A Castle in Brooklyn(37)

As for herself, her lamentations could not be quelled, her tears could not be stopped. Never had she known such sadness, never even dreamed it was possible, not even after the death of her father. The loss of a parent, though sad, was the natural order of things, but a child—their child—in a simple wooden coffin? The sight of it was so against the mandate of what it meant to be alive, something that she eventually had to concede was beyond comprehension. So she no longer tried to understand it but let the feelings wash over her as she went through the motions of her day. And yet, like a refrain that invaded her mind, she recalled the mere sight of the coffin, so small, as she stood before it that sunny Monday morning, draped in black between Jacob and Zalman, blocking the stream of words that flew from the rabbi’s mouth, words intended to comfort, the platitudes from family, neighbors, and friends. Her mother, Sally, afflicted now with Parkinson’s disease and whose steady flow of tears nearly matched her own, stayed home that day, and on most days afterward, unable to summon the words that could comfort her daughter. Although she would call Esther on the phone occasionally, she often said little. The skies were threatening rain, or she had a new recipe for a plum compote, or if Esther had stomach problems, advising a cup of strong tea. What could she say, really?

Even Zalman, who seemed always to be standing at Esther’s side with a plate of rugelach and a slice of sponge cake or offering a sweater as the air began to chill—not even he could penetrate the sadness, not even he could stop the endless torrent of tears. Only at night when the moon was high and the silence deep did she hear sobs coming from his room.

While Esther in those days and weeks after the funeral could not stop crying, Jacob was unable to shed a single tear. He passed through the days, a grim expression set in his face, which seemed remarkably to have aged ten years. He spoke little, asked for nothing, his grief impenetrable. Even without his saying a word, Esther knew he blamed himself for the accident. If only he had not hit the ball so hard, if only he hadn’t pushed his son to be the best, if only the two had stayed indoors that day. If only . . . Esther didn’t blame her husband; the thought hadn’t even crossed her mind. She was too preoccupied with the loss and the fear of a lifetime of days ahead that would be spent grieving, childless. And so she did not voice any objection when after the week’s period of mourning, the shiva, was over, Jacob announced he would be going back to work.



Time passes. In six months, a human can go from an embryo to a baby to a child staring with wonder between the bars of a crib to a toddler running out the door, from a boy whose future lay before him like a brilliant new day to . . . to what? To grieving parents, to nothing. No movement, no future, no time.

It was also a time of learning for Esther. Since she was a girl, she had filled her days with things to do; now all the tasks that had occupied her time seemed irrelevant, worthless. So she relearned new things, a new way to be. Florrie knew someone who managed a card store downtown, and with a simple phone call, Esther became the new cashier and salesgirl Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoons. She learned to sew—skirts and drapes and doilies—took a class in ceramics from which she brought home vases for flowers, and purple-and-yellow-dotted teapots. Esther joined a women’s club, where she knitted and helped collect money for the town library, and while she did not always chat about mundane things like some of the others, she listened. And when she had quiet time to think (knowing full well that thought worked as a parasite to sanity), there was always Florrie, arm stretched out to offer a muffin and a cup of steaming tea or sit with her, watching All My Children or another soap opera, an outlet for her fears. But as the days cooled and the sun shimmered low in the sky, the memories of what she could no longer have filled her mind, and often, as Esther sat alone on the couch waiting for Jacob to walk in the door, tears would spring to her eyes. But in those months, Jacob was no comfort. Not to Esther and not to himself.

Almost too soon after the customary period, Jacob had returned to work. It was there that he could remain invisible, hiding as he went through his daily rituals of paperwork and visits to tenants, lawyers, and associates. When he came home late in the evening, he spoke little except for a customary nod of the head when he walked in, not even bothering to assist with the dishes, or carry the garbage outdoors. The flowers on the hedges had begun to droop, and the grass turned yellow from lack of care, as more cigarette butts scattered on the front porch and lay cold, dormant in ashtrays on the end tables. Except for when he took his meals, Jacob haunted the bedroom silently, reading the paper or going over material from the office. He steadfastly refused all her appeals to come outside, take a walk in the park, or see a movie. Of course, going to a ball game was out of the question. While Jacob offered no solace for his wife, neither did he complain nor even give voice to the guilt Esther believe consumed him even now, just over a year later. He expressed no sorrow, at least not openly, no anger or resignation. Her husband had become invisible.

It was Zalman who remained in the house, there to help her fold the laundry or ask if she wanted another cup of tea. It wasn’t until a month after the tragedy that she remembered. He had been ready to leave, had packed his things and had even secured a new job. And yet he was there, as always, comforting, supporting. Filling the spaces Jacob had left.

But even though Jacob had become invisible, unreachable, Esther felt that during those days she understood him more than ever. He had always been an enigma in his refusal to talk about his life as a boy, before his parents and brother lost their lives brutally, she guessed, in the war. Now that she, too, knew tragedy, perhaps the greatest tragedy anyone could realize, she understood the relief that sometimes silence could bring. Sometimes, she reasoned to herself, it was better to close oneself off, not revisit the sadness. Finally, Esther knew her husband, why he never so much as mentioned what his parents were like in better times, if his mother had tucked him into bed at night, if his father had shown him how to throw a ball, as he had with Gary.