Cleopatra and Frankenstein(119)

“He was pretty old, right?” he says.

“Not really,” I say. “Late sixties.”

“That’s old by some standards,” he says.

“Right,” I say.

“So,” he says. “You still wishing you could cut off men’s penises?”

“Not all men,” I say. “Just the rapists.”

“My mistake,” he says. “That’s much more reasonable.”

“You should really learn to listen,” I say.

“And you should probably learn to filter,” he says.

“Okay,” I say. “Good night.”

It is not yet noon.

*

My father’s younger brother, Bernie, stumbles over. Every family has a drunk. Bernie is ours. As a child, I was charmed by him. He smelled of peach schnapps and pulled quarters from behind my ears. Now I feel less generously inclined.

“Elly Belly, how are you?” he slurs.

“Half orphaned,” I say. “But holding up. How are you?”

“Psssh,” he says. “Orphaned? My parents survived the camps. They knew a thing or two about orphans.”

My mother rushes past, holding a tray of baked kosher salami, and gives me a knowing look. “Just keep offering him seltzer,” she mutters.

“There she goes,” says Bernie, waving a hand loosely in her direction. “Busy, busy, bzzz bzzz.” He leans conspiratorially toward me. I can smell the warm, yeasty scent of beer on his breath.

“Can I tell you something?” he says. “A secret.”

“Must you?” I ask.

“I’m weird.” He shrugs. “You’ve probably noticed I’m a little weird.”

I give a vague sort of head nod.

“Well, I always knew I was weird,” he says. “And now I know why. The doctors told me.”

“They did, did they?” I look around the room to see if I can drag my mother back, but she has disappeared into the kitchen. Bernie pulls me in closer.

“I have an extra female chromosome,” he says. “Just found out. Me! Six four! Strong as an ox. But it explains a lot, it does.”

“Right,” I say. “Wow.”

“Mmm,” he says. “Freaky, eh?”

I manage a nod.

“I have an appointment on the tenth to find out more,” he says.

“So, tomorrow.”

“On the tenth.”

“Yes, the tenth is tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, you say? Then I’ll know more very soon indeed,” he says with satisfaction.

“Well, good luck with the doctor.” I am trying to drift away.

“It explains a lot,” he says again. “To be sure.”

With a swift, snakelike motion, he thrusts his head toward mine and pushes his hot mouth against my ear. “I have a small set of breasts,” he whispers.

“Seltzer?” I ask. “You want a seltzer?”

“No, no need,” he says, patting my shoulder. “But you’re a good girl. You understand it all. Good girl.”

*

The broker’s son is holding court in the living room with a couple of old guys from the synagogue.

“Stoop to conquer,” he’s saying. “That’s what we’re doing with the Randall’s Island waterfront. Buying at a loss to eventually make a threefold profit. It’s true of property and”—he gives me an indiscreet look—“women. Sometimes you’ve got to go down to come out on top.”

“And yet,” I say as I pass, “you don’t look like you’ve ever gone down on a woman in your life.”

*

The rabbi is coming toward me with his benign smile and huge ears and polite, deferential air. I’d like to drop to all fours and crawl under the paper tablecloth.

“May God comfort you among the other mourners of Zion and Jerusalem,” he says.

“Thank you, Rabbi,” I say.

He takes my hand in his. His papery soft skin reminds me of the pinches of dried food flakes I used to feed to our goldfish. “We miss you at the synagogue.”

“I know, I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s just … I’m not really a believer.”

“What don’t you believe in?” he asks.

“You know,” I say, avoiding his eyes. “God. Prayer. That kind of stuff.”

“You don’t pray?” the rabbi asks mildly.

“Um, no,” I say.

“That’s a shame,” he says. “It can be such a comfort.”

“I don’t have anything to pray to.”

“You don’t have to pray to God,” he says. “Sometimes it helps just to talk to the air in the room.”

*

Mimi, one of my mother’s friends from bridge, comes over and gives me a powdery kiss on the cheek. She smells of Chanel No. 5 and Werther’s Originals and rubbing alcohol.

“Sorry about your pop-pop,” she says. “You taking care of yourself?”

“I am,” I say.

“Mm.” She inspects my face. “Look at those dark circles. Are you sleeping?”

“Enough,” I say.

“Are you masturbating?”