right at the corner.â
âI really hate cemeteries,â Brandi says, and my father starts shaking his head.
âI do too,â my sister says.
âItâs Saturday, Marty. And weâve got the kids. Letâs go the beach, Jones Beach.â
For a moment all I hear is the sound of the highway. I try to think of a question to ask, to dilute the tension.
âMaybe Debra and I will go shopping instead,â says Brandi.
âTerrific,â my father says. âJust leave her with me and you go right ahead.â
I find Debra in the mirror, smiling. Brandi sits forwardon the seat and faces her. âCan I see what your hair looks like when itâs down?â she says.
Debra shrugs and looks at my father.
Brandi reaches to remove the ponytail holder. âJust for a second. Itâs so beautiful.â
The hair comes down over her shoulders. My father turns to see it and canât help but grin. âMy God,â he says, âYou
are
your mother.â
Brandi fluffs it like a hairdresser and reaches for her purse. âI know weâve just met,â she says.
Itâs lipstick that comes out first. I wait for Debra to reject the idea, but she doesnât. What I see in the rearview is a fifteen-year-old Hasidic girl with her lips puckered and ready. Eight seconds in the car with Brandi Lady and the Jew laws get tossed out the window.
âDoes it come off easily?â Debra asks.
âOh yes,â Brandi says, uncoiling the stick. âItâs the eyeliner weâll have to scrub at. Okay . . . face me . . . lips like this . . . good . . . perfect. Donât move. And here we go.â
Itâs a Boy
T HE CEMETERY IS CALLED LIEBERMAN and Wise. Itâs set on a very green and mildly sloped hill that blocks the sight of a gun range on one side. A new addition to the neighborhood apparently. The popping of rifle bullets is sporadic and relatively banal but a strange sound to hear in a field of head-stones. My father leads us up a narrow path of small white rocks and leans over to touch a plaque on the grass. âJoseph Tuschsky was my dadâs partner,â he says. âThe theater they bought was called the Drake, July 1929. I was ten.â
Brandi steps toward my father, puts her hand on his shoulder. âHappy birthday, Mr. Arbus.â
âThis is
Tusch
sky,â my father says. âIâm telling a story about Joe Tuschsky. Canât you read?â
âYes . . . I can read, Marty. Jesus, youâre right back at it, arenât ya?â
âArlene, please.â
âWhereâs your fatherâs plot?â
âHeâs over there, weâll go in a second, Iâm telling a story.â
âThen go ahead.â
They are a strange couple. The Borscht-belt Jew and his Marilyn Monroe. When I look at my sister sheâs twenty-two years old with the lips and the eyes and her hair now brushed. I take my camera out, and point it at her.
Click
.
âDonât, David, donât,â she says, holding her palm out the exact way my mother always does.
âYou look good.â
âLiar.â
âYou look
normal
. Give me a pose.â
âPlease donât take my picture.â
I move toward her with the camera high and she squeals and runs behind my father.
Click, click, click
, her face lit up with joy.
âIâm telling a story.â
âTell him to stop.â
âCan you let her be, David?â
âSorry.â
âTuschsky was connected in Los Angeles. He had an uncle who produced movies, cowboy-type movies, and when he died the contact stayed fresh because of another man named Don Micklin.â
âIs he here too?â Brandi asks.
âNo! He lives in West Palm Beach.â
My father raises and drops his arms, then walks aboutfifty yards up the path weâre on. âThatâs him, right there, you can see the name. You donât want to hear the whole story, I
Learning to Kill: Stories