A Castle in Brooklyn(48)
Nights Florrie returned to her husband, Sid, who seemed now more than ever a part of the big-armed chestnut recliner that had appeared in place of the tattered aqua corduroy one. As for Esther, she became marvelously inventive in the kitchen. Each night, dinners were transformed into a different exotic land. Mondays, instead of tired meat loaf, there was beef bourguignon, and on weekends, her special arroz con pollo, and a sugar-filled pineapple upside-down cake. And finally, when Esther was done moving and changing and transforming, she lay down in the new king-size bed with crisp white sheets and the gray-and-yellow afghan sewn by the mother-in-law she never knew—the one memory she had of her. She placed her hand on Jacob’s arm and traced the dark hairs with her finger. Always he would take that hand in his and wind it around his neck. Wordlessly, he would set his lips upon hers, and they made love. In this way, she knew he was still her husband.
Esther waited on the gas line, which because of the oil crisis seemed to stretch longer with each passing day. License plates ending with odd numbers were restricted to odd-numbered days, those ending in even, the even-numbered ones. Esther was an odd, and so that day, February 3, was her day. An odd. She laughed to herself at the notion. So perfectly described, she thought, tapping her fingers on the leather-wrapped steering wheel of the new white Honda Civic. She had always considered herself somewhat different, although outwardly her life belied the fact. Her life had taken a tragic turn, yes, but now it was well ordered, she knew, and she was in control. Yet she had always expected something more. She still did. “Lady, does that car move?” She stepped on the gas. Late that afternoon, when she walked in the door, big brown bags from Macy’s and Abraham & Straus dangling from her arms, she set the purchases on the sparkling white tile floor with the gold flecks and looked around. Chairs and sofa and ottoman and lamps—all of it, all the things she had used to fill the hole inside of her. But it was still there; she was off. She was odd. Her eyes fell on the silent piano. Again, she saw the image of Zalman sitting quietly on the couch, a smile on his face as she played. Before she picked up her bags, she had made a decision.
“Jacob, we need to talk.”
Her husband glanced up from his Daily News, the round spectacles he wore for his failing vision perched on his nose.
Esther knew better than to wait for an answer and continued, “I have a favor to ask of you. I’ve been thinking lately, probably too much, but I want to do something with my life. Not that I want to go back to Papou’s office, since so much has changed there with forms and new tax laws that I could hardly keep up, but something else, something different. And I know you probably think me a bit meshuga, somewhat crazy, but, oh, Jacob, I think I’d like to go back to school. Even though I’m in my early forties, there are many women nowadays working in professions outside the home, and besides—” She was about to add that she had no children to rear but thought better of it.
“Well, it’s like that song I heard on the radio yesterday, ‘I Am Woman.’ I am woman! Hear me roar!” She feigned a laugh. She could feel his eyes still on her.
“I’d like to study to be a teacher. Maybe a music teacher,” she added.
“Fine, Esther, do as you wish.” He returned to the paper. “Since when do you need to ask my permission?” She remained in place, staring at her husband’s expressionless face. Fine, he had said, fine.
Going back to school was both easier and more difficult than Esther had anticipated. It certainly took a lot more effort than deciding between the gold brocade or black-and-white herringbone drapes for the dining room. And while she had never considered herself on a par with the American, those who had the privilege of being born here, she excelled in her English studies that first year in 1973, and she soon came to realize that learning words and concepts (“variables,” “hyperboles,” and the like), along with concepts outside the business sector, proved much more challenging. Her matriculation from Kingsborough Community College to Brooklyn College proved less arduous, though, once she had mastered some of the more complicated intricacies of the English language. Finally, she could delight in the familiar territory of music, as she recalled her fingers dancing over the cream-colored keys, and the new tunes with their numbered notes designed for the instruction of the children. She would adeptly type out essays on the new Smith Corona typewriter, which took its place next to the vase of plastic tulips on the kitchen table, transferring her scribbles into comprehensive essays on music education and motivational skills for the primary grades. And a few months into her junior year, as her hand was always among the first to shoot up while others remained palm down on the desk, as her voice rose stronger in cadence, piercing the steady silence of the classroom, as the well-researched papers were returned with the bright-red slash of an A, Esther gained a newfound pride. At age forty-three, she was now considered a mentor, a role model for the younger ones. She, Esther Itzkowitz, the Jew from Brooklyn. Who would have thought? By the time she had taken her first step toward the podium to receive her diploma and shake the chancellor’s hand, as she glanced at Jacob smiling ear to ear as he fanned himself with the commencement program, she knew she had made the right decision.
If there was one person who wasn’t totally happy about Esther’s decision, it was Florrie. As a friend who had stood by her side during the vicissitudes of the past few years, Florrie was encouraging at first about Esther’s transition to a professional woman, while having no similar desires of her own. Esther had even made the tenuous suggestion that her friend seek employment at Clara’s Bakery in town, which always had a sign for a clerk in the window, and whose prune danishes could definitely use Florrie’s expert touch.