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I fought against the temptation to get my directional mike—this was another scene I did not need
to be privy to—and lost. There’s nothing so fascinating as a family argument, I think Leo Tolstoy said
that. Or maybe it was Jonathan Franzen. By the time I got it plugged in and aimed through my open
window at the open window across the street, the rhubarb was in full swing.
“. . . wanted you to know where we were, I would have damn well told you!”
“Vada told me, she’s a good girl,” Marguerite said placidly. Lee’s rage washed over her like a light
summer shower. She was unloading mismatched dishes onto the counter with the speed of a blackjack
dealer. Marina was looking at her with outright amazement. The playhouse sat on the floor, next to
June’s baby blanket. June kicked her legs and ignored it. Of course she ignored it. What’s a fourmonth-old
going to do with a playhouse?
“Ma, you have to leave us alone! You have to stop bringing things! I can take care of my family!”
Marina added her two cents’ worth: “Mamochka, Lee say no.”
Marguerite laughed merrily. “‘Lee say no, Lee say no.’ Honey, Lee always say no, this little man
been doin it all his life and it doesn’t mean a thing. Ma takes care of him.” She pinched his cheek, the
way a mother would pinch the cheek of a six-year-old after he has done something naughty but
undeniably cute. If Marina had tried that, I’m sure Lee would have knocked her block off.
At some point the jump-rope girls had drifted onto the bald excuse for a lawn. They watched the
argument as attentively as Globe groundlings checking out the newest Shakespeare offering in the
standing-room section. Only in the play we were watching, the shrew was going to come out on top.
“What did she make you for dinner, honey? Was it something good?”
“We had stew. Zharkoye. That guy Gregory sent some coupons for the ShopRite.” His mouth
worked. Marguerite waited. “Did you want some, Ma?”
“Zharkoye pretty okay, Mamochka,” Marina said with a hopeful smile.
“No, I couldn’t eat anything like that,” Marguerite said.
“Hell, Ma, you don’t even know what it is!”
It was as if he hadn’t spoken. “It would upset my stomach. Besides, I don’t want to be on a city bus
after eight o’clock. There are too many drunk men on them after eight o’clock. Lee, honey, you need to
fix that step before someone breaks a leg.”
He muttered something, but Marguerite’s attention had moved elsewhere. She swooped down like
a hawk on a fieldmouse and grabbed June. With my binoculars, the baby’s startled expression was
unmistakable.
“How’s my little CUTIE tonight? How’s my DEAR ONE? How’s my little DEVUSHKA?”
Her little devushka, scared shitless, began to scream her head off.
Lee made a move to take the baby. Marguerite’s red lips peeled back from her teeth in what could
have been a grin, but only if you wanted to be charitable. It looked more like a snarl to me. It must
have to her son, too, because he stepped back. Marina was biting her lip, her eyes wide with dismay.
“Oooo, Junie! Junie-Moonie-SPOONIE!”
Marguerite marched back and forth across the threadbare green carpet, ignoring June’s increasingly
distressed wails just as she had ignored Lee’s anger. Was she actually feeding on those wails? It looked
that way to me. After awhile, Marina could bear it no longer. She got up and went to Marguerite, who
steamed away from her, holding the baby to her breasts. Even from across the street I could imagine
the sound of her big white nurse’s shoes: clud-clump-clud. Marina followed her. Marguerite, perhaps
feeling her point was made, at last surrendered the baby. She pointed at Lee, then spoke to Marina in
her loud English instructor’s voice.
“He gained weight . . . when you were staying with me . . . because I fixed him . . . all the things he LIKES
. . . but he’s still TOO . . . DAMN . . . SKINNY!”
Marina was looking at her over the top of the baby’s head, her pretty eyes wide. Marguerite rolled