A Castle in Brooklyn(36)

“Not today, Jacob. I have too much packing to do,” said Zalman, and then, almost as an afterthought to Esther, “Thank you for the delicious breakfast,” as he walked toward the front of the house and headed up the stairs. Jacob ate slowly as Esther began washing the dishes, setting aside a plate for herself for later, as was her habit. Neither seemed to notice that Gary had begun to fill the silence left in Zalman’s wake with a torrent of words. He was talking about the other kids on the team, telling them that even though he wasn’t nearly the best player, but with more practice, a lot of practice, anything was possible. Wasn’t that what Jacob always told him? That anything if you just tried hard enough was possible. But Jacob was only half listening as Gary’s words continued to invade his thoughts. Since Zalman had told Esther of his plans to leave, Jacob had refused to discuss the issue—neither with Zalman nor even Esther. It was almost as if he felt his silence would prevent Zalman’s departure from becoming a reality. But he realized as his son chattered on excitedly that he could no longer prevent what was soon to be a fact. He resolved that that evening, after dinner, he would sit down with Zalman to discuss his prospects, maybe even make him a generous gift as a down payment for a home. Now he turned to his son.

“We’ll work on that pitching stance of yours. You’ve got a good eye, Gary, so practice makes perfect. We’ll get going as soon as I’m finished with my coffee.”

“Finished yet, Dad?” piped Gary, without a note of sarcasm, as his father quickly took a last sip from the mug of steaming Sanka. He was proud of his son who, he had to admit, preferred books and music but had slowly developed an interest in Jacob’s favorite hobby. In the last year he had caught Jacob’s enthusiasm, so that the two, sporting matching Yankee caps and jackets, were nearly always the first to arrive at practice and Little League games. Jacob reliably told Gary that he was destined to be the best shortstop, or even pitcher, on the team, maybe even in the whole league. And, after the past month, Jacob was more convinced of this possibility than ever.

“Finished yet, Dad?”

“Yes, sir!” announced Jacob, and rising, watched Gary pop a last piece of french toast into his mouth, then adjust his cap, leaving a red slash of jelly across his forehead. He decided not to remark on the matter—after all, like the saying “Boys will be boys . . .” Jacob grabbed his cap as the two walked out the side screen door, sending a ripple through the yellow cotton curtains as a whoosh of cool lilac-scented air sailed into the room where Esther stood silently, the dry kitchen towel still in her hand.





SIXTEEN


Esther


Esther heard the sound before she saw what happened. It was like the howling of a wolf, but at a lower pitch, more guttural. Only later did she learn that it had come from Jacob just at the moment of impact.

She flew out the screen door, not stopping to glance out the window a second time, leaving the curtains rippling in her wake. Once outside, she saw Jacob, cap still on his head, his tall frame bent over Gary. The wailing had ceased and was replaced by the repetition of her son’s name. “Gary! Come on, Gary! Gary? Gary!” Esther stopped, frozen, afraid of what she might see, before taking a few steps toward the two, who were positioned at the base of the giant oak tree. It was not long before Esther’s wails blended in with those of her husband, for lying cradled inside his father’s arms was her child, her Gary, his lifeless eyes a sea-glass blue, wide open, waiting for the hit.



The doctors said it was something called commotio cordis, a direct blow to the heart between beats. It was instant, a fluke, and deadly.

Still, for several hours afterward, she continued to hear the noise, the wails, the cold robotic voice of the white coat telling her nothing could be done. It was only afterward that she noticed Zalman, his red face awash in tears, standing by her side, holding her hand tenderly. Was it tenderly? Was that the word she would have used to describe it? She could not describe anything, for in effect she was numb, unfeeling, immune. It was only later that she realized Jacob was nowhere to be found. When had she seen him last? Kneeling on the ground? In the ambulance with its siren drowning out their screams? Were they still screaming, or had a shocked silence replaced the sound? Or, as they stood, not really listening, as the white coat explained so serenely that their only child was gone? But what did it matter? She didn’t care. Not about Jacob. Not about anything. The only thing she could see were snapshots of Gary that floated now like a dream into her mind. Gary as a curly-haired baby. Gary climbing onto her knee, sitting playing the keys of the oversize piano, flipping adeptly through his baseball cards. Gary, eyes wide open, a dried slash of jelly, prophetic, still marked across his forehead. Instinctively, she moved her hand as if to wipe it off. But it was gone now. Gary was gone. She clenched her fist tightly, digging her nails into the palm of her hand.

The days that followed were a blur seen only through the constant veil of tears that accompanied Esther during mornings when she mechanically assumed the role of grieving parent, and nights when sleep eluded her as images of her only child clouded her mind. In spite of the phone calls, the bountiful meals, the hard-boiled eggs, peeled, a reminder of the circle of life (Does life go on, does it really?), bagels of every sort, an assortment of cheeses for breakfast, and roast chicken and kishka, a stuffed derma, and corned beef and kugels—mostly orchestrated by Florrie—much of the food remained untouched. Jacob had, for the most part, disappeared into their bedroom, and when he was present, the person before them had been replaced by a ghost, at least that was the way it appeared to Esther.