Joshua Cohen - Witz

That you can get from your mother…he says in a disappointed whisper, a sigh, hanging his head and chazzaning to the pitch a little prayer of repentance even the Hasids out in Lakewald don’t know, as Batya and Rubina, two daughters the youngest and eldest, just then and whether in his voice or his eyes find in the mensch maybe something, hymn — an incarnation of a forefather known only from the unsmiling frames hung on the staircase’s landings; and possibly Batya only then remembers what her mother’s warnings are regarding talking to strangers: forget it.

Mensch’s confused, pats his breast pocket for his medication: it’s not there, which means he’d taken it, but if that’s so then why doesn’t he remember having taken it? Did it work, is it working, it took? Batya turns to her mother in tears, buries her face underneath her swell, in her crotch, shaking her head in a No to tuck in even deeper, don’t wake me. No thanks. The mensch gathers himself to peep through the doorway, the entryhall through to what he best guesses is the diningroom, leans his miniaturized weight against the jamb, shading his dark over the threshold as Hanna takes Batya’s wrist, slaps it lightly, and Batya, face removed, tots away from her in a fit, kicking at the pedestals and plinths lining the hallway away from the rooms dining and living, family, den, and into the kitchen, bringing their miscellaneously artistic idols and vases stuffed with flowers both lifelike and silklike and all of them real in their ruin down to the floor, crashes with her crying quietly again up the stairs to her room not to be seen or heard from again the whole night. Meanwhile, the other daughters have made their ways to stand behind their mother, passing through the hallway amid its trunks and boxes and packing supplies, mind the scissors, the tape sticking to the fringes of their garments, their trims tangled in twine, with Israel following as if whisked by the wind of their skirts, the guests left to themselves and to Wanda who’s serving — and soon the family entire’s assembled at the door, even her belly’s boy, and Hanna comes calmed, with more assurance, strengthened and safe in her home, frowning from under and staring impassive from over her nose, having gotten a whiff of what to expect, a scent and an eyeful, too, the inclination of an ear: attentive to the chink of mensch inhabiting the crack, and to the drafty drift of the spiel guaranteed now forthcoming.

And sure enough, the mensch mumbles what, it’s impossible to say…a For You Good Price pitch, st-stuttering now of fine material, of finer workmen-schship, a how it’s lasted him for years testimonial, rubbing now a pant leg between two fingers as if summoning a species of foreign dybbuk.

Nowhere! he oaths, because menschs like him have foresworn swearing, nowhere will you find gabardines like this, of worsted cloth the best, made of warm and wefty wool, or coddled cotton, of silk and rayon twill, he stretches out a leg — whichever you want, let them be. Much too long for myself, anyway, much too wide; wicks the leg out almost onto her pregnancy, proffering it to her as if a scarf for the winter outside, waving a cuff between two of her chins.

I’m sorry, Mister? What? A representative calling from the firm of Baggenhatz & Shirtzenpantz. Mister Farbenlint, here for a Mister Boxenbrief…Mister Lispstein, Fallenwallet, or Sloppenputz.

Matzahsock, or was it Latkerot?

Is here Nitz, he says, and what, please, is your name? reaching in to pinch Hanna’s bounty, one of infinite cheeks, oy his eyes.

I regret, Mister Witz…

Nitz, just Nitz, please and only…

I regret that my husband isn’t home, then nods at Israel standing behind her.

So another time I’ll call, he says.

Don’t, please. I can assure you my husband’s not interested in purchasing your pants.

This I can hear from him, he’s cupping his ear into a phonographs’s bloom. A cricket cacophony. Might I interest you, while we’re waiting, in the world’s smallest violin? A pity, you won’t be able to hear it, it’s Shabbos.

Israel has many pairs of pants, is how Hanna goes on, Israel shamed with his silence amid womanly worry — too many, more than he even knows himself, fine pants I can assure you, the top quality finest, though I’m sure yours are fine, too, in their own way…

As if to say, if God Himself can make one fine pair of pants, then why can’t He make many?

Israel’s wardrobe is virtually exploding with pants, we have closets both regular and walkin, I’d take you upstairs, but…of pants in every size skinny, lean, and not so much older, the widening of the thirties the age and its waist, the fall of the abdominal wall — and all of them the basement, the closets and drawers all stuffed fatter than I am, but with pants, I assure you. We’ve even given away so many pairs, charity, tzedakah, you wouldn’t be interested, would you (he’s shaking his head, not declining as much as in disbelief) — though, admittedly, Israel ends up always wearing the same two or three pairs, out of habit, you can understand, though I’m sure that…

So then you should tell me when’s maybe a good time.

Sorry, no thank you, and Hanna goes to shut the door even if it means mangling his foot then the lawsuit.

So maybe dinner’s not so great a time. A hint I can take, a hint even I can take. Shaking his head so much he’s nauseous.

Or it’s the food that’s doing it to him, asking, is that something paprikash I smell?

Please understand, Mister…

Nitz, Rubina says, her voice high and clear, it’s Nitz only.

Understand that we make these decisions, these decisions regarding pants, together, Israel and I, and so if you’d please…

Nu, I can’t see so well but I’m not also deaf. So no pants but what about dinner?

I don’t think…Hanna staring Israel down under the matching interior mat of the entry.

Or, hymn, some chicken for takeout? in a little box you could make up for me maybe? If it’s no trouble. I’ve got some string saved somewhere to tie it all up with, pats himself down.

No, no dinner, sorry, and no pants either, no maybes…Hanna turning away in sour withdrawal, nodding let’s wrap it up at Rubina, let’s not let the next course get cool.

We’re not interested, Mister Vitz or vatever, come back never, don’t let the door hit you on your, Shabbat Shalom.

Whispering to himself another prayer, underrecognized, underrated, another supernumerary blessing of curse and that while tonguing a tooth loose, Nitz steps his three steps retreat, minced, then bows at the knees before turning tush. Rubina shuts the door lightly, her hand feeling the seam, the scarred lining. All disperse, return to the table and guests, with what’s new to talk about with them, where should we begin, and who should. Josephine’s left alone at the door, her face flattened against the spectral stain of its glass. She presses herself to the cold, presses herself barelipped to kiss…the glare from the lights outside, the round belly lamps of the street, thinskinned, brilliant — the membrane of home keeping everything out, so very fragile.

Out front, mounted above the porch with three screws into shingle siding, the automatic light, equipped with a motion detecting, sensorial device type thing — Hanna says to Israel how after Shabbos he should replace it, the bulb — has burnt out. Nitz passes them as unknown as ever, I’ve never. Through the rest of his long, slow ailing walk — an attack of the heart once with the wind, his breath coming harder, was he always this old, without wings — his disappearance down the narrow, wooded slate path heading straight for the gate he forsakes for its intersection with the asphalt of the serpentine drive, from the two, maybe, difficult to tell in this light, three, four, five vehicle garage, then out into the open, just vacuumed street, the still air richly rarefied in its emptiness, and then through it, intruding, imposing and onto the next house, always the next, a mensch as much Elijah material as anyone going on to take in this entire tallhoused, widelawned hemisphere, a world itself in Development, new houses being put up by the day to the west, playgrounds and parks between them cleaved from the earth, lots amenitized with diamonds and turfs, making his way to the Koenigsburg’s, which is across the way though the daughters say always Nextdoor, their walk slated to face in on the looparound, the turnabout, Nitz faces down, shuffling his spindles through puddles of oil prismatic, in a funny, shuddering hunch. Josephine gives a laugh, as he wills himself again to the nerve of his spiel.