Jami Attenberg - Saint Mazie

Paul came to the hospital in an elegant wool coat with black leather gloves that smelled like the woods, and I will never forget how handsome he looked, my married Italian man. There he was, kissing both of my cheeks, holding my hands, kissing them too. He said he was sorry that it had come to this and that I was a beautiful girl and I would someday recover and dance again like an angel, and he would remember our time together fondly, and that it was a crime to break a leg like mine, as graceful as it was, and with all the joy it offered the world with my fantastic performances. Then he offered to kill someone for me as an act of revenge and I said no. Then he asked me if I needed a ride home and I sobbed yes yes yes.

So last week I was driven from Chicago to Coney Island in Paul’s fancy car, and he gave me some money and this time I took it, and I did not feel like a whore, I only felt like a person in need. Paul’s driver, Mauro, is a friend of his father’s from the old country, their old country anyway, and he is my friend now, too. I told him everything that happened, start to finish, from Chicago to here, and it felt so good to tell the whole truth to someone.

He said it’s not the worst thing in the world the things that I did and that I had a little fun and there’s nothing wrong with that. I said that yes I had had my fun. He told me it’s fine to be young and entertain myself, but that I should stop lying so much because no one likes a liar and that I’ll keep all my secrets stored inside and it’ll show in my face, and I’ll end up an ugly old woman that no one will want to touch or love. He said there was a woman like that back in his village in Italy and she was a witch, and all the young boys threw stones at her until she bled. He said don’t be that way, don’t let the boys throw stones at you. He told me to be nice, he told me to be good, I said I would try. But already it felt like another lie. I’ll be good and bad, I’ll be right and wrong. I’ll be just like everyone else.

Lydia Wallach

Mazie was the hero to my family, but I’ll admit I daydreamed about being Jeanie once or twice. Obviously there was absolutely no possibility I’d live her life. I’m not a risk taker. I seek no thrills. But still I thought about it. Jeanie, the dancer, traveling the country, fluttering in and out of everyone’s life. It was a point of contrast more than a pleasant distraction. If I were not that kind of girl, what kind of girl was I?

Mazie’s Diary, November 11, 1920

My life right now is back and forth on the train, home to work, work to home, not a moment free in between. Jeanie begged me to be with her as much as possible, and I’m living up to my promise. She’s a cracked egg, a sticky mess on the ground before us all. Every day Rosie tries to clean it up.

She said: Don’t leave me alone with her.

I said: I gotta work, sister.

She said: You don’t know what it’s like, being trapped with her all day long.

I said: Oh, I know.

Jeanie’s got six more weeks left in the cast, and even then it’ll be a while longer till she gets around on her own. Meantime, I’m counting the cash, shutting the cage, and rushing home every night so I can crawl into bed right next to her. And every night she asks me the same thing.

She says: Tell me the story of your day.

Some days are more interesting than others, but most of them are exactly the same. People stand in line, they slap some cash in front of me, I give them a ticket and tell them to enjoy the show. The line’s not the interesting part. It’s the people on the streets, just hanging around. Too much time on your hands means trouble. Good kind, bad kind, both. But the streets seem cleaner these days. Now that most of the bars are closed, some of these bums have cleared out. You need money to have a good time in this town right now. The kind of fun I’m thinking about anyway.

Last night she clung to my arm, nuzzled her face up against it, desperate for attention.

She said: Tell me that people are still having a good time out there.

I said: I wouldn’t even know if they were. I’m right here with you in bed every night. You want me to have fun, let me go.

Mazie’s Diary, December 1, 1920

Sister Tee came to the cage this morning and I was glad to see her. Jeanie spends all her time feeling sorry for herself, high and dreamy, and Rosie spends all her time indulging her every whim. It’s no game I’ll play. So it was nice to talk to Tee, a woman sincerely devoted to helping others. She was looking for some help for a few more women.

She said: These girls, they have bad husbands. It’s not their fault.

She wanted more help than I had in my purse. I thought of the bag Louis had dropped off just a few hours before. I stuck my hand in and grabbed a fistful of bills. I tried not to look too close at how much was there. It was full, though.

I thrust the money at her. I said I didn’t want to know. It makes me sting thinking about my own mother still. When does that sting die? Does it die when I die?

Mazie’s Diary, December 5, 1920

Last night Jeanie was passed out on the couch, snoring, one arm flopped to the side. There was the tiniest line of drool sliding from her mouth. Rosie was sitting in front of the hearth, reading the paper. I saw a tin of whatever Rosie’s been feeding Jeanie to keep her quiet. I pointed to it.

I said: You gotta stop with that business.

She said: I’ll stop when she’s better. She’s in pain. Her legs itch. Her nerves tingle. You’re not here all day. You don’t know how she moans. I’m the one who’s taking care of her, not you.

I put the back of my hand on Jeanie’s forehead. She was cool. I said her name. She fluttered her eyelids open.

I leaned over her and whispered in her ear.

I said: Do you want to sleep forever? I don’t think you do.

I rubbed her neck for a second.

I said: Did you hear me?

She mumbled that she did.

Rosie said: What did you say?

I said: I told her to wake up.

Mazie’s Diary, December 29, 1920

Ethan’s come courting again. I guess he forgives easily. Can’t say I’d do the same. I could hear Jeanie tittering from up the street as I approached the house. Nice to hear her happy anyway. She was sprawled on the couch by the hearth, a bag of chocolates next to her, her casted leg balanced on a pile of pillows.

She said: Ethan brought me treats.

She held up a stack of gossip papers.

He said: She sounded so bored, I couldn’t help myself. We can’t have our Jeanie bored.

I said: Oh brother.

Rosie called me from the kitchen, and I left the two of them with their sweets and gossip. Louis was seated at the table, Rosie behind him rubbing his shoulders.

She said: Leave them be. Let them get reacquainted.

I said: He’s a fool.

I repeated myself, said it louder.

I went out onto the porch, lit myself a cigarette. My throat’s been sore lately from yelling at all the holiday crowds above the noise of the city. Is it possible the city is getting louder? Could it be that the streets are fuller? More cars, more trains, more people, more noise. I can’t stop smoking to save my life though. Often it feels like it’s the only joy I have.

Ethan soon joined me on the porch. So tall, yet somehow he still seems like the runt of the litter. A stretched-out baby face.

I said: I thought you were clever. Doctors are supposed to be clever.

He said: I’m an animal doctor.

I said: So you’re not clever?

The both of us were trembling in the moonlight from the winter chill, made more deadly by the wind blasting off the ocean.

He said: My heart can’t help it, Mazie. She’s a rare breed.