The first seats of the bus were full, but a fellow who was
sitting alone on one of the double rows of facing seats that
come right after the first seats saw me as I got on and made
himself scarce, disappearing quickly somewhere towards the
back. I felt my usual mixture of relief and consternation. On
the one hand, I really needed to sit down fast, but on the
other hand, I'm not that old -- two months short of
fifty-seven. I think maybe wearing a tichel makes me
look older.
Two stops later, another lady sat down on the aisle seat
besides me. She seemed to be about ten years younger than I,
simply but not poorly dressed, with a sort of efficient,
though not super-efficient look about her, but wearing a
short, curly brown sheitel that seemed a bit frivolous
for the kind of person I'd typed her to be. I noted
approvingly her thrift and lack of ostentation, while at the
same time envying her air of quiet competence.
What kind of a sheitel would be more suited to your
idea of her personality? I asked myself. An iron-gray
bun, held in place with an old fashioned net, perhaps, like
Mrs. Marple? No. That would be far too severe, too old, too
school-marmish, and too old- fashioned. A Lady Clairol Silk
n' Silver type sheitel, very short and tight? No, too
stylish, too feminist, too controlling top exective. I
decided on a shortish, dowdy brunette page-boy. Its message
would be, "I'm a frum Bubby," which is what she very
apparently was.
Who does she remind me of? At first, I thought it was
one of the counselors of our bunk, in camp, once, who had
curly hair like that, though of a much more mousy brown. The
other counselor told her to stop drying it because it was
almost Shabbos, but she retorted, "Don't worry about it. I
know exactly how much time I have." Well, maybe she
had known, but I'd been taken aback -- even shocked by
her answer. The scene was imprinted on my memory, because of
that -- the blow drying whirling through the wettish
curls.
Wouldn't it be funny if this were she, and I were to say,
"Hi, So-and-So! I'll bet you don't remember me from Camp
Gefen!" Wouldn't she be surprised? Lots of times I see
someone who reminds me of someone I once knew, only to
remember that the someone-I-once-knew would be thirty years
older now and not look like the young person before me,
anymore. This wouldn't be that girl -- whose name I couldn't,
in any case, remember. Even if she had moved to Eretz
Yisroel, which was possible, she'd be closer to my age now.
Besides, she'd had faded, not very intelligent blue eyes.
Without even looking, I was sure that the lady next to me had
sensible brown eyes. No, it was someone else that she
reminded me of...
Just a moment after, a little girl, obviously the grandchild,
climbed onto the seat opposite us, sliding quickly to the
window seat facing me. She looked to be about seven years
old, with a child's shiny hair, straight and dark, and cut in
what used to be called a Buster Brown haircut, with very even
bangs -- the kind of hairstyle that people used to joke that
you end up with if you turn a bowl upside down on a child's
head, and snip along the edges. When I saw how straight the
little girl's hair was, I wondered even more about that curly
wig. Maybe this lady had always felt a hankering for the
curly hair she'd never had.
The little girl had big brown eyes, soft and bright, a fresh
child's skin, red lips, a child's small white teeth -- none
missing. She wasn't breathtakingly beautiful or outstanding
in personality, not quiet and dreamy nor unusually lively;
she was just an ordinary, sweet, reasonably pretty little
girl -- the kind any Bubby would love to have and take on a
bus. She wore an ordinary light blue cotton skirt, a plain
light pink cotton blouse, and three or four brightly colored
plastic bangles on her small right wrist. She was holding a
little lime-green plastic bag with something lumpy in it.
Hard candies?
"First, Bubby has to buy some fruit and vegetables for
Shabbos, Moriah," the lady next to me said in American
English. "Do you want to help me do that? Then we'll go home.
Abba should be coming home from Kollel soon."
I was glad that the lady spoke English -- all the better to
eavesdrop on, since I look more like a Yerushalmi lady than
like someone who would know English. To lend support to this
impression, I swiveled my head towards the window and stared
studiously at the passing scene (surreptiously peeking at the
reflection of the two on the inner glass pane), as if totally
disinterested in a conversation that I couldn't understand.
But I was already angry with her. Maybe I had been, even
before she spoke. Her tone of voice was cautionary, as if she
were very carefully explaining life, step-by-step, to Moriah -
- as if to convey that if she didn't do that, Moriah (or,
maybe, she, herself?) wouldn't be able to manage, because
life was dangerous, threatening, complicated, overwhelming,
hard. Without even looking, I sensed that her expression was
joyless. Not stern, sour, or bitter, just humdrum, bland,
matter-of-fact.
"Where's the joy in you?!" I wanted to shout accusingly.
"Where are the enthusiasm and the fun? Why don't you convey
that to the child, instead of fear? Oh, the words were
right... but the tone! You probably want it to convey calm,
stability, steadiness, solidity, safety and security, but
I call it a lifeless monotone."
Still, when I talk to my grandchildren, in my Isn't
This Fun? voice, maybe all I'm conveying is that life is so
dangerous and scary that it can't be faced or dealt with,
except by all of us pretending that we're having ourselves a
grand old time. So maybe I envied her again, for not having
to do that.
Of course, you never know. Any number of things could be
going on in this woman's life -- because any number of things
usually are going on in everybody's life. Maybe she's just
preoccupied -- if with nothing else than Shabbos
preparations. I wonder if Moriah is her son's child, or her
daughter's, and if that makes any difference to her. I wonder
if she sees the child as exhibiting some of her daughter-in-
law's less admirable traits? I wonder why Moriah's with her
Bubby, this erev Shabbos. Did her Ima just have a
baby, is she expecting a baby, is she having a hard time with
the three younger siblings, or what?
"At the next stop?" Moriah asked, happily squirming about on
the bus seat that was too wide, too high for her, and giving
my skirt a few inadvertant kicks in the process -- happy to
be going on a bus ride with Bubby, I suppose; happy to be
going home, or just happy to be. I wondered if Bubby
would say, in appalled tones, "Moriah! You're kicking the
lady's skirts! Be careful!" or perhaps, "Say you're sorry!"
Then I'd smile graciously and wave away the idea that a few
footprints on my skirt could faze a seasoned grandmother such
as myself. But Bubby didn't say anything. Maybe she didn't
notice or didn't care or didn't speak Hebrew or Yiddish very
well or was too inhibited to talk to strangers. But my guess
was that she wasn't compulsively apologetic, in which case I
envied her, again.
"No, not the next stop. Bubby will tell you when."
Moriah, still squirming happily, opened her small bag. She
took out some more colored plastic bangles and began to slip
one onto her wrist.
"No, Moriah," Bubby said, not harshly and not gently -- just
evenly, with not a trace of doubt evident in her voice as to
whether she'd be obeyed. "We're not playing on the bus. A bus
isn't a place to play. Put away the bracelets."
Moriah put away all the bracelets, not looking at all upset.
I, on the other hand, was fuming. Aw, c'mon, lady! Why
don't you let the kid play? What's wrong with a seven-year-
old having fun? And why isn't a bus a place to play in? She's
not bothering anybody!
A few moments later, Moriah reached into her lumpy litle bag
again. This time, she took out a hairbrush, and raised it to
her hair.
"Bubby doesn't let," Bubby said. "We don't brush our hair on
a bus."
Well... I suppose maybe not, I grudgingly conceded in
the courtroom of my mind, though a rebellious dissenting
voice catcalled from the jury box, "Why ever not? Where's the
harm? Let the poor kid brush her hair in peace!" The voice
seemed to belong to a shaggy-haired Angry Young Man, or maybe
he was a poet, in a black sweatshirt. But another member of
the jury -- a woman in a smartly tailored navy-blue suit like
the kind that Margaret Thatcher used to wear, objected, "But
that's chinuch! That's only proper training. Because
you never were any good at it, you have to be jealous of
her?"
True. I remember how I'd been on bus rides when my children
were young. As long as they weren't bothering anyone --
stepping on toes, being too wild or noisy, or doing something
dangerous -- I hardly even noticed what they did.
Moriah's spirits, however, seemed nothing dimmed. She put the
brush back into the bag.
"That's right," Bubby told her with warm approval.
"You're a good girl!"
"Lady!" I felt like screaming, "Who asked you for your
opinion? Who needs your praise? Keep your `honey' and keep
your `sting'! Of course, she's good. She was born good, and
so were you and so was I, and so is everyone. Your stamp of
approval is absolutely uncalled for."
With a sudden movement, and still with that same unwavering
sweet smile, Moriah thrust out her bag of treasures, with
both arms, to her Bubby.
"Oh, no!" I screamed silently, in horror. "Oh,
no Moriah! Oh, no, sweetheart, don't do that!"
Invisible tears slid down my cheeks. "You don't have
to..."
I felt as if I were witnessing a historical moment, the
turning point, the very Moment of Selling Out, of self-
betrayal, the selling of one's true self for love and
approval, the trade off of one's own truth for someone
else's. Moriah wouldn't remember this moment or realize its
significance. But I would.
Matter-of-factly, without comment, Bubby took the bag. After
a few minutes, she said, "Here's our stop, Moriah. Be careful
not to step on anyone's feet when you get off."
They got off at the next stop. I saw them -- grandmother and
granddaughter -- making their way towards the grocery store.
The bus moved on.
What do you want from them? Would you have preferred the
kid to kick her Bubby in the shins? To shrug and brush her
hair defiantly? She did just what you would have done -
- just what you did do.
You're right. The kid I love.
And the Bubby? What do you want from her? Her voice is her
mother's voice and her mother's mother's voice, and...
Yes. I know..
Still, it's a voice I will no longer use -- not with my
`Moriahs,' not with myself.
