Early Bright by Ami Silber

"What did you do, to have him act that way?”

Not for the first time, I thought about telling her everything that had happened. But I didn’t know if even she would understand the choice I made that day, when I went down with all the other putzes in the neighborhood, to the local high school gymnasium where the army had set up its medical review for draftees. I acted, not giving much thought to the consequences, not knowing where that decision would take me, or who I had to keep silent around.

To answer her question, I just shrugged. She wanted to press me, but she held herself back, which I was grateful for.

Instead, I picked up Beatrice’s hand and kissed it, crumbs and everything. “All that,” I said, “it means nothing. Not your daddy, not my pop. They’re back in Ohio and New York, but both of us, we’re here now. That’s plenty.”

“It is,” she agreed.

I couldn’t help asking, “Would your old man whip you for running around with a white boy? A Jew white boy?”

She grinned. “Oh, he’d whip me good.” Leaning forward, she kissed me, tasting of chocolate cookies and milk. I loved how her tastes shifted from one moment to the next, like she was a constantly changing banquet for me to sample. With other women, it was a single tune, an unadorned melody that had the simple cadence of a nursery chant. Not Beatrice. She had sharp turns, complex rhythms. You couldn’t dance to the music she made—it was too hard to keep up without looking like a fool—but if you were after something more, something that held meaning and intricacy, then her sound was that and more.

With a dramatic sigh, I said, “Keeping company with me just to get back at your Daddy. Gee, I feel so used.”

“Aw, but you love it.”

“And how. Plant yourself over here and use me some more.” I tugged on her hand, but she pulled back with a sleepy laugh.

“I’m too beat, baby. Had to work today and it’s,” she glanced at the starburst clock on the wall, “quarter to five.” She stifled a yawn.

“I worked, too,” I protested, “but I’ve always got something to spare for you, dollface bubele.”

“I don’t suppose you ever have recitals for those kids you teach,” she said.

“Maybe a few. Why? You thinking of coming and watching?”

“I might. I just might like hearing Chopin and Mozart shredded to bits by little Dick and Jane.”

“The only folks who deserve that kind of punishment are the parents.”

Quietly, she added, “I wouldn’t mind seeing you, too. Someplace outside of Dee’s and my house.” She shrugged. “Foolish. That’s not gonna happen.”

“I’m sorry, honey.” Of course, these recitals didn’t exist, and even if they did, she could only show up as an interested observer and not the sweetheart of the teacher.

Then she yawned hugely, covering her mouth.

“Sorry, baby, but I got me an appointment with my bed,” she said. “And you know what that means.”

I stood, grumbling. “Just once, I’d like to spend the whole night with you. Go to sleep together, wake up together.” I walked over to her and put my arms around her low, cupping her juicy ass. “I’ve never seen you in the early bright.”

“Early bright?”

“Morning.”

She chuckled sleepily. “That jive you talk, sometimes. Between that and your Yiddish, sometimes I can’t hardly understand you.”

“Sugar, I can hardly understand myself.”