MY MOTHER DIED BEFORE I COULD MURDER HER

CHAPTER 7

The new house.

We moved to the new house over a long weekend, including Morris, whom my mom had forgiven. “After all, that’s why we all love him, mellow, easy going, never grumpy. Sometimes I wish that you’d have a puff of whatever he’s smoking,” she said to my dad. “Maybe you’d lighten up a bit.”

     I’m not one for defending my father, but he was under a lot of stress at the time of the move. Decorating seems to be the trigger for all kinds of shit between couples, and my folks were no exception. While the house was being built, Myrna and I would love to tag along when my parents went to meet the builder, but after the first few visits to the “war zone,” we’d only go when just one of them went. Going with them both was a definite no-no.

     I preferred going with my dad. He knew what he wanted and knew what he could get for the money he’d budgeted. Once or twice he’d overlook something that wasn’t perfect because Zulman, the builder, friend or no friend, wasn’t prepared to accept responsibility for his mistakes, and always found reasons for charging for extras. “The job is tight, Eddie,” he told my dad as they looked at the sink in the kids’ bathroom. The sink in question seemed a little low to me, and it was. “You knew that going in, so more work means more cost.”

     “Yeah, okay.” My dad replied, “See what you can do, otherwise just leave it.” So we had a sink that was a couple of inches lower than every other sink in the whole of South Africa. Big deal. We could handle it.

     On the way home my dad tried to make light of the whole episode. “It’s not as bad as the guy who came into his new house and found all the sinks had been fitted at an angle sloping from left to right. He confronted the builder, a guy from some small shtetel in Lithuania, who said it was just as ordered.” My dad turned and smiled at me, pausing a moment before the punch line. “‘You’re such an idiot!’ the man screamed at the builder, ‘I said cock high not cockeyed!’”

     It was just an okay joke that elicited merely a smile and not some sidesplitting response. “You get it?” he asked, thinking maybe I didn’t understand or couldn’t appreciate great humor.

     “Sure, it was funny, Dad. I can’t wait to tell the guys at school tomorrow.”

     On the other hand, Leila Pandrey decided that the house was a statement of how successful they’d been. This would show the world that they’d made it and made it big. She accepted nothing less than perfect. Every paint stroke was examined, and God forbid, the color wasn’t an exact match to the sample, or a tiny pin line of paint was not painted straight; she’d go ballistic.

     “I’m not paying good money for bad work!” she’d scream. “You should know better, Zulman, than try to get away with second-rate work. You’re dealing with Leila here, not some idiot girl just off the farm.” It sounded good, even though I’m sure she never knew anyone who lived on a farm. Soon Zulman would only visit the site when my dad guaranteed that he was coming alone. On all other occasions Zulman’s partner, Itzchak, was the poor schmuck who had to deal with my mom.

     Not only did she fight with the builders, but she also fought with my dad. We had to have the best of everything. She insisted on a top-of-the-range stove, an electric stove with four hotplates. After the coal-burning, one-plate stove in the old house, this was magic. The fridge had a freezer and the taps in the main bathroom, on suite, would you believe, were a sort of gold color. “They’re not real gold,” she sarcastically pointed out to my dad, “so stop complaining about the cost. They were a bargain.”

     “Were they? Well, my little sweetheart,” he could give as good as he got, “even bargains cost money, and the way you’re spending, we’ll soon only be able to afford the taps and not the bath.”