Rachel Cantor - Good on Paper

I was working on the park bench scene, when Ahmad stuck his head in the study.

Our precious needs help with her homework, he said.

Huh? I asked, not looking up. You help her.

I’m due at the Temple of Learning.

After dinner. Tell her I’ll help her then.

Shira, Ahmad said, raising his voice, she needs help now! You need to help her now.

I looked up. Ahmad was holding a wastebasket overflowing with crumpled paper. I pulled out a paper ball. Laboriously perfect block letters, Once upon a time … then an error, a “t” that slipped below the line, scratched out furiously with a dull pencil.

They’re all like that, he said. She’s been at it for an hour, apparently.

Andi was seated at her little desk, her face grim with concentration, her Observations Notebook closed under her elbow, her children’s dictionary open to P .

You already have homework? I asked. You’ve only been in school three days!

Exactly. It’s all downhill from here.

I leaned over her shoulder to see what she was writing, then pulled up a chair.

How do you spell precisely ? she said. I can’t find it in this stupid dictionary.

How about you tell me what you want to write, I’ll write it down, then you can copy it.

Mrs. Chao says we can’t copy.

She means you have to make it up.

I am making it up.

What’s your story about?

It’s about once upon a time there was a boy named Ovidio …

You’re writing about your friend?

It’s about once upon a time.

Sweetie, I don’t think it’s a good idea to write about your friend. He might not like it.

It’s my story. Ahmad said it was okay.

He did? Well, maybe it depends on what you write. What happens to him?

I don’t know. I’ve only written Once upon a time . I keep making mistakes. Look! she said, and swirled around, then swirled around again. Where’s my wastepaper basket? Where is it?

Ahmad took it.

Wow, she said, shaking her braids. He’s always playing tricks on me! I think that’s what he does best.

I laughed.

If Ahmad goes to Connecticut, I think I should go with him.

I stopped laughing.

Why? Why do you say that?

Because he’ll be lonely there without me.

Why do you think that? I asked, and had to keep myself from crying out, What about me?

Because I’m the only one who likes what he likes.

Conservative economics? I thought. Picking up boys at barber shops?

Don’t you think I’d be lonely without you? I asked.

No, Andi said, applying pencil to paper. You’ve got Benny.

Benny’s just a friend. Besides you’re my baby.

I’m not a baby, Andi said, putting down her pencil and looking at me, exasperated.

You’ll always be my baby.

She rolled her eyes, but I could tell she was pleased.

Did I spell Ovidio right? she asked, leaning into me, her braid tickling my thigh.

Yes, sweetie.

She squinted at me.

I’ll ask Ahmad when he finishes his stupid class.

You’re spelling it right, I promise.

You could just be saying that.

Why would I do that?

So you can go back to work.

I’m staying right here while you write your story, I said, putting my hand on her shoulder. That way you can ask me anything you want. Okay?

What do you think happens after Once upon a time ?

I wish I knew, princess, I wish I knew.

•

Andi read her story out loud at Friday Night Dinner: Ovidio lived in a cave where he hid from his mother and father. Sometimes his mother fought with his father. That’s when he went to the cave. Ovidio had a broken nose but he wasn’t nosy.

I had to bite my tongue while she composed her masterwork, not to influence her. At one point, I took a break in our bathroom, looked at Mr. Bubble, her Winnie the Pooh shampoo, and wondered: Was Andi okay? Was the friction between her loco parenti scarring her for life? Did she need Sigmund? My funny, my beautiful, my startling child! My baby — look at her!

The Polaroid Ahmad had given her was on a shelf. I snapped a shot of her hunched over her desk, the tip of her tongue sticking out as she crossed out yet another word.

Mo-omm! she cried. Look what you made me do!

But there she was now, smiling, triumphant, standing behind her uneaten dinner, peas hidden inexpertly under some mashed potatoes. The End . We clapped; Ahmad gave me a look.

Mommy says it’s spelled right, she said to Ahmad, but I think you should look.

He scanned the page.

It’s perfect! he exclaimed. I have never seen such perfect writing!

See, Mambo! I told you.

Know what Chao means in Italian? Ahmad asked.

Don’t, I said, hiding my smile behind my hand.

What? Andi asked. It means food, right?

No, it means hello and goodbye both.

Only if you don’t know if you’re coming or going, my baby said.

It was Friday evening. Ahmad was telling Andi a bedtime story, and I was in my room, looking out at People of the Book. It seemed ages since Benny and I had talked, though it had been just two days. I shouldn’t, I knew, but I did: I pulled out my cell phone.

Marie answered, wanted to know who was calling.

Tell him it’s Hester Prynne.

Who?

I spelled it for her. She put the phone down, didn’t ask if I could hold.

Shabbat shalom! Gut yontif! Benny finally answered.

Kasha varnishkes! I said.

Who is this? Benny asked.

Shira! Who else?

Shanah tovah! Happy new year! Can I call you after the weekend? It’s not a good time.

Locusts? I wanted to ask. Frogs?

I’m getting ready to close, he said. Rosh Hashana.

Rosh Hashana! I said. Too bad! I mean, congratulations!

Benny laughed.

Happy birthday of the world, I blurted.

Thank you, but it starts in an hour and I’ve got a sermon to write.

Right, I said. Write! Ha, ha.

I got off the phone and stared at myself in the mirror.

Watch out, Shira, I said. Watch out.

The next morning I found a fax from Romei, a new section titled “Muse.” And a note:

You say Dante experienced love only in his imagination. You are right, of course , to an extent. His dreams and visions, and therefore his poems, are inspired at first by illusions (the figure of Love, his screen ladies). But increasingly he locates his muse outside himself .

His English was better than he’d let on! If he alienated every translator in town, he could easily translate his Vita Quasi Nova himself.

The later poems in Vita Nuova are inspired or commissioned , he continued, by ladies, the brother, various pilgrims, the mysterious visitors. These are not constructs of Dante’s imagination but “real” people, and the poems he writes for them reflect an increasing engagement with the real. His later poems praising Beatrice also represent an advance on his earlier, more self-centered work. As his love grows, so does he .

Yes, I thought, burning my mouth on my coffee, after Beatrice is dead and more of an idea than ever!

Your rigid judgments do not allow for the possibility of change. To put it in terms you should understand: what good is a story if nothing happens?