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ONE

Topanga Canyon, Spring 1984Mimi tried on every suit in the closet before settling on the blue wool gabardine. A passion purchase, Sarah had called it, but the blue always reminded Mimi of the gentians thatrefused to bloom for her in the parched southern California climate. A bitter aftertaste of coffeerose in her throat; patches of perspiration were already staining her silk blouse. She pulled on theskirt. Its underslip became snagged in the zipper and she made a little sound. A cry of alarm, shecalled it, but Sarah had always insisted it was more a bleat.Sarah. How would she live without her most loving friend? The question caused her eyesto burn. Ordering herself to be calm, she examined the zipper, made one abrupt manipulation,rotated the skirt back into place, snatched up its matching jacket and rushed from the house.Plowing through the traffic with tight-jawed determination, Mimi achieved the forty-minute drive between Topanga and her mother’s apartment in less than thirty, numbed by therealization that she had made this journey with no recollection of having driven here. But then,surviving on the Ventura Freeway in a state of mental paralysis was child’s play compared towhat awaited her upstairs.Just keep calm, she told herself. And for God’s sake, try to be nice. It was a mantra Mimihad been chanting to herself for years and it was no coincidence that she was most often parkedin this very spot when chanting it.It took some energy to climb from the car, follow the line of junipers leading to the foyer,and then take the stairs to the second floor. Pausing on the landing, Mimi considered how muchthe building reminded her of an aging woman trying desperately to retain a semblance of youth. Not so unlike myself, she reflected. Stepping into the hallway, she was immediately hit with theodors of

pollo con arroz

and enchiladas. Once upon a time it had been

blintzes, knishes, and

mandel broite

, but that was more than twenty-five years ago, when she had lived with her parentsin their two-bedroom apartment on the third floor. It was a time when daughters lived at home

until they were married, passing their time and learning those necessary household functions that,once mastered, identified them as a serious matrimonial prospect. By the age of twenty-six,however, Mimi figured she had waited long enough and one fine day, accompanied by twosuitcases of clothing, fourteen cartons of books, and one leather-bound doctoral thesis, she movedto her own apartment in West Los Angeles. She had prayed mightily for a peaceful exodus, butSarah’s analysis had proven correct: That as long as Rivka Zilber lived, her daughter might beallowed to fold her tent, but she would never be able to steal silently away.“Mama,” called out Mimi, letting herself in. “Are you nearly ready?” When she saw her mother emerge from the kitchen, wearing robe and slippers, she nearly exploded. “You’re notdressed. You haven’t even started!”Shuffling toward the bedroom, Rivka patted her only child on the arm. “Miriam,” sheresponded. “I’ll be ready when I’m ready.”Mimi felt the headache begin. “I specifically said I wanted to get there early.”“Early, a little after,” came the voice from the bedroom. “We’ll get there.”Mimi rubbed the space between her eyebrows. When she spoke, her voice was so calm itwas nearly flat. “If you are not ready in five minutes, I will leave without you.” No way in hellwas her mother going to make her late. Entering the bedroom, she found the elderly womanstanding before the opened closet, arthritic fingers sliding one plastic hanger after another alongthe rail. She’ll choose the black wool, thought Mimi glumly.Rivka came to the black wool, nodded decisively, and removed it from the closet. It wasthe outfit she always wore to funerals. Simple, austere, appropriately funereal. “Why not have acup of tea?” she asked, laying the suit out on the bed.“I don’t want a cup of tea,” Mimi grumbled. Any other time she might have chastisedherself for this tone of voice, but not today. Today she was angry, dejected. How else could shefeel, with Sarah being buried in less than an hour and her mother not yet dressed and wanting her to sit down for a damned cup of tea!

“Darling,” Rivka informed her, traces of the Russian accent still lingering in the elongat-ed first syllable, the clipped “ink” sound of the second. “Have a little patience for your oldmother.”The flopping of bedroom slippers across carpet caused Mimi to grind her teeth. Anychagrin she might have felt was eclipsed by the clatter of water flowing into the tub. RivkaZilber’s baths were legend. “Longer than the Peloponnesian War, which went on forever,” her father liked to tease. Today, it was not so funny. Working to bite back the anger, Mimi followedher mother into the bathroom. “How would you feel,” she challenged, “if I were the one who diedand it were Sarah and her mother coming late to

funeral?”Rivka was sitting on the edge of the tub. Her right foot already submerged in water, shewas laboring to drag her left leg over the side. How many times had Mimi begged her mother toconfine herself to showers, the gymnastics required to climb in and out of the tub far toodangerous for a woman of her age? Filial duty again winning out, she offered a steadying hand.“That’s something you say to a mother?” scolded the old woman, lowering herself intothe steaming water. “God forbid something should happen to you, my only . . .”“Mama,” interrupted Mimi, eyes squeezed closed, jaws clenched. “Nothing is going tohappen to me, I promise.”“

Gott kholilie

,” came the automatic response. “From your mouth to God’s ears!”Before her mother had finished talking, an unsettling and long-held fantasy flashedthrough Mimi’s head: She was picking up her bronzed tap-dancing shoes mounted on a block of polished oak; she was hefting that block high over her head; she was bringing it down onto her mother’s skull with a blow so savage it sprayed her brains against the wall and left a swath of bloody tissue along the carpet. Anger, frustration and disappointment, she felt suffocated by themall. “Take your fucking bath,” she seethed under her breath, jaws clenched to hold back the rage.Fearful that she might actually strike out, she fled, leaving her mother in the tub. The echo of a

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The Bone Weaver

Following the death of her lifelong friend, professor Mimi Zilber sets off on a journey to discover how she came to this place in her life...and why she is running from love.

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Upload Date:	05/19/2009
Copyright:	Attribution Non-commercial
Tags:	Women Psychology Fiction jewish literary fiction Women Psychology Fiction jewish literary fiction (fewer)