A Castle in Brooklyn(35)

“Zalman?”

“Yes?”

“Why does Jacob never speak about his family?”

Hearing his friend’s name, something stirred inside him. They hadn’t spoken of Jacob the entire evening.

“I don’t know. He never has, not even in the early days. You’re his wife. I thought you would know the answer to that question.”

Esther frowned and shook her head. “You’d think that would be the case, but no. He never mentions them, not a word. And when I try to introduce the subject, he pushes me away, telling me he doesn’t want to talk. Perhaps the memory is too painful. Still, it might be best for him to release all that, not keep it locked inside. Don’t you think?”

Before Zalman could answer, the train roared in front of them, stopping with a screech. The two got into a crowded car and had to squeeze themselves into a double seat next to the conductor.

“Wouldn’t you know it? No air-conditioning. And on a day like today!” Esther ignored the comment.

“Maybe you can get him to speak, Zalman. After all, you are his best friend.”

“I don’t know how many times I have tried, but it just seems to get him angry. He never wants to talk about the old days, even the times when we were together. Perhaps his head is too much in business. It’s a big responsibility, taking care of a wife and young son. It seems the more I talk, the quieter Jacob gets. It is not good to be too quiet. Everything gets in your head. So I just keep talking, and he keeps getting quieter.”

Esther’s shoulders slumped as she sighed. “That’s true, I suppose. In that, he reminds me so much of my papou.” The car rocked as the train moved forward. He could feel her breath against his cheek.

“Oh, Zalman, I will never forget this day!”

He turned away, pretending to look out the window. He would leave in five days.





FIFTEEN


Jacob


Next to his family and his work, the thing that Jacob loved most was baseball. So he made sure that any free weekend was spent going to baseball games at Yankee Stadium, or assisting at Gary’s Little League games, or, whenever it rained, reviewing and helping his son arrange trades of baseball cards as if they were conducting a big business venture. And much to Esther’s consternation, father and son had often taken the opportunity for a game of catch in the backyard, even as ice melted off the bare branches of trees.

But one particular Saturday morning wasn’t that kind of a day. In fact, it was just the opposite, a morning in April when spring was newly born and only a hint of a breeze carried the scent of the lilacs that had begun to peek through the neighbor’s hedges. That morning, though, they had received a telephone call from the Little League coach telling them he was canceling practice after being taken ill with food poisoning as a result of buying a hot dog from a less-than-reputable food vendor. Nevertheless, as Jacob used to remind them, the backyard was “plenty big for a real game.” And so it was the almost perfect day.

Jacob sat at the table and watched Esther at the stove, flipping french toast, white bread dipped in beaten eggs, then sprinkled with cinnamon before dropping the slices into the hot oil. It was Zalman’s favorite. In the past week, as the date for his departure grew near, Jacob noticed that she was cooking all of Zalman’s favorites. Meat loaf on Wednesday, fried chicken with rice for lunch before the concert on Thursday, a roasted chicken with sliced potatoes and Florrie’s noodle kugel on Friday night, and now french toast on the weekend. He noted that, in the past, Zalman had shown her his gratitude with a friendly embrace or even just by clapping his hands in glee as he complimented the meal with every bite. But in the past week, his only response to her efforts had been a halfhearted smile as he lifted his fork to take the first taste. So great was Esther’s disappointment that she began to wonder aloud if Zalman had not actually hated his life in their household, and if perhaps his joy had been a pretense all along.

Gary already had his Yankees cap on as he bounded into the kitchen, sitting on one of the new plastic swivel chairs at the table and placing the softball next to Esther’s good china plate with its border of tiny red rosebuds.

“Gary! What have I told you? No baseballs on the kitchen table!” she scolded as he complied by shoving the ball between his knees.

With his fork, he stabbed a couple of the pieces of french toast that Esther had already sliced into neat bites and filled his mouth so that, as he turned toward Zalman, his words came out garbled. Even Zalman couldn’t suppress a laugh as he reached over the table for the jar of strawberry jelly, dipped a butter knife inside, and meticulously spread the jelly over the remaining pieces on Gary’s plate. “Thank you!” said the boy, burping simultaneously as he spoke so that they all nearly doubled over with laughter.

“Gary, you are quite the jokester!” Jacob said, a smile materializing on his face. He bent toward his son to place a kiss on the top of the baseball cap.

“A jokester without manners,” replied Esther, and turned back to the pan on the stove, glad that the dour mood of the household had been lifted, even if only for a short while. Jacob turned to Zalman, who, having finished only one of the two slices on his plate, was about to stand.

“So, my friend, are you ready for a game of baseball with me and Gary? You can be catcher again.” Zalman shook his head as he shimmied past Esther and placed his plate in the sink.