Read Online What’s Happening? by John Nicholas Iannuzzi - Free Book Online

Rita’s name again.
    Rita brushed her hair more furiously, concentrating on each stroke, on the hand movement, on the quality of the hair. She wanted her mother to scream her lungs out … Scream, scream, scream, you dumb witch , Rita prayed inside herself, her head pounding with rage, scream till your throat is sore and aching … till you can no longer talk or even whisper … till you die … then perhaps you’ll realize what it’s all about . … She gritted her teeth.
    â€œRITA” Mother yelled again, a hint of desperate, annoyed frustration prolonging each sylable until the name became a chant, filling every passageway in the house.
    You rotten lazy bastard . Rita’s head shook with rage. Rita knew Mother was now disgusted, afflicted and tortured because her screams were not answered. If only she were sensible enough not to yell, not to demand, order, … once, … just once. Rita held her hands to her head to block out the haunting screams.
    Someone knocked on the door. Rita looked up quickly. Before she had a chance to bid the person enter, the door opened and Father peered at her inquisitively, suspiciously, frowningly.
    â€œWell? What’s the matter with you? Can’t you hear your Mother calling you? You need a special invitation?”
    â€œI’m sorry,” she apologized automatically. “I’ll be right down.”
    She turned back to the mirror to check if she had adjusted and changed her make-up and hair sufficiently to look the way she knew her parents would think presentable. “Presentable” meant whatever was accepted and worn by Mother’s and Father’s friends, other people, the world in general. Mother’s and Father’s friends also only wore things that were “presentable.”
    Father was standing in the doorway, Rita noticed, still studying her reflection in the mirror. Father was short—short and stocky, tending toward the paunchy. He hunched over a little with age, though he was only fifty-five, and waddled slightly duck-footed. His face, once seemingly bold and fearless, was putty-like, haggard, without conviction, forceless. He had been brave and tough, had fought to keep for his family that small glory he had achieved by his labor. He had been able, by incessant toil and adherence to a principle of conformity to social dictates, to lift them above the wretched life he had spent in a cold-water flat as an immigrant laborer’s son, to give them a comfortable existence in one of Brooklyn’s most luxurious sections, to make them respected in their Temple and neighborhood. And now he wanted only to be quiet, sleep and rest; his family was comfortable.
    â€œWell, come on. Dinner’s ready.” He continued watching and waiting. He searched for some physical defect or weakness, for the joint in her Village-wrought armor, against which he could loose the tirade of the respectable on living in the Village.
    Rita stayed in the chair purposely, annoyed at his insistence in treating her like a child, like a mindless lump of clay.
    â€œWell?”
    â€œAll right!”
    Rita couldn’t remember when this now-open conflict had started. When she was young everything had been fine. As she matured, feeling her own will and weight a bit, enjoying the social equality and freedom Father struggled to provide, the conflict began to rise. Perhaps it was because Rita didn’t seem to fit exactly into the stereotyped position her parents felt they, and, therefore Rita, had to reflect. At first, this stereotyped position demanded that Rita supress only minor feelings or thoughts. As she grew older, however, the position became more arbitrary, demanding, oppressive. It was vexing to hear, This is what they’re doing. This is what they’re wearing this year. Why don’t you be like everybody? Wasn’t she a person too? Couldn’t she decide for her own being? She, like Thoreau, wondered