A Good Day for Seppuku Read online

  A GOOD DAY FOR SEPPUKU

  SHORT STORIES

  Kate Braverman

  City Lights Books | San Francisco

  Copyright © 2018 by Kate Braverman

  “What the Lilies Know” (published as “The Woman Who Sold Communion” in McSweeney’s, 2005 and Best of McSweeney’s, 2006.)

  “Skinny Broads with Wigs” (published as “Mrs. Jordan’s Summer Vacation,” “Editors Choice” Carver Award, Carve Magazine, Volume 5, 2005)

  “Feeding in a Famine” (published by Connotation Press online, June 2015)

  “Cocktail Hour” (published in Mississippi Review, Volume 33 #1 & 2, winner of the Mississippi Review Prize)

  “Women of the Ports” (published as “The Neutral Zone” in San Francisco Noir, Akashic Books, 2005)

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Braverman, Kate, author.

  Title: A good day for seppuku : stories / Kate Braverman.

  Description: San Francisco : City Lights Publishers, 2018.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2017043863 (print) | LCCN 2017046533 (ebook) | ISBN 9780872867222 (ebook) | ISBN 9780872867215 (softcover)

  Subjects: | BISAC: FICTION / Short Stories (single author). | FICTION / Literary. | FICTION / Contemporary Women. | FICTION / Family Life.

  Classification: LCC PS3552.R3555 (ebook) | LCC PS3552.R3555 A6 2018 (print) | DDC 813/.54--dc23

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017043863

  City Lights Books are published at the City Lights Bookstore

  261 Columbus Avenue, San Francisco, CA 94133

  www.citylights.com

  CONTENTS

  O’Hare

  What the Lilies Know

  Skinny Broads with Wigs

  Feeding in a Famine

  Cocktail Hour

  Women of the Ports

  The Professor’s Wife

  A Good Day for Seppuku

  O’HARE

  I love O’Hare Airport, with its unpredictable weather and constant gate and terminal changes. This is where I board my plane to Los Angeles. O’Hare is a zone with variables that can’t be controlled. Cell phone service ceases and nobody can tell me no.

  I wander corridors that end in cul-de-sacs where I sit alone in alcoves. Loudspeakers announce implausible destinations like Madrid, Prague and Tokyo. I pretend I’m someone else. I have a red or black passport, a different genetic code and a suitcase full with lace mantillas and hand-embroidered shawls. I’m subject to random acts of nature — lightning storms, tornadoes and lethal black ice. But that’s at a distance so vast it’s incomprehensible and irrelevant.

  It’s the summer of my 13th year and I’m supposed to make my decision. I must choose which parents I’ll live with for high school and what foreign language I’ll learn. I’m officially a teenager. I have a biological passport and carry tampons, lip-gloss and credit cards in my purse. My age has 2 syllables. And I count everything.

  When I live with my mother and Marty in Beverly Hills, my bedroom is entirely Gucci pink — the walls and carpets, the cabinets with my TV and CD player, even the interior of my clothing and shoe closets. My mother took her vintage spring purse to a paint store and supervised the replication of a color only I possess.

  My bedroom opens onto a tiled balcony where I can see the tennis court and swimming pool that’s lit even at night. Halogen globes make shadows in the water seem alive and insistent, as if urgently communicating in a language I will someday decipher.

  It’s a June of Hibiscus and Magenta Bougainvillea. Night blooming Jasmine from Madagascar turns my skin fragrant. Marty says money alters planetary orbits and renders footnotes unnecessary. He indicates the terraced hillside garden surrounding the swimming pool.

  “Race ipsa loquitur,” he says expansively, agreeing with himself.

  “And you only need a sweater at night,” my mother adds.

  My mother drives me to school in the mornings, even though it’s only 4 blocks away. She wears a tennis dress and matching sweatband around her forehead. Walking is déclassé, she explains. It’s for latchkey children. Or orphans. Or children of maids and gardeners illegally obtaining a Beverly Hills school experience.

  “Walking is for peripherals,” she clarifies.

  On Wednesdays we have our hair and nails done at Diva Salon on Rodeo Drive. In a curtained room dense with Philodendrons and musk incense, we’re given identical terrycloth robes lined with peach silk. A miniature Purple Orchid like a severed crab claw is tucked in the pocket. A willowy woman bows as she extends the robes like an offering.

  We select identical colors for our manicures and pedicures. We are lacquered with apricot or strawberry. Then we meet Marty for dinner at the Club or Mr. Chow’s, where we have our own table permanently reserved for us. On holidays, we attend services at Sinai Temple on Wilshire Boulevard with all the movie stars and industry executives.

  The executives wear suits and have their own yarmulkes. The directors are bearded; their hair is long and uncombed and their borrowed yarmulkes perch uncertainly on their matted curls and keep falling off. They wear sunglasses and talk throughout the service. They make rectangles with their index fingers and thumbs. It’s a geometry meant to show camera angles and close-ups.

  On long weekends, we drive to Palm Springs or the beach house in Malibu. In between, Marty is invited to concerts at the Greek Theater and the Sports Arena. We don’t need tickets like peripherals. Marty’s name is on The List. We sit in the first or second row and go backstage with our special passes. We eat petit fours and palm-sized pizzas from Spago’s with the bands. I shake hands with Mick Jagger, who wears a purple bonnet, and David Bowie, who wears lipstick. Steven Tyler shows me how to play a tambourine and lets me keep it.

  Marty knows everyone because he’s a record producer with 22 Grammy nominations and 9 Grammy Awards. When he greets a performer, his smile is suddenly abnormally wide, his teeth are enormous and inordinately white, and his hand reaches out as if by a mechanical extending device. It elongates dangerously and I think of the trunks of elephants and ivory tusks, swamps, cemeteries and poaching.

  I watch the news with my mother. A river is swelling beyond its sand-bagged banks and houses look amputated at ground level. They drift past like a square armada with chimneys and dogs on leashes barking, and porches of Wisteria still attached.

  “It doesn’t figure,” my mother says, filing her fingernails.

  “The flood?” I ask.

  “Floods. Rivers. They don’t figure. Corn doesn’t figure. Trailer parks with the obese in bathrobes don’t figure.” My mother pats my shoulder and smiles. “You’ll learn.”

  A soaking wet woman who has never been to Diva Salon holds a sodden cat and a chair frame. Storms took her house, her daughter’s prom corsage, her son’s purple heart, and her marriage certificate. She points behind her floral printed bathrobe and indicates wood slats and glass panes scattered in mud. She’s obviously a peripheral.

  One afternoon I hear my mother say, “It’s untenable.” She’s talking to my father on the telephone. “Why?” My mother holds the receiver in front of her eyes and stares at it like it’s an object of alien technology. “You’re joking.”

  My father does not tell jokes. He’s laconic and rations his syllables. I imagine stray birds lodge in his lungs. If he laughed without warning, flocks of finches, the pink and yellow of chalk would fly out. Then I’d gather iridescent feathers and line a winter coat for him.

  It’s the word untenable that catches my attention. I would have passed barefoot through the living room, with its floor of hand-painted Italian tiles and Persian rugs with authenticated stamped certificates Marty keeps locked in his office safe. I might have crou
ched behind rows of Cymbidiums in 42 cloisonné pots. But the harsh certainty of the word, untenable, stops me.

  Untenable sounds ominous and ugly, like all the un words — unlikely, unhealthy, unemployed, unfortunate and unhappy. Un words are like pointed stakes in a field with No Trespassing signs.

  “She’ll be in high school this fall. We’re talking educational sequences with profound continuity implications.” My mother is drinking brandy from a bottle she conceals in a cloisonné planter. My mother is in AA and she’s not allowed to drink.

  “Listen, old pal,” my mother raises her voice. Her mouth is tight with frustration as if it has wires in it. Her eyes are cluttered like a pond overgrown with reeds and fallen red and yellow maple leaves like stained glass panels from a cathedral.

  “It takes two weeks to wash the hillbilly off her. What about her interior? How’s that going to wash off?” My mother finishes her brandy.

  At dinner my mother watches my mouth. Her eyes are magnifiers. From the shape of my lips, she’ll get an early warning. Selecting a foreign language has implications about character that last a lifetime like an appendicitis scar. Spanish is the language of the underclass. It’s for bus boys and their girlfriends who won’t get abortions because they believe God is watching. They’re peripherals who don’t figure. French, on the other hand, is the language of museums, fashion and money, style, diplomacy and ballet.

  “There really is no choice,” my mother decides for me.

  I leave for Camp Hillel every June no matter where I live. But this time I recognize it’s a definitive moment. It’s a punctuation I didn’t anticipate and don’t want. I thought I could avoid this entirely, sleep through it or disappear in O’Hare. I’m like Alpine denied clearance to land, condemned to repeat monotonous circles. If it explodes in a cornfield or trailer park, it won’t figure.

  Marty’s taking my suitcases, sleeping bag and camping gear out to the car. My mother is envisioning me in an apartment overlooking the Seine. My split ends and curls are gone, and my braces have been cut off with metal shears. I wear a beret and contact lenses. In spring afternoons, I am inspired and sit in the Tuileries reading Sartre and Simon de Beauvoir.

  My mother and Marty drive me to Camp Hillel. Apparently this is an occasion necessitating the Rolls Royce. The weight of museums, revolution, democracy, ballet and existentialism ride in the back seat. As we enter Camp Hillel, counselors hold signs with ARROWS pointing to the dust and gravel pit designated as the camp parking lot. They salute as we pass. When our parents are gone the parking lot will return to its usual name. Sex Gully.

  Marty slowly maneuvers the Rolls between Mercedes Benz sedans, Jaguars, Bentleys and SUVs parked at criminally dangerous angles. He steers with calculated deliberation like he’s navigating a ship into a shallow inlet.

  The parking lot is notorious. Fender benders and collisions are constant. Even small scratches require imported paint and take months to repair. There have been so many accidents, Dr. White includes a legally binding document promising not to sue in the Camp Hillel application package. You must absolve Camp Hillel in advance before entering the property.

  Dislodged campers drag bedrolls and backpacks across gravel. Cameras slip off wrists and canteens fall from their shoulders. Fathers lean out windows exchanging business cards.

  My mother hands me my purse which I’d dropped. “Monet,” she whispers while I search for my assigned cot. “Degas and Camus.” She continues naming famous French artists until a counselor asks her to leave.

  I unpack my white Sabbath shorts and blouses. Chelsea Horowitz is taking German because her father is a Freudian psychoanalyst. I find a drawer for my jeans and rock band T-shirts. Jennifer Rothstein is pre-enrolled in Chinese because it’s the most important language of the 21st century. Her parents are both cardiologists. Anything less than Chinese is a deliberate refusal to recognize reality. It’s obtuse, like refusing treatment for a preventative valve or artery procedure.

  I put my toothbrush and tampons in a basket in the bathroom. There are 3 toilets and 2 of them are broken. Tiffany Gottlieb already has an Italian tutor. Her parents own a designer in Milan and a villa at Lake Como. They want her to appreciate opera, order from a menu with style, and not embarrass them.

  Bunk 7 is named Golda Meir. It has torn screens on the windows and 2 showers marked Out of Order. The floor is cement. Somehow, I’d forgotten this. I place my pool thongs, tennis shoes and white Sabbath sandals under my cot. I inspect my mattress. Coils, orange with rust, unravel in multiples like fingers forced to repeat piano scales. They might be laminated worms and I suspect infection.

  I cover my cot with an over-sized lavender sheet that belonged to my grandmother. Lilac trees bloom in 44 horizontal rows. It’s been washed thousands of times and the cotton is softer than silk. It feels like skin. But it fails to stop the metal spokes that scratch my sunburn and mosquito bites.

  Becky Fine is pre-enrolled in Russian due to her family heritage and the novels of Tolstoy. She has an appreciation for the Cyrillic alphabet that curls like waves in the Black Sea. Everyone’s fallback is Latin.

  Brooke Bernstein is committed to a Greek and Japanese double language program. She’s sharing her cigarette with the rest of language-declared Bunk 7. I don’t join them.

  “What are you taking?” Chelsea Horowitz demands. “Canadian?”

  I stare at her, flabbergasted. Chelsea Horowitz has dyed her hair platinum blond and it looks like a metal helmet glued to her skull. Stray pieces like starched straw jut out like errant stalks from defective seeds.

  Chelsea Horowitz has a stress-induced amnesia. She’s apparently forgotten last summer in Bunk 6, Esther, when she had mourning black dreadlocks and we were best friends. When she dropped her sleeping bag in the creek on our overnight, I gave her my extra blanket. We stayed up until dawn, shivering, and watching the stars make their singular circular transit.

  After dinner we walked past the stables and into the Eucalyptus grove reeking of cough drops and confided secrets. Sometimes we held hands. Chelsea Horowitz swore me to eternal silence and told me the ethics committee had suspended her father. It was a harsh punishment for an unfortunate but essentially trivial episode with a bipolar Russian ballerina. Her mother had totally overreacted, and filed for divorce and bought an apartment in Haifa. She gave me her birthday opal ring. We wanted to become blood sisters, officially, but the cafeteria only gave us one plastic knife that broke immediately.

  As soon as I wake up I go to the Health Center. Nurse Kaufman is a holocaust survivor. You could sever a major artery and she wouldn’t give you a tourniquet. I loiter near the scale and jars of tongue depressors. Then I show her my abraded shoulder blades.

  “This is a kibbutz, not the Four Seasons,” Nurse Kaufman says. She gives me a band-aid, reluctantly. She’s compromising against her better judgment and wants me to know I owe her.

  In Bunk 8, Delilah, the Goldberg twins are in an experimental central European immersion program. They began in Hungary with blue-domed public hot baths and Klezmer recordings. They spent a night in a village of gypsies and interviewed them with video cameras. Each summer, they’ll visit a different concentration camp and add another language.

  I return to the Health Office. Nurse Kaufman glances at my puncture wounds. When she determines it’s not stigmata, she loses interest. Golda Meir has dysfunctional screens and a division of mosquitoes has bitten me. I count 31 separate violations of my flesh. A spider walked across my back in 9 distinct bites. Nurse Kaufman dispenses 2 aspirin and a paper cup of tap water. She watches me swallow. She permits eye contact for the first time and writes a note on my chart.

  Bunk 7 is sharing vacation photographs. Tiffany Gottlieb wears a gold thong bikini, holds a beer, and waves from a boat on Lake Como. Chelsea Horowitz yells, “Yo, Canada,” as I pass.

  Chelsea Horowitz has been encouraged to say whatever comes into her mind because it could contain analytically significant material. Still, sometime someone�
��s going to knock her front teeth out. I edge onto my cot. Soiled coils snap apart and jab my knee.

  It’s lights out, including flashlights and matches. I leave Golda Meir barefoot. I’m breathing rapidly in uneven bursts. I need to stand outside in the dark and quietly count the occasional meteor streaking silver and exploding like a 747.

  The sky surprises me. It’s a sheeted haze of monochrome gray like layers of smoke. In fact, it is smoke. The junior and senior counselors from UCLA and Stanford are lying on their backs in Sex Gully, chain smoking, passing joints, and pretending they’re in the Israeli army.

  I’m late for breakfast. My eyes feel like barbed wire is implanted in 2 horizontal lines like train tracks or stitches. My mouth tastes metallic as if my braces are leaking. It’s lead poisoning. The Atlanta Center for Disease Control should be informed. They’ll want samples and a quarantine.

  Nurse Kaufman lights a cigarette. The Health Center is the size of a walk-in closet. A real medical emergency is for Medevac. Red Cross choppers fly over camp 2 or 3 times a day, staying in practice in case Dr. White presses the buzzer he wears next to his Rolex. Hypochondriacal disorders are for our own psychiatrists.

  The Health Center is the size of a closet because you’re supposed to walk in and walk out. Stray nests of ashtrays constructed from medical supplies sit on the counter between throat swabs and disposable thermometers. An empty jar has 4 cigarette butts mashed inside. It’s symbolically concealed behind rolls of gauze and gallon bottles of iodine. Nurse Kaufman believes iodine is the universal solvent. If it doesn’t hurt, it isn’t working. You must feel the bacteria stinging as they die.

  “Samples? Quarantine?” Nurse Kaufmann repeats. She expels smoke with purpose, forceful and direct like a bullet. Then she asks me if I want to talk to the Camp Director, Dr. White. I’ll think about it, I lie.

  Dr. White is head of pediatrics at Cedars Sinai Hospital where most of Camp Hillel were born. He’s also head of child psychiatry. He’s seen us in diapers and given us Rorschach tests. He’s written our recommendations and testified at our parents’ divorces. He definitely knows too much. He gleams, radiant with intimacies we’ll deny under oath. All Camp Hillel avoids him. Everyone knows, if you’re sent to Dr. White, you aren’t participating effectively. Then your parents will be telephoned for a special conference.