MARIAH

 

her name was Mariah on Tuesdays. she peered over vast empires down a very blunt nose. she was ageless and wound braids around naked shadows (snakes were involved.) drank a lot; wine mostly.

 

and no one understood that she was the key to it all. that upon her waters rested the precarious balance of the ark of life.the veritable boat in which we would all sink or swim.

 

the sun was unforgiving and slapped her in the face, so she took to shadows and starlight; read Blavatsky and Nancy Drew, ate popcicles at midnight and drank wine at dawn. she filed her recipes in the Bible; asparagus under Acts, arugula under Revelations, and so forth. she kept a system of concordance in the Egyptian Book of the Dead.

 

she never cooked.

 

every Thursday the Jehovah’s witness people came over and brought hard, ugly cookies, but the most exquisite tea. she kept the Nazi tracts and used them as bookmarks, never said much. she horded the tea.

 

on Friday the Faithful came. she served the tea and they brought beautiful bottles of wine which she drank. there was laughter, license and extravagance. they knew how she was. Lady of the Ocean whose word alone could bring a sailor to her shore. the Faithful counted on Friday. she counted the bottles.

 

 

her laugh was like a bell; then a siren; then the roar of the sea.

 

the super of the New York tenement was a wiry, wizened, camel man of simple talents. he cast a wary eye on the crazy crew of misfits that trooped into suite 304 Lefton Street, overrun with books on metaphysics, philosophy, poetry, physics, and bike repair; he was ignored.

 

Mariah knew castles and kings; not personally, but at some level, according to her daughter; and in the scheme of things, what did it matter because who knew what was real anyway: prove it.

 

“why does something exist instead of nothing” she would say, “they still don’t know that, or if anything is real at all. so let’s have another drink and drink to that.”

 

and she would.

 

she always wore blue. crimson blue, yellow blue, orange blue, blue blue, sky blue, sea blue, true blue, leaf blue, earth blue, winter blue, spring blue, fall blue, summer blue, and so on. but always blue.

 

and Blavatsky. she always had Madame Blavatsky’s Isis Unveiled on her desk with Jehovah’s Witness tracts stuck between in the pages. if you asked her if she read Blavatsky, she’d say: “who can read Blavatsky. that woman is unreadable.”

 

and no one really knew her. she was quite like the elephant; one knew the trunk, or the tale, or the hulk, all with very different qualities. there were rumors.

 

Mariah is a nudist, a gnostic, a communist, a schizophrenic, a buddhist, a wealthy eccentric, a paramour, a witch.

 

on Sunday she went to church – Catholic. every Sunday. and in church she prayed ferociously, took communion and drank sumptuously at the fount (of course, she had drank quite a bit before.) she always left a crisp ten dollar bill in the plate, spoke to no one, and marched out.

 

Mondays were fun; she called it All Saints Day. it was the day that she had her groceries delivered by the most delicious service in the neighborhood. his name was Jean Michel and as far as she was concerned, he was a saint. he needed little coaxing to wade in the waters of such a fine New York lady, although he had no idea as to her import. he certainly was, however, inspired to recite a poem or two in her direction in the afterglow of passion.

 

Mariah was an oracle. it’s just that nobody believed her, so she lived her life as quietly as she could, which to others would appear to be outrageous.

 

she smoked cigars, but only at Sydney’s Pub on Wednesdays, and only with her single malt scotch. that was when she met Burt. she lied to him outright. he thought she was 35 and married.

 

Burt was dark and middle eastern with eyes cut wide across his face; he wore brown heavy suits, smelling of tobacco, spice and had a hair lip. his black hair was wild like his politics; he was 40 and married.

 

Burt was the one who thought he knew Mariah. she told him her name was Stella (for Stella Maris) the star of the sea. he often mentioned an ancient tribe of Israel who settled around Afghanistan, the ben-Issaraelites. Children of the Holy Mother.Issa for Isis, the Mother.

 

Mariah glistened and sipped her scotch. Burt drank and raged. he wore the number of his grandmother from the concentration camp, fashioned into a gold necklace around his neck. Mariah wore a Coptic cross for the occasion. Henny, the bartender, had their drinks and polite banter waiting. the men kept their eye out for Stella.

 

Sydney’s was dark, dusty with old oak paneling and customers that came with the bar. the stools were reserved. bartenders never left. Mariah was famous. Burt they put up with.

 

after about four scotches and much cajoling and teasing, Mariah would dance. Sydney’s had no music. she would sing half notes and sway seductively on the floor. Sydney’s had no dancing. but everyone would be glad.

 

except Burt. but then he knew it was close to the time he would taker her home. and he did. on the way they always stopped at Castillo’s to pick up white roses for her altar. a dozen. and Mariah would be happy.

 

Saturday was D-day. that’s the day she had lunch with her daughter. in the morning she cleaned and put on her rock music right after listening to the sweet strains of Haydn, Beethoven and Chopin over coffee and reading a bit of Rimbaud. but it was Aerosmith “Dream On” that was ringing in her ears when she sat down to lunch with Evolyn. she always had a lot to say. Evolyn was slender, a reed of beauty with an expanse of dark brown halo framing an elfin face that belied the treachery and evil that could lie within her conniving little heart, but only for those who dared form even the slightest thought against her mother. indeed, Evolyn and Mariah were soul mates.

 

otherwise, Evolyn was a buyer for Harford, Russel and Brown men’s clothing store. she preferred men and smoked cigars with her mother when Mariah cheated and smoked outside of Sydney’s. she was basically in denial about her smoking habits.

 

at Tracy’s, their luncheon haunt, they smoked cigarillos and cackled over martinis – very dry – hold the lunch. but today Mariah had something serious to talk about. “i’m going on a trip.”

 

“great! where are we going? egypt, france, africa…”

 

“no, i’m going alone. you can’t come. no one can come.”

 

and that’s how it started. just with that announcement. she had to tell Evolyn, but no one else would know. when the jehovah’s witness people came, her door was locked. her groceries were left at the door, until they piled up and stank. of course, the Catholic Church was none the worse for her absence. Burt was stood up and hurting. Evolyn was beside herself.no one could find Mariah.

 

then a terrible war broke out and the security of a people who were comfortable and complacent was rocked. fear stunk up New York. a year passed and Evolyn was watching a news report of interviews from the front, when all of a sudden, she saw a flash of someone mixing with the crowd.

 

“Mama!”

 

two years later, Burt got a card from Afghanistan. it read: “your children of Ben-Issrael have love in their hearts for you. the mountains are so beautiful,” love, Stella.

 

and the Faithful still debate on who was Mariah; what happened to Mariah; and why is there something when there could be nothing. or is this world just an illusion after all.