SHANDA

            Bubba lived on a block of private houses in Brooklyn, each with a plot of grass before it, separated from the sidewalk by black metal fences. The neighborhood looked like a small town in a Mickey Rooney movie except that the buildings were decrepit and dark, the fences rusted, the stickball players wore long ear locks and derbies. She lived with Aunt Clara and Clara’s two children, four year old Cousin Rachel and the baby, Beryl. Grandpa had died only two years ago, in 1946, and Clara’s husband, Uncle Jack, was always off, working.

            The house full of women was in a constant state of disrepair and Bubba was sure to have something for Daddy to fix: a clogged faucet, a broken shelf. Daddy would ask for help but Herbie could not hammer a nail in straight. If Mommy were there, she would say, “Morris, leave him alone.” Without her, Daddy might ask Herbie to help move a piece of Bubba’s heavy, ancient furniture and, if Herbie were too weak to budge it, Daddy would call Herbie a sissy and reduce him to tears before all the women.

            The car slid to a stop in front of Bubba’s house and Herbie inventoried all the needed repairs: the weeds in the garden, the broken stoop, the cracked pane in the door. Cousin Rachel was watching for them at the window and she beamed and waved, a broken doll in her hand.

            Daddy and Herbie stepped from the car, waiting, as always, for Mommy to tumble from the front seat, her skirt sliding above her stockings, pocketbook dangling from her arm. She would pause for a moment on the sidewalk, smoothing out her dress, catching her breath. She would ask Daddy if he had forgotten anything. She would ask Herbie if he had locked her door. Then she would signal that they should take their places on either arm for she was ready to enter.

            Without her, they were both uneasy about turning from the car. Daddy patted his pockets to show that he had forgotten nothing and Herbie checked the door handle twice. In confusion, they found themselves staring at one another until Daddy turned in silence and they headed for the house, both heads bowed, shoulders slumped, leaving just enough space between them to allow for Mommy’s ghost.

            Bubba and Daddy kissed over Herbie’s head like two thick trees bowing together. Aunt Clara bent to squeeze his cheeks and Cousin Rachel tugged at his trousers, her tiny fingers tickling his balls. Daddy lifted Rachel in his arms so that her Mary Janes swung over Herbie’s ears and Clara kissed Daddy, pressing her belly against Herbie’s mouth. Beryl cooed in the carriage and Bubba led them all, intertwined and moving in a mass, to the kitchen.

            If Daddy and Clara were fat, Bubba was massive. Her arms were as thick as Rachel’s waist, as flabby as Clara’s breasts. Her features had flattened so that there was no space between bulbous nose and thick lips. She wore a housedress which swept about her like a tent and her body, beneath it, moved with the power of an ocean wave as she grabbed Herbie by the ears and tried to tug him to the table. “Come eat!” she shouted.

            Daddy put Rachel down and reached for his wallet. The big slob was, all of a sudden, cute, squatting before Rachel so that his belly scraped along the floor.

                        “Come you’ll eat! Everything is ready!”

            Daddy pretended with goo-goo eyes that his money was missing, pulling out a dollar bill as if he were a magician, sending Rachel into frantic giggles.

                        “Who’s Uncle Morris’ girlfriend?” he leered.

                        “Who, Uncle Morris?”

                        “Rachel! That’s who!” Daddy pressed the bill into the little girl’s hand while she screeched with laughter.

                        ”Say ‘Thank you,’ honey,” Aunt Clara prodded.

                        “What’s this for, Rachel?” Daddy cooed.

            Daddy always made a big deal out of giving Rachel a dollar for her college education. If so, Herbie sneered, how come nobody took the goddam bill and put it in the bank instead of letting the kid run around with it clutched in her hand, waving it in front of Herbie’s nose so that he wanted to rip it from her fingers and shove it down her throat?

                        “For college!’ Rachel blubbered and Daddy swept her up in his arms and flung her high while Clara hee-hawed and Bubba hollered, “Come everybody, eat!”

                        “Wait a minute,” said Herbie. “She still didn’t say, ‘Thank you.’”

                        “C’mon Rachel,” Daddy cooed. “Show your smart aleck cousin how much you love your Uncle Morris.”

                        “I love Uncle Morris,” the little girl gurgled and she kissed him on the nose, which made everybody howl.

                        “So there!” Daddy jeered as he passed Herbie on his way to the kitchen, bouncing Rachel in his arms. “Bouncy, bouncy, bouncy. Rachel’s going bouncy!”

                        “I think children should learn to be polite,” said Herbie to Clara as they walked to the table.

                        “You’re absolutely right, Herbie. One thing about you, you’ve always been polite.”

                        “I learned it from my mother,”

***

            Bubba rushed to the stove to heat up pea soup which Herbie detested because she made it thick and lumpy. Mommy served it with delicate croutons but Bubba poured the mush over a whole piece of toast which, by the time he got to the bottom, was soggy and green. When she arrived at his shoulder with the pot, he raised a hand. “Not for me,” he mumbled.

                        “What? You wouldn’t eat my pea soup?”

                        “I’m not so hungry.”

                        “You always loved my pea soup.”

                        “It’s too hot today.”

                        “Ma,” said Clara, “leave him alone.”

            Bubba shrugged and returned the pot to the stove. “I’ll put it in a jar. You’ll take it for your sick mother.” Daddy and Clara dove into the soup while Bubba brought out the rest of the meal. Rachel sat in Daddy’s lap and nibbled from his spoon.

                        “So how is she?” asked Clara.

                        “Who?” said Herbie.

                        “Here, Herbie,” said Bubba, “you’ll eat this separate.” She plucked the toast from his empty soup bowl.

                        “No thanks,” he answered. “Who?”

                        “What am I going to do?” Bubba growled, “throw it away?” She plunged a knife into the butter and spread the toast so thickly that Herbie’s stomach turned. If his mother were there, she would murmur politely, “He doesn’t like so much butter,” and scrape the excess off for him but Bubba dropped the slimy toast on his plate. “So what’s going to be, Morris?” she asked.

                        “We don’t know yet.”

                        “Nothing’s happened?”

                        “We don’t know for sure.”

                        “What are you talking about?” asked Herbie.

            On the table, Bubba set out platters of white fish still in its oily skin, pot cheese, bananas, sour cream, a thick rye bread, hard boiled eggs, tomatoes and onions.

                        “I think it’s disgusting,” she announced.

                        “Mama, be quiet,” Daddy answered.

                        “Does anybody else know?”

                        “Know what?” asked Herbie.

                        “Herbie, eat your bread!”

“Oh Mama, you know he doesn’t like so much butter!” Clara shrieked.

“What’s wrong with butter?”

“Esther is always scraping it off for him.”

Clara popped from the table and scraped the toast at the sink, dropping a glob of butter into the garbage, not half as much as Mommy would have removed.

                        “For Christ’s sake, Morris,” Bubba growled. “How could you do such a thing?”

                        “Let’s drop the topic,” Daddy seethed. “Not in front of the kid.”

                        “What not in front of the kid?” Herbie asked.

                        “I wouldn’t say a word,” Bubba mumbled. “It’s a shandah.”

                        “ENOUGH ALREADY!” Daddy shouted. ‘I SAID DROP IT!”

            Everyone fell into sullen silence and Daddy and Clara slurped up their soup. Rachel slid from Daddy’s lap and crept around under the table where she leaned against Herbie’s leg and scratched her tiny fingers on his knee. “What’s a shandah?” she whispered.

                        “It’s a shame,” Herbie answered. “A dreadful shame.”

                        “Listen to him!” Clara cried. “He’s talking Yiddish already. You learn that in Hebrew School, Herbie?”

                        “A shandah, a shandah,” Rachel sang softly.” “A shandah, shandah, shandah.”

                        “You studying hard for your Bar Mitzvah, Herbie? Our Herbie, the actor!”

                        “Yes.”

                        “It wouldn’t be long now,” Clara smiled.

                        “Maybe it wouldn’t be the last,” Bubba mumbled.

                        “WILL YOU SHUT UP?” Daddy thundered. “HOW MANY TIMES DO I HAVE TO SAY IT?”

                        “SHUT UP YOURSELF!” Bubba howled back.

                        “YOU ALWAYS HAVE SO MUCH TO SAY!”

                        “IF YOU DIDN’T DO, I WOULDN’T HAVE TO SAY, MR. FRESH MOUTH, SO LET’S HAVE A LITTLE RESPECT. SOMEONE WHO DOES SUCH A TERRIBLE THING TO HIS WIFE HAS THE NERVE TO YELL? AT YOUR AGE! IT’S DISGUSTING, THAT’S WHAT I THINK AND I’LL SAY IT A MILLION TIMES IF I FEEL LIKE, MR. FRESH MOUTH!”

            Bubba clamped her mouth shut and turned smugly to the stove. Rachel scurried onto Herbie’s lap and Daddy’s head sank into his neck.

                        “All right, Herbie,” said Bubba. “What are you eating?”

                        “I’m not hungry, thank you.”

                        “Don’t give me any of that crap. What are you going to eat?”

                        “I’ll have some bananas and sour cream,” he answered.

                        “Clara, cut him a banana. Herbie, eat up that bread. Morris, some white fish?”      

Daddy nodded and she loaded his plate with food. Herbie shot rays of hatred around the table. His mind reeled with accusations which were still mercifully vague. As desperate as he was for more information, he was terrified of what he might learn. Why was Mommy sick? What was wrong? Why had she thrown up in the toilet this morning? Later, he would force her to reveal the secret but, for the moment, he did not want to hear it from Bubba’s foul mouth.

                        “Now, what’s everybody drinking?”

            Daddy had soda with his meal. Clara had black coffee and Herbie had milk. Bubba hovered over them, filling up glasses and plates. Clara launched into family gossip and no one else said a word. Except Rachel, who pressed her lips to Herbie’s ear and giggled, “Shandah, shandah, shandah.”

                        “Rachel! Get down!” Herbie shouted, pushing her so violently from his lap that she landed on the floor and was set off into wails.

                        “Rachel!”

                        “Herbie!”

                        “Stupid kid! You think you’re tough?” growled Daddy. “An actor!”

            Clara hopped from her seat to whisk screaming Rachel up in her arms.

                        “Poor baby, poor Rachel,” Clara sang. “Cousin Herbie didn’t mean it.”

                        “Sha, sha,” said Bubba. “She’ll wake up the baby. That’s all we need.”

                        “What the hell’s the matter with you?” Daddy grumbled at Herbie.

            Rachel’s howls circled the room. Daddy rose to jingle his keys at her. Clara rocked her back and forth. Bubba held up the fancy cake she was serving as dessert. “Look Rachel, you get a taste when you stop crying. And Herbie,” she shot him a vicious glance, “he don’t get a taste till he cleans up his plate.”

                        “No thanks,” he answered. “I don’t want a piece.”

                        “Let him starve,” said Daddy.

                        “You’ll have a piece later,” said Clara.

            Herbie munched on his bananas and sour cream and even forced the toast, as greasy as it was, down his gullet. He turned to his grandmother in triumph when his plate was blank and bit into every word. “No thanks. I’m not hungry.”

                        “Ve is Mer! A temperamental artist!”

            Clara slid Rachel’s plate before Herbie. “Here Herbie, let her sit in your lap while she eats it. To make up. Rachel baby, go to Herbie. Cousin Herbie didn’t mean it.”

            She deposited Rachel onto his knees and the squirming child plunged into the icing. Bubba sighed with relief. Daddy went back to his white fish.

                        “She really loves you, Herbie,” Clara chattered. “She adores you. She always talks about the fascinating games you make up for her. How you act out all the movies. I never saw a boy be so patient with a little one. Did you know that, Morris? I told your mother, Herbie, that in a year or two, I’m going to pay you to come baby sit because I can trust you more than anybody in the world. You hear, Mama? Herbie knows how to diaper the baby, how to heat up a bottle and sprinkle it on his arm to make sure it’s the right temperature. Am I right, Herbie?”

            Rachel had finished the icing and had picked up the cake with her fingers.

                        “Herbie honey,” said Clara, “let her use your fork. Herbie is such a marvelous influence on little Rachel because he’s so polite and she listens to him like he was a god. Mama, cut Herbie a piece of cake.”

                        “No thank you,” he repeated. “I’m not hungry.”

            Rachel finished her piece and they gave her another. Clara declared hers delicious. Daddy finished his in a few quick gulps. Herbie resolved that he would not eat a piece if they shoved his face into it and he had to chew or choke. What had been said about his mother was slowly travelling through his body and the information was numbing each muscle, each finger, each cock hair. Only his eyes were alive and they burned with hatred. He was surrounded by enemies who were armed with a secret. They were tempting him with hints, iced with vanilla and sprinkled with chocolate but, once he took a bite, he would strangle on the slime.

            Awkwardly, they left the table; first his father, then Clara, then Bubba, to whisper, he knew, in the living room about the terrible thing his father had done to his mother. Rachel was told to stay with her cousin and not to eat any cake and Herbie was told he could have as big a piece as he wished. But he refused everything they had to offer and remained silent until they were gone; longing for his mother and the truth, which she would tell him, voice trembling, eyes moist, her hand caressing his when he came home from school and they would sit at the table and he would recite how he would be a movie star like that cute Van Johnson and, when he won the Academy Award, he would buy a big house in Bel Air for them to live in together happily ever after.

            He was shocked back to life by Rachel, who was dancing around the table and singing, “shandah, shandah, shandah.”

***

 Edward M. Cohen's story collection, "Before Stonewall," was published by Awst Press; his novel, "$250,000," by G.P. Putnam's Sons; his novella, "A Visit to my Father with my Son," by Running Wild Press; his chapbook, "Grim Gay Tales," by Fjords Review.