Novels
| Split-Level | The Sweetness |
| Evermore: Memoir of a South Shore Girl |
Split-Level (excerpt)
© Sande Boritz Berger
Chapter One: August 1974
I am breathless from a morning of tedious phone chatter — talk
that I've talked before. Long conversations about how the wallpaper
is starting
to lift in the powder room — a bathroom with a small pedestal sink
shaped like a clam- shell and a very low commode. Most likely no one
will
ever powder there; it’s hard enough to maneuver your body, let
alone relieve yourself in the miniscule space. Still, I like the way
powder
room sounds; and Rona Karl, my first real friend since I've moved to
Winchester Heights, has taught me a great deal about home décor.
I follow Rona’s lead like a migratory bird that has strayed from
its flock. My wings flutter and dip above what were once sprawling potato
fields
over lawns of struggling grass, to a cul-de-sac known as Daisy Lane.
Erected like dominoes, the look-alike colonials stand in a tight little
arc; their red brick chimneys pop against the pale blue sky and wave
toward the twisted steel dividers of the L. I. E.
It’s just past eleven and I’ve made the beds, showered and
dressed for the day in a crewel embroidered sleeveless top and white hot
pants. Someday I’ll refer to this outfit as “that thing”
I wore the day the parchment colored walls of my four-bedroom, center-hall
brick colonial took on a life of their own, moving in like a steam roller
to shatter my thick shield of oblivion.
The phone receiver is in its usual spot: crushed between my left ear
and shoulder while I paprika tonight's dinner - a chubby rump
roast slumped in Pyrex. While struggling to stay tuned to this morning's
Listen to Rona Show, I slice a slippery onion, then blot the dreaded
stinging with a dish-towel. Focus blurred, I actually see myself dividing in two.
One of me, appearing quite confident and cocky, is propped on the kitchen
counter- smooth legs dangling, shaking a head of wavy blonde hair and
hissing at the other me, who, appearing embarrassed, tries to be polite
and continues the conversation. But Confident and Cocky persists like
a mosquito on a mission to drain blood. Oh, blah, blah, blah, tell me
you're really into this garbage? So, you call this enjoyment? There
are no signs of crow's feet sprouting in the corners of Confident
and Cocky's festive green eyes. Plus, she's wearing low-slung
hip huggers that fit her like a second skin.
"I was thinking Rona, I might patch the wallpaper myself, with some
Elmer's." This is how I sometimes pose a question. Rona's
response is predictable.
"Are you completely nuts, AL-UX? Do you want to ru-in everything you've
done so far?"
"Of course not…you know better when it comes to these things."
I slide the rusty roast into the Magic Chef and slam the oven door. Where
is Confident and Cocky when I need her? She was right here a second ago,
where'd she go?
"Hold on, I'll be right back," Rona says.
"Sure, right, okay," I mutter to myself, stretching the 20- foot phone
cord to uncoiled limits.
Two steps down and I'm in the den, dusting the bookshelves, my feather
duster held high like a magic wand. Poof! Make just one wish. Why is that
so hard? There was a time when I had fistfuls of wishes— thought
all I needed was the assurance of my beliefs to make them all come true.
My shoulder bumps a beat up, classic edition of Monopoly which sends a slew
of dependable cookbooks cascading to the floor. I rearrange the wobbly
shelf, and rub grease off a worn cover of The Fifteen -Minute Quiche,
which I'd received free from Kraft, after mailing in a proof-of-purchase.
Above the culinary section sits a shelf dedicated to the fine art of gardening.
You can't imagine how fast once hearty looking roses can be digested
by aphids. I, myself, have developed a keen eye for the early warning
signs. On the bottom shelf, easily accessible, is a tower of decorating
magazines boasting effortless home projects like “Chic Decorating
with Sheets.” But shoved in the back of the one skinny drawer of
this flimsy teak wall unit, wrapped in a cellophane bread bag, is my one
little secret?an often-scanned copy of The Sensuous Woman by “J”
and the only book I own in the category of self-improvement. “J”
offers a woman’s-eye view with detailed information on how to set
off fireworks in the bedroom with tantalizing chapters like “The
Whipped Cream Wiggle” and “The Butterfly Flick.” I’d
bought the book soon after Becky’s first birthday not realizing
I was already pregnant with Lana. So for now, I’m sticking to decorating
with sheets, giving much less thought to what I could be doing on top
of them.
"Here's the number. Do you have a pencil?" Rona's voice
blasts through the receiver. I jump, as if she can see me, and shove the
book far into its hiding place.
"Wait a sec." Back in the kitchen, I fumble through the junk drawer
with its accumulation of maimed objects - doll heads and smashed Crayolas,
resembling cigar stubs, fall across my bare feet.
Rona’s breathing turns huffy. She has other calls to make, and
important things to do like removing finger marks from all her railings.
Although she won't admit it, I think she enjoys being my own personal household
hint hotline. Her address book is a homemaker's dream? a gold
mine laden with numbers of suppliers and service people in a ten-mile
radius.
She never fails to toss out extra tidbits of information, filling me
in on the local gossip: like who was last spotted slinking out of the
Pickwick Motor Lodge with Bernie Litvak, the kosher Butcher.
To keep Rona as a friend, I've decided not to scare her by quoting
passages that keep popping into my head at inappropriate moments. Like
right now: This is the way the world ends, not with a bang but a whimper.
But lately, I fear my world might end precisely like this— talking
about absolutely nothing on a lemon yellow wall phone.