When a certain great man was dying, he said, “Dieu me pardonnera, c'est Son metier,” which Mama in her inexpensive French translated as, “Of course God will forgive me … that's His business.” And Mama always felt that way when she spoke of her age. People said at twenty she looked twenty-five, at thirty, twenty-two, and at forty, twenty.
I don't ever remember her as anything but young … even in the days when I towered two feet above her. To Papa she was always a brilliant child who couldn't understand double-entry bookkeeping and the proper way to make out a bank check. Yet, as time went on and the first war ended, and everyone went back to build up enough hate to start another, Mama slowed up. She did not stop, she did not go around carrying soup for old people, or take to Yogi or uncooked nuts or chin creams. She went right on being Mama, but just a little less so.
I think it was the Painter who really brought Mama safely to middle age … or maybe just a little beyond it. He was a tall man with a wild mat of red hair and a beard like the half-plucked bottom of a lean hen. He had big dark eyes and a habit of wiping his paint-soiled hands on his shirts. He painted huge paintings of unrelated, partly decayed objects, and sections of iron women cut into slices and carrying wilted roses in their black-covered arms. The Painter was a friend of Uncle Willie's, who often took him (twice a year) to a barber.
Mama found him by accident at a party we were giving. The Painter was inside the icebox (we had a huge one for country needs), and he was hunting a gray cheese that he could smell, but not see. Mama was impressed by his way of cutting rye bread and the breadth of his shoulders.
I remember, about a week later, Mama came to the table carrying one red-black rose from her best bush. She had washed her face very hard and knotted her hair behind her ears.
Papa said, “You have time to dress, Sara.”
“I am dressed,” said Mama. “Do you mind my bringing flowers to the table?”
“Now, Sara,” said Papa, “I hope you don't intend to try rose salad again.”
“Paul,” said Mama, “Paul is calling for me later. We are going to look at a Picasso together.” Paul was the Painter's name … well, almost Paul … after all, his dealer is still alive and supports a wife and two children on the sales of Paul's still-remaining pictures.
Papa said, “I've seen a Picasso. You, too, from the top of a Fifth Avenue bus … going uptown.”
“Paul says I've never really seen a Picasso.”
And so Papa went into the kitchen to see how dinner was coming along (it was one of those times when our hired help was gone, and Mama not in a cooking mood).
Picasso gave way to Aunt Weiner Longstrasser, a dish brought over from Hungary by a great-aunt of Gramp's. Papa made it by melting into a saucepan four ounces of butter, and browning in it two big red onions sliced thin. Then three pounds of veal cut into two-inch cubes were added, two cloves, a clove of garlic crushed smooth, salt to taste, an ounce of paprika, two chopped tomatoes, and half a dozen whole peppercorns.
Papa would cover all this with just enough water, and let it simmer; and when the veal was tender, he would add one cup of sour cream. After that, all that was to be done was to serve and eat. And we did. Aunt Weiner Longstrasser was a dish that everyone in the family liked.
Mama ate it … but we could see her mind was on Picasso.
Papa refilled her plate and patted her arm. “Now, Sara, you just do as you please … but eat.”
“I am eating,” said Mama. “You want me fat, so I can only lie on sofas and eat candy.”
“Could I, Mama?” I asked.
“No, Stevie. I don't like fat boys.”
“Now, Sara,” said Papa, “I wasn't talking about over- eating. But your causes do take your mind off food.”
“A good cause is worth hunger,” said Mama. “Still, I will have just a little more.”
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