Against My Will Page 3

  “Ok. So I am no Martha Stewart.”

  “Dad, this is so embarrassing. Who sets a table like this? Everything is still wrapped and where are the napkins?”

  “Jacob,” my father said, turning to the stranger as he handed him a paper plate. “It’s food right? As long as it is good, who cares how it looks? And when you have your own home, Danielle, you do things your way. Ok, you sit there,” he said pointing to me, “and Jacob you sit next to myDaniella.”

  Jacob smiled and nodded with approval as I rolled my eyes again and took my seat.

  “Good. Everyone’s seated.” My dad held up the dessert plate and recited the blessing over bread.

  “Baruch, ata, adonai, eloheinu, melech, hoalam, hamotizi lechem menhaoretz…. Ah Men.”

  As I sat quietly, my father and Jacob attacked the deli and entertained themselves talking about the Yankees and the stock market. Finally, my father realized that I had become a spectator to this conversation. “You’re quiet tonight, Danielle.”

  “No I am not. I’m just enjoying the ambiance,” I said in a now too familiar sarcastic tone.

  “Don’t be rude.” He turned to Jacob and said, “My daughter is usually non-stop talking. I sometimes can’t even get a word in.”

  “First I am a comedian, now I am a mute. Make up your mind Dad.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Whatever” was my dad’s most often used expression when he wanted to change the subject.

  “Let her eat,” said the stranger as he guided more than a bite full of his sandwich into his mouth, revealing his mustard stained fingers and chewed and bitten fingernails.

  I wanted to barf but politely sat and finished my half sandwich as the two men resumed their conversation. After they solved all the problems of the world including how our country can avoid going into the next great depression, my father pulled away from the table as if he was the chairman of a board of directors.

  “Jacob, come in the living room with me. We’ll watch the end of the Yankees game while Danielle puts away the dishes. Danielle, if you could make me a cup of tea. Jacob. Do you want? And if you could bring us in some of those Danishes from Schwartz’s.”

  I was sorry I had not stopped at the bakery to buy some fresh apple turnovers.

  “I’ll be right there, Mr. Landau.”

  “Ok, talk, but don’t be long. Andy Petitte’s pitching.”

  My father walked down the hallway and I was again left to make conversation with Jacob.

  “I’m going to go ahead and make some tea. Do you want some?” I asked.

  “No, I am fine. But can I help you?” he replied.

  “No, it’s only tea, not a casserole, but thank you.”

  I filled the mug with water and put it in the microwave as Jacob talked to me from the dining room. “You have many beautiful photos here. Is this your brother and his family?”

  “Probably. They live in Chappaqua.”

  “You mean where the Clintons live.”

  “Yeah, but they don’t have Clinton money. My brother hasn’t written any best-selling books and his wife is not the secretary of state,” I joked.

  “And they have two kids?” he asked.

  “No, I think they only have a daughter, Chelsea. I am kidding. Yes they do,” I replied.

  “I can see the resemblance. And this picture must be your mom and dad.”

  “Yes,” I said as I entered the room and set the tray with the mug and a tea bag on the dining room table. “My mom died when I was only three. I don’t have many memories. She was very pretty and died too young. She had breast cancer. And if doctors knew what they know today, who knows, she might still be here.” I looked at the grainy black and white photo before putting it back on the mahogany server.

  “You look just like your mom.”

  “Really?”

  “Sure, I see it. Your eyes, your smile. She was very beautiful.”

  “And a lot thinner, but thank you. That was very sweet. I will be right back. I am just going to bring my father his tea.”

  My father was sitting in his brown leather reclining chair watching his Yankees.

  “Here is your tea.” I made a crashing sound with the tray as I set it on the coffee table. “And the Danishes were stale. I would have stopped at Schwartz’s but…”

  “Whatever,” he said as he waved me off with his hand. His hand gesture was his favorite nonverbal way of dismissing me.

  “And we need to talk when your surprise leaves.”

  “Ok, whatever,” he said again with the wave and without turning his face away from the screen.

  “Whatever,” I replied as I walked back to the dining room expecting to find Jacob.

  “Hello, where are you?”

  “I am out here.” Jacob had stepped outside onto the balcony to smoke.

  “I hate smoking,” I said.

  “Your dad smokes,” he said as he stepped back inside.

  “I know, and I hate it.” I reached to grab the cigarette from his mouth. But before I could, he walked into the kitchen and extinguished it in the sink.

  “Thank you.”

  “You are welcome.”

  “Anyway, I am just so tired. It’s been a long week and I haven’t had much sleep. So I am going to say goodnight. But the game is still on. So if you want to stay and watch it with my dad, go ahead.”

  “Well that’s fine but it is more fun in person. So I will see you Tuesday night.”

  “Tuesday? What’s happening on Tuesday?” I asked with a puzzled look.

  “We have a date.”

  “A date?” I shook my head in disbelief. “Look, I don’t want to be rude and you seem like a nice person. But like I told you, I am not looking to meet anyone right now.”

  “Well you are being rude to your father.”

  “What?”

  “Before you got home, your dad handed me two tickets for Tuesday night’s game. The seats are right behind third base and I am sure he paid a lot of money for them. The Yankees are playing the Red Sox. So I’ll meet you at six in front of the advanced ticket window.”

  “Goodnight Mr. Landau,” Jacob shouted as he opened the door to leave. “Thank you for dinner.”

  “So I will see you Tuesday night,” Jacob said assuredly. Not waiting for the door to close, I marched directly into the den.

  Chapter Four

  From the time I was a little girl, my dad and I have been attached at the hip. He was my dad and trying to be a substitute for a mom I really never knew, so we did everything together. He also raised me intelligently though he taught me more through common sense rather than books. And whenever he could, he would quote from the Talmud, or as he liked to refer to it The Good Book. He was also the center of my life from the very beginning and my first memories are of his easy smile, gentle nature, and loving embrace.

  My dad was a source of comfort and support to me and I was encouraged to follow my dreams and to indulge my creativity. But I was not spoiled. I learned the value of hard work, of honesty, of friendship. I learned responsibility and how to make difficult choices for the good of others over myself. A widowed father trying to raise two children, he treated my brother and me with respect, love, and kindness. I also learned what a healthy home looked like, and of the peace and acceptance in a home where all family members are truly happy.

  But from the time I was a teenager, my dad and I have battled. It was usually over the petty things. Like he would think my skirt was too short or I was wearing too much makeup. But I always had the upmost respect for him and would never hurt my father. I also did not want him to be alone and, until recently, put off finding my own place to live.

  Baseball was his passion. Not just baseball, but New York Yankees baseball. From the day the season started to the last out, he lived, slept, and breathed the Yankees. Being a widower for more than 27 years, it became the reason he gave for not remarrying though he has had some chances. But as he often said, with work, raising a family, and being the
biggest Yankee fan, “who has time for marriage?” However, though he will not admit it, his other passion was seeing that I get married.

  “Dad.” I was standing next to him though he appeared unaware that I had even entered the room.

  “Dad.” My voice grew louder.

  “What?” my father acknowledged while not moving his head away from the television.

  “Dad, please talk to me.”

  “You going to tell me again about the crack in the wall,” he said not looking at me. “I know about it. I have called the building maintenance number three times. No one calls me back. So if it bothers you that much, hang a picture over it.”

  “Dad, I did not come in here to talk about a crack in the wall.”

  “Then what,” my father responded by throwing his hands up in despair.

  “Dad!”

  “Jeter’s on first and there’s no outs.”

  “Dad.” I stepped in front of the television blocking his view. “We need to talk now!” I wrested the remote from his hand.

  “All right. They’re losing six to nothing in the bottom of the seventh. They’re in God’s hands now. Ok, sit down. Talk to me.”

  I sat down on the couch, crossing my arms across my chest and took a deep breath.

  “What the hell was that all about?”

  “Don’t talk like that to your father.”

  “Ok. Dad. Sorry. But please explain how Mrs. Nadel, a Shadkham, so happened to be in the neighborhood.”

  My dad acted surprised at my question.

  “Dad, I am not stupid.”

  “Ok, Ok, I wanted her to be here for the introduction.”

  “What introduction? This is the 21st century!”

  “He’s a good man,” my father answered. “He has a big job. People look up to him. He will be a good provider.”

  “Dad, I am going to be a lawyer. I intend to be able to provide for myself. Besides, I have my career to think about first.”

  “Ok, ok but the calendar knows the truth.”

  “What does that mean?

  “What does it mean? You are 29 and it is time to meet someone and get married and have a family. So Mrs. Nadel comes into my shop. She tells me about this nice boy. I mean a man. And I say why not. He should meet my Daniella. So what’s the big deal? You want to convict your father of the crime of wanting his daughter to meet someone and get married, and have children, and have a house, and make her father happy so I can go to my grave knowing my daughter will be ok. So convict me,” he said, again offering his hands to be cuffed.

  “Ok Dad, you’re not dying and enough with the handcuffs but I just think that…”

  Before I could finish my thought, my dad jumped from his chair but quickly collapsed back into his seat.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Look at that. Jeter stole second. He can still run.”

  “Dad, look over here. We’re still talking.”

  “What were you saying?” he said, grabbing the remote out of my hand.

  “I know how old I am.”

  “And you are not getting any younger. And I don’t want you spending your life alone. Like Aunt Esther.”

  “You are now comparing me to Aunt Esther?”

  “Yeah, your aunt made lots of money. And she had a beautiful apartment in the Upper East Side and traveled. But she had no one to enjoy it with. Is that what you want?

  “Well at least I’ll have a nice place to live.”

  “I’d rather live in a prison. Not funny. But you know what happened to Aunt Esther with all her money?”

  “What Dad?”

  “She went meshuga. She started talking to herself every night because she had no one else to talk to. They finally locked her up with all the other nut cases.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  “Whatever.”

  “And I will also know when I meet the right person. Besides, it is not like I don’t go out. I have had plenty of boyfriends.”

  “Boyfriends yes, husbands no.”

  “But you have never approved of any of my boyfriends.”

  “Like who?”

  “How about Richard?”

  “A Momma’s boy.”

  “Joey.”

  “He was in the Mafia.”

  “But he bought me nice gifts. Scott.”

  “Not Jewish.”

  “Hyman.”

  “Too Jewish.”

  “Todd.”

  Dad holds up a limp wrist.

  “Ok, so he didn’t like sports.”

  “Sweetheart. He didn’t like girls.”

  “Maybe I don’t want a husband.”

  “Then you will be like your Aunt Esther and die all alone.”

  “Well, regardless, the man I marry is not going to be someone that Mrs. Nadel finds.”

  “Whatever sweetheart. But the good book says–”

  “The good book! What good book? Do you now think you are Tevye from Fiddler on the Roof quoting the good book and you are going to find a groom for your daughter?

  And do you really think that after I meet this man, and have dinner with him, and by the way he has no manners as he was shoving that pastrami into his mouth and there was mustard all over his fingers, that I am going to say thank you Dad for bringing to me the man of my dreams? Where do you think we live, Anatefka?”

  “Huh?”

  “Well I am not Tevye’s daughter Tseidel.”

  “You should have gotten that role in high school. That Chapman girl. You had a better voice then her.”

  “No, Dad, she had a better voice. And why are we talking about what happened in high school? Stay focused,” I said as I put my hands on his head and pried the TV remote from his hands again.

  “Daniella, you are so dramatic. Just like your mother was. Besides, sometimes you have to listen to the words from the mouth of someone with experience. You think your mother and I knew each other that well? But our parents approved and that was what was important.”

  “Don’t talk about my mother that way.”

  “That was a good way. That is the way she made me know how she felt. And I know how you feel. But I want you to give him a chance. Who knows? Maybe he is the one and your old poppa will soon have little kinda jumping up and down on my knees and we will be rolling and playing on the floor just like I use to do with you and your brother when you were little.”

  “Ok, Dad, I will see him again. But if it doesn’t work out, that’s the end. Deal?”

  “Deal. Now can I finish watching the game?”

  I kissed my father on the forehead and gave him back his remote. But while my father’s mind returned to Yankee Stadium, that night I pondered being Mrs. Danielle Liebowitz. And all of a sudden, my life felt like it was passing faster than the remaining sand in an hour glass.

  Rose’s Third Diary Entry

  The kind nurse said I slept well for the first time in a week of nightmares. Before last night, she said I would sit up in my bed and stare at the wall, though no one was there, and scream. This would happen several times during the night before I fell into a restful sleep. Perhaps fear is slowly becoming a thing of the past. But the past is still with me every waking moment.

  Lunch was a bowl of soup filled with carrots, onions, celery and large strips of chicken. Seeing it brought memories of my mother preparing a big pot in the kitchen for Friday night dinner. Even before I tasted it, I was filling up on the rich aroma that filled the room.

  As I brought a filled spoon to my mouth, it smelled so good. I managed a few bites before my stomach hurt. The doctor said it would take time to reintroduce food to my body as it had been so long since I had proper nourishment. I had also lost a tremendous amount of weight and if I forced myself to eat, I would be rewarded with a wrenching gut and nausea.

  I felt a little stronger this afternoon, and my nurse announced that it would do me good if I left the room. Without asking, she placed me in a chair and wheeled me through the corridors of the hospital that
seemed endless and all alike; the unmistakable scent of disinfected linoleum floors clung to the gleaming white walls and ceilings.

  I pleaded that I felt more comfortable in my room, so she returned me. But upon leaving the chair, I was determined to take my first steps and walked to the window. My nurse pushed open the glass and I felt the invigorating air sweep inside my lungs and circulate around me. Outside were baby sparrows searching for food. As I placed some crumbs of bread from my lunch plate on the windowsill, I thought how ironic it was how in the camp we risked our lives for even one crumb.

  This evening, a young aide came by my bed side. She asked if I needed anything. I said I would like to brush my hair and pointed to my brush by my bed side. She smiled and quickly returned holding a mirror. From the depths of the mirror, a frail, wan face with a determined chin and sensitive lips, now as pale as a winter rose, reflected back at me. I began to tremble as I examined my ashen cheeks and the dark purple abrasions encircling my swollen eyes which had once been pools of blue water. My hair, once finely spun gold, was now tousled carelessly above my bandaged head. I had seen a corpse and it was me. As bitter tears poured down my weathered face, the look in her eyes stared, haunted, into mine. I looked into the stark face that seemed so empty. I had seen the devil and I never wanted to share what I saw with anyone.

  I am now tired and need to sleep.

  Chapter Five

  Nothing is more disgusting then riding the New York subway system on a hot humid summer day as the smell of perspiration combined with body odor permeates the rail car. With the temperature hovering in the 90s and the humidity index even higher, today was one of those dreaded days. But, like the good girl that I am, and wanting to please my father, I rode the subway to meet his Prince Charming.

  As I exited the rail car, a handwritten sign read that the elevators were out of order. Of course, of all days, they picked today to break down. Walking up the two flights of stairs, droplets of sweat accumulated on my eyebrows and my upper lip. I helplessly licked the top of my lip, hoping to extinguish the sweat mustache that formed without many people noticing. But my tongue came up short and returned to my mouth with the waxy flavor of my lipstick. I now knew why the color was called burning burgundy. Feeling as if my face was melting in the overbearing humidity, I tried to slyly wipe my nose on my sleeveless shoulder but again failed, leaving a salty smear of makeup clearly visible on my arm. I felt paranoid that my face looked just as smeared.