The Six Granddaughters of Cecil Slaughter (14 page)

Same as when Esther disappeared into the suburbs, even though she and Levi visited there every weekend. Benjamin would drive down to the city, pick them up and bring them back. Two hours in the car on Sundays. And when Levi was gone, he came just for Eva, although on the ride to take her back into the city he would bribe either Joshua or Jeremy to come along and sit in the front seat. Alone in the back, the only noise coming from Eva was that of an old woman checking and rechecking for her apartment keys in her huge, worn, leatherette purse.

As she walked her avenue, sometimes three times a day, snow or wind or rain never stopping her, she watched Manzelman the grocer, Satvitsky the butcher, and Ruben the tailor slowly disappear, and other stores rise up with owners whose names she could not pronounce, nor did she try.

And when Esther started to wear scarves—the most beautiful Celie could find to cover her mother's baldness, a side effect from the treatments—Eva never asked “Why?” Nor did she ever speak of Adele when she and Esther walked together.

Though one day, over the phone, she did talk of Adele to Esther. Said she saw her coming toward her—“a ghost in
the night” was how she put it. But, before Adele saw her, Eva said, “I crossed over. Over to the other side.”

She told that to Esther and then they were cut off—it sounded as if the receiver just dropped into its cradle. Eva took a too-difficult breath, pushed a chair as close as she could to the window that overlooked the avenue. Sat down and stared.

Esther called and called her mother back, but she did not answer. With Ben elsewhere and herself too weak to drive, Esther called Celie, begged her to
please
run down there, which she quickly agreed to do.

It was when Esther hung up the phone that she felt a deep pang of upset about her daughter and wished Celie would be more aggressive—more assertive in life—instead of always absorbing the pain of everyone else, never lashing out—so like Esther herself.

Unbeknownst to Esther, through the years Celie picked up on her mother's seething and the few times it burst open. One instance being Esther's thrilling smile when she so finally crashed the phone into her sister's ear. Another, when pregnant again, she hollered full strength at Benjamin, “If this child is a boy he will
not
be named after Cecil Slaughter! No son of mine will
ever
be named after him.
Enough!
If it's a boy he will be named after my dear Lettie's deceased father, Joseph.
I've had enough of all this! Do you hear me?”

Frightened by the force of her wrath—the insanity he heard in her voice, reminding him, however momentarily, of the piercing screams which emanated from his mother Idyth—he acquiesced, thereby appalling my mother and father and for which he begged and begged huge forgiveness. Which, ultimately and nobly, they gave him.

Celie carried those sharp moments of her mother's ire
into her future, believing someday it would come quickly to her as to how to use her own ever-burgeoning anger.

Celie found her grandmother in the chair next to the window. She stood next to her. They were in position.

Niftorim.

Admission

In the cabinet with the lattice

opening, I confess to all

the calls and hang ups—obsessions

with the glands and muscles

of the hair: follicle, papilla, blood vessel—

the soft bulb at root's bottom that I love

to pull out and suck. I knew

Krishna, Lucifer, and Zeus,

phoned them late at night

but would not speak.

When we'd meet at all the seedy strips

of airport motels, my heart

would swell and beat my body

wild until I'd heat into high

fever I thought would last forever.

I stalked their wives and lovers, had license

numbers, kept records of their busy

tones—who was talking

to whom. Adonai in the temple

said a silent prayer over

my bald spot and wept.

Interrogation

Do you swear to tell the whole truth … ?

No Sir, the truth hemorrhages in my pen,

but lies clotted on my tongue.

Do you want a lawyer?

No Sir, I like the unprotected exposure.

Are you a Confessional Poet?

No Sir, they all committed suicide

in the 60s and 70s.

How many lovers?

Once I thought there was one, Sir,

but in fact I have to answer “none.”

Any rapes?

Including you, Sir, four—

no five, I forgot Herr M—

but no one got firmly in.

The last served me

a quarter of a chicken

and while I was delicately

trying to separate the meat

from the bone, yanked me

from my chair to his futon

on the soiled, hardwood floor.

His child had napped there

earlier. I could smell

the urine. I know it's sick

to say it, but his

desire made me feel young.

Have you considered plastic surgery?

Yes Sir, but just in places no one can see.

I keep looking for the soul—that pure egg

inside the body. How I long to hatch it.

I'd let my doctor-lover keep sucking

out the fat and grow so light—

translucent in the sun—

I'd find the perfect shape,

intercept it with my pen-

knife. Then, I'd sit on it like a hen.

Did you make all those calls?

Yes Sir, but just in June

when the hot pink peonies exploded

inside my head—thromboses of love.

My blood gushed like a bride's

bouquet, then dried and left me empty.

Do you really have a bald spot?

O Yes Sir, a perfect circle

of “Yesses.” I look at it with awe.

It is my flawless flaw.

ARE YOU A CONFESSIONAL POET?

NO SIR, I ALREADY SAID THEY ARE ALL DEAD.

When do you die?

Sir, every morning when the world wakes

new I go to sleep naked and wrapped

in a simple white sheet.

Unembalmed as an Orthodox Jew,

I watch my body disintegrate.

Punishment

All agreed to leave her

disconnected—cut any pulse

of light that might travel

from her. Jailed, without

a mouthpiece—diaphragm

and carbon chamber—

it was believed

she could not call, never answer.

Truth

I love this claustrophobic box,

the formality of its walls,

the hidden arrangement,

the simple judgment chair.

I do not need another's ear,

just a pen and some paper.

c. slaughter

C
ECILIA GAVE CELIE
the message to tell Deidre that if she would like, she would be happy to read either a long poem or several short ones. Her thinking was that by spending a little time with Deidre in person, responding to a poem or two of hers, Deidre would leave her and Celie alone—or at least give them a respite. Celie did not agree at all, saying, “It won't work, Cecilia. You don't realize how overdetermined she is. This will only create a further desire in her to get closer to you.”

Cecilia told her that she had seen how easily pleased the people were by her comments in the workshops she occasionally taught and that no one bothered her for more after that. Celie's voice deepened and dropped as she said, “Okay. I'll do it, but it's a bad idea both for her and for you.” Her warning was prophetic.

In truth, Celie was sick of being the messenger, the middleman, stuck between other people's craziness. So when she hung up the phone she thought she might start screaming so much she would never be able to stop. But she calmed herself with extra pills and the thought, “I'm doing this for Cecilia. I'd
only
do such a thing for Cecilia.” And this made her feel better.

Within two days, Celie called Cecilia and said, “I've got it. Deidre just left the shop, but not before handing me an envelope addressed to you.” Celie then added, “She bought a beautiful black cashmere sweater set. The cardigan has large crystals for buttons which change every which way the light hits them, inside a dimly lit room or outside under the sun or moon, and she was particularly attracted to this, declaring, ‘Oh Celie, they are like my moods!'”

Celie, startled by this admission, said to Cecilia, “I just stood there with my best shop-girl grin as she continued to jabber. ‘Of course, I can never take off the cardigan—my upper arms are too unshaped. That's what Harrold said to me two weeks ago in bed. Not that I didn't already
know
this.
What woman doesn't,
when this is the case?'”

Celie continued, “She then laughed a chaotic laugh, almost a cackle, and confirmed to me what she had told Celine about the state of her sex life, saying, ‘Oh, well, he
is
a clumsy man. We never touch in our parallel lives. The way we lie in bed together has become the essence of our marriage. Someday we'll lie forever like this—parallel and separate—in our caskets. '”

Celie and Cecilia did agree that Deidre seemed to have a borderline personality disorder and the last thing either of them needed at this point in their lives was someone
so clearly uninhibited and peculiarly subversive. Celie then told Cecilia, again, that she felt her approach was all wrong. That she had had much more contact with Deidre than Cecilia and that Deidre was becoming unrelenting in her pursuit of her. She then reported, “I meticulously took her envelope, went to my desk, opened the locked drawer where I keep my purse and placed the envelope inside the drawer as she carefully watched. After I did this, she kissed me on the cheek and said, ‘I'm off! I'm off!'”

“Clearly, Cecilia, she really
is
off,” trying to emphasize further that her plan was a big mistake. Ignoring her warnings, Cecilia responded, “I'll get the envelope later today and do something about this in as simple a way as possible—maybe all that's needed is a new approach. Everyone needs a little focus, a little attention.” However, when Cecilia hung up the phone she thought, “Am I capable of even solving anything in a simple way? Perhaps I just complicate every awfulness. Maybe Celie is right. My judgment of late has been as
off
as anything Deidre has ever done or said. Actually, more so.”

After Cecilia picked up the envelope, she opened it and found a long poem. Celie asked her to read it out loud and Cecilia replied, “Are you sure? It's pretty bad. Do you need a long, bad poem in your head?” Celie laughed and said, “I already have that—my life—so thank you and no.” This quick, decisive assertion made Celie feel good and she thought, “I'll have to remember to tell this to my therapist.”

Cecilia told Celie, “Wait a week and then call Deidre. Give her my phone number. Celine and I will take her to lunch.”

“Celine?” Celie said quite startled, “Why Celine?”

“Because she can keep the most inane conversations going and drive everything off topic, thereby making for a brief discussion on poetry. I thought you'd be pleased that I'll have protection.” She said this facetiously and they both smiled. Cecilia then continued, “I know, I know, I'll have to buy Celine something big for this favor—a gift certificate from the shop. It's worth it.”

At home in her room, Cecilia reread Deidre's poem “Confession.” It had the same title as one of hers that had recently been published. In some way she found this less stalky-frightening than sad. She imagined this nutty, anxious woman waiting by the phone for a week, for some reply—all hope in her heart that something good was about to happen in her writing life. Every writer she knew had been there. But Cecilia also knew she could not really help this Deidre person, especially after reading the poem. Now, she just prayed Deidre would be appeased enough by the lunch and that her intrusions on Celie, herself, and even Celine would stall and then stop—that maybe she could take control of at least one small thing.

She could not be Deidre's lifeline to any particular heaven, but she could try to be nice. These past months she had felt her own lifeline was leading her toward a particular hell where Herr M was always present or, at best, an oblivion fraught with an unending, generalized agitation. However, she pushed these thoughts into a deep fold in her brain and continued on with her plan, which she convinced herself would work. That doing this would help give her some time to straighten out her own life without being distracted by Deidre's antics, and it also would give Celie some relief.