A Place in Life

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-1-

Looking Back

NOBODY TOLD ME what happened to my mother—just that she wasn’t coming home. This was the day of my earliest recollection.

I was six years old in 1952—a skinny Jewish kid sitting by myself on the fire escape of our New York tenement building. That fire escape made up most of my outside world. On warm spring days, oppressive summer evenings, and sharp autumn afternoons I sat, legs dangling through the wrought iron grate outside our kitchen window, watching the other children play in the dingy alley between buildings, one floor below our apartment. My mother kept me upstairs, away from the other kids. She never let me go downstairs to play unless she had time to come down with me. She protected me from the other kids who made fun of my slight build and especially from the perils of growing up in a New York City slum.

Older kids walking by and seeing me sitting in the upstairs window always yelled. Hey, spaghetti legs, why don’t you come down for a change. Don’t ya got no meat-balls with that spaghetti? My mother rushed to the window to give them back what they threw at me. Joey don’t play with the likes of you.

I’d come up and play with you, mama. The oldest of the group grabbed his crotch, then stood, arms folded, a leering smirk on his face, waiting for an answer. Laughter rolled from the small group of boys who gathered there.

My mother didn’t say anything but her chest swelled and her gaunt face turned crimson.

Yes, Mommy, I urged, looking up into her eyes. We can all play together.

She ignored my plea and, as usual, offered nothing in the way of explanation as she glared at the group below until they lost interest, and one by one, filtered down the alley and out onto the crowded city streets.

My mother constantly searched her mind for new ways to tell me, that if I wasn’t tough enough to stand up to the bigger kids, I wouldn’t have a chance to get home before someone beat me up, either physically or emotionally. Instead of letting me learn to cope, she filled my time and kept me from being lonely by sitting with me, sometimes for hours. She even made up fantasies—anything to take my mind away from the real world as she knew it.

Just because I was a small child didn’t mean I wasn’t normal. Normal kids played outside. I remember looking up into my mother’s face and saying, Mommy, I wanna go downstairs. I begged to free myself from the confines of our tiny apartment.

You know you can’t, she said. Remember what happened last time you went out, Joey? The other children were mean to you.

An orphan from the city streets, my mother knew the ins and outs of dealing with street kids and how mean they could be. The couple who eventually became my grandparents took her in to live with them and their son when she was about twelve years old. They never legally adopted her, but called her their daughter. They fed her, clothed her and gave her a safe place to live. In return, she called them mom and dad and took her place beside my grandmother as a household helper until both my grandparents passed away. Her brother, my uncle Alex, was older than my mother and never really accepted her as part of the family.

Joey, you know the Micks have this neighborhood sewed up. They don’t like our kind. Let me tell you a new story I heard… she began. She tried to get me to focus on her.

I wanna play with somebody, Mommy. I don’t like stories anymore. My eyes fixed on hers, waiting for her to give in and take me outside.

She just smiled at me. On the inside, though, I knew even then her heart broke whenever I asked her a question she couldn’t answer because she had no way to deal with simple, childhood crises. She took me in her arms, and holding me close, we rocked back and forth, her way of trying to comfort me while I sobbed. Her forced smile held back her own tears. I remember sitting in her lap, her long, thin arms holding me to her body, and being entranced by her scent. She always smelled like flowers. Feeling her warm arms around me helped me forget the catcalls from the alley and gave me a feeling of security.

But you do have friends to play with, Joey. Look around you and see who’s here.

She sounded so convincing; I stopped crying and sat up.

Look here, she said, pointing to the sky.

My mother taught me to find faces in the clouds and to make them my friends. With her encouragement I began to call on the ever-changing, always entertaining clouds whenever I felt lonely. They became whatever I wanted them to be. Later, I taught myself to find that comfort wherever I looked—in the weathered patterns on old brick buildings, the thousands of tiny cracks that covered the unpainted plaster walls of my small bedroom, the wrinkles in the sheets and blankets of my unmade bed.

My father served in the Marines during World War II and stayed in the reserves when the war ended. He said he needed the extra money to get ahead. He got called back to active duty after the Korean War started. Daddy used to write my mother two or three times a week. She waited for his letters and tried to guess the frequency with which they might come. Sometimes she didn’t get anything for days, and then she’d get a stack of letters, all on the same day. I remember her watching for the mailman every day.

Maybe we’ll hear from Daddy today, she’d say as she worked in the kitchen. The anticipation lifted her spirits.

Mail in the old tenements was delivered to banks of mailboxes on the ground floor of each building. My mother went downstairs late every afternoon without fail. This time though, this one time, someone came to the door before she had a chance to go downstairs. There was a knock and when she opened the door, I remember two men in uniforms standing there.

One of the men mumbled something and then I heard him say, May we come in?

Instead of answering, Mommy put her arm out and grabbed the door jamb, as if to hold herself up.

They talked a little while longer, in whispers, and suddenly Mommy shut the door on them before they even turned away.

I watched my mother walk from the door, down the hall, and back to the living room, the look of disbelief and pain clearly scrawled on her face, her pace slow, her eyes fixed on nothing, her breathing labored. She walked into the living room and sat down on our old blue couch, and as she did, the color drained from her face and she began to shake. She broke into tears for what seemed to me no reason at all; then, she stopped crying and sat quiet and motionless for a long time.

Sometimes I sensed when my mother needed me to leave her alone, like now. I stood at the end of the couch, holding onto the arm and watching her as she walked across the small living room to the old, black telephone sitting on a table between two straight-backed chairs, picked up the hand set and dialed.

She turned and looked back across the room, directly at me as she started to talk. Hotchman, she said with a quiver in her voice, Robert’s not coming home. She started crying again. She muffled her sobs and continued talking. Can you come down? I hafta go out.

It didn’t surprise me that she called Mrs. Hotchman to tell her about my father. When she said Daddy wasn’t coming home, I knew instinctively why. Hotchman, as everybody called her, was my mother’s good friend and treated her like a mother treats a daughter. She lived one flight up in our building and came to see my mother all the time.

Mrs. Hotchman was widowed and had no children. She appeared several years older than my parents and time had worn her face into a storybook of her life. Like many older people in New York back in the 40’s and 50’s, she was an immigrant. She lived through the First World War and a Europe that suffered through recurring periods of destruction during most of the early 1900’s before coming to this country.

It wasn’t a big thing for Mrs. Hotchman to come and stay with me. She did whenever my mother needed to go to the store or run other errands. I liked Hotchman because she treated me like a grandson and always had a surprise in her handbag for me. She let herself in as my mother rushed out.

Thanks, Hotchman. I won’t be long. Mommy grabbed her coat from a hook on the wall near the door; then she looked back and said, I have to be by myself, without Joey, for a little while.

Take your time. Mrs. Hotchman touched her arm and called after her on the way out. Joey and I will be just fine.

As she spoke, she looked into the living room and didn’t see me. It was a game we played. I hid from her until she handed over the surprise.

Hey Joey, don’t hide from Hotchman today.

Her voice was heavy, sad—something I never heard from her before, so I came out from behind a chair and walked over and sat on the couch without speaking. We usually had fun together but today seemed different.

Mrs. Hotchman searched for a way to start up a conversation. Her straight black hair cascaded over her face as she leaned forward and looked at me. She pushed it out of her eyes with one plump and worn old hand as she began to speak, Did you eat yet?

Mommy was making supper when some men came to the door. I spoke in the same low tones everyone else was using.

Okay, Mrs. Hotchman said. Let’s go finish it up.

We were just starting toward the kitchen when the sound of screeching tires screamed through an open window at the end of the living room. Mrs. Hotchman hurried over and looked out.

Looks like something happened out on the street, Joey. A car accident, maybe. Something’s always happening on the street these days. Good thing we’re up here, huh? She turned back to the kitchen. You real hungry, Joey? It smells like Mommy made you chicken soup.

Chicken soup, a staple in the typical Jewish diet. I loved it. Yesss! I said with a smile. I took Mrs. Hotchman’s hand and we went into the kitchen to eat. I ate lots; Mrs. Hotchman didn’t eat anything. When I finished, she did the dishes and then looked at her watch. She seemed a little nervous because Mommy still wasn’t home.

Will Mommy be home before the soup gets cold? I asked.

Oh, sure, Joey. Mrs. Hotchman forced a smile. If not, she winked at me, we’ll heat it up. Let’s go back to the living room and wait for her. I brought you a story book in my hand bag.

Mrs. Hotchman was a large, jovial woman and she made me feel warm and safe. She lumbered when she walked, and I liked to copy her. She didn’t mind, and together we made our way back to the living room.

We were sitting on the couch, in the middle of a story, when someone knocked on the door. I looked up and grabbed Hotchman’s hand, not knowing what to expect.

Mommy got sad and then went out when this happened before. Are you gonna go away, too?"

No, Joey. I’m staying right here ‘til Mommy gets home. She tried a weak smile, then forced herself up from the couch and moved with an unsteady gait towards the door. When she answered it, she saw two policemen standing outside. My mind flashed back to the two men in uniform who came earlier. The policemen came in but stayed in the entry hall. I stayed in the living room and tried to listen. It was hard because the policeman doing all the talking whispered.

Yes, she lives here. Mrs. Hotchman clutched onto the door jamb, just like Mommy did.

One of the policemen said something else, and Mrs. Hotchman answered, Yes, a little boy.

Again, one of the policemen said something, and she answered, No, a friend, why?

I saw the policemen just fine, but they showed no emotion. Mrs. Hotchman had her back to me but I heard her clearly. Everyone talked about how loud Hotchman spoke because she was losing her hearing. The policeman doing most of the talking finally closed the front door but didn’t come further into the apartment. I heard him say something…

…take him. Again, there was no emotion.

Certainly not! Mrs. Hotchman spoke emphatically. I can stay. Her voice lowered, and I barely made out what she said. … ‘til tomorrow.

When they finished their conversation, both policemen came into the apartment. They looked around, then at me; then the one who seemed to be in charge said, Okay. They talked a few minutes more in whispers, and then they left.

After she closed the door, Mrs. Hotchman came back into the living room and sat down on the couch. She held one hand in the other and sat there wringing them in her lap, rocking back and forth for a while. I walked over and looked up at her with questions in my eyes, and she picked me up and held me in her lap. Then, she began to talk to me deliberately.

Joey, how ‘bout if I stay here with you for a while? In your apartment? She was very calm. I trusted her as much as I trusted my mother but I didn’t understand what she was saying.

Okay, I said. Are you gonna sleep with me or Mommy? The proposition lifted my spirits because nobody ever stayed overnight with us before.

Joey, she said. And then, she started to cry. She grabbed me and squeezed me so hard, I started to cry, too.

Your mommy…had to go somewhere, so I’m gonna stay…for a little while. Okay? Mrs. Hotchman stopped crying, so I stopped, too.

I didn’t think there was anything to cry about, so I asked her straight out, When is Mommy coming home?

We got up from the couch and walked down the hall to my bedroom. We’ll talk about it in the morning.

I undressed, and she helped me get into bed. I went right to sleep because I still thought everything was all right.

Early the next morning, the sound from the living room—of a lot of people talking—woke me up. Mrs. Hotchman came in to lay out my clothes.

Good, Joey. You’re up, she said. Get dressed and come into the living room. There are some people here who want to talk to us. She looked drawn and tired. She did what she had to do and went back to the living room.

I could dress myself, so I did. Then, I went out into the living room to see what was going on.

My mother wasn’t there. I’m not sure how many people were in the apartment that day, but one very kind looking lady came over to me when she saw me standing alone in the doorway and said, Joseph, how would you like to come with me?

No, I said. Where’s Mommy?

Joseph, she’s not coming home. Come with me now, and we’ll talk about it later. The lady stopped being nice and spoke with so much authority that it scared me.

No, I said louder, almost screaming. I’d hardly ever been out of our apartment. Now, someone I didn’t know wanted to take me away from my home, my mother.

The lady bent over and picked me up. She tried to be gentle, but there was no question that I was going with her. She never said another word to me. I didn’t know what was going on, and nobody took the time to try to explain anything. I didn’t have control of myself anymore. I glanced over at Mrs. Hotchman. She was talking to some other people in the living room. She looked at me, and I held my arms out to her. When she turned her back on me, I knew I was going away for good and had no idea where I was going or what was happening to me. I went into hysterics. I cried so hard that I must have passed out because I don’t remember much after that.

Mrs. Hotchman came over, and I barely remember her putting her hand on my back as the lady turned to carry me out. She looked at the woman holding me and said simply, Please, he’s so frail and sensitive…

That was the last time I remember seeing anyone or anything I ever valued; then, a troubled darkness took away all my senses.

-2-

Settling In

FROM THE MOMENT they took me from my home, my life became a rush. The memory of my parents faded after they died, my father’s more so than my mother’s. Maybe my father and I would have spent more time together if he hadn’t been called back to war. Then, I might have had more memories about him.

As for my mother, I remember a sense of being warm and safe when she was near; all I had to do was call her and she’d be there. I never understood why, and never felt it was fair that she was taken from me so soon.

The people who took control of my life after my mother died sent me to see a doctor several times. He tried to explain over and over that my parents died and what death meant. Nothing he said made sense. I didn’t comprehend the finality of death and felt abandoned.

The fact that there were no pictures of my mother meant that there was no possibility for me to recall or recognize her face. To my knowledge, nothing that belonged to her was saved and that left me feeling unfulfilled. I blamed myself for not remembering her; I let her existence slip away somewhere into oblivion. If I only remembered her face, maybe I could have pulled her back from that abyss. I just couldn’t do it, and I’ve accepted responsibility for there not being any record of my mother’s existence.

Many years passed before I understood what happened to my parents. If there were funerals, nobody thought to include me and I couldn’t mourn, or see other people mourn and comfort each other. Worst of all, I never got a chance to say goodbye.

We had a small family with few relatives. The only relatives I ever heard my mother talk about, her step brother Alex and his wife, Frita, moved west before she and my father married. There was no one else, so I had no place to go.

During those first months without a home, lots of people I didn’t know constantly crowded around me, but remained distant to my emotional needs. They moved me frequently from one institution to another until they found an orphanage with space. I never knew where I was going, where I belonged. Everyone tried to do the right thing, but nobody took the time to explain anything.

The commotion that seemed to follow me everywhere soon ceased, and I settled into one totally unfamiliar place. All the grown-ups seemed relieved with the outcome. They put me in a strange room with a bed, a table and a chair. I think the room also had a small dresser. That’s all. It felt cold and uninviting.

Before my parents died, we used to be a family, and our family had things. We lived in an apartment with furniture. I had clothes, toys—stuff that I remembered feeling good about having around. Here, I didn’t recognize anything and so, nothing had meaning for me. Nothing we owned made it to this new place. Nothing from my life; nothing of my mother’s. I felt totally alone and withdrawn.

Being orphaned turned into an unimaginable situation for me. So many people tried to help, but had never been in my position. They just didn’t understand the concept of being alone. It wasn’t like there were no people around. Somehow my basic needs got met. But something wasn’t right. I felt like a burden—not really wanted, but like a possession being taken out and looked at occasionally, then put away again. I seemed to float in a dimly lit bubble, in a black and soundless vacuum. This felt different than being lonely for friends and family. At the end of the day I didn’t have anyone to go to. I felt totally alone, without a confidant. I had so few memories, but nobody took the time to help recount my short life, and I didn’t know how to express that feeling to anyone. I lived each moment as it occurred, no expectations, only uncertainty for what might happen next.

Occasionally someone passed through my bubble to bathe me, feed me and give me clean clothes. I watched the other kids play, but no one helped me learn to play with them. To me, watching seemed the only way to interact with other children anyway, especially those I didn’t know. I withdrew into my imagination and stayed inside the safety of my bubble—warm and secure in the company of my fantasies. I sat on the cold, linoleum-covered floor by the window and watched the kids play, just like when I lived at home. A faint smell of bleach wafted up from the floor and burned my eyes and nose.

I guessed at what the kids were saying and doing and my fantasies took over from there. Far back, in the darkest part of my mind, my mother’s presence came to comfort me. The further I retreated into this, my one and only real memory, the safer and more content I felt.

Over time, I got used to not seeing anyone familiar. It appeared quite clear by now that my mother wasn’t coming back. I just refused to give up the sense of comfort I cherished so very much. Because my mother couldn’t come to me, I had to find a way to stay connected with her. I learned to recreate those special feelings we shared by looking for an image in the clouds that reminded me of her. I used that as a conduit to channel her spirit to connect with mine.

I also had a secret—an imaginary friend who came whenever loneliness too great to bear descended upon me. I willed my imaginary friend to have all of the special traits that made me feel comfortable, like my mother made me feel. Lying in bed at night, eyes wide open, I waited for the warmth and companionship of my friend to take the terrible anonymity of the day away. And it came. It started with a touch—a tingle across my back and shoulders, the way I felt when my mother touched me. After that, the faint scent of flowers. Then, the sense of my mother being there warmed me and made me feel secure, as if she watched over me and gave me a loving caress. The room remained completely quiet, but then, my mother never made noise when she came to check on me. People say that after the death of someone who loves you, the spirit lingers on earth to help ease the pain of those left behind. I know this is true.

Maybe I confused my mother’s spirit with my imaginary friend; maybe they were one in the same. It didn’t matter; it came in times of adversity. I created an image for a feeling that already lived within me, a surrogate for the only human being I ever felt close to.

Time passed and images faded as my confidence slowly built, and it became easier to fit in at the orphanage. The building was old back then and has probably since been torn down. Unpleasant things always seem to slip away from my memory. I don’t even remember the name of the old place. By the time the authorities located my aunt and uncle in California and arranged for me to go live with them, I’d already become more social and responsive to the people around me. When they told me they found my relatives, and that they were coming to get me, my newly found sense of family dissipated; my new friends soon evaporated, only to be forgotten like so many other people in my life.

Mrs. Milling was a nice lady who seemed to be in charge at the orphanage. She was a very casual person, casual in appearance and casual in her approach to everyone around her. We only saw her when there was a specific matter that required her attention. Today, she came over to me while I was sitting in my favorite spot by the window. She sat down on the floor next to me and put her back against the wall under the window.

Hi, Joey. Do you know who I am? Her voice was so soothing that I wasn’t frightened at all.

Yes. You’re Mrs. Milling. We’d never spoken before but everyone knew who she was.

Joey, I know the last few months have been very…difficult for you. Is that right? It’s okay, you can talk to me. She didn’t move at all, and the funniest thing—her eyes smiled at me.

Yes. I dropped my eyes and stared at the floor.

I don’t want to upset you but…can I ask you some questions? She put her hand on my leg while she spoke. It was warm and soft and reminded me of my mother.

I looked back into her eyes and said, Okay.

Have you been happy here? I’ve noticed that you’ve made some friends.

  Yes, I said.

Do you remember anyone ever talking to you about an aunt and uncle—your mother’s brother and his wife—who live in California? She still hadn’t moved.

I shook my head, no—and then I thought some more. I don’t know, maybe. That recollection obviously pleased Mrs. Milling. It gave her an opportunity to go on.

Joey, what would you think about going to California to live with your aunt and uncle? They’re your family, you know, and want you to come.

I don’t know, I said, beginning to relive some recently forgotten insecurities.

If I told you that everything was going to be all right and that they were going to come all the way here, to New York, to get you, would you go with them and try it? For me? She gave my leg a little squeeze and broke into a brief smile—to encourage me.

Do I have to? I don’t want to move again. By this time, tears were beginning to well up in my eyes.

I would much rather you told me you wanted to at least try this arrangement. You’d have your own room, go to school, and Joey, they really want you to come.

She sat on the floor with her hand on my leg, waiting for me to say something. It didn’t seem that she was going to move until I agreed. Besides, she was so nice I didn’t want to disappoint