A Castle in Brooklyn(31)
Jacob rose from the table, removed his navy-blue jacket and, placing it in the crook of his arm, began walking toward the living room. But before he could get there, Esther appeared before him, blocking his way.
“Jacob, I know you’re tired, and I so appreciate how tirelessly you work for our family, but I must speak with you about this matter.”
Her voice rose stridently on the last word. Jacob faced his wife and, noticing the worry lines that zigzagged across her forehead, the set of her jaw, the determination that hid behind the pupils in her blue eyes, he lay the jacket neatly across the banister, took Esther’s hand in his own, and the two walked back to the sofa.
“Okay, then, Esther,” he said, as he placed his arm around her and she nuzzled against his chest, “tell me what your woman’s intuition says is wrong with Zalman.”
“You know how much I love Zalman,” she began, eyes still downcast as she breathed in her husband’s sweat, “and how he is a brother to me as he is to you. And for Gary, well, he has become an uncle, and closer to our child than my own two brothers, who never have the time to visit. As you know, he’s teaching Gary how to play the piano, helps him with his homework. And when you are not around, if Gary insists, he will even play catch with him, though he’s not nearly as good a player as you.”
She began to feel Jacob’s body shift impatiently. She continued, “And while he loves us, perhaps you most of all, I’ve become convinced he’s not happy here. Zalman, the old Zalman, used to laugh when I told him stories of how the old biddies in the supermarket would argue over pennies for the price of a can of peas or a half pound of Muenster cheese. And for his part, he never could stop talking about Rabbi Rozenstein, the nice farmer, the stubborn chicken who refused to lay eggs, or the color of the sky just as the sun rose on a Monday morning. But lately Zalman has stopped laughing, and he seldom tells those stories. He’ll help me with a heavy package or two, sometimes drying when I’m washing the dishes, but he quickly goes up to his bedroom as soon as he’s done. He seems to listen patiently when I talk about the news or ask his opinion on the color of drapes for the living room, or even how it might be a lovely day for the three of us to take a walk around the block before dinner. He listens, but his mind is very far away.”
Esther sighed as she felt Jacob’s arm tighten around her shoulders.
“But if he is unhappy as you say, Esther, what can we do?”
Esther took a deep breath before answering.
“We can let him go, Jacob. We can let him go.”
For nearly five minutes, Esther lay her head tight against Jacob’s chest. She did this for the comfort, but also because she was afraid that if she raised her head, he would notice the tears that were pressing now beneath the brims of her eyes.
She had told Jacob how much she had grown to love Zalman nearly as much as Jacob did. But more than that, she now needed him as a friend for the times when Jacob was not around, and to share their joy in Gary even when Jacob was home. Finally, she brushed her cheek against his still-dry shirt and stood up. Despite all she had told him, Jacob protested the decision, saying that if Zalman genuinely wanted to leave, he would allow him to go, but until then, she should not broach the subject. But Esther had grown tired, and so, only half listening to her husband’s admonitions, she walked upstairs and went to bed.
Esther had an unusual habit. After everyone in the household had gone to bed, as darkness blanketed the home, leaving only a peaceful sense of contentment, she would pull out her baking utensils, the measuring cups and bowls, the tin loaf pans, along with the flour, baking powder, and whatever other ingredients were needed, and begin the task of baking bread. She had begun this weekly ritual only months after Boris had passed away, for the heat from the oven, the scents of raisins and cloves wafting through the air, always brought back the feeling of her childhood home, sweetening her dreams at night.
Wishing to replicate the experience for her son and the others fast asleep upstairs, like her mother had done so many years earlier, at 10:00 p.m. on a Thursday evening, Esther fastened the apron and set to work. That night, she would be making raisin bread, her father’s favorite, and she was already thinking about the cinnamon rolls she had planned for next week, which was one of the recipes Florrie had given her. She worked without distractions for half an hour, sifting, measuring, and kneading the ingredients, cleaning the spilled flour and salt off the counter as she washed out the used bowls, a time-saving method her mother had instructed her in, and she was content that the two loaves would satisfy the family for at least the following week. If there were any leftovers, they could be sealed in aluminum foil and frozen for a later date. Just as she had slid the loaf pans into the oven, Esther thought she heard a sound coming from upstairs. Checking the dial on the oven, she quickly removed her apron, ran the water over her flour-streaked hands, and went upstairs.
Hearing the rhythmic snores that came from her bedroom and Zalman’s room next to theirs, she quietly walked down the hall and turned the knob to check on Gary. The boy was sitting up in his bed, his hands covering his eyes as he sobbed quietly. She rushed to his side.
“Gary, my baby, what’s the matter? Tell Mommy why you are crying,” Esther said as tenderly as she could, trying to hold back her own tears.
It took the child a few moments to acknowledge her, as his sobs grew louder, his small body quivering with hysteria. Finally, he allowed her to remove the hands covering his eyes, hands that were by now bathed in his own tears. He took a deep breath and gazed up at his mother.