Rachel Cantor - Good on Paper

I was distracted when Benny returned. Romei? At Trixie’s? But Benny’s face said, We’re changing the subject, right?

Feeling better about the holidays? I asked gamely.

I guess I deserve that, he said as he settled back into his loveseat.

What?

No, I’m not feeling better. The holidays are difficult. I’m angry; I can’t get over it.

Angry about?

The usual, Benny said, and he began playing with his beard, as if pulling at loose threads. My father, you know. The way he treated us. Me. I can’t get over it.

Ah, right — I remembered. The great Nazi hunter. He made fun of Benny because Benny was skinny and studious. Called him ghetto Jew , asked if he would have walked willingly into the gas, gave Benny barbells he knew Benny couldn’t lift. For Christmas, no less. Yes, the family celebrated Christmas. Benny was what you might call a self-made Jew.

His father had been dead a dozen years.

When I was in therapy, we decided I don’t want to forgive him. Every year I tell myself I do, but the truth is, if I let go, who would I be? Don’t answer that.

I thought about this, stretched my legs out on the coffee table, where our toes nearly met.

You don’t seem angry, I said.

That’s ’cause you’re not going out with me.

I thought of crazy Marie.

What do you do? I asked. When you get involved, I mean.

Jesus, he said, not looking at me. What don’t I do? Then he stood, walked to the kitchen, returned with a bag of blue corn chips, opened it with a pop, muttered a Hebrew blessing, and passed me the bag. Nothing’s as boring as the blatherings of the self-obsessed, he said finally.

I’ll tell you what I do, if you tell me what you do.

You first. You’re a woman of courage; I am a lowly worm.

Benny!

Inspire me, he said, leaning back.

I do nothing, I said, swirling the bourbon in my glass so I wouldn’t have to look at him.

That’s cheating! You don’t do nothing.

I do nothing. I don’t get involved.

You’re not seeing anyone? I don’t believe it!

Not since my divorce. Not really. Not in any real way.

That was ten years ago! It’s possible to become a virgin again, if you don’t do it enough.

I didn’t want to get into the distinction between getting involved and doing it . In fact, I’d done it rather a lot.

Your turn, I said.

Benny shook his head, leaned back again.

I get involved. One after the other, he said, sometimes more than one at a time. I take them under my wing, treat them like baby birds. When they try to fly away, I get angry. Very angry.

You, angry? I can’t picture it.

I say things, he said, looking away. Bad things. I tell them they’re artistic frauds, they suck in bed, whatever it takes. I usually know just how to get them. The joke is, they’re never as vulnerable as I think. They bite back — which I guess is the point. At least, that’s what Sigmund said.

His name was not Sigmund!

That’s what I called him. To be hostile.

To his face?

That’s what I paid him for, right? To absorb my displaced Oedipal rage.

I watched my toes for a moment, wiggled them, realized what I was doing and tucked my legs under.

I’d rather be alone than go through that, I said finally.

I’d rather be dead than be alone. You’re not eating your share of chips.

Knowing the pattern doesn’t help?

I can’t get off the bus, Shira. I can’t change who I’m attracted to. I’m on a Circle Line, trying to revisit some primal scene with Pop so I can give it a happy ending. But I can’t change the ending: it’s ordained. Like me, he added, giggling. Then he sighed and looked at his knees. There is no new life. Not for me. Life for yours truly is an endless, cycling loop.

Can’t you short circuit it? I asked, trusting that he’d forgive a mixed metaphor.

Insight hasn’t done the trick, he said. Forgiveness. That’s the answer.

Hmm. What would you say to yourself if you were a member of your, uh, congregation?

Benny laughed.

I’d say, as a Jew — a professional Jew — you have to believe in return! T’shuvah , the guarantee that, repentant and ready to make amends, you can break the cycle. That’s what new life means for us, our burden and our blessing. If I follow the cycle of weekly Bible readings, monthly new moon celebrations, seasonal festivals, I’ll never find myself trapped in a circle: I’m on an individual and collective spiral, endlessly revisiting the same meaningful lateral coordinates, presumably on ever higher planes. That was quite a sentence, he added, wasn’t it?

When I do that, Ahmad says, “Real people don’t talk like that.”

Here’s to not being real people, Benny said, extending his glass. I clinked and waited for him to continue. He seemed lost.

You think forgiveness is key …, I prompted.

Yes, and we’ve established that this is something of which I am not capable.

You know, I said after another pause, I don’t think everything can be forgiven.

What would it take for you to forgive your mother?

Case in point.

Well?

Off the top of my head I’d say nothing. There’s nothing she could do after forty years to make up for forty years of doing nothing.

Nice chiasmus!

Thank you.

Not even if she were on her death bed and asked for forgiveness?

If she wanted absolution, she should talk to the Pope. Billions of people are going to Rome next year to ask for indulgence. I’d say, join ’em. Assuming she’s alive, which I doubt.

You think she’s dead?

Why not?

You think that because she’s absent: you can’t imagine her.

When I was a kid, I imagined she was dead. I found that easier than admitting she’d left us. She’d been assassinated on her way to the airport.

Assassinated?

There was a spy subplot.

Benny laughed.

What did your father say?

I knew if I asked him, he’d crumble like stale bread. He was always so sad.

So you know nothing about her — not even why she left?

I’m pretty sure she joined the circus.

You never tried to contact her?

No interest. No idea where she is. I don’t even know her maiden name.

What was her first name?

I stared at him.

Eleanor. Can we change the subject?

You think she’s Catholic? You said that bit about the Pope …

She went into churches and lit candles. I assumed so.

Your father didn’t talk about it?

Religion didn’t interest him. He cared about archaic Archaic statues, quiet drinking, getting blown by the maid. What else? Scrabble.

I picked up my glass, was disappointed to realize it was empty. I held it anyway, my finger worrying the chip on the bottom.

He never remarried?

He never went out with anyone. Not more than once.

That you know of.

He didn’t, I said, aware of how defensive I sounded. I found myself wishing I had a Marlboro, a whole pack of them, taped under the coffee table.

That hardly seems healthy.

He was taking care of me! What’s wrong with that?

A man’s got to have a life, no?

He seemed content.

You said he was sad.

He was both.

What would it take for you to forgive him?

My father? I asked stupidly. What’s to forgive?

I’ve made mistakes , he’d said before the nurse wheeled him away. Please don’t hate me .

We’ll talk about it later , I’d said, thinking there would be a later.

Forgive me , he’d said. Contrition, one-size-fits-all. No confession, no reparation.

You sound angry, Benny said.

I’m angry. What’s your point?