Jami Attenberg - Saint Mazie

They were dancing in the living room. I stood and watched them, Louis and Rosie, too. Two left feet, Ethan has. Suppose that’s why he fell in love with a dancer, admiring that which is not his. He nearly dropped her when he dipped her and we all gasped.

She said: It’s all right. It doesn’t matter really.

He said: I’ll take lessons.

She said: You’re sweet.

He said: Sweet on you.

She said: You don’t need to take lessons.

He said: Do you think I’m getting better?

She said: You couldn’t get any worse.

He stepped on her foot and she yelped. He was all apologies. Rosie nearly went to her. Those precious legs.

She said: It’s fine, I promise.

He said: Truly it doesn’t matter?

She said: Truly.

I think we were all watching her to see if she was telling the truth.

Mazie’s Diary, May 31, 1921

Al Flicker got beat again last night, and it was bad. I heard it from Rudy who heard it from one of the ushers who heard it from a friend on the force who was there while it was happening.

I saw Mack in the afternoon, walking his beat. I yelled at him that I wanted to talk about Al. At first he ignored me, but people started looking at us and he couldn’t dodge it. Lousy coward is what he is. He sauntered over to the cage, dragged his nightstick slowly across the bars. He didn’t scare me. He’d never scare me.

He said: How about you show some respect?

I said: How about you and your thug friends respect the people in your neighborhood? And not pummel innocent men for no reason.

He said: I wasn’t there and I don’t know what you’re talking about anyway.

I said: He’s not a criminal.

He said: Mind your own, Mazie.

He doesn’t understand a goddamn thing though. These streets are my business.

George Flicker

Al kept getting beat up, and we were pretty certain he had developed some kind of brain damage. Al started calling them “Bad luck nights.” Poor guy would come home early in the morning, blood on his clothes and on his face, wobbling and dizzy. Half the time he’d tip over into the furniture. And then — always with a smile on his face — he’d say, “Had another bad luck night!” I don’t know why he didn’t just stay home but we couldn’t stop him for nothing. He thought it was his right to walk the streets when he pleased. Which it was.

A few times I tried to talk to him about it and he shook me off. Finally my mother insisted I corner him, and so we took a walk to Washington Square Park where he liked to play chess on occasion. I said, “Al, we’re all so worried.” Then he very carefully explained to me that because of the color of his skin he was much better off than many people in this country, and if he had to take a little bit of beating he could survive it. Because in the morning he would wake up free to walk the streets again. He could sit where he wanted to sit, eat where he wanted to eat. He was free. He said, “None of it bothers me because I always remember it could be worse.” Which was a beautiful notion in a way, but at the same time, something an impaired man would say too.

But then another time I asked him about it and he said, “George, I’m making a point.” And I said, “What point?” And he said, “If you have to ask, you don’t get it.” And he waved his arms around at nothing. Now this was nonsense of course. Just tell me the point already. I want to know the damn point. It was hard not to write him off as damaged goods. My best guess is he was somewhere in the middle.

Mazie’s Diary, June 4, 1921

Louis drove me to work today. No reason why. We just missed each other, our time alone together. We didn’t even discuss it. He was up early and so was I and away we went.

He said: So what do you think about Ethan?

I said: I like him just fine.

He said: He’s asked for Jeanie’s hand in marriage.

I said: Quite the surprise.

He shifted a little bit in the seat, squeezed the wheel with his giant hands. His voice dipping down deeper than usual. A little bead of sweat emerged from his fedora.

He said: I’m not her father. She can do what she likes. But what do you think? He’s good to her, yes?

I said: If she loves him too, she should marry the poor guy. It’s obvious he’s smitten for eternity.

He said: He’ll provide for her.

I said: Yes! Oh, Louis, she means the world to him. He’s got a good job. He’s not going anywhere.

He said: All right, I was just checking. Rosie thinks so too. It’s not that I don’t trust her opinion. There’s no one sharper than your sister. Only I know she’d rather see all of you married off sooner rather than later. And I’d just like for you girls to be happy.

We were quiet for a long time after that. My mind went somewhere dark, and I tried to pull myself out of it, but I was sunk with sadness.

I said: You know there’s no hope for me. No husband in my future.

He said: You’re better than all that anyway.

He said it without thinking, and it made me think that it was true, or at least that he believed it was true. That was good enough for me. Good enough for now.

Mazie’s Diary, June 12, 1921

Walked down to the water this morning and Jeanie was already there. Not whole yet, but closer to who she used to be. Leaping and skipping. A tumble in the sand but she laughed as she fell. Still lean, always lean, but healthier. One leg matches the other now. She was nodding in the wind. Seagulls scattering. I waved at her and she waved back. We didn’t join each other. But I was satisfied that we were both bearing witness to the same sunrise.

Jeanie Phillips, July 7, 1921

I know where Mazie hides this, but I swear I don’t read it, only needed to write down one more thing, shed this skin, bleed this blood. No one wants to talk to me about Mama. She’s dead, I know it, what’s the point anyway? And it’s true I’ve not thought much about Mama & Papa in my life, not knowing them, barely remembering even very much about them. But I have something to say.

Rosie & Mazie told me Papa was bad, and so I believe it to be true. He hit her, for years he hit her. Rosie says he’s a bastard, I believe it. Mazie says I should be grateful to Rosie for saving us, and I believe that, too. Our mother was once beautiful, they’ve both told me that. I let that roll over in my imagination and accept it as fact even though my only memory of her was dark circle eyes and clumps of hair that came out in her hands. I squeeze my eyes shut and she becomes a whole woman again, because they say it, and I want it to be true.

But when I think of him, I only remember him dancing. He danced with me when I was a little one, held me high in his arms and swayed me around the room. And I remember once, only once, going to a fair, all of us as a family, and seeing him dance there. We were there for hours, we lost him, and I slept in my mother’s lap while she stroked my hair. It was safe there, the comfort of her lap, her thighs, her hips I remember it all as soft and bounteous, and that’s all I wanted was her touch. Stroke my hair, hold me close, dance me around the room.

And when we found him there was music like I had never heard and strings of lights everywhere. It seemed like millions of them, but only now I realize that wasn’t true, it was only because I was little, and so everything seemed bigger. But oh it was dazzling! All those lights. And the crowds of people dancing. And there was our Papa, dancing with a stranger, and I looked at how happy he was. But Rosie stopped him, made him stop dancing with the woman. The last thing I remember about this was thinking: Why is Rosie making Papa stop when he’s so happy?