SNAKEHIPS

by Barbara Kent

(c) Barbara Kent, 1993

We lived in a big apartment building that was all pink marble, shiny brass and beveled glass, in a rapidly decaying neighborhood in Brooklyn. There were endless opportunities for money-making in those days, the easiest running errands for the ladies who sat at the windows and watched the street or gossiped back and forth with one another, tossing lies between themselves like spider-silk. Some of these ladies I called "aunt" but most of them were Mrs. something or other and still others, like the shameless Emma, went by first names only.
I made more money than any of the other kids because I was the hungriest. On a Saturday morning I would be in front of the building by 10 while everyone else was still watching cartoons on television. If it were near a holiday or my mother's birthday and I needed money more desperately than usual, I could knock on door after door saying "Good morning Mrs. Whatever, I'm heading down to Broadway, can I pick something up for you?" That was good for a token errand and a dime. A real errand netted a quarter, but it was hardly worth the effort since it involved juggling a shopping list and hunting for the specific brands that Mrs. So-and-so used. Sometimes, on a Saturday afternoon, Mrs. Fischer would yoo-hoo to me and ask me to set her hair for her. She paid good wages, a dollar or two, but it was a job I disliked intensely because her hair was thin and oily- slick and smelled like fish, and I wondered if that's why her name was "Fischer," but of course, it was not.
The best jobs were those I did for my mother's friends. They were the only four women on earth, with the exception of family, that my mother spoke to, and that infrequently. There was dear Mrs. Still, a grand old lady of probably ninety, whose crowded apartment whispered an exotic past. It was stuffed with pink Victorian lamp shades, heavy picture frames with domed glass that encased whispy ghosts, and dark furniture that wore intricate lace shawls which trailed on the floor. There was Marie, wondrously fat and blonde, who had a terrible gambling habit and was stingy with her tips. Aunt Helen on the top floor would invent a chore or an errand for me if she didn't have a legitimate one. She and Uncle Joe never had children and they loved me dearly. And of course, there was the widow, Mrs. Kaye, with whom I eventually became close enough to call Bea. She would toss a hanky with a quarter knotted in it out the window for no reason at all.
Not a one of these women was under fifty, and I suppose my age, around twelve at the time, was the major portion of my appeal, since their own children were grown and married or otherwise occupied. I was curious about the children stopped mid-action in black and white photographs, and begged for stories of them. What did they look like? What were their hobbies? They looked as if they could have been friends of mine, but when I saw them by chance on an infrequent holiday or a Spring Sunday, they were disappointingly dull, and their children were too young for me to play with. They were far more interesting during the week, encased in plastic album covers, forever twelve. More than once I was surprised by the unexpected gift of a grown child's once favorite game, toy or book. I have saved these treasures simply because they are old.
Mrs. Kaye's stories particularly interested me because she had one daughter, Bernice, whom she raised alone. I identified with Bernice since I was an only child living alone with my mother, too. From the photographs I saw, Bernice was as unlike her mother as any child could be. Mrs. Kaye was slinky slim with mouse colored hair she kept wrapped up in a silk paisley turban. She once put her hands on her hips and swayed sinuously and glanced over her shoulder at me. "They used to call me Snakehips at Roseland!" She laughed, with some measure of pride. "Oh, I was something then!" She wore slim skirts and high heels and lovely, gaudy, chunky jewelry. Her berry-red mouth was always laughing or smiling and deep purple shadow colored her Bette Davis eyelids. Voluptuous Bernice had delicate white skin as fragile as eggshell and extravagant red curls that dripped past her shoulders to her waist. In the gray photograph, her mouth was small and tight, no more than barely a pucker, and her eyes were squinty against the sun. Most tantalizing of all though, was that she lived in CALIFORNIA! California was the center of my universe. Disneyland is in California. I pictured all of California to be one vast, suburban neighborhood with Beaver Cleaver on one block and Kathy Anderson on the next. Fathers lived with mothers, and every family had a baby. Next door was the Double R Ranch and of course, around the corner was Disneyland. California was where dreams were made and where they all came true.

I wanted to know all about Bernice and her children, and Mrs. Kaye was happy to tell me. Did they go to Disneyland every day? If not, why not? Oh, surely, if I lived in California, I would go to Disneyland every day. Mrs. Kay just laughed and agreed "Yes, the sky is a little bluer in California."

It became my life's ambition to save my quarters and dimes for a one-way ticket to California. Until then I had second-hand stories from Mrs. Kaye, and the once-a-week letter from Bernice. I looked forward to that letter as much as Mrs. Kaye did.

Mrs. Kaye and I became great friends and she insisted that I call her Bea, but I was uncomfortable with anything but "Mrs. Kaye" and only called her "Bea" to her face because I knew that she preferred it. When I thought of her then, and even now, she was and remains "Mrs. Kaye."

One day I went to visit her and she opened the door a crack and just poked her face out. She looked feverish and whispered, "I'm sorry dear, but I've been lying down. Why don't you come back tomorrow?" I was so worried that she was ill and could not take care of herself I ran up the stairs to tell mom.

"Ma! I was just at Mrs. Kaye's and she was still in bed. Her face looked all pink, like she was sick."
"So?"
"So maybe you ought to call Dr. Stuart or something. I think she's really sick!"
Mom laughed. "Dr. Stuart can't help what she's got!"
"Ma, she's our friend! Don't you care if she's sick?"
Mom patted the chair next to her. "Let's talk."
I sat down and mom lit a cigarette. "Bea has a boyfriend." She blew the smoke up at the ceiling. I still did not understand. "What does that have to do with her being sick?"
"Well, I guess she's not sick at all. I guess she was in bed with her boyfriend." Now, I had just learned about sex, and it did not seem to be all that appealing. I managed a stupid little "Oh," and decided to keep quiet until I learned more about it.

Bill Robinson was a big old man with a neon nose, and Bea just adored him. I had to call her Bea now, because she married this man and I couldn't very well call her Mrs. Kaye anymore. After the wedding at the Justice of the Peace, they came up to our house for a drink. Bill got so drunk that Uncle Joe and the superintendent had to carry him downstairs to Bea's apartment and put him to bed.

All the time I knew him, he was in bed. If Bea came up to visit, Bill was sleeping. If he came home drunk, he passed out on the bed. If they were home together, they were in bed. Naturally, I couldn't visit her anymore with them being in bed all the time. Shortly after they married, Bea informed us that Bill had a house in Mill Basin and that she would be moving there. I never thought she'd move away, and when that day came I stayed in the park and played handball 'till dark so I wouldn't have to watch.

When I got home Mom pouted, "Where were you all day?" "I was out." "Yes, well, Bea wanted to say good-bye and we couldn't find you." I felt a little sorry about that, and asked, "How far is Mill Basin?" Mom motioned with her cigarette, and through a cloud of smoke said, "Oh, I think it's somewhere on the way to Coney Island." It could have been Burma to me.

Without Bea around it seemed that California was further away too. I'd been saving my earnings and had almost ten dollars, which was an incredible amount of money. When I asked my mother, "Hey! Why don't we move to California!" she said "That's about the stupidest idea I ever heard." Then I asked her, "If you met a nice man and fell in love and he wanted to move to California, would you move to California then?" She didn't even pretend it might have been a serious question.

That summer mom was dating fat Marie's brother, Jack, who had a big, red and white Cadillac. He was always good for a couple of bucks, and I added them too, to my California fund. I thought it might be nice if she married him. One hot night he drove us to Mill Basin. The house appeared huge to me. It had three bedrooms and two bathrooms and a dining room, which I thought was the height of elegance. Mrs. Kaye looked so much smaller there than she did in the apartment. She served us pot roast with potato latkes and steamed snap beans. Her face was iridescent with sweat because of the hot July night, and eating all that food was a chore. Afterward, she let me read Bernice's last three letters, and she loaned me a tiny portable radio. I took the radio and the letters out on the brick stoop and tuned in WNEW. With the Beach Boys in the background, Bernice's letters in my hand, and a strange view in front of me, it was a simple thing to imagine that I was someone else, somewhere else, that the red Cadillac in front of the house belonged to my father, that Bernice was my sister, that my name was Elizabeth, that I lived in California. On the way home I wanted to stop off at Coney Island and Jack indulged my fantasy by taking us to Steeplechase Park. It was for the moment, as good as Disneyland.

Two weeks later Bill died and Bea was a widow again. She spent hours on the phone with mom, crying that she had no place to go. The house in Mill Basin went to Bill's children and Bea had spent all her money fixing it up. When she first moved in with Bill, he convinced her to sell all her furniture, so she didn't have that either. There was a little cash in the bank. Enough for a one-way ticket to California, and then some.

Mom said maybe I could go with Bea to California until school started. I was delirious, with the money that Jack had given me, I had $20! I could pay my own way into Disneyland. . .but then Bernice wrote back and said there wasn't room. To tell the truth, I was always jealous of Bernice, and this made me dislike her even more. When Bea was ready to leave, I held her tight and said, "You'll write to me from Disneyland?" Somehow, it seemed that if Bea would see all the things I wanted to see, it would be almost the same as if I saw them myself.

She sent me a postcard from Disneyland with a picture of Mickey Mouse on it. On the back she'd scrawled, "I'm so happy here with Bernice." She sent back pictures of Bernice's house, Bernice's children, Bernice's husband, Bernice's car. Then se sent a letter saying she'd had an argument with Bernice and she was moving out. We did not receive any more letters from her.

Mom felt that Bea had met another man, and when she was settled she'd call. "It's not like we were family or anything," Mom said. But with each holiday that passed we grew more anxious. It was the week between Christmas and New Year, that we finally received a phone call from Bea's sister in Manhattan. Would we please come visit on Saturday? She would give us no information over the phone, so Mom and I took the subway to Prince Street that Saturday afternoon. I remember mostly that the streets and the sky and the buildings were all the same shade of grey. And oh, the smells! There was a vendor every few feet; this one sold hot chestnuts roasted over charcoal, that one sold Sabrett frankfurters with sauerkraut and onions, and another had a pushcart filled with coconut wedges and a rainbow of flavored syrups. Mom stopped to examine some fabric piled high on a hand wagon, and I was enthralled by a string of cardboard dolls that a man had dancing in the middle of the sidewalk. An old woman, dressed in the same shade of grey as the city held a Bible in the air and sang "Jesus is comin! Repent all ye sinners and face the Lord! Jesus is coming! Alay, aly, aly-loo-ya!" Mom pulled me away and bought me one of the dancing dolls. The building that we walked into was so dark that I could not see the stairs or the end of the hall. I told Mom I was afraid, but she pushed me upward and I tripped on the first step. It was dark as a tomb, and when the outer door closed, the noise of the life on the streets echoed faintly through the building, a quickly fading dream. The apartment was on the second floor and the light from the transom fell out into the hall. It seemed as if there were a thin coating of grease over everything, and even the door felt sticky when I knocked. The woman who answered was back-lighted by a dim lamp in the apartment and I could not see her face, but her silhouette was somewhat like Bea's. Her voice was high and cracked, and she welcomed us most graciously. "Bea is resting," she whispered. She motioned us through a cluttered living room into a tiny, dark kitchen. There were boxes all over the floor, and several large suitcases.
"When did she get back?" Mom asked.
The lady shook her head and put her fingers to her lips. "My name is Rose," she said. "Bea returned Thanksgiving week."
Mom's mouth dropped into a little red "o." "Why didn't she call? She could have told us she was back!"
Rose shook her head, "No. She could not."

We sat at the kitchen table, uncomfortable in our bulky winter coats, while Rose disappeared beyond the clutter of the living room. I grabbed Mom's arm and whispered tightly, "I want to go home, I don't like it here." Mom agreed with short little nods of her head and whispered back, "We have to find out why she called."

We waited several minutes during which time the only sound was the occasional hissing and banging of the radiator in the living room. The street outside seemed as remote from this apartment as California, and the dreary reality of the cracked green walls depressed me. Rose came threading her way carefully back to the kitchen. It was then I noticed she had on glasses that were so thick they looked like the domed picture frames on Mrs. Still's blue walls. She brushed a strand of still-dark hair back from her forehead. "D'ya want tea?" She asked. Mom and I both declined, but she busied herself with a tea kettle anyway. "Bea will be out any minute. . ." her voice fell of as though she'd stepped into a dark room and she turned to us. "Look, I don't know you and you don't know me, but I can't keep her here. God knows I tried." She wiped her hands on a dish towel, and Mom and I just looked at each other. Did she expect us to take Bea home with us? I turned that thought around and found it pleasant. "She can stay in my room Ma," I whispered.

Rose hadn't heard me and set four glasses on the table, and a little dish of prune hammentashen. I heard a faint rustle from the living room and Bea appeared in the doorway, wringing her hands. Mom and I could hardly believe it was she. She had on a pale cotton house dress that hung limply from her shoulders nearly to the floor. Her face was pale too, unmade-up, and her eyes were wide and puffy. She had a thick, shapeless grey sweater over the cotton house dress, and her stockings were rolled down past her ankles until they met the stiff, brown leather tops of the men's slippers she wore. I suspected it was all Bill Robinson had left her. When she saw us, she started sobbing and walked woodenly toward Mom with her eyes closed and streaming tears.

Mom stood quickly and put her arms out to her, "Bea. . .oh dear Lord, what's happened?" Rose muttered, "Bernice, that's what happened. Spoiled rotten." Bea sat down, crying. "No, no, no. You couldn't blame her." I was relieved to hear her speak. I had a cousin who had been in an automobile accident. After he came home from the hospital, it was as if he weren't in his body anymore. I was afraid, when I first saw Bea, that it would be like that with her. She put one arm out to me and I went to her. She held me so tight I thought I would suffocate. "You can stay with us, Bea." But my words were lost in the cables of the grey sweater, and I just stayed there, muffled.

Rose poured out glasses of steaming, amber tea and sweetened them with honey wine. Her version of Bea's story was short and bitter. Bernice and her mother didn't get along. Bea wanted to work. Bernice wanted her to stay home and baby-sit while she gallivanted around town. Rose's eye glasses were steamed up and she was crying too. "When Bea arrived in California, Bernice let the housekeeper go so her mother could take her place! My sister! A housekeeper!"
Bea wiped her eyes. "No, no. You don't understand, I couldn't change, I could've changed, but I wouldn't change!"
Mom held her like she used to hold me and murmured now and again, "Oh, Bea. . ."

Rose sat with us and wiped her glasses. "She refuses to stay with me. I can't keep her here any longer. Last week was the first time she allowed me to call anybody she knew, and she threatened to walk out if you came."

Bea let go of me and dug into the pocket of her dress. She pulled out a piece of paper that had been folded and refolded so often that it was falling apart at the creases. "Here. . ." she stammered "is Bernice's last letter." I took it from her and carefully opened it. I was surprised to see that it was only dated December 17, it looked like the letters Mom saved from her boyfriend during World War II. I don't remember exactly what it said, but it was something like "Dear Mom, all is forgiven, please come back, love Bernice." I gave it to Mom, and she read it too. "I have to go back," Bea said.

This agitated Rose and she got all huffy. "You're meshugenna! She doesn't have room for you in her heart, let alone her house! You stay here with me!" Bea didn't even look at her sister, "No, no I have to. I can't stay here with you." "Then you can come home with us!" I said. "No, no, I can't do that. I have to go back to Bernice, she wants me back, I know it, she said so." "Sure," Rose said "She wants a free maid she does you stupid Beatrice!" Rose got up, sat down, turned to mom in a fluster, talking with her hands, "I thought you could convince her, come to me, go to you. . .she's leaving New Year's Eve." Bea had made up her mind that she was returning to California. Bernice and the kids were her whole reason for being. Like Mom said, it's not like we were family or anything. We were only neighbors. When we left it was getting dark and the street was strangely empty, as if the vendors had never been there. On the subway ride back to Brooklyn I examined the doll Mom bought me, to see how it danced. As I took it out of the plastic bag though, it was obvious that the flimsy cardboard and paper cut-out could never dance. I cried in disappointment and was surprised that Mom held me the way she used to when I was little.

We couldn't go to the airport to say good-bye to Bea, but we spoke to her on the phone before she left. That night Mom was going out with my aunts and uncles and I was baby-sitting for my cousin. I fell asleep long before midnight.

It is our family tradition to make a special holiday of New Year's day. After Church we went to my aunt's house and the whole family was there. The place was alive with kids from infancy through the goony teens. It was noisy and sweaty and smoky and loud and the Christmas tree blinked in time to the music. Some of the men were watching a football game on tv and all of the women were in the kitchen discussing the stuffing recipe, and whose we were eating this year. It was an early evening, and when we left my eyes were burning from the smoke and the cold night air was delicious on my face. Uncle Tony drove us home and the streets looked peculiarly empty. When we got upstairs the telephone was ringing in the dark.

I put on my pajamas while Mom answered the phone and I heard the little gasp. I stood very, very still because I knew that gasp meant no good. I tip-toed back to the phone and listened to my mother whimper little "Oh-my-Gods!"
"What is it Ma? What happened?"
She motioned me away and continued. I went into my room and climbed into bed but left the light on. In a few minutes Mom came in and sat next to me.
"I need a hug," she said. I got closer to her and we held each other. "What happened Ma?"
I felt her shiver, and she just kind of whispered in my shoulder, "Bea is dead." I pushed her away so I could see her eyes. "NO! That can't be! How can that be?" Mom cried into a crumpled tissue. "That was Rose on the phone. When Bea arrived in California yesterday, Bernice wasn't at the airport to pick her up. It was a screw-up, but Bea didn't know." Mom took a deep breath. "She took a taxi to a hotel. Wrote a bunch of letters." Mom took another deep breath, shrugged her shoulders and looked at me as if I had an answer, "And jumped out of a window."

I could not picture Bea doing that. "That can't be so, Ma, it just can't."
"They're burying her tomorrow." "In California? Just like that?" "That's how the Jews do it."

Finally, there was not anything either one of us could do. There was never anything we could do. We couldn't even go to the funeral. Rose wasn't going either, she was a poor widow on social security, she couldn't afford to go to California. None of the letters Bea wrote were for us. She wrote three to Bernice, one to Bernice's husband, one to each of the grandchildren and one to Rose. Like Ma said, it isn't like we were family or anything.

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