Julia arose at the early hour of four o’clock AM, fighting already bubbling nerves, and being careful not to wake her parents in the next room or her two younger siblings. She didn’t want anyone to know about her endeavors, should they fail. And she didn’t want to hurt her parents by going behind their backs. Due to their financial state, her parents planned for Julia to attend the community college while living at home. That being exactly what she didn’t want to do, she had applied to more prominent schools and had finally won an audition space—hopefully she could earn acceptance and a scholarship. Near silent, she dressed in comfortable jeans and a sweatshirt, French-braided her hair out of her face and began packing her car up, that being a general term. Julia referred to her car as the junkmobile, but it would get her where she needed to go—four hours away. She loaded her business suit, which she would wear for her audition, her bag of application materials and references, and made one last trip to the house. Gingerly, she lifted up her most prized possession, her grandmother’s cello. The case, earned by baby-sitting three mischievous monsters all summer, was new, but the instrument inside was not. Handled carefully for two generations, the relentless playing had rounded its tone, making it full, gorgeous. It was the one and only advantage she had on the harrowed road to her dreams. She breezed through the pieces, eyes shut, feeling the music wash over her and the room Like a crook, she stole out of the house, noiselessly locking the door behind her. As if handling fine china, she placed her inheritance in the back seat of the car and hopped into the driver’s seat, praying for a quiet start-up—the car was as unpredictable as a green filly. Thankfully, her prayer was answered; she would be miles away when her family read the note of explanation. The car puttered down the street, rolling over discarded belongings and refuse. The street cleaners never came to this part of the town. Yards on her right and left were furnished with the odd patch of crabgrass, and more prominently beige, dusty dirt oases. On her right, a rusted Red Flyer wagon lay overturned, with a mud-encrusted bucket lying beside it. On the left, the shutters of the house had fallen off and had been converted into makeshift skateboard ramps. Several dogs were chained outside, tongues lolling out of their mouths, panting. Coated in burrs and other muck they had found to roll in, they were badly in need of a grooming. Car pulling into traffic at the end of the street, Julia thought back to her own small home. Although her parents didn’t have an abundance of money, their house stood out like a diamond among coal. The yard was intact, with a coating of plush green grass, and the house shone with a fresh coat of paint. There were several neat flower beds, and when something needed to be repaired, it was, when the money could be found. Reflecting on her past resentment of her family’s financial state, she realized that she could have had it much worse. Yes, she had worked extremely hard, but cello lessons cost money and to get the scholarships you had to be educated. Although they had lived close to poverty ever since the family business went bankrupt, she still had a roof, food, and loving family and friends. For the first time in her life she was thankful, truly thankful for all that she had. It was as if the years of resentment, hidden hatred, and cynicism had worn off. Her body felt ten pounds lighter. She breezed down the road with this newfound appreciation for her life, and before she could recap the journey, she found herself looking at the map for the university’s local town. She navigated through the manicured campus, dorm rooms, classrooms, and libraries until finally she approached the performing arts hall and offices. Checking her car, and paying the nominal parking fee with a few tattered bills, she maneuvered skillfully into a spot. Carefully opening the door and stretching taut legs, she slowly stood and removed her suit. She would change before checking in; first impressions counted here and she wanted hers to be one of maturity and preparedness. Self-assured, she entered a side door, located a rest room and changed into her suit, a present from her aunt, her only confidant. The navy blue did wonders for her, brought out a gleam of sunshine in her mane, and a sparkle in her sapphire eyes. Displaying a true smile, not one of the manufactured ones she was accustomed to wearing, she boldly exited the rest room and went back to retrieve her cello, stashing the travel clothes in the back Seat. Lifting her instrument, the music bag, and the paperwork, she began to think over the music notes she would soon have to execute with utmost precision and conviction of her true love for music. Then, more timidly, she entered the main doors and approached the desk. Facing a pickle-faced secretary dressed crisply in a linen suit, she heard her manicured nails tapping on the keyboard. Frames perched on her delicate nose; she glanced up through them and queried in a nasal voice, “Yes? What can I do for you?” as if her purpose at the building was not clear. After all, she was carrying a cello case. Curling short ragged nails into a fist, she fought the nervous waiver out of her voice. “I’m here for the eleven o’clock audition spot,” she proclaimed boldly, a little louder than necessary. “Oh, you must be Julia Montgomery. They will be expecting you shortly. I’ll have Robert take you to your warm-up room and from there an attendant will come for you when it is your turn.” She then beckoned to Robert, a lively-looking boy with tightly wound obsidian curls and dancing emerald
January/February 2003
A Real Friend
Amy sat on the cold concrete steps resting her chin on her fist, while the other hand clutched an ink-blotted letter. She stared at the sign three doors down that had a big red line crossing out the words “For Sale.” Under it in small letters it said “Sold!” Slowly a tear rolled down her cheek and plopped down onto the letter, smudging the words “Dear Amy.” She scrunched it up into a wad and threw it carelessly toward a trash can, missing it by a foot or two. She heaved a sigh and stooped down to pick it back up, knowing that if she didn’t, her mother might read it. Amy stuffed the letter into her jeans pocket, making a big lump. She shuffled across the street to Emily’s house, as if there was one last hope of her being there. Amy looked down at the latch on the gate. Did she dare? No, of course not! It wasn’t her house . . . but then again the new family wasn’t moving in until September, and it was only July. She opened the metal latch, letting it slowly creak open as she remembered the words on the letter she had almost thrown away. “Amy, look under the big rock in my backyard. Love, Emily.” She pulled the wad of paper from her pocket, carefully folded it into a neat square, and put it back in her jeans. She walked around the house to the backyard, looking for “the big rock.” She spotted a large lumpy one in the corner of the yard under a hedge, only to find a few squashed worms and a bunch of red ants underneath it. “Ugh!” she cried and jumped back, letting the rock thump down to the ground. Nearby she saw a reddish-brown rock that she and Emily had often covered with a blanket for their dolls to have tea on. She pulled it back and there it was, a miniature copper teapot in the folds of a red-and-white checkered doll blanket. She used her thumb to brush a few grains of dirt from the teapot, and carried it and the blanket home like they were pieces of fragile glass. She spread out the little blanket with the teapot and sat Sarah down across from the new doll She shoved open the door of her house and was greeted by the fragrance of home-baked chocolate-chip cookies. “Amy, what have you been doing all this time?” asked her mother curiously. “Oh, nothing,” Amy said, not wanting to admit to her that she had trespassed at Emily’s old house. She grabbed a hunk of cookie dough and was just ready to stuff it into her mouth when she heard, “Not until after dinner,” and felt the dough snatched from her hand. “By the way, a letter came for you today, I meant to tell you earlier, but you were out so long, worrying me to death by the way.” “Thanks,” said Amy, grabbing the letter and shrugging off her mother’s concern, as she ran up the stairs to her room. She jumped into bed and let her hair hang over the side while she read the letter on her back. Dear Amy, New York is really great. I’ve made lots of friends at school, but there’s one special friend that I’ve been meaning to tell you about. Her name is Madeline. Last night we went to the movies together. The ticket lady was really nice. She let Madeline in for free! Amy felt a surge of anger run up her spine and into her mouth, making her want to shout. She was hot and confused, and almost missed her mother’s voice shouting, “Amy, set the table. Now!” She dragged herself downstairs, covering her tears with her hair. When she sat down at the table with her parents her mother asked what was wrong. Her father, a tall, lanky man who was usually away at his office, told Amy if she wasn’t going to tell them what the matter was then please would she stop crying and eat her dinner. She sat there sulking, and for the rest of the meal ate in silence. During dinner she thought about how Emily and Madeline had become best friends. While she was shoveling peas into her mouth she wondered if Emily had room in her for two best friends. Probably not, she thought pessimistically. Just before dessert, Amy quietly asked to be excused, not in the mood for eating canned peaches and macaroons. In the late summer evening the sun was just beginning to set. She opened the back screen door, letting it slam behind her, and wandered across the damp, limp grass to her swing. Instead of sitting in the swing herself, she pushed the empty seat back and forth, then quickly remembered that this was what she and Emily had done with their dolls. She abruptly plopped down onto the plastic seat, and holding onto the ropes, she pushed off, pumping hard until her toes touched the branches of a magnolia tree. Then falling back toward the ground, she tilted her head back, letting the tips of her hair touch the blades of grass. Her head felt lighter, and she was able to begin writing a letter back to Emily in her head. It would say something like, “Dear Emily,” but Amy immediately frowned and crossed out “Dear” in her head. “Yesterday at nature camp a new girl came. Her name was Clorissa,” a name from Amy’s well-worn fairy tale book. She would tell Emily that she and Clorissa had won an award for picking the best herbs on the nature trail to make tea. She would say they spent all of their time together. She jumped off the swing and ran through the darkness back to her house. That night, sitting with a flashlight in bed, she carefully copied her thoughts onto paper. Then she fell asleep, and dreamed of the look on Emily’s
Bubbe’s Mezuzah
Mon, when is Bubbe coming?” I asked impatiently. “Soon,” she replied for the seventeenth time. It was a family tradition for my grandma to come over every Saturday to light the havdalah candle, a symbol that the Jewish Sabbath has ended, with our family. I was sitting on the steps of the porch when I heard the steady tap . . . tap . . . tap of her cane. “Bubbe!!!” I exclaimed. “Hello, sweetheart!” said Bubbe, while embracing me. Clutching her cane with one hand, she carefully raised her other hand, which was shaking, to the mezuzah on the door and then lowered it to her wrinkled lips. I could tell it hurt her to stretch that far. I asked her why she wasted so much effort just to kiss the mezuzah. She just chuckled and said that that was a long story. “I’ll tell you when I sit down, darling.” I helped Bubbe inside and then we both plopped down onto the couch. I would climb a tree and jump into the snow as if I was jumping into a lake “Well, I wasn’t always old,” Bubbe began. “In fact, I was once a first-grader like you! Where I lived there were cold winters like you couldn’t imagine! There was one winter that was much colder than the others were. School was canceled, but we couldn’t even play outside in the snow because it was blocking the door! I think the temperature outside must have been minus twenty degrees! I wanted to play in the snow so badly. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore! I went out the back door and walked outside.” “But Bubbe, didn’t you know that you weren’t supposed to do that?” I interrupted. “Of course I knew! But did I listen? No! So anyway, outside I played a game where I would climb a tree and jump into the snow as if I was jumping into a lake. I walked deeper and deeper into the woods near our house until I found the perfect tree. I played the tree game for hours. “Eventually, I started to get dizzy, cold, and tired. I looked around and realized that I was deeper in the woods than I thought. From then on, what happened was a blur. I vaguely remember my feet becoming numb in the ice-cold snow. I started to cry for my mother. “I stumbled along until I made it to a small clearing where there was just one house. Dizziness was overwhelming me. I was just six years old, but I knew what would happen to me if I didn’t get inside soon. Finally, I crawled onto the porch of the house and knocked on the door. When no one answered, I fell against the door knowing my situation was hopeless. But then . . . something caught my attention. On the doorpost was one of those things that my mom and dad always kissed whenever they walked outside. “Without thinking, I slowly raised my hand to the mezuzah. I remember seeing my life pass through my eyes and thinking about how much I would miss my family. To me, it seemed like all hope was lost. I lowered my hand to my lips and then fainted.” “Oh Bubbe, please don’t tell me the rest of the story! It’s too sad!” “Don’t worry, sweetie! After all, I’m here with you now, right? When I woke up I was in the hospital. I heard someone shouting that I was awake. The doctors told my parents that it was a miracle that I was still alive. I opened my eyes and saw four people in the room, two of whom were my mother and father. I could tell that the tall man in white was the doctor, but who was the last one? “He was a young boy who looked about my age with curly brown hair. He told me that he had found me on the stairs of his side porch, an exit he almost never used. For some unknown reason he did that day. The doctors talked about good timing and good medicine and so on. . . but I knew that it was really the mezuzah! My deepest desire was granted because of the thing on the door that I had kissed! By the way, that boy eventually became my best friend and your Zadie!” Bubbe looked at me for a response to the story, but I had fallen fast asleep with a smile on my face and an all-new appreciation for my Bubbe and the mezuzah. Luria Rittenberg, 12Jacksonville, Florida
