Butchblog

            Bubby came to live with us after Zayde (my grandfather) died, because she couldn’t manage on her own. Zayde was the one who had taken care of all the interactions with the larger world. He went to work (as a tailor), paid the bills, talked to the American shopkeepers and neighbors. Bubby hid from all that, shuffling around in the small kitchen of their North Philadelphia apartment. She still dressed and acted like she was living in the shtetl, waiting for the Cossacks to return. I was a little kid at the time Bubby came to stay, but still I could sense that something big was up between my mother and father over Bubby’s arrival. It was the only time I can remember seeing my dad cowed. It was as if he couldn’t look my mother in the eye. He brought his mother to live with us, but he seemed ashamed of her immigrant ways. And fearful of my mother’s sullen reaction.

            I could never figure out why Mom was upset. Bubby didn’t take up much space; she was a tiny, wizened woman who rarely spoke. She spent most of her days sitting in an old wingback chair, reserved for her, reading the Yiddish edition of the Jewish Forward. She never did learn to read or write English, though she was able to write her name—Sara. My brother, Paul, and I would often ask her to show us, bringing her a pad and pencil, then marveling over her scrawly handwriting.

            The atmosphere at home became more and more strained as the years went by. My mother was not a subtle woman, neither in affect or speech. She said what was on her mind and damn anyone who was in her way. Unfortunately, Bubby always seemed to be in the way. If we were all sitting in the living room watching the Ed Sullivan Show, Mom might jump up right in the middle and shout, “I can’t relax with her in the room,” staring at poor Bubby. And she’d keep right on standing there, hands on her hips, glaring now at Dad, until Bubby rose up and shuffled off to her bedroom.

            Bubby was an old-world Jew and she’d always kept kosher. I don’t imagine it was something she had to think about. Mom, of course, did not keep a kosher house and made no secret of her annoyance at having to accommodate Bubby’s dietary restrictions. “A bunch of superstitious nonsense,” Mom announced every night at the dinner table as she slammed down Bubby’s special plate.

            “Let my mother be,” Dad said. You could tell he only wanted to eat his dinner and be gone, back to the peace of his downstairs doctor’s office.

            “You’re not the one who has to cook for her,” Mom snapped at him.

            After we were done eating one night, Mom turned to Bubby and barked, “So? How’d you like your food?” We had eaten a stew full of potatoes and carrots and some stringy meat.

            “It was fine,” Bubby said in her timid voice. “Very tasty.”

            “Tasty, huh?” Mom said, smirking. “Do you know what you ate?”

            Bubby shook her head.

            “Pig,” Mom announced. “Pork meat.”

            A silence descended over the table. Even I knew enough about keeping kosher to know that pork was the ultimate treyf, a forbidden food.  I felt like I might throw up.

            Dad pushed his plate away and stood up, throwing his napkin down on the table. “That was uncalled for, Isabelle.” He strode out of the dining room and we heard his footsteps descending the stairs. I wondered why he didn’t try to console his mother, pat her shoulder, anything.

            “It goes to show you,” Mom said, after he left, “that those old rules don’t mean a thing. Nothing’s changed, has it?” She looked at Bubby. “You’re still alive, aren’t you?”

            Bubby stood up. “You’re a mean woman,” she said, her voice swelling and breaking, “God willing, someday I will dance on your grave.” Then she walked off to her bedroom and shut the door behind her.

            Mom turned to me and my sister and brother. The air felt charged. My sick stomach was changing to something oddly approaching elation. My mother had done a horrible thing and Bubby had responded harshly, but at least the anger and pain were now out in the open.

            “Big deal,” Mom said. “I only wanted to show her what nonsense all that kosher stuff is. We live in America, not Russia for god’s sake.” She reached for her cigarettes.

            “Can I be excused?” my little brother asked.

            “Me too,” Linda said. “I’ve got homework.”

            I gathered up my courage. Waited till Linda and Paul were gone. “You didn’t have to do that,” I said. “Bubby’s right. You are really mean.” Then I got up and walked into Bubby’s room and left my mother alone at the table.

Note: A somewhat different form of this story appeared in my collection of essays: “Beach Bum”.