Joshua Cohen - Witz

Let’s begin with something simple…

Which Mary she is, even she doesn’t know, hasn’t yet remembered, she raises her hand, waves it desperately, then whines as if she has to pee.

Her mother sighs, what is it?

Who?

A reel’s readied, the lights overhead strangled with trembling, infanticidal hands; the screen’s the wall in front of them, whitewashed pocked plaster that backs the stage edged with tattered curtains; the woman flicks the switch. A world opens on a longshot, another hall, its weather…snow, the static sky. 10–9–8 kept by circles, blinking as if eyes wandering noctivagously over stage and floor — a flicker, and then His mother, His Ima, her form projected onto the woman now dragging the podium to the side, the body shot across hers, boned, one face ghosted upon another…she shuffles outside the shot to adjust the height of the projector. A woman, rising, raised, levitated, floating…halfdancing to silence, or she’s having a seizure, she’s palsied, perhaps a virus, at least she’s able to laugh at herself, she’s laughing, but at a friend, or with her — but no, she’s not deformed, mutated or miraculous, it’s more like the film itself, which is silent and slipping unfocused, again, and so the matron returns to the projector to steady the image atop its stack of books, wanders halfway across the shot toward the podium removed, returns and readjusts, then interrupts the image yet again and stops to stand far to the side and say the name, Hanna, voicingover the mute…her maiden name, Senior, married Israelien — can everyone hear me, I hope you can; I hate microphones — they’re only good if you don’t know what to do with your hands. She quiets, wets her lips. Here maybe ten, fifteen years before she died, forty if she ever told the truth about her age, give or take a few surgical procedures. 36–30–36, fivefoottwo inches tall, or short she thinks, a bit of a complex there, averaging 130 pounds when not pregnant, which wasn’t often: acceptably zaftig if not a Beshemoth, as she’d always joke — she had a sense of humor. Her husband Israel, whom we’re just getting now, the mensch in the green suit, this was a decade ago, forgive him — he found her attractive, she had beautiful breasts: above average, as you’ll notice, heartily unproportional…with nipples asymmetrically positioned (here she points her pointer, a collapsible erected, extracted from her bag) right pointing up, left down, stray hairs around the — surprisingly small — areolae; a cancer scare at age thirtysix, a cyst was removed, a scar; she has stretchmarks around the waist and thighs and at the armpits, too, a polio inoculation shot to upper left arm near shoulder, radial wrinkling about the face…but don’t take my word for it, you’ll have an opportunity to observe at a later date — we’re keeping her on ice, in Storage.

Her occupation, that of a homemaker, wife if you prefer, or mother, that of the undifferentiated uxorial…note the hairstyle, she says suddenly: it’s a wig, she blushes this once only, the one I’m currently modeling…as Hanna’s head’s flicked up to obscure the shot, pursuing, zooming in on the appetizer buffet behind her, the meaty pinks and vegetative purple — like many women of her enlightened generation, she wore it short after age thirty or so, thinks of it as feminine, but manageable…henna, but a between shade, undecided, or placating, peacemaking, a reddish brownie blond; she went light on the makeup save lipstick, professed a marked preference for skirts at the length of the ankle; in reasonable shape, especially given her twelve pregnancies, eight of them to date, with credit due to classes in aerobics, weekly episodes on the treadmill set to easy.

And, if you aren’t noticing — the woman dances.

If alone, adorned with necklaces of chamsas. A cocktail hour piano/violin.

Observe, please, that this is formal dress; for her, this was fancy. Her underwear preferences tended toward the synthetic, less panties than modified girdles, rearlift enhancers, thighslimmers, waistsnippers, what have you — the entire life cataloged, mailordered by phone, through friends; lacey brassieres with trimming underwires, floralpatterned when risqué or plain in white or black. Her hosiery fleshtoned. Her nails she kept manicured, professionally, in a shade and brand that’ll be made available to you shortly. Patience. I ask you to note the jewelry. Conspicuously chunky were the presents. Amethyst, silver, gold, what she picked out on her own. She holds out her hands, gangly jangling. I’m presently wearing many of these pieces…then gouges a projected eye with the tip of her pointer and says, you don’t know this woman, though she’s now your mother, understand?

And altogether, they exhale; gum pops soft, red lozenges gulped loudly.

Questions. All of you know the boychick I’m speaking of, Ben, one of our Garden’s more famous charges — or have heard of Him? and their heads nod in a row out in the hall dimly far from the projected light. Needless to say, everything I say in this meeting is to be kept strictly confidential. You’ve signed your sisterhoods away. We’ll hold you to your word. Exercise caution and your abs. Your lats and glutei. Marys, daughters — you are to be sisters to one another, and to Him: to keep Him company, to gain His confidence, how should I say this — to keep Him occupied…meaning, to seduce Him — to entertain His body, to distract His brain. In this assignment, Hanna, His mother, is to be your instructor, your mentor; maternal guidance in all its trusting worry — her here the one now dancing, or this evening she thinks it’s dancing, why not, let’s indulge her, that’s what daughters do. Or should be doing, if they’re behaved and well brought up; and you are — try to remember how well you’re provided for, how you’re kept always fed and warm. And thankful as much as ungrateful, too, it’s difficult, it’s tough. I want you to study her, to learn me, to become her daughters, mine…I want you to know her as cold as she is now. Observe her every moment and physical movement, her every overmothered eccentricity, the way she holds herself and others, the tic of the eye, the teethe of the lip, the scratch at the elbow, too; any and all idiosyncrasies you’re able to glean from stock and inspection firsthand, which will occur tomorrow at a time mutually convenient: daughters to bundleup in hooded down, with school announced cancelled, and so gathering instead for the true examination around the frozen slab upon which His Hanna lies, Morgue-stripped, bluegummed and crazyeyed. Anatomized. Dissect her, it. This, the womb from whence you came. Scalpels out. No copying.

Learn to walk her, to talk her, live her, breathe her mouth in yours, to give you life, I mean…eat her and sleep her — because He will; her when you rise up and her when you lie down, her when you go and her when you come, especially when you come…and then this business again with the pointer, her hysterical tapping; what am I forgetting?

Some of you will have your hair dyed, others will be given wigs in various shades and styles; many of your noses will require lengthening by pros-thesis; we’ve already gone ahead and rounded up their six pairs of glasses, frames we’ve refitted with new lenses, nonprescription…and then — and this is why you have to stay in shape and not get pregnant, or menstrually bloated, bellyfat and soft — if all else fails as His sisters, we’ll revert to your normal shiksa states, you Marys blond and blue, allAmerican, you’ll forgive me…I’m getting ahead of myself.

You’ll follow my instructions, and Hanna’s example’s what I’m saying, are we understood?

Lips lilt sibilance in the suspiciously affirmative, then giggle…that’s your first mistake, she says, your last — in this family, no one ever answers when spoken to for the first time, not even for the second, or third; they ignore. Then they yell themselves again even louder.