Cousins' Club

2 The Discussion

2

The DiscussionRose Hips's life covered my grandmother's kitchen table. The family threw into a pile whatever clothing of hers they had as if they intended to do a laundry later. They separated her papers into little piles, applying their own individual logic. Savings bonds, which were easily identifiable, became their own pile. They sifted through a green mound of ones searching for fives and tens. They even found a can opener.

“Aunt Ida, how much did you get for the jewelry?”

My grandmother nearly giggled. “I went to Cohen on Fulton Street and got four hundred and seventy-four dollars,” said my grandmother. “Then I went next door to A&S to get one of those square ice cream cones. But I paid for that myself.”

“That means it must be worth two grand if that gonif Cohen gave you that much,” Yudel said.

“Are you finished counting the money?”

“What's this?” asked Unkle Traktor as he held up a piece of paper between his thumb and index finger as if he were throwing out something with dog s**t on it.

“Guttenyu!” said Muriel, “It's Rose Hips's Republican voter registration card.”

“Republican,” hissed Unkle Traktor. Then with a wet and crude spitting sound created by pursing his lips like a grouper and showing the tip of his tongue, he expelled a loud phaaaaaa, accompanied by a single violent shake of his head.

“It's a good thing she's dead already. Because if you're Republican, I don't think you can be buried in a Jewish cemetery.”

My grandmother had invited her other daughter, Aunt Georgia, and her husband, Unkle Traktor.

“Big deal! So she was a Republican,” Yudel said.

“Who knows how and where she got this money,” said Unkle Traktor.

“We can't take it. It's like using medical research from Josef Mengele.”

“You would use Mengele's research if it cured you of whatever you had.”

“What do you expect from a Trotskyite?” Muriel asked.

“I've told you a million times, I'm not a Trotskyite, I'm a Trotskyist. It's the difference between a socialite and a socialist,” Unkle Traktor said.

“Ist, ite, ite, ist. You're still a Commie know-it-all. So what does it add up to?” asked Muriel.

Aunt Georgia and Unkle Traktor weren't as much outcasts as the others were tired of the constant and narrow prism by which the two of them viewed the world.

“Shouldn't we have asked the other Roses to help with the decision?” asked my mother.

“No. They're all a pain in the ass. They don't deserve nothing.”

There were many Roses in the family. In fact, when my grandmother told my grandfather that Rose had died, he asked which one. We needed nicknames to properly sort them. There was Joe's Rose, Willie's Rose, Nose Rose, White Rose (she dyed her mustache), and Meatball Rose. Meatball Rose made just enough meatballs to give every guest two each and not one piece of fat more.

Many had two nicknames: one for public consumption and one for private amusement. Nose Rose, who had worked in notions at a department store, measured ribbon by holding it to the tip of her nose and stretching it to the end of her longest finger. She was also known as Rose Bust. Her cleavage started just under her neck and could be viewed even if she wore a turtleneck. She enticed unsuspecting little children with a hug into that quicksand of flesh known as her chest, where they quickly vanished.

Meatball Rose was also known as Suppose Rose. She was so cheap, her name became part of an insult. Suppose she actually gave you a gift you wanted? You suppose she kisses other people's mezuzahs before she enters her apartment so she doesn't wear out her own.

Willie's Rose took great umbrage when someone named their parrot Aunt Rose. She took this as a personal slight. It was difficult to realize her specific complaint since her green-and-yellow dresses resembled plumage, and her false teeth chattered as if cracking nuts.

Joe's Rose, who was not trustworthy and was a yenta of the first order, was also known as Tokyo Rose. The problem with people like Tokyo Rose was that although they might know some interesting things, they insisted on telling you everything else first.

But none of these Roses sat among them today, except the dead one.

“So how much do we have altogether?”

“I don't know. We're still adding it up.”

“And you never know how they figure those bonds,” my father said. “Look at the way they're typed. None of the letters line up. Who can read that?”

“So what should we do with the money?”

“Let's just split it up.”

“We should give to those who need it,” Aunt Georgia said.

“Yeah. Us.”

“We could all go to the Catskills.”

“I'll go to Las Vegas and play craps at Bugsy Siegel's place. I know somebody who knows somebody. I can double my money,” Yudel said.

“I think we should have a party.”

“What are we, the Donners?”

“No. The Donners gave a party, but no one brought food. That's why they ate each other.”

“So when do we eat?”

“Ida, don't feed these schnorrers until we decide what to do with the money,” my grandfather said. “And no drinks either, until someone says something smart.”

“We could thirst to death.”

“For once in your life, someone say something smart,” said my grandfather. “No eating until then. God damn it.”

No one could recall my grandfather exerting such authority, cursing, or even displaying that level of anger or urgency. His sense of mortality must have seeped through.

“I have an invention. With the money, I can get a patent and put it into production,” my father said.

“Another brilliant invention from Edison here. What is it this time? A light bulb that only works during the day?” said Muriel.

“We can open a franchise, like a Howard Johnson,” said Tummler.

“Too goyisha.”

“I like the idea of a franchise,” said Unkle Traktor. “It's a word whose origin means liberty.”

“Arthur Murray Dance Studios is a franchise.”

“Even more goyisha.”

“We'll make it Jewish. We'll teach the cha-cha.”

“This has gotta stop.”

“What's gotta stop?”

“None of you has ever done nothing.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Just what I said. None of you have ever done nothing.”

“We have must done something, sometime,” said my father.

“None of you have ever done nothing. Never. Gornisht. Gornisht helfin.”

“You have to be the stupidest Jewish family in America.” Blaming others was my grandmother's idea of introspection.

“That can't be true. There must be someone stupider than us,” said Yudel.

“Then you find them,” said my grandmother.

“We're not stupid. We are deciding our future. So can we eat now?”

It wasn't that the family was stupid. It was that they just weren't very smart. They pulled the front door when it needed to be pushed. They tried to get in the side door when there was none. And they tried to escape by the back door but were not sure why they were running.

“But this is all going to change,” said my grandmother. “Remember the other day I said something about a genius?”

“Yeah. So?”

“Well, I went to the library today. And the Gematria agrees with me.” My grandmother stood erect and with a gray certitude in her eye, added, “The next child born into this family will be a genius.”

“Since when do you know the Gematria?”

“What kind of nonsense is that, the next child will be a genius?”

“I always knew the Gematria,” my grandmother said. “But this time, I added up all the dates of our birthdays and our ages, and the Gematria says that the next baby born into this family will be a genius.”

The Gematria revelation and my grandmother's harsh assessment of the family's intellectual ability were greeted with knitted brows and skewed mouths. Until this moment, no one knew that my grandmother had this latent talent and knowledge, let alone was able to articulate it.

“By the way, what the hell is the Gematria?” asked someone for everyone.

“You don't know what the Gematria is?”

“It's a Hebrew system of reckoning by numbers rooted in mysticism. The height of its popularity occurred back in Spain between the eleventh and thirteenth centuries,” my father said. “It gives random numbers meaning. But I always thought it was highly inexact.”

“That could be true,” Yudel said. “You know how we give gifts in increments of eighteen for chai? Chai is the eighteenth letter of the Hebrew alphabet and means life.”

“Well, that's the Gematria, too. Right?” Tummler said.

“And what is the total amount of money we have again?” asked my grandmother.

“Do we have a final figure yet?”

“Four hundred seventy-four in jewelry, three hundred sixty-three in cash money, and a hundred ninety-five in bonds.”

“What does that add up to?”

“A thousand thirty-four,” said my father without the use of a pencil and paper.

“Show off.”

“And that number, according to the Gematria, means we will all be rich one day,” said my grandmother.”

“Aunt Ida, one question,” asked Fern. “What the hell are you talking about? One day, we're stupid. Then poof, the next day we're rich.”

“It's complicated,” explained my grandmother. “Each number means something different, but when you add them up, it means we'll be rich. And the next born will be the genius who will make us rich.”

“That Gematria has an answer for everything,” said Muriel.

“That's crazy,” said Unkle Traktor. “You just can't make up stuff and expect us to believe it.”

“OK, Mr. Bigmouth. Tell us why it isn't true.”

“You just can't believe mystical mumbo jumbo. How do you refute mumbo jumbo?”

“I don't know. We've been trying to do that to you for years.”

My grandmother could not have asked for a better comment, because whatever Unkle Traktor was for, the family was against, and whatever Unkle Traktor was against…And he was against everything.

“I'm pregnant,” said my mother with the reluctance of a confession.

“You weren't pregnant yesterday,” said Fern.

“I'm pregnant,” my mother repeated.

“What, you shtupped right after the funeral?”

“I'm almost three months pregnant.”

“Some coincidence. Aunt Ida says the next baby's going to be a genius, and the next baby is her first grandchild.”

“You knew, Aunt Ida.”

“We trusted you, Aunt Ida.”

My grandmother had to restore belief in her and her prediction and quell the uprising. “But,” my grandmother added, “Since my daughter and Danny are not smart enough to raise a genius by themselves, we will pass the baby around from house to house.”

“What?” said my father.

“Everybody, everybody will have a part in raising this genius, and we'll teach him everything we know.”

My grandmother continued, “Every year, we'll pass the child along to the next family so they can teach it what they know. And so on and so forth. That way we know it'll be a genius.”

My mother started to cry. “What are talking about? How can you take my baby away?” I am not sure why my mother cried as she had yet to meet me.

“It's not your baby, it's everybody's baby. It's a genius, and you're being selfish. It will be good for the child. And you must help the entire family.”

“You can't do that,” said my father.

This was a complete turnaround from just a few days earlier when my mother told my grandmother she was pregnant. My parents invited her and my grandfather over to the apartment to tell them the good news. But upon learning that my mother was pregnant, my grandmother shrieked that I was going to be mentally deficient.

My grandmother believed that when the electric sockets were not in use, the energy would ooze out on the floor and create huge puddles of invisible danger that could eat through your brain or, in the case of my parents, their s*x organs. The remedy was those pronged plastic stoppers that are pressed into the wall socket to prevent children from sticking in their fingers or something like a screwdriver. Although my grandmother had been in America for over fifty years, you cannot take the girl out of the bleak and muddy shtetl. But now the circumstances were different.

“I don't want to raise someone else's kid, even if he is a genius,” Fern said.

“That is one crazy-ass idea,” said Tummler.

“You can't do this,” said my mother.

“You're all being selfish,” said my grandmother, “It just so happens Dot is the next one who's pregnant. If Fern, Muriel, or God forbid, my other daughter was pregnant, that baby would be the genius. No one is smart enough to raise a genius by themselves. Look at all of you. Traktor, he knows things no one else cares about. Tummler hanging out with other comedians who aren't funny either. Yudel with his gangster friends. Or my son-in-law with his fakakta inventions.”

My grandmother simply wanted to change the fate of the family, and it was obvious that those present could not do it on their own. And if her attempts to change this should turn out to be misguided, the best anyone could do is curse her memory.

“So we're all gonna have the baby?” Yudel asked.

“That doesn't make no sense.”

“What are we going to tell the neighbors?” asked Muriel.

“Conformity is a form of fear,” said Unkle Traktor.

“What does that have to do with what the neighbors think?” asked Muriel.

“We'll use this money to help defray some expenses. We'll call it the Genius Fund, and I'll take care of it,” said my grandmother.

“But City College is free.”

“He may go out of town. You have to pay if he goes out of town.”

“How do we know it's a he?”

“You never know what types of expenses you get before he gets to college.”

“Then we'll call it the Republican Genius Fund,” said Unkle Traktor.

“No, we'll call it the Republican Genius Dildo Fund,” said Yudel, casting an angry glare toward Fern.

“I told you, I threw them out,” Fern said.

“It doesn't matter,” said Yudel.

“How will we know if the baby is a genius?”

Hair,” said Muriel. “If it has hair like Einstein, then you know it's a genius.”

“But all babies have hair like Einstein.”

“OK, but what if it's born with a mustache?”

“You mean like White Rose?”

And that is how my future was decided.