Little Things Mean A Lot

Your life may
change, but your
roots will always
be the same.

ROBERTA GRAFF

Special to The Jewish News

I didn't move from the Bronx; I
escaped. That was 22 years ago
when the only acceptable manner of
getaway was to get married. My
marriage license was my passport. I
said "Yes" to the handsome Ivy
Leaguer who elicited nods of ap-
proval from the neighbors who gov-
erned my life and judged my every
move.
They congregated on camp
chairs in front of my apartment
building on warm summer evenings,
patiently watching as my boyfriend
circled the block several dozen times
looking for a parking spot. They
nodded to each other as if to say, we
knew you'd never find a space, as he
double parked. Taking the steps to
the lobby two at a time, he dashed
into the elevator and pressed the
button for four.
I was always ready, and minutes
later we walked back past our audi-
ence on the way to the car.
"See, I told you he was for 4B,"

Mrs. Waxman whispered.
"So again you're right," her
husband answered.
How I resented their comments
and stares, which inevitably led to a
heated discussion with my mother
the next day. "Why are they so
damn nosy?" I would ask im-
patiently. "Can't they mind their
own business?"
"They don't mind their own
business because they have no busi-
ness worth minding," my mother an-
swered in her most condescending
tone. They are interested in you be-
cause you are something special.
They were always interested in you.
You were the most beautiful baby on
the Concourse. You had a white
coach carriage. When I pushed that
carriage by Poe Park every head
turned. Believe me, they are still
talking about that white carriage!"
Though I found it highly ques-
tionable that the subject of my baby
carriage could be on anyone's mind

for 20 years, no matter how unevent-
ful their own lives had been, I wisely
chose not to challenge my mother's
statements. Instead I would change
the subject to my coming marriage,
my new apartment, my new life.
"Are you going to move,
Mother?" I would ask.
"Because you are moving away,
that means I should too?" my mother
would answer, giving me just the lit-
tle stab of guilt she obviously found
necessary to keep me in line.
"Why should I give up such an
apartment — facing the Concourse,
southwest exposure, tile kitchen,
sunken living room, always a
breeze?" she continued like a real es-
tate agent with an unsure prospect. I
would think of the sweltering July
nights when you could barely
breathe, the limited closets, and
keep my mouth closed. "No, dear,"
she would conclude, "apartments
like this you simply do not give up."

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FICTION

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