What else? His lips were compressed with anger.
Oh, a lot of things. For one thing, that her sister hated her. Why she never knew.
Don't say any more, he said. Stop! It's the other way round. Exactly the opposite. My mother was as kind as a mother can be. She was her real mother, not her step-mother. As for my father, he used to get so furious with her that he would beat her unmercifully. Chiefly because of her lying ... Her sister, you say. Yes, she's a normal, conventional person, very handsome too. There never was any hate in her. On the contrary, she did everything in her power to make life easier for all of us. But no one could do anything with a bitch like this one. She had to have everything her own way. When she didn't she threatened to run away.
I don't understand, said I. I know she's a born liar, but ... Well, to twist things absolutely upside down, why? What can she be trying to prove?
She always considered herself above us, he replied. We were too prosaic, too conventional, for her taste. She was somebody—an actress, she thought. But she had no talent, none whatever. She was too theatrical, if you understand what I mean. But I must admit, she always knew how to make a favorable impression on others. She had a natural gift for taking people in. As I told you, we know little or nothing of her life from the time she flew the coop. We see her once a year, maybe, if that often. She always arrives with an armful of gifts, like a princess. And always a pack of lies about the great things she's doing. But you can never put a finger on what it is she is doing.
There's something I must ask you about, I said. Tell me, aren't your people Jewish?
Of course, he replied. Why? Did she try to make you believe she was a Gentile? She was the only one who resented being Jewish. It used to drive my mother crazy. I suppose she never told you our real name? My father changed it, you see, on coming to America. It means death in Polish.
He had a question now to put me. He was puzzling how to frame it. Finally he came out with it, but blushingly.
Is she giving you trouble? I mean, are you having marital difficulties?
Oh, I replied, we have our troubles ... like every married couple. Yes, plenty of trouble. But that's not for you to worry about.
She's not running around with ... with other men, is she?
No-o-o, not exactly. God, if he only knew!
She loves me and I love her. No matter what her faults, she's the only one—for me.
What is it, then?
I was at a loss how to put it without shocking him too deeply. It was hard to explain, I said.
You don't have to hold back, he said. I can take it.
Well ... you see, there are three of us living here. That stuff you see on the walls—that's the other one's work. She's a girl about the same age as your sister. An eccentric character whom your sister seems to idolize. (It sounded strange saying your sister.) Sometimes I feel that she thinks more of this friend than she does of me. It gels pretty thick, if you know what I mean.
I get it, he said. But why don't you throw her out?
That's it, I can't. Not that I haven't tried. But it won't work. If she leaves, your sister will go too.
I'm not surprised, he said. It sounds just like her. Not that I think she's a Lesbian, you understand. She likes involvements. Anything to create a sensation.
What makes you so sure she might not be in love with this other person? You say yourself you haven't seen much of her these last few years...
She's a man's woman, he said. That I know.
You seem awfully sure.
I am. Don't ask me why. I just am. Don't forget, whether she admits it or not, she's got Jewish blood in her veins. Jewish girls are loyal, even when they're strange and wayward, like this one. It's in the blood...
It's good to hear, I said. I only hope it's true.
Do you know what I'm thinking? You should come to see us, have a talk with my mother. She'd be only too happy to meet you. She has no idea what sort of person her daughter married. Anyway, she'd set you straight. It would make her feel good.
Maybe I'll do that, I said. The truth can't hurt. Besides, I am curious to know what her real mother looks like.
Good, he said, let's fix a date.
I named one, for a few days later. We shook hands.
As he was closing the gate behind him he said: What she needs is a sound thrashing. But you're not the kind to do it, are you?
A few days later I knocked at their door. It was evening and the dinner hour was past. Her brother came to the door. (He was hardly likely to remember that a few years ago, when I had called to see if Mona really lived there or if it was a fake address, he had slammed the door in my face.) Now I was inside. I felt somewhat quaky. How often I had tried to picture this interior, this home of hers, frame her in the midst of her family, as a child, as a young girl, as a grown woman!
Her mother came forward to greet me. The same woman I had caught a glimpse of years ago—hanging up the wash. The person I described to Mona, only to have her laugh in my face. (That was my aunt!)
It was a sad, care-worn looking countenance the mother presented. As if she hadn't laughed or smiled in years. She had something of an accent but the voice was pleasant. However, it bore no resemblance to her daughter's. Nor could I detect any resemblance in their features.
