Synergy. Naomi and Morty. He was creative, intellectually adroit and could fix just about anything with the aid of a hacksaw or adjustable wrench.. She was aggressive, fun loving, faithful and a social snob. With Naomi Abraham as his helpmate, Morty Goldfarb would ultimately find his true calling and come into his own as a solid member of the Jewish community.
After Naomi deserted him, family and friends resigned themselves to the harsh truth: Morty was a lost cause. A lovable, kind hearted schnook. A neer-do-well, who worked in his uncle’s hardware store, treading water, so to speak, as his insipid existence dribbled away.
The day after the ‘miraculous pronouncement’, as Abe described it, Morty visited his mother. “Uncle Abe’s been acting strange.”
“In what way?”
Morty told her about the law suit and his clandestine meeting with Louisa Morales.”
Sarah Goldfarb filled a small pan with water and turned the stove on. The woman had a fetish about tea kettles. She hated them. To this day, Morty still had no idea why his mother wouldn’t use a whistling kettle. “All right, so some lousy, former employee is trying to squeeze a few crummy bucks out of my brother. You hire a lawyer. What’s the big deal?”
“Abe says he was so upset about the law suit, he sought God’s advice.”
“Yeah?”
“And God talked to him.” Morty was watching as the tiny bubbles accumulated at the bottom of the pan near the center then multiplied and mushroomed into a frothy sea. Maybe his mother enjoyed witnessing her water come to a full boil, something you couldn’t do with a closed tea kettle. That made perfect sense. “Since when does God talk to hardware salesmen?”
Sarah poured the tea, a cup for Morty and one for herself. “Even from when he was a little boy, my brother was very religious.”
“A religious nut, maybe? A metaphysical oddball prone to emotional excesses?”
“No, a hundred times no.” his mother blew on her tea and added a splash of milk. “Abe is the most down to earth, levelheaded member of the family.” She pushed the carton of milk across the table toward him “Now, if your meshugena aunt Trudy said she spoke to God that would be a totally different matter.”
His mother went to the cupboard and returned with a bag of Oreos. Morty twisted the two halves, separating the chocolaty wafers. “I asked him if God ever spoke to him in such a fashion before and he said this was the first time. Any suggestions?”
His mother sat staring into space for the better part of a minute. “God said He would smite Abe’s persecutors?”
Morty nodded with a sick expression. “Shame and humiliate them in the eyes of their own kind.”
“Your uncle is sixty years old,” his mother spoke haltingly, “and devoutly religious. This is a guy who believes in tzidakah, righteousness. You spend a lifetime doing good deeds and keeping your nose clean in the here and now. The rest takes care of itself. It’s a Jewish thing.”
His mother brushed some crumbs into the palm of her hand. “You always hear about those hell fire and brimstone televangelists. It’s ‘Hallelujah! Praise the Lord!’ until you read in the newspaper that the Reverend Goody-two-shoes has been shtupping his neighbor’s wife for the past year and a half.”
Morty stared at his mother in disbelief. He had never heard her use such language. But then, the circumstances were unusual, to say the least. “Your uncle never made a fuss over his religious beliefs, so you do it his way or no way.” “Now go home,” the woman ordered, “and figure out how to help your Uncle Abe.”
In graduate School, Morty spent a semester in an honors class, studying Russian literature. He wrote his final term paper on one of Tolstoy’s lesser novels, The Resurrection. Later that night as he was lying in bed, a scene—really nothing more than a tiny snippet— from the end of the novel floated back to him. A young boy, no more than four or five, and his older sister are traveling to the family’s summer home in the Russian province. Their horse drawn carriage is held up as a ragged band of prisoners is being lead through the street to an awaiting ship where they will be transported to a harsh prison colony. As the chained and filthy prisoners stumble across the road, the sister flies into a tantrum over the minor inconvenience. The brother bursts into inconsolable tears at the sight of people treated worse than animals. Vintage Tolstoy!
Louisa Morales reminded Morty of the malicious sister just as he felt an overpowering moral affinity towards the younger brother. Tzidakah. His mother’s words floated back to him in a confused muddle. How could anybody resist the lethal juggernaut that Attorney Morales intended to unleash? She would attack the righteous Jew for days, weeks, months and years on end until Abraham Lefkowitz was consigned to the poor house or gave her client what she wanted.
While he was waiting to meet with Louisa Morales, a stream of attorneys kept rushing out to the front desk with piles of paperwork that they needed copied or mailed off to various parties. A middle-aged woman with a pair of bifocals dangling from a beaded chain placed a stack of papers three inches thick on the counter. How many Abe Lefkowitzes were being euthanized, sodomized, castrated and lobotomized in the seemingly innocuous, pile of documents?
Earlier in the afternoon at the hardware store, Morty helped a man choose a router. They settled on a Ryobi with a quarter inch chuck and circular depth gauge. The fellow was originally considering an industrial, production grade Makita, but the tool was four times as costly and made no sense for a ’weekend warrior’, a homeowner who only needed the tool for occasional projects.
Did the legal staff at Garret, Myers and Morales derive the same satisfaction as Morty did with the hardware customer when they ripped the gizzards out of a hapless defendant? At one point when Morty was telling Louisa Morales about his uncle’s work at the Literacy Center, the woman arched her left wrist over her should and began sawing back and forth with the right hand to mimic a violinist in concert. She reduced twenty years of selfless dedication to little more than maudlin sentiment.
God would shame and humiliate Abraham Lefkowitz’ persecutors in the eyes of their own kind. What the hell did that mean? It smacked of metaphysical gibberish. Morty didn’t know what to think any more.
A week passed. Like a brick phallic symbol, the luxury office suites across the street seemed to grow taller and more intimidating. Mrs. Lopez returned with her granddaughter to buy a gallon of paint and a brush. While the old woman was choosing the color, Maria pulled Morty aside. “I need to talk to you about a couple of things.” She lowered her voice and leaned closer. “I told my grandmother about your uncle’s legal difficulties.”
At the far end of the aisle, Abe Lefkowitz was loading a can of eggshell white latex paint into the automated mixer. “And?”
“At first she said, ‘I’ll pray to the Blessed Mother’, but then she came back an hour later and muttered that sometimes it pays to hedge one’s bets.”
“Your grandmother said that?”
“Well not exactly in those words.” Maria Escobar told him what the old woman suggested.
“Yes, that makes perfect sense,” Morty replied. “Two things. You said there was something else you had to tell me.”
“You were right about Death in the Andes. Llosa’s book was ridiculously long for such a skimpy plot.” She tapped him on the sleeve. “Stop by our apartment after supper,” she whispered, “and we can plan strategy.”
As the two women were leaving,, Morty could have sworn that Maria’s grandmother winked and curled her lip in a defiant, toothless grin.
“What did you charge her for the paint?” Morty asked when they were gone.
“I think I’ll go to lunch,” his uncle said, ignoring the question.
Around two in the afternoon a skinny teenager wandered into the store. “Can I help you?” Morty asked.
“No I’m all set.” The youth was holding a can of carburetor spray. His face was marred with stubborn blotches of acne and one of the front teeth on the top was chipped.
“Car pro
blems?”
“Yeah, engine won’t turn over.” He shook his head and a mop of greasy brown hair fell down over his eyes.
“You were in here just a week ago with the same problem.”
“Yeah, well it’s an older car.” His eyes flitted about the room. “Piece of junk, really.”
“Maybe you just need a tune up.”
The young man began rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet impatiently. His fly was open and the left cuff of his pants was torn and dragging on the floor. “I’m in a bit of a hurry.”
“Let me see your driver’s license.”
“Left it at home,” he shot back without missing a beat.
“You’re sniffing carburetor fluid to get high.”
“You got some goddamn nerve!”
“I can smell it on your breath. You probably sprayed five minutes ago. Filled a plastic garbage bag with fumes and took a one way trip to la-la land.”
“Go to hell!” The youth spun around on his heels and headed for the door.
On Friday a registered letter arrived from the Massachusetts Commission against Discrimination notifying Abraham Lefkowitz that his case would be heard on the fourteenth of the following month. He read the letter and tossed it in the trash. “Florene has the lawyers. We’ve got something better.”
“Amen to that!” his nephew chirped.
Saturday evening, Morty, who usually slept late most weekends, set the alarm clock for six-thirty. In the morning he dressed in his best suit and drove over to Our Lady of Guadalupe Church, where he found a seat in the farthest row behind a pillar. It was his first Catholic service. He sat through all the gospel readings and even hummed along during the responsorial. After the Mass as the faithful rose to receive Holy Communion, Morty slipped out the back door and drove to his parent’s home.
“Jews and Catholics share the same God.”
His mother cocked her head to one side and stared at him uncertainly. “After a fashion, yes,” she said. “Let’s not forget the Inquisition, Auschwitz, Pope Innocent the Third and a few other catastrophic bumps in the road.”
“What if the deity that spoke to Uncle Abe wasn’t of the Jewish persuasion?”
Mrs. Goldfarb shook her head in exasperation. “I haven’t a clue what the hell you’re talking about.”
“You said it yourself—if it’s all about tzidakah, righteousness, then it doesn’t make a bit of difference whether a Jew or an orangutan performs the good deeds.”
His mother placed a hand on the side of her head. “Mortimer, my son, you’re beginning to scare me.”
When he reached home Morty went into the study and pulled out his Webster’s New World College Dictionary.
Smite from the Old English smitan akin to Ger schmeissen to throw IE base smē-, to smear, smear on, stroke on 1 a) to hit or strike hard b) to bring into a specified condition by or as by a powerful blow c) to defeat, punish, destroy or kill d)…… 3 to affect strongly or suddenly with some feeling [smitten with dread] 4 to disquiet mentally, distress [smitten by conscience] 5 to strike or impress favorably; inspire with love [smitten with her charms]
A horny male might easily be ’smitten’ by Louisa Morales’ stunning good looks while she smote the libidinous loser into a state of rigor mortis with her barbed tongue. The word held multiple dissimilar meanings each of which could be used to good advantage. Catelli versus Lefkowitz: Suddenly the improbable seemed slightly more manageable.
The following Thursday at precisely ten forty-five in the morning, the senior partner at Garret, Myers and Morales buzzed Louisa Morales on the intercom.
“We have a situation developing out her in the lobby. You might want to take a look.”
“Could you be a bit more specific?”
After an inordinately long pause, Frederick Garret replied, “No, I don’t think so. You can either call the police or get your ass out front in a hurry.”
In the lobby close to fifty Hispanic people were milling about—senior citizen , young parents with toddlers and a smattering of middle age professionals. Over by the copier machine, a frail elderly woman was leaning on an aluminum walker with neon yellow tennis balls attached to the rear legs. In the conference room, a woman with a diaper bag was sitting alone nursing an infant.
Mrs. Lopez and her granddaughter were marching about the foyer with hand painted signs that read: Louisa Morales: Shame! Shame! Shame! And ‘Boycott Garret, Meyers and Morales!’
“What the hell is going on here?”
Morty Goldfarb stepped forward. “We need to talk.”
Louisa Morales grabbed the receptionist’s phone. “I’m calling the police.”
“Could be the right thing to do under the circumstances,” Morty spoke amiably, “or the worse mistake of your life.”
The attorney’s manicured finger was arched over the keypad. “What do you want, Mr. Goldfarb?”
“Five minutes of your precious time. Gratis.”
She ushered them into the conference room. The woman with the baby looked up and smiled before settling back to the maternal business at hand. “With the exception of the young children, these fine people all have two things in common,” Morty said. “They were tutored by my uncle over at the literacy center and,” he paused for dramatic effect, “they all attend Our Lady of Guadalupe Church.”
“So what?”
“Mrs. Sanchez,” he pointed in the direction of a middle age Hispanic carrying a small American flag on a stick, “just got her US citizenship. She claims that without my uncle’s help, she’d still be stuck in cultural limbo.” Mrs. Sanchez glowered at the attorney and waved her flag proudly.
“Now Mr. Cordoba,” he pointed to an older man with a pencil moustache and gold tooth, “is a member of the Chamber of Commerce along with your father. They’ve known each other for years. He came to this country from Algeciras in Southern Spain. It’s a tiny seaport town on the Straights of Gibraltar. He arrived here thirteen years ago not speaking a word of English. Who do you think tutored him when Carlos showed up one day over at the Brandenberg Literacy Center?”
Louisa Morales shifted uncomfortably in her leather chair. Outside in the foyer, the front door opened and several new Hispanic families flooded into the office. “At last count, five hundred forty-three parishioners attend the first mass at Our Lady of Guadalupe, and that’s not including your parents or visitors not formally registered with the rectory. If you proceed forward with this frivolous law suit, these fine Catholics will tell half a thousand people what you did to my uncle, and they’ll probably tell all their relatives, friends and neighbors. After they’ve dragged your family’s good name through the mud, you may want to change religions or move back to your native country of origin.”
The commotion mushroomed in the hallway. With no place to stand, more people stormed into the law firm, forcing those who had arrived earlier to retreat further down the hallway. Morty Goldfarb leaned across the table so close that his lips actually brushed against the attorney’s lovely ear. “A little voice in my heart of hearts tells me Louisa Morales has seen the error of her ways and will do the honorable thing. Tell me if I’m wrong.”
Later that afternoon, Maria Escobar stopped by the hardware store. “That went well, don’t you think?”
“God works in mysterious ways.”
“That’s a worn-out cliché.” Maria shot back. “A man with a Master’s degree in comparative literature from Brown ought to choose his words more carefully.”
“A hackneyed phrase, to be sure,” Morty agreed. A customer who had been browsing through the bargain bin went out the door. “I don’t have cable TV, but I’ve got a very sophisticated set of rabbit ears that gets excellent reception even in the inner city.”
Maria shrugged. “Why are you telling me this?”
“No reason in particular.” Morty picked up a banana yellow, twenty-five foot Stanley tape measure and lofted it back and forth between his hands. “There’s an Iranian foreign film playing ove
r at the Avon Cinema this weekend and I was wondering …”
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Switched at Birth
“Adrian Flanagan’s working three to eleven over at the Brentwood Nursing Home.” Like a poker player dealt a lousy hand and waiting to see if his opponent would fold or raise the ante, Jason Mangarelli fidgeted with his hands. “Thought I might drop by later this week and see how she’s doing.”
His mother, who was stuffing the washing machine with a load of soiled towels grimaced but never bother to raise her head. The wiry young man, who, stood a little under six feet, flicked a shock of dark hair out of his hazel eyes and watched her measure out a cupful of Borax liquid detergent. Mrs. Mangarelli, a petite Italian woman with auburn hair and a pointy nose, sprinkled softener into the machine before closing the lid. “Not a good idea.”
“Why’s that?”
“The nursing home is a private business. You’ve no legitimate reason being there.”
Jason cringed. His mother was doing the ‘voice’. The voice was a stilted, phony-as-a-three-dollar-bill inflection that she inadvertently slipped into when feeling uncomfortable, out of her natural element. A set of gears in the washer clicked into place and the agitator began swirling the dirty clothes in the sudsy water. Only now did his mother step back, hands on hips, and look her son full in the face. “Some things are better left in the past.”
Some things … A year older than Jason, Adrian would have been twenty-three, though no one had laid eyes on the girl in over a decade. Raunchy rumors began percolating around Jason’s sophomore year in high school. Then, mercifully, the ugliness died away. The teenage girl blipped off the radar screen, vanished presumably into some sordid black hole, only to resurface five years later. Well, not exactly. Adrian never physically resurfaced—only the swirl of smutty gossip. “I wonder if Jack Flanagan knows his oldest daughter’s back in town.”