Up From Orchard Street (39 page)

“My God!” the doctor cried as he worked on the wound, “it’s full of shit! I can’t believe it!”

Carefully, he applied disinfectant, and with Q-tips and sterilized tweezers he removed dirt and particles from the open flesh. His intensity was fierce. “That’s about as clean as it will get. I’m using sulfanilimide powder as an extra precaution. Okay, Manya, relax. Sit down and rest. I’ll suture this now.”

Bubby’s shoulders slumped. Her arms were trembling from the exertion.

“How many stitches?” asked Goodman.

“Thirty, forty.”

“Forty!”

“One of these years we’ll use clamps instead. Less chance of infection.”

“Clamps? But you’re such a good sewer. You could be a tailor.”

He finished stitching and gently wrapped miles of white bandage around Clayton’s head.

“Manya, do you want a nurse for the night?”

She roused herself—her first smile since Clayton phoned us. “You remember that beautiful nurse when we were sick in your apartment? Scott Wolfson told her Clayton was my boy and she said, ‘You adopted a Negro as your child?’ This I don’t need.”

“Clayton should have someone looking in on him every few hours.”

“We’ll take him upstairs. On the kitchen floor.”

“Like old times on Orchard Street.”

“Pain, heartache, they don’t change. They’re the same everywhere.”

Dr. Koronovsky didn’t argue with her. “He’s a dead weight, but we’ll sit him in the elevator. After that Goodman and I will carry him into the kitchen.”

The appearance of my parents and Willy, tired from their day on Division Street, created a fresh commotion.

“He could have been killed!” cried Jack.

“He could have died!” cried my mother.

“He could have died in jail and no one would know!” cried Willy.

“I thought when he was on the kitchen table that maybe we would lose him,” Bubby admitted.

“You should see Manya helping,” said Uncle Goodman. “A regular Florence Nightingbird. Manya, dear, you remember which pills are for what?”

“White for pain, yellow for no infection.”

I hadn’t eaten since those tea sandwiches hours ago, but when Bubby said, “Let’s make night” we scurried to our rooms. All except Bubby, who sat in the kitchen, leaning forward every hour to listen to Clayton breathing.

The next morning Dr. Scott Wolfson bounded into our apartment, a medical textbook in his hand.

“Manya, Dr. K. said you were a super nurse.”

“Ah glick is mir getrofen.”

“What does that mean? You found luck? I love Yiddish. I studied French from the age of ten. I hadn’t even heard of the existence of Yiddish until I came to your house. Now I have a whole vocabulary. Goniff, meshugana, tsures, gevald. I want to be able to speak whole sentences, whole paragraphs.” He opened his textbook. “How’s the patient? What was the last time you medicated him?”

“Four in the morning.”

Scott paused as he scanned the textbook. “Any excess bleeding?”

“That’s how you’ll take care of him? From a book?”

“I never worked head injuries, but I can deliver a baby and I know dozens of children’s diseases. Manya, if you have a baby, I’ll deliver it free.”

“When you see me pregnant, you’ll see the Meshiach walking in the sky!” She stood up and hugged Scott. “I’m glad you’re happy. I’m glad love is giving you so much happiness.”

“If I lost Susan, I don’t think I could love again.”

“I thought after Misha, there’s no love. But each love is different, like each meal is different, like each play is different. How many times have I seen
The Old King
? Different actors make it different. It’s not the same twice.”

Unaccountably, she burst into tears, her chest heaving.

“Manya, Manya,” Scott consoled her. “You won’t lose Clayton. Remember how he cared for all of you when you were sick? Now you’ll care for him and he’ll be handy-dandy. Why are you upset when the worst is over?”

When Dr. Koronovsky returned from his long weekend, he suggested no work for Clayton and bed rest. If he couldn’t sleep or had night terrors, Bubby was to give him a magic pill—the doctor set aside a half dozen Seconals—and she squirreled them away in the cinnamon jar. And Orloff took mop and broom in hand to clean the lobby.

On the night of Scott Wolfson’s engagement party, Clayton wept copiously as we set out—Bubby in her new summer rose dress, I in my Parisian blue outfit and Willy in navy blue slacks, a long-sleeved white shirt and a V-necked sweater vest that matched his slacks. I was happy that the years of indifference to our attire were over.

Nor was Bubby upset that for once we were not hauling cartons, bags, boxes and cauldrons of food. Dr. Koronovsky had informed us firmly but kindly that the Wolfson and Newman families were providing food and drink.

The Koronovskys lived on the upper floor of a brownstone that faced lower Fifth Avenue. We could hear voices and laughter as we stepped into a setting of very high ceilings, bookcases lining the entrance hall, prints in gilt frames, end tables piled high with art books. A chess set with jade pieces caught the pale light.

Phyllis wore a long, Mandarin-style satin hostess gown the color of the chess set. She extended her arms to us, smelling of a subtle perfume, her narrow intelligent face radiant. “We’re thrilled that you’re here.” She kissed Lil and Jack, whom she had not met before, on both cheeks, shook Willy’s hand and said, “Will, I’m glad we finally met,” and kissed Bubby and me.

Kisses and conversation filled the evening.

We spent no time worrying about our part in the conversation. Bernie Frank embraced us in his usual tipsy kissing mood, followed by Dr. Charles Newman, Bubby’s kidney specialist, who proved to be Susan’s uncle. Was that how Scott met Susan, by bringing Bubby to this famous urologist?

We couldn’t bother to speculate because Scott and Susan dominated the room. Straight-backed, long-legged, clearly the product of excellent health, vigorous sports and the confidence of privilege, Susan displayed her love for Scott as her birthright.

At last I gave myself permission to stop loving him. Liking him forever, yes, purging him from my fantasies, also yes. I remembered the first night Bubby and I talked about him in bed on Orchard Street, when she explained to me about mismatched worlds.

A gentle tap on the shoulder turned me around to see the benign face of Dr. Koronovsky. “I want to show you something,” he said, and led me into the entryway. He nodded toward a small painting in a simple modern frame.

“This was my wedding present to Phyllis, a real Edward Hopper.”

I gazed at the picture of three rust-colored buildings, identical in size and shape, with a pale slash of light at first dawn illuminating the lower half of the houses. “It’s our tenement,” I exclaimed, “our building on Orchard Street!”

“Or any decaying building in the city, standing in dead silence. Urban sculptures,” said Dr. Koronovsky. “Come into our bathroom. I’ll show you our Roualt. Bubby says it’s King Lear, the one she calls the Alta Koenig.”

“You have art in your bathroom?”

“Of course, that’s where you need it most. The human body is far from perfect and seeing yourself undressed may cloud the day. When you step out of the bathtub and your eyes meet a masterpiece, you greet the new day courageously. Aren’t those paintings lovely?”

It was an inspiring evening, and it wound down with the rustle of people leaving, more kisses, more congratulations to the golden couple. Near the door, I saw a table I hadn’t noticed before covered with beautifully wrapped gifts.

“We didn’t bring anything,” I protested as we sank into Abe’s cab.

“They have everything,” Lil chimed in. “What could we get them, a coat at wholesale?”

“We brought ourselves,” said Bubby. “That was the gift.”

One Saturday evening a month later my parents came home to Grand Street by cab as daylight waned. Lil had worked at Saks, Jack at Elite Fashions. They ate schav and strawberries with sour cream— nothing more.

Then the phone rang. Pete Peterson, usually soft-spoken, spoke loud enough for all of us to hear. “Jack, good news at last! The architectural magazine is short of one article. It’s going to be ‘Grand Street Renaissance.’ The shoot is early Monday morning. Are you game?”

“We’d love it. We’d be honored.”

“We have to start while it’s dark so the outside can be lit better. We’ll have a crew of lighting men and we’ll bring the furniture from Boucheron et Fils. Also two security guards, armed, in the truck and on the street. We’re photographing the living room, the bathroom, the kitchen. We’ll bring flowers, plants, an entire case of prime fruit. Please, let me speak to Manya, to Bubby.”

Bubby’s hand was shaking as she grasped the receiver.

“Hello dear, I don’t want you to fuss. No baking, please. Three colorful dishes. Can you whip up a pâté? Do you have a mold?”

“Yes, yes, the mold is from a wedding I catered.”

“Great. Perfect. Russians do beets. What do you suggest?”

“Beet borscht?”

“We’ll bring the tureen.”

“A whole salmon, no skin, black caviar.”

“That’s it! Molded pâté. Beet borscht with sour cream. Whole salmon, caviar topping.”

“Where can I buy a fresh salmon on a Sunday?”

“The camera doesn’t know fresh from day-old or hot from cold. The camera understands color. Is this too rushed for you?”

“No. It’s maybe two, three hours’ work.”

“Good. Perfect. You’ll be compensated for your time and the food. Thank you. Thank you so very much. Any questions?”

“What about the art?” I whispered.

“Who’s that buzzing in the background? Put her on.”

“What about the art?” I asked again.

“Sorry, I failed to mention it. A ravishing piece, wrapped in tarp, heavily insured. It will cover one entire wall opposite the windows, and has to be returned to the Cassette Gallery before 9:00 A.M. Monday.”

“I meant for the bathroom.”

“Thank you for reminding me. Where did you see art in the bathroom?”

“At Dr. Koronovsky’s apartment. One artist was French and the other Italian. And he had an original Edward Hopper.”

None of us had heard Pete Peterson laugh before. “I can’t promise you an original Hopper but I’ll do the best I can. And also, Orloff is a wreck. Try to calm him down. I’ve alerted the police. They know we’re coming.”

Jack phoned the Goodmans and on Sunday they brought down an electric coffeemaker that could brew twenty-four cups.

The rest did not run like clockwork. It was more like a disjointed dream, repetitive, bustling, anxiety-producing, heart-racing. Trucks drew up at 4:00 A.M. Monday. One lighting crew scurried onto the roof; another set up equipment on the high top of the truck.

Every room of our apartment was suddenly illuminated with glaring track lighting. Peterson hadn’t decided whether to suggest darkness or early morning, so he photographed in two time periods, one with night and one with a day atmosphere.

Once inside the apartment, Blake, the dark-haired assistant who wore cotton footlets on his shoes and weighed about a hundred pounds, directed all the movements. He glided rather than walked, jumped on and off the furniture like a mountain goat, and gave instructions in what seemed like sign language, pointing, waving his arms, nodding his head for yes or no.

He selected the master bathroom first, hanging two framed prints of women in elaborate and futuristic gowns, both backgrounds red, the gowns lilac and yellow. He told me the artist’s name was Erté.

He unfurled an off-white Swedish area rug, its edges tinged in lemon and milky cocoa brown. By the time the blue-black sky was showing a distant layer of gray, a couch had been moved in sideways through the door, cream-colored, the throw pillows with strips of satin that matched the edges of the rug. Lil gasped at its beauty.

The family, which included the Goodmans who had slept at our house that night, two or three in each bed, stood bunched in the doorway of the bedroom, watching.

In came two armchairs, one in front of each window, facing the sofa.

Worldly Aunt Bertha asked, “How much does a chair like that cost?”

As Blake hopped from one chair to another, he replied, “Five hundred dollars each. A thousand a pair.”

Two chairs cost as much as a small car!

Flowers and exotic plants blossomed on a small table between the chairs and in unexpected spots—on the floor, in odd corners. Blake produced a bolt of ivory cloth, mounted a ladder, draped it across the top of one window and let the rest fall naturally to the floor.

Then they unwrapped the painting, a Miró with abstract baubles in a massive black frame.

“Careful with the frame. It costs three hundred dollars,” Peterson warned. It was the first time he had spoken.

None of our minds could accommodate these numbers: five hundred, a thousand for chairs, three hundred for a frame. Peterson called on Clayton for help.

As Peterson had promised, the miraculous painting covered almost the entire wall. Two men photographed everything, crouched on the floor, on the chairs, on the arm of the couch, perched on the first rung of the ladder, on the last: ten, twenty, thirty views of the windows and the painting, the quietly elegant furniture . . .

“Where’s the coffee table?” Lil asked.

“No coffee table. Never a coffee table. It’s clutter. It serves no purpose, especially for knees and feet.” Peterson’s tone was not harsh, just authoritative.

He directed the kitchen shoot. Clayton stood at the window, in profile. Bubby, in her summer rose dress, leaned against the long counter. Peterson appraised the two of them. “Bubby needs rouge, needs brow darkener, her hair slightly mussed. I want her and Clayton out of focus, maybe double takes. The food is straight on, crisp and clear.”

I thought Bubby looked gorgeous—her theatrical makeup and her natural gray hair, the smile in her eyes rather than on her lips.

“That’s it. Don’t look at the camera but think of . . .”

“Lil and Jack dancing,” suggested Bubby.

“Perfect. Great. Done. We’re done. Everything to come down in reverse. Outside lighting last.”