A Castle in Brooklyn(39)

Even days later, when Esther tried to make sense of it all, she found it difficult to recall exactly what had happened that late afternoon in June. All she knew was that her senses seemed to explode all at once. Zalman’s face, once so familiar, was replaced by someone new, someone she could no longer recognize. A stranger. And yet, mirrored in those eyes, she saw the same confusion and surprise as her own.

Neither had heard the key turning in the lock, the step of Jacob’s brown Florsheim on the ceramic tiles in the foyer. Only the howl, like the one Esther had heard just once before, but somehow now more desperate, as if someone had suffered a mortal wound. And soon she felt the scrape against her skin, even then knowing somehow that the scars would never heal, as fingers tore at them both with an animal vengeance, lifting Zalman whole, who offered no defense as he was slammed against the wall, as she heard the antique vase her mother had brought from the old country splinter into a thousand pieces, as someone emitted a cry, only once, as Jacob threw the man who was once his brother, his friend, down the porch stairs and onto the sidewalk below.

Esther sat on the couch where she had been dreaming only moments earlier, listening for the sound of a door, her husband’s footsteps coming back down the stairs, but as the last streaks of light faded from the wall, and a few stars began to dot the horizon, only the silence remained. A silence that was deeper, more grievous, than even Esther had ever known.





SEVENTEEN


Zalman


As he stared out of the window of the moving train, Zalman tried to focus on the shifting scenery before him. Between an unsettled sleep and awakening, he watched as the sharp angles of gray blocks composed of brick and stone and metal gave way to the shimmering pastels of blue-green grass along the plains. Finally, washed by the sun, the mist opened up to bright sage-green stalks tinged a purple rose against a cerulean sky. So unusual were the colors, as if someone had switched on a bulb, that Zalman, every now and then, had to turn away.

In the months since he had left Jacob’s house, he had tried, most times unsuccessfully, to avoid self-reflection. He found himself as he had when first coming to America, living at his cousin’s house, which now, after knowing the comfort of family and home, seemed more foreign to him than ever. And despite intensifying his hours at work now with clients of his own and staying up nights for hours at a time watching old James Cagney or William Powell movies, he couldn’t escape the surging memories of that day in early June. Why had he done it? He loved her; he knew that now, though it was not until Gary’s death that he himself realized the feelings to be true. From the first day he had met Esther, he had admired her, even congratulated Jacob on his good fortune. And when, as he took up residence in the home, he came to expect the alluring scent of Shalimar as he walked through the door, the beauty of her slender forearm as she extended it toward him, martini in hand, the brush of her skin, the auburn forelock of hair soft against his cheek as she thanked him. Thank you for helping me with the groceries. Thank you for reading Gary a story, taking him to the movies, teaching him how to spell “refrigerator,” the names of all the US presidents, the musical scale. Thank you, Zalman.

And yet, how had he repaid her for all her thanks, her limitless generosity? Betrayal. Betrayal of the one friend, the only brother he would ever again have on this earth. It was the fear of betrayal, he reasoned, as through the years he lay alone each night on the double bed next to the bedroom where Jacob lay entwined with Esther, his wife, that forced his decision to leave the house, still unsure of what the future might hold. Jacob considered him his friend, his very best friend, and had welcomed him as part of the family. He desired all that Jacob had—his wife, his child, his home. And yet, each time he remembered the magical strains of “Clair de Lune” that filled the house, the aroma of Shalimar, the lock of hair caressing his cheek, he knew that he could never go back.

Memories of that sunny morning when Jacob and Gary, caps on their heads, ball in hand, decided to play some baseball, flickered before him. The morning that changed everything. And once again, Zalman found himself helpless. Helpless to leave, helpless to stay away from her. Grief had changed them all irrevocably, but most of all, her. Bereft, lines of sadness etched into her face, she had become a broken woman, without a husband or parent to put her back together. So it was up to Zalman to slowly, patiently, reinstall in her a zest for life. Childlike, as she cast her blue eyes up at him during those dark days, he loved her more than ever. So it seemed only natural after Jacob stormed out with all the possessions that had defined their only son, and she leaned into Zalman for comfort, her lips quivering . . .

Jacob was right to throw him out, of course. Zalman, who had become Brutus to his Julius Caesar, deserved worse. Two days later, Esther telephoned him at his cousin’s apartment in the city. She was not angry with him, not with him and not even with Jacob who, without a word, had gone back to work the next day and the day after that. Still, Zalman felt the sense of defeat and disappointment registered in her voice. She would leave the door open the following afternoon so he could come back and collect his things. He had done as she asked, gathering a few articles of clothing from the drawers, his briefcase filled with notes and architectural drawings, and finally, stopping at the piano bench where beneath was the “Clair de Lune” song sheet inside a slender book, A Beginner’s Guide to Piano. He retrieved the booklet and stuffed it in the briefcase before shutting the door to Jacob’s castle.