A Castle in Brooklyn(22)

After only three months, just as the street began to crackle with the mid-July heat, and the birds hid beneath the dry leaves, Jacob, holding the blueprint of his future home, felt that spring had begun. As he shook Zalman’s hand, threw his arms around his stooped shoulders, kissed his cheek, he realized his dream was now Zalman’s as well.

Jacob’s responsibilities at work had kept him from visiting the site very often, over half an acre in Brooklyn’s Mill Basin community, so Zalman, design in hand, supervised much of the construction. Often Esther accompanied him, the two carefully surveying a massive blueprint. As the house began to take form, she became emboldened, offering advice on trim and window size, then colors on the walls, the exact shade of marigold for the appliances. Sometimes she would ask Zalman to explain the measurements of a closet or why a bedroom radiator was placed so near to the entry. Zalman, who had lived among the Polish farmers, learned how to speak like an American, no longer such a greenhorn. The two discovered that they shared an interest in cooking, Esther explaining how to boil the bigos—a meat, potato, and sauerkraut stew he had loved as a child—while Zalman introduced her to sour cream with potatoes simmered in borscht. They also both loved music, especially the tunes each played on Esther’s beloved baby grand, bringing echoes of home to the young immigrants. Almost immediately, the two friends came to realize they had something else in common as well: their love for Jacob, the man with the big dreams.





PART III


WINDOWS AND DOORS


TEN


Esther


The vacuum cleaner was so loud that she almost didn’t hear the doorbell. Esther shut off the Hoover and pulled the machine to a corner of the living room before answering the front door, wondering if Jacob had again forgotten his keys. But when Esther opened the door, she was startled to see not her husband, but a woman perhaps ten years older than she was, with short wavy hair prematurely streaked with gray, holding a casserole dish covered with a red-and-white-checked gingham cloth.

“Welcome!” the woman exclaimed, breezing past Esther, then hesitating just before heading right for the kitchen. Esther, confused, quickly shut the door, and followed. The woman set the dish on the table.

“It’s a noodle kugel straight out of the oven. I wasn’t sure what to bring, but I thought, who doesn’t like a sweet noodle pudding with raisins?”

Not waiting for a response, she pulled up the gingham cloth, and Esther watched as smoke rose into the air and, with it, a sweetly pungent though familiar scent. The intruder continued, “It’s still hot, I’m afraid, so it’s best to let it sit awhile to cool.” Esther, makeup-free, her hair hidden atop her head by a yellow kerchief, stared at the whirlwind before her. “Thanks,” she said.

“No thanks needed, honey,” the whirlwind said, helping herself to a chair at the table. Esther followed suit, pulling out the metal chair and sitting opposite the woman. While she was trying to formulate her next words, the woman beat her to it.

“Oh, I almost forgot. My name’s Flora, Flora Konigsberg. But most people call me Florrie, you know, like those Florodora Girls.” She stopped briefly to laugh at her own joke. An awkward silence ensued as Esther, eyes still on the kugel, found her voice.

“I’m Esther. Mrs. Jacob Stein.”

“Well, pleased to meet you, Mrs. Jacob Stein,” said Flora Florrie. “I live in the house next door to you on the left. Well, I couldn’t very well be in the house on the right because then I’d be living in a hole in the ground, being nothing’s been built there yet.” Flora spoke rapidly, stopping again to laugh at herself before continuing.

“I’ve been watching your house go up ever since it was a hole in the ground like the one next door. What has it been? About ten months or a year now?”

“A year. We began building just over a year ago,” mumbled Esther, shifting her eyes finally from the kugel to the woman’s face.

“So it has,” said Florrie, leaning back and stretching her long legs in front of her as if she herself were the hostess and not Esther. “I don’t want you to think that I’m a busybody neighbor or anything like that, but some afternoons when I wasn’t listening to my show or sewing my dress patterns or waiting for the bread to rise, I couldn’t help but peek out the front window and see you and your man talking to each other and directing the workers as the house went up, it seems, from brick to building in less than a day. A couple of times he’d come by himself, wearing a short green coat. A smiling, curly-haired fellow. And I knew just then that the two of you would make grand neighbors.”

“No, that’s not—” Esther began to protest, but the woman, not paying any attention, went on.

“It’s a pretty house,” she continued, gazing around the sunlit kitchen, appraisingly. “Much prettier than mine. Well, time does wear a house down. And I have been here going on eight years in June now.”

“Really? Eight years you say?”

Florrie nodded as her eyes took in the white porcelain sink, the gold refrigerator with its own freezer attached.

“Mm-hmm . . . but our place isn’t nearly as nice as yours. And we didn’t build it from the ground up like your husband did. I could tell that you and your man designed the place yourself, because when I’d be coming home from the store with my groceries, you two would always be outside looking at some big poster spread out on the roof of your car. I figured it was some kind of blueprint, a plan for the house that you were huddled over. Not that I was spying or anything, because I’m not that kind of neighbor.” She paused, coughed into her hand, and continued.