THE DESIGNATED RAMBLER, #4
Miss Frank was named Ann. Yes.
Maybe Anne. I never knew. She
lived down at the next to last
house, at the reedy end of the
block where you could still see
the rather new NJ Turnpike in
the near distance. Claire Avenue
was always curious to me because,
unlike other streets around, it was
white concrete, instead of the
usual black pavement. Big squares
of it. With really grubby-looking
apartments at the Rahway Ave.
end of the block. It was the second
house, way down at the end. At
maybe #87 or so. She lived there,
with her mother, elderly back
then. As far as I ever saw, there
was no man around; perhaps the
father/husband was already
deceased. The family and the
house and the habits were all
Jewish; very much. The house
had like a three-step walk-up
stoop, and one entered a very
orderly, neat, and meticulous
house, with its own peculiar
smell. Just in from the front
door was the piano - about
as far into the house as I ever
got. It was always quiet, and
never was a stitch out of place.
The furniture was often covered
with throws, and had what were
called (I later found out) these
doily type things which were
called 'anti-macassars' I think it
was. They were somehow meant
to keep oil from the head and hair
of the sitter from staining the
fabric of the chair. A rather old
and Victorian idea, or perhaps
just Teutonic? Or Jewish? They
were always off-putting to me,
like too much over-the-top.
Discomfiting. People who did
that - it seemed too me - were
far too nitty, overly bothered
by odd things. But, that was
them. I went once a week, I
guess for an hour; can't recall.
-
Miss Frank? She was a new type
of lady to me. Old world; entirely
different from the usual patter and
smash of my post-war suburban
living with kids, family, sports,
noise, games and TV. I think any
one of those things would have
shattered that small household.
The old Mother, a true Euro, just
sat and squinted, or stared. I never
knew what I represented to her, but
she hung around. Listening to the
lesson? Auditing my scales and
chords? Who knew? Occasionally
she came and went - kitchen stuff,
food smells; nothing ever inviting.
It was always too stuffy, too citified
even - cramped and small spaces
made from what could have been
nice and spacious. Frankly (no pun),
I figured that's how their 'thought
patterns' went too.
-
Miss Frank? She was, maybe 30 at
the most; probably a little younger.
I think back now - she always seemed
sad, bereft. No man? Never a sexual
elation? She spoke quietly, and not
much, in an ordered, lesson-oriented
fashion. I don't even know if she
drove. After the train wreck, when I
was finally back at home, I remember
seeing her, far down the block, having
taken a train from Woodbridge to
Avenel (one stop). Upon arrival to
our house, the sadness was unmistakable.
She saw me and began to cry - I guess
she somehow carried some imagined
weight of guilt for the entire episode;
don't know. She had come to see me,
and I was stunned. My Mother and her,
I remember, had tea, or coffee, whatever
and quietly spoke with one another, and
then called me over. With a certain form
of gratitude, she touched and pawed me,
making sure I was all there, and then,
very sadly too, began telling me that
it was all over. She'd taken a position,
in Atlantic City, as a piano-teacher at
some music conservatory/school they
had down there, and she'd be leaving
for good. It didn't much matter to me,
and I guess I reacted like kids do. With
a kind of complete acceptance and a
resignation too. I never knew what
happened - if they closed up and
sold the house, or even if the Mother
went with her. It was just all over.
She hugged me and kissed my head,
and walked off - I guess to catch
the train back, from the nearby station.
That was the end of it all, with Miss
Frank. Emotional? She sure got so.
I never heard from her again. Her
'Atlantic City' in 1958, was not the
dung-heap of slum and gambling
it is now. I guess she made out OK.
-
It was only much later, in school
further on, that I learned about The
Holocaust and all that. Then I
did, in a sense, realize that maybe
the root of their stillness and sadness
had something to do with that, and
the interminable loss of people and
family, maybe a long train of
displacement and uprooting.
I never knew, and we never
talked.
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