Mary of the Circle

At a poor walkup off a back street in Brighton Beach he brings  me
as  a  boy regularly with him to his Mom for  Sunday  visits.  The
narrow bedroom has an old world featherbed by a panelled chest and
before it the kitchen in which we sit by the window at a table for
talk  and food.  A decorative iron incense holder worn to  a  soft
sheen  of  green  and black and a tall samovar  of  German  silver
alongside are at the sideboard. An oriental presence permeates the
air though the burner is cold. She pronounces the greeting and her
eyes have a warm glow.

On  the plate quartered pieces fall away from the dry floral  base
and the sumptious orange flesh yields a few long black seeds,  not
unpleasant. The other, an imperfect globe antique red is torn open
for  the  glistening  cherry cells in a matrix  of  neutral  pulp.
Manipulated,  a few drop in the hand and are taken in together for
the tart explosion in a crush and a residue of small seeds. Odessa
is  at the frontier with Ottoman lands and the  influence  travels
the border along with the fruit of them.

She's  at the center of the group in a broadbrimmed hat  and  long
coat  with  fur  collar for the 20's photo  at  the  gardens,  the
tallest,  first to catch the eye.  The girls are dark and slim  in
the fashion, not out yet. Dad is the Black Beauty in just a jacket
with a small boy by the hand in a perfect sailor suit, a hat and a
balloon  on a string above.  Trees beyond are bare for the  season
but  the light is strong and sun sparkles on them and their  faces
upturned in a row for the expected moment.

At  a butcher shop under the El a man reaches over the counter  to
greet her.  The floor is fine tile with sawdust and the case large
and well lit.  Ration points show in red lettering along with  the
prices  on the white stickers in a row.  Her selections  are  lamb
body  parts unfamiliar to me.  The man is a Novick,  a  cousin  by
marriage. We stop at the fruit stand for persimmon and pomegranite
in wood crates individually wrapped with paper tissue. The food is
warm  from the oven when we return,  delicious potato  cakes  with
liver stuffing on an iron tray in orderly rows we devour with  hot
lemon tea in glasses.

Grandma  is multilingual.  As a girl she helps out at  the  family
general  store in a schoolgirl outfit,  white blouse and a  jumper
with  straps  and hair in long braids at the  shoulder  (Russian).
They  marry her to an older gentleman who takes her to a  town  in
nearby  Romania with Eastern spires and narrow streets.  She  runs
away back home with her new baby (Yiddish). She falls in love with
a Singer sewing machine salesman, joins the rush to America, makes
a  living for her six kids from the appetizing store with  herring
and  pickles  in barrels,  later selling papers from  a  stand  at
Columbus Circle which they write about in the Telegraph (English).

While  I'm  in service they help her down the stairs  and  by  the
hedge in front and take her in a car to California. Sophie's house
is  a  large  white Hollywood stucco with new  sunlit  kitchen,  a
spacious  deck  with  lounge chairs and real  citrus  and  avocado
bearing  fruit.  The last I see her her hair is in disarray,  blue
eyes vacant,  dazed.  Dad gives me the photo along with the dragon
ring in soft gold, with a ruby chip, the letter "M." 

With Glasnost I find a Russian cousin and send him frozen  chicken
quarters to help while he's on line waiting to be let out. When he
gets  here I show him the family where his Mom is second from  the
left.  His  mothertongue is broken through disuse  and I  have  to
guess a lot about his story.  I tell him mine and take him then to
Beach Third Street for a first visit.  Searching the line of  worn
rowhouses my mind is a rush of emotions. I find the right one, too
poor  for  renovations,  the brick, red painted cement  steps  and
hedge  unchanged.  In the jpeg I email him the next day  he  seems
pleased and in looks, build and demeanor he's my Dad's double.

March 22, 2010 Brooklyn NY