Prayers for the Living Read Online Free Page B
Author: Alan Cheuse
his life, with his congregation, with his business, because after all what is he? Can he stand every weekend in front of the temple crowd and make his sermons and still go in twice a week to the city to work with his brother-in-law in the holding company? Heâs wandering around the house, thinking to himself, Iâve lost more than my shoes . . . and if I find them how do I find what else Iâve lost?
Heâs in the kitchen, heâs looking behind the desk in his study, heâs on his hands and knees snooping behind the couch and you know what he finds there? He finds a pair of panties the size the same as both hers wear because the daughter has now reached the point where she has the same hips as the mother, and the same hair, as you know, but God forbid the same disposition, there itâs maybe too early to tell, and so anyway, he says to himself, on top of everything else, whatâsthis? whatâs this? and he stuffs the panties in his pocket and keeps on looking, the panties in the pocket along with a piece of glass he carries with him all the time, a souvenir, a piece of glass shaped like a Jewish star, and about this donât ask a question, because Iâll explain in a while if you want me to, or maybe even if you donât, because itâs a story from the beginning, and this Iâm telling you now comes from the middleâand God forbid we should see the end.
So heâs on his hands and knees and feeling the first drummings of the headache and the first winds of the dizziness, and then heâs up again, shouting for Maby, and where is she? Who knows, taking a bath? She takes so many baths youâd think she got herself dirty like a baby when the truth is ever since the business in the storeâand Iâll tell you, Iâll tell youâshe doesnât go out at all except when he says you absolutely have to, only to services, not even to temple affairsâso she doesnât answer, and he calls for Sarah. Sarah! he calls, and where is she? Outside on the back porch playing, would you believe this? Playing her guitar! And singing, on the holidays! He canât believe this either!
            Sometimes I feel
            Like a motherless child.
Not a bad voice, and on other days he might have stopped and thought to himself, My daughter, with such a good voice, but the song, oi, the song it gives me heartache.
            Sometimes I feel
            Like a motherless child.
A nice song, an American song, because in the old country we had our mamas, we knew our mamas, and if we sang we sang to celebrate our mamas, not to tell the world we got lost, except, of course, for later, for the ones that got lost in the Holocaust, but thatâs another story. Here she is, singing the song of the lost child, sheâs strumming good, sheâs singing strong and loud, and he goescharging off after her, not knowing exactly where she is, following the music, the song.
            Sometimes I feel
            Like Iâm almost gone.
âHow can you do it to me on a day like this?â he growls at her when he bursts out onto the back porch.
âIâm playing my guitar,â she says. âIâm not out in public. Iâm on the porch. Am I embarrassing you?â
âThe porch is public,â he says, trying his best to keep his voice down. âThe porch is outside. The porch is the world. Go inside, young lady, and get ready for temple.â
âI am ready,â she says, poking a finger at one of the guitar strings.
âAre you?â And he yanks out of his pocket the panties he found under the sofa and says, âPut these on if youâre so ready!â And throws them in her face.
âThatâs . . .
Heâs in the kitchen, heâs looking behind the desk in his study, heâs on his hands and knees snooping behind the couch and you know what he finds there? He finds a pair of panties the size the same as both hers wear because the daughter has now reached the point where she has the same hips as the mother, and the same hair, as you know, but God forbid the same disposition, there itâs maybe too early to tell, and so anyway, he says to himself, on top of everything else, whatâsthis? whatâs this? and he stuffs the panties in his pocket and keeps on looking, the panties in the pocket along with a piece of glass he carries with him all the time, a souvenir, a piece of glass shaped like a Jewish star, and about this donât ask a question, because Iâll explain in a while if you want me to, or maybe even if you donât, because itâs a story from the beginning, and this Iâm telling you now comes from the middleâand God forbid we should see the end.
So heâs on his hands and knees and feeling the first drummings of the headache and the first winds of the dizziness, and then heâs up again, shouting for Maby, and where is she? Who knows, taking a bath? She takes so many baths youâd think she got herself dirty like a baby when the truth is ever since the business in the storeâand Iâll tell you, Iâll tell youâshe doesnât go out at all except when he says you absolutely have to, only to services, not even to temple affairsâso she doesnât answer, and he calls for Sarah. Sarah! he calls, and where is she? Outside on the back porch playing, would you believe this? Playing her guitar! And singing, on the holidays! He canât believe this either!
            Sometimes I feel
            Like a motherless child.
Not a bad voice, and on other days he might have stopped and thought to himself, My daughter, with such a good voice, but the song, oi, the song it gives me heartache.
            Sometimes I feel
            Like a motherless child.
A nice song, an American song, because in the old country we had our mamas, we knew our mamas, and if we sang we sang to celebrate our mamas, not to tell the world we got lost, except, of course, for later, for the ones that got lost in the Holocaust, but thatâs another story. Here she is, singing the song of the lost child, sheâs strumming good, sheâs singing strong and loud, and he goescharging off after her, not knowing exactly where she is, following the music, the song.
            Sometimes I feel
            Like Iâm almost gone.
âHow can you do it to me on a day like this?â he growls at her when he bursts out onto the back porch.
âIâm playing my guitar,â she says. âIâm not out in public. Iâm on the porch. Am I embarrassing you?â
âThe porch is public,â he says, trying his best to keep his voice down. âThe porch is outside. The porch is the world. Go inside, young lady, and get ready for temple.â
âI am ready,â she says, poking a finger at one of the guitar strings.
âAre you?â And he yanks out of his pocket the panties he found under the sofa and says, âPut these on if youâre so ready!â And throws them in her face.
âThatâs . . .
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