The Book of Intimate Grammar Read Free

an ointment for the fig tree. First he mixed the powders, then he added water and squeezed in a tube of smelly goo, his big red face puckering with concentration as he stirred. Mama was watching over his shoulder. When a tree is sick, she sneered, you have to be ruthless and whack off the rotten branches, as anyone with half a brain and a little instinct would tell you. That’s the only way to get the healthy ones to grow. Papa merely nodded, carefully measuring out a few drops from a tiny vial, with his tongue pressed tightly between his teeth.
    Then he climbed on the rickety Franzousky in the kitchen and rummaged through the storage loft. Cascades of dust spilled down as Mama watched him, till suddenly she felt the zetz in her heart, and sure enough, when she ran out to the balcony there was Grandma Lilly leaning over the rail, halfway to the next world. Mama grabbed her by the arm and dragged her back to the alcove. Lie down, Mamchu, supper isn’t ready yet, why are you staring like that, it’s me, Hinda, no one’s going to slit your throat; there, legs up, lie down straight, stop crying, it’s time for your nap; see the pretty pictures on the wall, see the parrots and the monkeys on the trees, you made them, Mamchu, that’s your embroidery. Now you just rest awhile. And she covered Grandma Lilly up to her chin with the Scottish plaid, and tucked the corners under the mattress,
and went huffing back to the kitchen. “You and your meshuggeneh schemes, Moshe,” she said, slapping the nylon bags over the sink to dry with the wax paper from the margarine. “Your own mother nearly throws herself off the balcony, and here you are still futzing around; honestly, you are so stubborn.” “I found it,” he hollered, deep in the storage loft, and emerged with a headful of dusty curls, holding a kidney-shaped palette in his hand. “I knew I put it away up there.”
    Carefully he climbed off the rickety Franzousky and wiped the dust and paint from Yochi’s palette. “You’d better make sure she doesn’t need that anymore,” whispered Mama. “You know Yochi, she’ll have a fit.” “Take it, go on, take everything,” screamed Yochi from the bedroom, “I’ll never be an artist anyway.” Or a dancer either, she muttered angrily to herself, I should have kept on with my painting, though, then no one would care that my legs are fat.
    Papa went out and closed the door, carefully balancing the palette with the ointment. Outside, Aron and Zacky Smitanka were playing Traffic on their bikes. Aron dipped like a matador, swerving so fast he didn’t see the fierce red face coming at him till he found himself lying on the pavement with Zacky’s bicycle jammed between his wheels.
    Papa set the palette down and rushed over to the boys. “You rat, you dirty creep!” shrieked Aron, choking back the tears as Papa locked him in his burly arms. “Just wait, I’ll make mincemeat out of you!” He waved his little fists at Zacky, kicking furiously. “Let me at him, let me at him!” Zacky, alarmed by what he’d done, thrashed back halfheartedly, cursing Aron, calling him a lousy cheater. “Trying to mess with me, Kleinfeld? Huh? Huh? Trying to mess with me?” he screamed, aiming higher because he couldn’t think of anything better to say. Papa hoisted Zacky up with his free hand and roared with laughter as he held the two boys face to face, and let them swing at each other: wiry little Aron wriggled in the air, heaping abuse on Zacky and his bike, and Zacky screamed back: “You trying to mess with me? Huh? Huh?,” his snub-nosed face burning with indignation. A sudden squeeze reduced them both to silence. Roaring with laughter Papa let them down, and they reeled on the ground with all the fight knocked out of them. Zacky got his wind back and started to whine that Aron was playing dirty, trying to be a wise guy. But those are the rules, burbled Aron, you ride up, you lunge, and then you ride away as fast as you can; was