A reel’s readied, the lights overhead strangled with trembling, infanticidal hands; the screen’s the wall in front of them, whitewashed pocked plaster that backs the stage edged with tattered curtains; the woman flicks the switch. A world opens on a longshot, another hall, its weather…snow, the static sky. 10–9–8 kept by circles, blinking as if eyes wandering noctivagously over stage and floor — a flicker, and then His mother, His Ima, her form projected onto the woman now dragging the podium to the side, the body shot across hers, boned, one face ghosted upon another…she shuffles outside the shot to adjust the height of the projector. A woman, rising, raised, levitated, floating…halfdancing to silence, or she’s having a seizure, she’s palsied, perhaps a virus, at least she’s able to laugh at herself, she’s laughing, but at a friend, or with her — but no, she’s not deformed, mutated or miraculous, it’s more like the film itself, which is silent and slipping unfocused, again, and so the matron returns to the projector to steady the image atop its stack of books, wanders halfway across the shot toward the podium removed, returns and readjusts, then interrupts the image yet again and stops to stand far to the side and say the name, Hanna, voicingover the mute…her maiden name, Senior, married Israelien — can everyone hear me, I hope you can; I hate microphones — they’re only good if you don’t know what to do with your hands. She quiets, wets her lips. Here maybe ten, fifteen years before she died, forty if she ever told the truth about her age, give or take a few surgical procedures. 36–30–36, fivefoottwo inches tall, or short she thinks, a bit of a complex there, averaging 130 pounds when not pregnant, which wasn’t often: acceptably zaftig if not a Beshemoth, as she’d always joke — she had a sense of humor. Her husband Israel, whom we’re just getting now, the mensch in the green suit, this was a decade ago, forgive him — he found her attractive, she had beautiful breasts: above average, as you’ll notice, heartily unproportional…with nipples asymmetrically positioned (here she points her pointer, a collapsible erected, extracted from her bag) right pointing up, left down, stray hairs around the — surprisingly small — areolae; a cancer scare at age thirtysix, a cyst was removed, a scar; she has stretchmarks around the waist and thighs and at the armpits, too, a polio inoculation shot to upper left arm near shoulder, radial wrinkling about the face…but don’t take my word for it, you’ll have an opportunity to observe at a later date — we’re keeping her on ice, in Storage.
Her occupation, that of a homemaker, wife if you prefer, or mother, that of the undifferentiated uxorial…note the hairstyle, she says suddenly: it’s a wig, she blushes this once only, the one I’m currently modeling…as Hanna’s head’s flicked up to obscure the shot, pursuing, zooming in on the appetizer buffet behind her, the meaty pinks and vegetative purple — like many women of her enlightened generation, she wore it short after age thirty or so, thinks of it as feminine, but manageable…henna, but a between shade, undecided, or placating, peacemaking, a reddish brownie blond; she went light on the makeup save lipstick, professed a marked preference for skirts at the length of the ankle; in reasonable shape, especially given her twelve pregnancies, eight of them to date, with credit due to classes in aerobics, weekly episodes on the treadmill set to easy.
And, if you aren’t noticing — the woman dances.
If alone, adorned with necklaces of chamsas. A cocktail hour piano/violin.
Observe, please, that this is formal dress; for her, this was fancy. Her underwear preferences tended toward the synthetic, less panties than modified girdles, rearlift enhancers, thighslimmers, waistsnippers, what have you — the entire life cataloged, mailordered by phone, through friends; lacey brassieres with trimming underwires, floralpatterned when risqué or plain in white or black. Her hosiery fleshtoned. Her nails she kept manicured, professionally, in a shade and brand that’ll be made available to you shortly. Patience. I ask you to note the jewelry. Conspicuously chunky were the presents. Amethyst, silver, gold, what she picked out on her own. She holds out her hands, gangly jangling. I’m presently wearing many of these pieces…then gouges a projected eye with the tip of her pointer and says, you don’t know this woman, though she’s now your mother, understand?
And altogether, they exhale; gum pops soft, red lozenges gulped loudly.
