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I am trying to recall my earliest memory of unhappiness. I think it was when my family left the Bronx and moved into a suburb of Wilmington, Delaware, because my father took a new job.
My mother, Esther, hated Delaware. The anti-Semitism and in-your-face Christianity distressed her. Our family was made to feel unwelcome. I don’t think I was aware of the prejudice surrounding us. Nor was my sister aware, other than being the only Jew in her class. Esther felt deprived by the community’s ignorance of the world’s cultural diversity. She ranted and raged. What was my father to do? He had a family to support and a career he couldn’t shuck. Esther was not one to think how she could help the family to endure. It would be another sixty years before I realized my mother was a narcissist, that she never matured beyond a 12-year-old, and not even a precocious 12-year-old girl at that. Lou, my father, was always the optimist. He believed she would adjust with time.
There was one neighbour, the Horst family, that had lived in New York. They had met Jews before. Their sons, David and Johnny, became dear friends and two good friends was all I needed. But Mrs Horst was not enough to satisfy Esther.
What I do remember is my mother abandoning us. She became fed up and left the family. She went back to New York City. It was devastating to this six-year-old and his older sister. It was impossible for us to grasp. Our father calmly displayed no concern, showed an adamant confidence she would return, while my older sister and I cried ceaselessly.
I don’t remember how many days she was gone, but it was only days. She was driven back by her New York friends who insisted she should not abandon her family, least of all her children. I don’t think my mother ever forgave us. From that day on, I felt I had to take care of my mother. If I had any problems, I would take them to my father, for whom it seemed there wasn’t a problem he couldn’t solve, except money. Any problem brought to my mother would result in her becoming hysterical and singing our doom.
From the day she came back, I would not allow her to play any important role in my life. She ceased being regarded as a mother and was just this colourful person in the household, but one I had to take care of like a daughter who never grows up. Having little expectation about her, she could no longer disappoint me.
Now I am trying to recall when was the last time I uncontrollably belly laughed, so hard as to be painful.
It was eleven years ago, in 2014. I was living with Ms Keogh, who was my cherished companion until she died in 2018, in Langhorne, Pennsylvania. It was a two-bedroom apartment. Our last home before coming to Wales. It was there the last time I laughed convulsively.
I had a leather wingback chair in the living room, my reading chair, Cognac in color according to the manufacturer. Ms Keogh also had a wingback chair that she had arranged to face mine. Hers was fabric. It also had a secret. It was, in fact, a recliner. You couldn't tell by looking at it. When you leaned back, an ottoman unfolded from underneath the chair. It was so tightly tucked into the bottom of the seat, one would not have suspected it was there.
On this particular afternoon, we were having a heated disagreement. I had already taken refuge in my chair, but she took to her recliner determined to resolve the disagreement. She was addressing me loudly. She was angry. Such intense arguments were exceedingly rare between us and in all the thirty-five years we were together there was never an argument I could describe as a fight.
Ms Keogh was a slender woman. She could wear a size 0. She planted herself on her chair with force, a display of her seriousness. Deciding she wanted to lean back and rest her feet in the yet invisible ottoman, she began pushing against the back of the chair. When the back leaned, the ottoman unfolded. But it stuck. Invigorated by fury, she continued to pound her back against the chair while spurting white hot words at me. Instead of opening, the chair fell backwards.
I was staring at the bottom of her chair. Over the top I could see her two sprawled feet, like "q p". And I exploded in laughter, painful, rib-straining laughter. I was ashamed of myself. I knew I should first be concerned if she was alright. I called out to her, but between outbursts of guffawing, my concern did not sound sincere. There was a pause in which I throttled my laughter and choked, turning red. Unseen from behind the chair, following a short, worrisome silence, I heard Ms Keogh burst into laughter. I was finally out of my seat and helping her up, lifting the chair with her in it. But neither of us could stop laughing, unable to speak, we were hurting.
Eventually, we collected ourselves, or so we thought. When we tried to speak, we would start laughing again.
Ms Keogh always knew she was dying of chronic renal failure. I had promised to take her home to Britain when I retired. She was a British citizen and her family lived there. My mother didn’t want me to leave. Esther gave me an ultimatum to stay near and to abandon Ms Keogh. I chose Ms Keogh. After I righted her in her chair, neither of us could remember what the argument was about.
Mr Bentzman will continue to report here regularly about
the events and concerns of his life. If you've any
comments or suggestions, he would be pleased to hear from you.
You can find his
several books at www.Bentzman.com.
Enshrined
Inside Me, his second collection of
essays, is now available to purchase.
