The Last Schwartz
By Deborah Zoe LauferThe Last Schwartz is a drama about a Jewish family. The parents are both deceased, and their children are in their forties and thirties. They have gathered for the one-year anniversary of their father's death at their childhood home. Bonnie, in her thirties, is married to Herb, the oldest Schwartz brother and the second oldest child. Bonnie is generally on the verge of hysteria and weeps easily. She desperately wants a baby. She has converted to Judaism.
This is the beginning of the play. Bonnie is sitting on the couch, polishing silver and drinking a cocktail. She wears a childishly prim dress with a frilly lace collar. She has clearly been talking for a long time, to her husband, who is reading the Wall Street Journal and not paying attention.
BONNIE:
And then they roll out these Siamese twins on this huge double-wheel-chair-dolly-type thing. And they're joined here, at the top of the head, so one of them is facing the ceiling all the time like this... (She demonstrates.) and one of them is sort of squashed under to the side like this. So they have to take turns who gets to face Oprah which is mostly the bottom one. Though there must have been a camera on the ceiling or something because when the top one is talking, you do get a pretty good shot of her.
And Oprah asks, like she usually does, "What are your dreams and ambitions?", and the one on the bottom says she wants to be a doctor, and the one on the top says she wants to be an airplane pilot, and it was just so... so amazing and inspiring that they had these dreams and ambitions. That it didn't even occur to them, "Well, gee, maybe my patients won't want my sister lying on my back when I examine them," or "Where is my sister even going to sit in the cockpit?" You know? They were just so young and hopeful.
And Oprah says, "If there were a safe operation that could separate you, would you want that? Would you want to be two independent individuals, after a lifetime of, you know, being... yoked at the head?" And I'm thinking, "Oprah! Of course they would. Who would want to live that way?"
But without even batting an eye they both said no. They were one person. They were sisters. There was a connection there deeper than any surgeon could break. And I was so... I mean, isn't that what we all want? That connectedness? A meshing of lives and souls and... well, in their case various body parts, but, you know... Anyway, I was wishing so much that I had a sister. Not coming out of the top of my head or anything but...
And then this woman in the audience goes to the mike, you know, for audience questions, and asks, "Do you ever want to get married and have children?" Well, I was horrified. I mean, it was outrageous, right? And I'm looking to Oprah to get us out of this. To cover up or change the subject or go to a commerical, but you know what? They each said they want to get married and have children! The top one actually says, "Three kids." I could feel my jaw drop. And Oprah doesn't say, "What are you, nuts?" or anything like that. She's just sitting there holding one of their hands and looking into their faces, well, the bottom one's face, and nodding and being really serious and sincere. And they cut to the audience and nobody is snickering or laughing. They were all deeply moved.
And it was just so... I mean, really, what are the chances that these girls are even going to find husbands, you know? Look at my cousin Janet. She's pretty and smart and only has one head and she's never found anyone. (Getting very agitated.) What are these girls' chances? And then, if they did get married, could they even have a baby? Would they even be good mothers? It was crazy, you know?
And I didn't want to be mean spirited because it was a very hopeful and positive show, but I couldn't help... Well, I couldn't help but to start thinking about myself even though I don't like to harp on that. But I couldn't help but to start thinking about the miscarriages and little Aaron and what we went through even though I'm totally normal.
I mean, here I am, totally normal! And about what a completely great mothe... how I would have... you know, if I could have just had him for a full day even, how much I would have loved him and taken care of him... and I would have sung him songs and read to him and just loved him so much. I loved him so much. And I didn't even get a chance. And here are these two FREAKS really, these two freaks who couldn't possibly be good mothers, I mean, they each only had one arm for God's sakes, and here's Oprah, and this whole audience thinking they're so special and brave and that THEY should be mothers, and it just made me sick. I just hated those girls so much, I wanted to smack them. Both of them. I just hate them.
Later in the play, Bonnie is talking to Kia, an aspiring L.A. actor in her twenties. Kia is Gene's girlfriend. She is pregnant and planning to have an abortion in a few days. Bonnie wants to convince Kia to have the baby and let Bonnie and Herb adopt it. She tells Kia about how much she wants a child.
BONNIE:
When I met Herb, I was just like you. I was pretty and dumb and I played it to the hilt. Like you. You know what their father, what Manny said when Herb brought me home to meet the family? "Well, Herb. She's no genius. She must be really great in bed." But I wanted it anyway. I wanted a family. I wanted a baby. So I let Manny humiliate me, and I became Jewish, and I quit my job. I gave up everything that was me.
We got pregnant right after the wedding. Probably before the wedding, actually. And Herb and I were so happy. If you knew us then. We spent six months decorating the baby's room, reading baby books, choosing names. Blissful. Even the family embraced me. Even Manny. I'd visit the baby's room ten times a day, look at those impossibly tiny clothes, and try to imagine that soon there would be a whole new person in my life, a remarkable little person who would fit into those tiny little things.
Well, suddenly it was gone. At seven months. No more. It had never occurred to us that that could happen. That we could lose our baby. We were in shock for a long time. Cried together. Held each other. But little by little, we recovered. We healed. Together. Till we were brave enough to try again.
It was the same thing again and again. But the joy was gone. It was just aching and waiting, swollen ankles, lying in bed month after month trying to keep this one, this next one, this next one alive. Five times. Five times we went through it. Even the doctors begged us to stop. By the time I was pregnant with Aaron... by the time I was pregnant with Aaron we had stopped telling people. It was a dark, shameful secret that we were pregnant again. We barely spoke of the baby, barely spoke at all.
His family looked at me as if I'd tricked them. Herb's father told him he had no obligation to stay with me. That he had every right to leave. And I half expected Herb would leave. Every night when the door opened and he walked in I was so relieved, and just a little disappointed in him that he stayed.
But then, I carried to term. Nine months. We couldn't believe it. We started dreaming again. Hoping. When I was past my due date, we finally let ourselves be really happy. The whole family came to the hospital. The baby was kicking me hard all the way to the delivery room. But then, suddenly, the kicking stopped.
I told them, I told them in a panic something had changed. They said to relax - everything was fine. But by the time they hooked me up to the fetal monitor, it was clear that something terrible had happened. They turned on the machine, and I lay there in shock. No movement. No heartbeat. Nothing. I just started screaming. Not even aware of it. I heard this horrible, hurt animal sound echoing through the hospital, it didn't even seem connected to me. No one could help me, they couldn't help me to stop. So they put me under. And they took Aaron out. It was days before I was conscious enough to really know what had happened. I woke up, a huge empty pouch of a stomach. A huge empty shell. So empty. Even the scream was gone. And Herb was gone too.
He couldn't be with me, comfort me any more. I don't blame him. It was too much.
When I got back from the hospital, their father, Manny comes to pay me a visit. Herb is back at work. And Manny comes into my bedroom. I'm still barely able to move, I'm all stitched up and swollen... He comes into my bedroom with a checkbook. He sits down and pulls out a pen. "How much?" he says. "How much will it take to make you go away?"
"This is not for me," he says. "This is not personal. The Romans, the Pogroms, the Arabs, the Holocaust. We've survived all these attempts at our extermination. But I don't know if we'll survive you. Our family is the last in a long line. There are no other Schwartzes. The mix breeding is bad enough, the assimilation, but you can't even give me a grandson. I'll write a check for whatever you like if you'll go away and give Herb another chance at having a real family." I stayed. I turned him down. I stayed. I stayed because... I loved Herb. And... I still wanted them. I still wanted the family. To love me. To approve. To think I was good enough. I wanted to be part of the family.
Order The Last Schwartz published in Women Playwrights: The Best of 2003, from Amazon.
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