Jami Attenberg - Saint Mazie

Mazie’s Diary, January 4, 1920

Morning ride with Louis.

I said: Teach me about gambling.

He said: Never bet more than you have to lose.

I said: Boring.

He said: You should never gamble, Mazie. You’re too hotheaded. You, your sisters, none of you would be any good at it. You’d bet it all on your gut. And you can’t keep straight faces neither. You’d be out at the poker table in a heartbeat.

I said: We can’t help it if we feel things.

He said: It’s why I keep you around. You think I want to look at serious mugs all night long? Talk about boring.

I got good instincts, I don’t care what he says.

He said: All right, all right. I got one tip. Losing streaks. If you get on one, you can’t let it throw you off. You have to ride it out. We all go through them.

I said: Even you?

He said: Everyone. No one is so special in this life. We all lose sometimes. Life’s plenty easy when you’re winning. It’s what you do when you’re down. That’s the real test.

I said: I used to think I was special.

He said: I know.

I wanted him to tell me I still was. I would have eaten my left pinky to hear it. Torn it off with my teeth. But you can’t ask someone to tell you that.

Mazie’s Diary, February 3, 1920

Our mother finally passed on to the next life, wherever that is. I’d like to say she lived a good life, but she didn’t. I’d like to say she lived a long life, but that’s not true either. I barely knew her. I won’t miss her. You can’t miss a thing you don’t know. Still when I heard I wept like a baby fresh to this world. Rosie, too. We howled and held each other. Louis didn’t know what to do. We just stood in that kitchen and cried.

Later I said: We should tell Jeanie. She’ll want to know.

Rosie said: I’ll have nothing to do with that.

I sent her a letter anyway. Care of a boardinghouse in Chicago. Last known address.

Mazie’s Diary, February 4, 1920

Rosie left this morning. Drove herself and an empty trunk to Boston. I looked out the window and saw a gentle embrace between her and Louis at the car. He petted her hair, hunched over, and kissed the top of her head. Then he handed her a paper sack. Sweet that he made her lunch.

Later on Louis told me he’d be late picking me up, and I told him not to bother, I’d find my own way home. No words need to pass between us. He takes care of his business, I take care of mine.

After work I went to Finny’s for a quick one. Knock twice, then knock three times, and then you’re in. Lately I like it better than some of the noisier places, the ones with dancing and music. I don’t need the gaiety. I ain’t got nothing to celebrate, but I’m game for a laugh or two. Finny’s is simple, clean, a place to drink and not much else. Old wood floors covered with sawdust, and chipped cement walls with a painting of a half-naked lady that everyone says is Finny’s mom. I like to listen to the drunks talk. When I leave, my shoes are always a little dusty from the floor, like I’m taking a little bit of Finny’s with me.

There were a bunch of old-timers there. George Flicker’s uncle Al was there, head in a book, throwing them back. I remember him from the days he used to sleep below the staircase, when we lived in the first apartment on Grand Street. That bunched-up mattress. He built his own shelves beneath the stairs, stocked them with books. None I wanted to read but I liked looking at the covers.

For a bit I flirted with a young banker, William. He said he was going to own the world. He’s been to a movie or two at the Venice, knew who I was when I walked in the door. I let him buy me a drink, then three more. He’s sharp but he doesn’t make me laugh. I just want a laugh! God, I’m desperate for it. All I could see was his desire. Stared at me like a dog waiting to be fed. I nearly barked at him. I thought he must be in some kind of pain between his legs so steady were his looks. I thought about telling him there’s whores out there for that. But it’s been too long since I’ve seen the Captain…

I’ve been bleeding for a few days though, so I only let him at my breasts. He nearly sucked my nipples raw.

Hungry William.

Mazie’s Diary, February 5, 1920

I’ve just been taking cabs everywhere. No idea where Louis’s been. Cash on the table this morning.

Finny’s again last night. Al Flicker was there, in the corner talking to an Italian man. He was a real firecracker, this Italian. Dancing hands, dancing eyes. Looked over his shoulder a thousand times. I wanted him to look at me but he was looking at the door. Who you waiting for? I was thinking.

There was some grousing at the bar about the firecracker. They said he was an anarchist.

I said: You gotta be something I guess.

Oh, they howled at me.

I said: Politics is just a pose.

More howling. God bless America, what have you.

I said: Why don’t you mind your own anyway? What are you, running for office? Gonna be mayor of Finny’s?

Not a peep. These drunks.

George Flicker

I don’t know if Al was exactly an anarchist in a political way, like a lot of those gentlemen were. Gentlemen, I don’t know if they were gentlemen. Anyway, I think he just felt anarchic within himself. It was this spirit that he connected with. That word seemed to make sense to him. But the actual politics, what they stood for or didn’t stand for, I can’t say one way or another if he stood behind it. I think he believed in the right to believe, if that makes any sense at all. He felt it was his right as an American to be able to believe what he liked.

Mazie’s Diary, February 8, 1920

Rosie’s back home with us. Louis dragged the trunk in after her.

The first thing she said: That man’s mad.

The second thing she said: The kitchen is a mess.

She looked at me when she said that.

I said: The kitchen is not a mess.

Louis said: Sit. Talk to us.

She gave the kitchen another look, paced around it, suspicious, running her hands all over everything. That woman needs a cage of her own. Finally we both yelled at her to sit and she did.

She said: I went to the hospital. They said her body was gone. I went to the funeral parlor. They said she was buried already. I went to the cemetery and they gave me a number. There’s just a number on her grave. I put flowers on it. I thought someone should. Do you know what I mean, Mazie? Don’t you think I should put flowers on our mother’s grave?

I said: I’m glad you did.

She said: It was so cold I thought I would die right there. Then I’ll be a number too, I thought.

Louis said: You’ll never just be a number, I promise you that.

She said: That night I had dinner with Aunt Edith and she said there’s nothing anyone could do about it. He hadn’t talked to a soul. He makes his decisions, that’s it. I went back to the house the next morning. It was nearly empty. Someone was hauling a table away when I got there. He’d sold it all. Anything worth selling, anyway. Not that any of it’s worth much.

Louis said: Those are his possessions, the man’s got a right to it.

She said: I just wanted whatever could have been ours. I thought maybe there was something she would have wanted us to have. Something from the past, I don’t know what past. He was sitting on the back porch, still in his funeral suit. He had a bottle of something or other in his hand. I don’t know what, it smelled foul. His eyes looked murderous. He was not of this earth.

She pulled out a paper sack and pushed it across the table to Louis.

She said: I didn’t use it but I was glad I had it.

I reached out for it, I don’t know why. But Louis just snatched it.