The Book of Intimate Grammar Read Free Page B

again.
    Papa worked painstakingly, pausing only to explain to passing neighbors what he was doing up in the tree or to answer Hinda’s calls. Two hours later, at six-thirty on the dot, when the signature tune of the evening newscast blared forth over every radio on the block, Papa rested from his labors and listened eagerly, but there was still no news of a devaluation. Aron rode up and down the street, ignoring Papa, Zacky, and the tree, veering around every so often to call his make-believe dog, Gummy, who chased his bike invisibly. Zacky stood dutifully at his post, collecting the filthy rags as they landed. How could a father leave a son like that and go off to make money in Africa, thought Papa. Then he brooded over Malka Smitanka, sending her child out so she could screw around. What does a woman like her see in that deadbeat, that slouch of an accountant, or lawyer, or whatever he was? True, he owns a car, sighed Papa, deploring the waste. Go ask Hinda for the enema bag, he shouted down to Zacky, and began to muse about the beauty mark on Malka’s bosom and the sassy hair curling under her arms.
“Got it!” cried Zacky, holding up the bag and startling Papa, who only sent him off again, gloomy-eyed, to tell Hinda he would soon be home.
    Papa sat back, lit a cigarette, and puffed with pleasure. From his perch in the treetop he couldn’t see the building project or the street. He might have been anywhere; and if he leaned to the right he could just make out the curtains fluttering in a certain window. But he didn’t move. It was June, and gallnuts hardened on the branches. A sweet fragrance enveloped him. He breathed it in.
    Zacky shinned up the tree with the enema bag, and Papa winked to console him for the scolding, playfully scratching his bristly head again. “You sit here and watch,” he ordered.
    First he used the enema pump to dry out a sore, then he dipped a special brush into the ointment and carefully painted around the hole. Zacky stared open-mouthed at his gently moving hand. In the street below them, Aron was riding around calling “Gummy! Gummy!,” his arms outstretched to make Gummy chase the bike. Papa finished painting the sore. “There,” he said, looking at Zacky and passing him the enema bag. “Now you go ‘phoo!’ while I shmear on the ointment.” Zacky pumped air into another sore, biting his tongue with the effort. They worked in silence side by side until Aron’s fair head popped up between them. “How come he gets to do everything?” Aron whined. “It’s my turn now.”
    Papa and Zacky recoiled from each other and Papa embarked on a loud explanation of how the healing process works. Zacky started cracking his knuckles, and Aron shuddered. Suddenly he had an idea. He slid down the tree and got his bicycle pump. It was a terrific idea, a brilliant idea, in fact. How quickly and efficiently the pump dried the sores. It’s much faster this way, isn’t it, he panted, all aglow. Yeah, growled Zacky. Noisier too.
    The three of them worked together, swabbing sores, while Aron chattered to fill in the silence and make them laugh with his hilarious imitations of famous people; he did a fabulous one of the Prime Minister, even though his voice hadn’t changed yet; well, what do you expect, he was only eleven and a half. Once he got started there was no stopping him, though little by little he too fell under the quiet spell of healing.
    And suddenly Mama was on the balcony, calling Aron. Papa signaled the boys to keep still and they hid their heads behind the branches.
Again she called him, certain he was there. I’m warning you, Aron, you’re in for it. Papa cupped his hands over his mouth and gave a cuckoo cry, and the boys nearly burst with stifled laughter. In vain Mama searched for them, bobbing up and down, and then she turned on her heel and disappeared into the house. Now now, boys, laughed Papa, is that any way to behave? He gazed serenely at the sky and wound his thighs