and so it stayed there, pawing at the blanket, like a digging for something, but slow and loving, pawing, rumbling, shoulders rising, falling, head sunk down, pointed end nuzzling.

“She thinks it's going to give her milk,” the orphan said. “Watch,” she said, and tugged a corner so the fold became a flickering snake. The cat's head snapped awake. With round gold eyes, it watched the snake. The orphan tugged again, the cat slapped. The orphan yanked, the cat glared and bit in.

The orphan said, “I've been to your home, and to your home, and to your one,” and it wasn't any lie. The cat spat out the blanket and rolled over on its back. The fur was of a different kind below, the palest yellow-brown, thick as a heat-spell cloud.

Outside the front door opened, people whispered. The door shut again. A kettle started whistling; someone stopped it right away.

The orphan said, “I like your home the best.”

To me.

She said, “Who made your little birthday cakes, sprinkled on top of every single cake with number eights in balls of silver many times like in a jewel box of eights?”

I said, “My mother, but I sprinkled,” and I almost put my hand flat to my mouth, hearing I let it slip about her loss. I shouldn't have said Mother. I should have said something else. “The silver is safe to eat,” I said.

“In that amount and only once or twice a year it won't catch up for a long time,” the orphan said. “So let's say you and her next month can help me with my party. But do nines.”

How would I have known the orphan was older than me? She never had a birthday party before. I thought, her mother didn't let.
What kind of mother wouldn't let her child celebrate her birth? A mother of that kind you wouldn't want. You would be wishing for a new one a long time. I didn't feel anymore like speaking of my mother. I thanked HaShem our God I didn't have a cat. They said in school a cat can kill your mother with disease, plus anyone who stays the night, and I said, Like I didn't know.

The orphan said, “Americans make better cake than what we do here.”

I felt so shy with happiness, I smiled at my knees. This year on Our Many Cultures of Good Taste Day almost all my gingerbread men ended up one-legged in the trash. Everyone thought they would be chocolate. The year before I brought a loaf of mac and cheddar cheese and someone said, because of this your legs are fat. On Our Many Cultures of Good Taste Day suddenly the best thing to be is Yemeni or Moroccan, and I'm not.

“Tell me the recipe,” the orphan said. She pushed the cat, both of them sidling up, the blanket bunching towards me. The animal was busy licking its own chest, and didn't look up. The orphan tossed her hair. A strand whipped close. “Two buckets melted chocolate,” she said. “Right? Or three. Twenty-five eggs, only the yolks. Everything sweet and wet as much as possible, the flour sifted fifty times so it fluffs up to full apartness. Nuts. You should have put in nuts. In mine we'll put in nuts. Otherwise everything the same, including favor bags, with red clowns on the front and back, drawstrings to close them, inside every one a singing water whistle, bird shape, red or blue. A two-tone toffee, four big pretzels.” Every favor that I had she knew, and every one she wanted. “Sourballs, three, none a color of another, double-joke Bazooka, a nougat banana.”

One of my partners in consoling got up on her feet, and stood in her school uniform.

The orphan didn't see. Only a dirty little heel popped out from beneath the pansy field, then ducked in again. “And we should keep all the same games,” she said. And she remembered, each one by its
rules and name plus how it went that day, from when I tried to pin the donkey tail on Grandfather of blessed memory in his old silver frame, to when I stumped every last guest with my Life Story quiz. From when my team jumped up and down because my soldier cousin said he'd be our mummy, to when I was a hundred percent right it wasn't fair; we had the same amount of time and length of paper as the other teams, sure, but we had more to wrap. She said, “When your mother said to wait for all your guests to be served cake before you stuck the fork in yours, and you knew on your birthday you don't have to? You pulled the anger right out of your face. Almost immediately you really couldn't see, good and quick.”

The girl in her school uniform stepped forward. It was a Friday. The teacher said not to stay long. We had a duty to console. We also had a duty to get home before the Sabbath Queen and clean our home for her, and bathe.

“Your mother is beautiful,” the orphan said. “Your TV's huge. Your father's smart.”

The girl opened her mouth and took a breath. “The Place will comfort you,” she said, “among all the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem,” just like the teacher said. You cannot utter from your mouth the real name of God, but you can talk about His Place, from which comes consolation for our gravest trials.

Now my second partner in consoling stood.

“Those ruffle socks you wore,” the orphan said, “with roses on the ankles out of lace. I love them. There was food enough for a whole zoo. Your parents aren't cheap. Your towels smell good.”

“The Place will comfort you,” the second one said, “among all the mourners of Zion and Jerusalem.” And both my partners stepped around, and out, without good-bye, just like the teacher said.

I was surprised that I was left there on my own. I was surprised I didn't mind them leaving. They weren't my friends but they were something like me, pretty good students with not too wrinkled
shirts. Us three were picked to represent the class. Not the class president, and not the most pretty, not the precisest dodgeball slammer, not the singing daughter of the cantor. First up the stairs had been the Parsi who uses oil on her hair and lets no one touch. The first to speak the parting consolation was a bucktooth with three bucktooth sisters. Me, the orphan was excited to see.

“I like your dinner plates with the blue edge,” she said. She also liked our rocking chair. She also liked my bed. I knew then how it would be to watch a program on TV about a me which everybody wants to be.

All of a sudden I jumped to my feet. Something had been wrong and I only knew now. A wet warmth scraping me. My palm and fingertips and knuckles and between. The cat looked up at me, the pink tip of her tongue poking out. She drew it in.

The orphan said, “You touched your feet before you came here, don't say that you didn't! She can taste them. You have feet all over you. If not she'd only lick the nooks. Why'd you touch your feet?”

I said, “I have to get back home on time or I'll be dead.” I almost died right there for saying Dead. The orphan looked insulted, but, thank God, it wasn't what I said. It wasn't even her that was insulted, but the cat.

“That isn't what you do with cats,” she said. “You can't jump up all of a sudden. Look how hurt her feelings are. You scratch them first. You tell them next time they can come along.”

I squatted where I was and reached my fingers to the cat. I told myself, The left, the left, so I'd remember which hand I should wash.

“Under her chin.”

The cat stretched out her neck.

“Slower.”

She squinted her gold eyes.

“Now tell her.”

“Next time you can come.”

Zeessie kept stretching up her chin. She smiled, shut-eyed, lips like edges of a clam shell coming open, sharp pearls glinting. Her breath was liver and old cheese. Red hairs stuck to my hand.

I hurried through the living room, sneaking my eyes to the TV and mirror and glass cabinet doors, all covered, like the teacher said, every reflection hidden in a time not suitable for looking at your own shape in this world. Our solemn thoughts must dwell on that which has no shape. We all knew what this meant. The warning passed around: The mother's soul! The mother undeparted, who was waiting in her home behind each sheet. Either she waited everywhere at the same time, or else she knew which sheet your fingers itched to lift. There she would be. As soon as one thin sliver of reflective surface flickered back at life, she'd travel on the ray, glide down the tilted plane of suffering and drop at our feet to crawl among them, hunting for the cat.