Free On Tuesdays, They Played Mah Jongg by Milton Stern Page B

with Karl, which was actually a ruse to get Karl to ask your mother out,” Dr. Mikowsky recounted.
    “Yes,” he replied.
    “So, I am guessing it is around March 1985, but I have to be honest with you. Although your mother and her friends are colorful, there is really nothing unusual enough in what you have told me that I can see as a cause for you not to be able to finish this screenplay.”
    Michael leaned forward and looked the doctor in the eye and said, “As a storyteller, I wanted to introduce all the characters first, give you a taste of their personalities and let you see how they related to each other.” He leaned back and waited for the doctor’s response.
    “OK,” the doctor said. “I do have one question, however, where do you come into the story?”
    Michael did not expect this question, or at least so soon into the telling of the story. He was hoping the doctor wouldn’t ask him where he fit in until later … much later. He thought long and hard about a response because he knew that the answer he gave would either elicit a series of questions or stop the doctor cold.
    While Michael was thinking, Dr. Mikowsky was convinced that what he was not being told was more important than what was being shared. This was the typical case with Michael, who in the short time the doctor knew him revealed how reluctant he was to share any aspect of his personal life or his past. He also knew that a patient who refused to speak about a pivotal year in his life until now could not be expected to completely open up, but he had to ask the question.
    He waited, allowing Michael all the time he needed. Now that the story had begun, he was convinced it would be finished. No longer did he need to tiptoe around the subject in order to get his patient to talk about the real issues.
    Michael got up from the couch still pondering an appropriate response that would allow him to continue the story without having to discuss his role in it 19 years ago. He walked around the couch and sat down again, put his elbows on his knees, looked down to the floor and then up again.
    Michael said, “I come in much later.”
    Dr. Mikowsky gave himself credit for trying. He was not surprised by the response, but at least he knew that Michael did fit into this story and was not merely an observer. He grabbed a freshly sharpened pencil, looked at his patient, and said, “Fair enough. Where were we?”
    Michael leaned back put his hands behind his head.
    “I haven’t told you about Myra yet,” Michael said.
    Dr. Mikowsky flipped through his notes until he found Myra’s name. “She was the woman who was having an affair with Sammy, right?”
    “Yes, but there is much more to it than that,” he answered, and the story continued.
    ~~~~~
    Myra and Sammy carried on an affair for over five years — five years of clandestine meetings, dinners in dark restaurants and short trips to a cabin in Gloucester. No one was surprised that Sammy was having an affair because he and Doreen both were known for their infidelities. What I always found disturbing was that these miserable people would rather stay in unhappy marriages that were based on lies and mistrust than get a divorce. I think that is one of the reasons why Florence was my favorite of my mother’s friends. If she didn’t like him, she left him.
    Arlene and William always fought about money, which he had and she could not get her hands on. Rona and Morton always fought about sex, which she wanted and he would not provide.
    Ironically, I have noticed that the more people try to keep secrets, the more their private lives become public.
    That is so true with southern Jews. We appear more genteel, demure, and guarded, but we always know each other’s business down to the dirtiest of details. We are always whispering. Ask a southern Jew how someone died, and the disease will only be uttered with a whisper: “She had … cancer .” We also use the whisper to relay gossip: “She is pregnant, which