Macar

RALPH DRANOW

“Hitler! Shut up, you Hitler!”

Macar yelled,

Protesting Carol’s and my childish noise,

His crimson knuckles

Hammering on our trembling door.

What if the door breaks down?

I wondered,

Paralyzed by fear.

A daily event:

Macar, our Russian landlords’ middle-aged son,

Coming home drunk,

Swearing,

Colliding with walls and steps

As he stumbled downstairs

To the dark, mysterious basement,

Where he lived with his parents.

I avoided them all.

White-haired Mrs. Sullivanov,

Whenever she caught me playing stoop ball,

Would shake her cane, screaming,

“No playit ball here.

You breakit the bricks.”

Mr. Sullivanov, stoop-shouldered, bearish,

Wore a perpetual scowl,

Frequently muttering to himself.

On a warm winter afternoon
I encountered Macar out front,
Surprised by his amiable mood.
“It’s a good day to
Bake your nose in the sun
Go ahead, try it.”
So I did, feeling foolish.
“Like this,” he said,
Closing his eyes,
Flushed face and swollen nose lifted heavenward
In a beatific smile,
Snuffling,
Thick chest sucking in air,
Like some new god.
“See, that’s the way.”
His rough hand grabbed mine.
“Be good.”
I smiled and slipped away,
Grateful for this bit of manna
In the wilderness.

Another time Macar’s mother was chasing him
In the hallway.
“Lousy no-good bum.
Drinkit all the time.
No carit about old mother and father.”
Her cane landed on his head,
Drawing a roar of pain.
“Don’t hit me, Mamushka!
I’ll be good.”
He fled out the front door
Into the yard,
Where she pursued him,
Cane flailing
As she hurled hybrid words of scorn
At his broad back.
I laughed,
Surprised by Macar’s fear
Of his old, tiny mother.

After her husband died,
Mrs. Sullivanov’s soft wailing
Filled the house for days,
Its bittersweet despair
A needle stuck on the same groove.
But I began liking her a little better.
One afternoon Macar placed a ladder
By the side of the house
Saying to my five-year-old sister,
“Hold the ladder for me, dear.
I need to get my suit.
My mother don’t want me
To come to the funeral
But I’ll show her I’m a good son.
I haven’t had a drink in four days.”
Carol held the ladder
While Macar lumbered up
With tentative steps,
Finally disappearing into the open window.

For days afterward the house was quiet,
As if we now had
New, normal landlords.
I was rooting for Macar,
But then one afternoon
The old sounds came crashing back:
Hoarse growls,
Stuttering footsteps on the basement stairs,
Mrs. Sullivanov’s high voice,
Like the edge of a knife,
Like being back in prison.

• • •

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