Leaving Brooklyn by Lynne Sharon Schwartz Page B

watching “Break the Bank.”
    â€œAre you up?” I said, and nudged the door open a few more inches. My parents’ heads turned from the TV set to me, parallel forty-five-degree angles. They were sitting side by side, my father in his striped pyjamas and my mother in a scoop-necked sleeveless nylon nightgown. Very neat and chaste, with the covers drawn up to their chests. One of my father’s hands was invisible; something moving under the covers, clearly his missing hand, stopped abruptly.
    â€œIf you insist on going with me,” I said to my mother, “we’d better arrange where to meet after school.”
    â€œWhat do you mean, if I insist? You’re my child. I have to see what this doctor proposes to do to you.”
    â€œOkay! So where do you want to—”
    â€œQuiet!” exclaimed my father, raising his free hand as if to stave off an aggressor. “Hold it a minute, will you? He’s almost ready to break the bank.”

    I entered and condescended to look at the screen. The category was biblical figures. I sat down on the edge of the bed. Bert Parks asked a moon-faced man with a bow tie the name of Samson’s father, and the man answered promptly and correctly. Manoah. Clamorous applause and clanging of bells, lights flashing.
    â€œAmazing,” said my mother. “Amazing, the intelligence of some people.”
    My father nodded his head several times, tightening his lips, grudgingly impressed. He lit a cigar, tossing away the gold ring he used to give to me.
    One more correct answer and the round man would break the bank, winning one hundred twenty-eight thousand dollars.
    â€œI knew that too,” I said.
    â€œReally? So what are you doing sitting here?” my father snapped. “Go on TV, make yourself useful.’”
    â€œI did know,” I protested.
    â€œOkay, okay. I didn’t mean any harm. Quiet.”
    The TV camera panned the audience. The faces were glazed with suspense, the bodies leaning forward as one stiff, excited body.
    â€œTo break the bank, can you tell me,” said Bert Parks, “what biblical warrior promised God to sacrifice the first of his possessions that he saw, if he could return home from battle victorious, and ended up sacrificing his own daughter?”
    Silence. The contestant clasped his hands and rolled his big eyes heavenward, his Adam’s apple jiggling above the bow tie. Bert Parks inclined his body helpfully towards him. My father puffed on his cigar. My mother’s lips parted.
    â€œFive seconds,” said Bert Parks.
    â€œJephthah,” I said.
    My mother tilted her head towards me with a trace of apprehension. “What did you say?”
    â€œJephthah,” I enunciated clearly.
    A long buzz sounded and the studio audience groaned in unison.

    â€œSorry,” said Bert Parks, “the correct answer is Jephthah.”
    I shrugged.
    â€œHow do you like that? She broke the bank,” said my mother. She kept staring at me, as though she had created a monster. “Did you hear that?” She prodded my father.
    â€œVery smart, Audrey. Very smart. Jephthah, eh?”
    â€œUh-huh.” A commercial for spark plugs was coming on. The spark plugs were dancing to a tune everyone in Brooklyn knew.
    Finally he grinned. “You really broke the bank,” he conceded. “Goddamn! Not bad, Audrey, not bad. Jephthah. Ha! So what else do you know?”
    â€œHe didn’t intend to sacrifice her. He promised the first thing he saw as he got near his house. He must have figured it would be a cow or a sheep or something, but it turned out his daughter was running down the road to congratulate him. So, you know what God is like, he had to keep his promise.”
    â€œHow do you like that?” mused my mother. “You could have won over a hundred and twenty thousand dollars.”
    â€œHow’d you get so smart?” asked my father.
    â€œI read. I