And so Rubina — the eldest, the firstborn who’s fragile yet never much worried about, though still a girl, though still a daughter and without any privilege, without an exemption, upstairs folding her wardrobe, fluffing her seniority, her pillows and hair — she’s often known as Simone, the secondborn, though Simone is less Rubina than she is Livia, the thirdborn, who’s sometimes Si and at other times Judy, Hanna insists Judith, the fourthborn, and reverse that (Judy/Liv), or Batya (still the youngest, if often forgotten), and also Isa, the fifthborn, Isa from Isabella Hanna again has to insist, known mostly as Is — just like Israel her father she takes after, and so at least he should remember, though he doesn’t, not much — though to him Isa is occasionally Zeba, the sixthborn and so one of two middlekinder, as Isa or Is is usually poorly behaved — there’s never just one of them crying over a mistaken identity, the milk of her personality spilled — and Zeba’s only occasionally (poorly behaved), Zeb who’s sometimes Dina, the seventhborn and so the other of two middlekinder, who herself is sometimes Isa, and Natalia, the eigthborn, who is occasionally Dina, though Di is never Nat as she’s known who’s often also taken for Gill, the ninthborn, short for Gillian, who’s often Isa who herself ’s often Asa, the tenthborn, easy enough to make that mistake, and reverse that (As/Is), Gillian who’s often Jo, from Josephine, the eleventhborn, while Rubina, Simone, Liv, Judith, Isabella, and Zeba are all sometimes Batya, if seldomly, the last so far and the twelfth, though Batya’s never anyone else with the exception of Josephine then reverse that, and anyway Batya’s more often called Bat, but most often B or Be. As in Must you Be so annoying, so demanding, so loud and insistent why don’t you just go sit on the couch of the sofa and cry your way through a last show on teevee, a toy, play a game by yourself with yourself, any joy, count the cushions, which are islands, don’t you know, and must be kept separate from the pillowy clouds that require your enumeration as well. How many fingers, must you Be so difficult, how many toes. That is, whenever anyone decides to talk with her, to talk to her or even of her, orders and rules, which is hardly ever as she can herself barely speak. Who even knows if she knows her own name.
Daughters of Hanna — and daughters of Israel, too, who maybe wished some might’ve been sons.
He sits in judgment of himself atop his intersection when and where there’s still light. Skyscraping, Midtown. Not much longer. In a chair at his desk, one arm behind his head, the other over his mouth, stroking his beard, going gray to become white, the arch of his moustache, or yawning — tired, he’s always tired, he never sleeps, never gets to sleep, despite the pills, despite the wine and pills, despite his liver; strokes the remnants of his illadvised, inevitably late linner to the floor, the lunch of his dinner he flicks its rye’s crusts, crumbs, and seeds to the rich rug stretching out above the parquet slick, kept exceedingly mopped with what seems to be gribnes, or schmaltz — one day, his fear, he’ll slip and fall, his hip, his broken back, he’ll sue; might as well begin billing himself for the case, he thinks, sucks the seltzer from his moustache, withholds a weakling fart.
Tilting his chair, he props his wingtips up on the desk, stretches himself out, then pulls himself back in, fetally small, knees to lips.
Then pushes out again, tilts back the chair, feet up on his desk, then again.
This is work, if he has to explain it to them, his wife, his kinder, he throws up his hands and tells them, what I do. This is what I do to put a roof over your heads, food on your plates. What. I. Do. This is working as a lawyer for any plaintiff who could afford him. To think, those who do would make for better defendants. A caseload such as you wouldn’t believe. What he puts up with, what he hears, and what he says, too, every day, same old. Tell it to the judge who’s a friend.
His plaint: this waiting, this wasting of the last hour of the last day of the second to last week of the year, the last day of the last workweek he’s working this year. Winter, the sun to set upon early, foreshortened days. He’ll be late. To apologize, make up to them for his irresponsibility, the traffic, the weather. In his family, Israel’s often the defendant. His daughters the jury. With Hanna as counsel, he could do worse for representation.
