A Castle in Brooklyn(49)
“Why in the world would I want to work there?” asked Florrie, crunching her eyebrows as the two women sat at Esther’s dining room table, knitting heavy wool scarves to be donated to the poor in Appalachia. “Sid still has a job and makes enough for the two of us.”
“Well, since the toy store has been closed for some time now, I thought the job would give you something to do,” said Esther, looking down at the long needles, averting her friend’s angry gaze. “And besides, everyone knows you’re the best baker in the neighborhood.”
Florrie sat up straighter in her chair, working the needles furiously.
“I don’t need to be baking for those stuck-up women in town who don’t even know how to turn on an oven! So they can take the compliments for my brownies and apple cake as they stuff their fat faces? No, thank you! . . . Damn, you made me miss a stitch!” she cried, attacking the wool again, almost as angrily as she had attacked her friend.
Esther went into the kitchen for a glass of water, as Florrie, who was never at a loss for words, continued to mutter to no one in particular.
“Such a ridiculous idea! I’ve got plenty to keep me occupied. Plenty!” And again, “Why would I ever need to go back to work?” And the unspoken question: Why did Esther need to?
As a stream of cold water from the tap filled the glass, Esther pondered Florrie’s reaction to her suggestion. What could bring about such an extreme response, such anger? It reminded her of how Jacob would explode at the mere mention of his parents’ names. She realized now that his response came from deep pain, the pain of abandonment. Maybe it was the same with her friend. As Esther became busier with her schoolwork, she had less time to spend with Florrie. Maybe Florrie thought she was being abandoned. And maybe she was just a little bit jealous too. So Esther never offered another suggestion, instead enlisting Florrie’s help with checking her papers for typing errors, and later, reviewing some of Esther’s innovative ideas for lesson plans. But while her heart tugged a bit each time she thought about how she and her best friend were growing more distant, she realized that another feeling was intruding upon her heart, something nearing happiness. It was something that Esther had not felt in many years, not since her life had been shattered, the day she tried to never think about, the memory continuing to twist the blood vessels in her heart like a rag wrung dry too many times. Esther feared that if she shed a tear, it would precipitate a million others. She chose instead to dwell on her work, which was more fulfilling and even more enjoyable than her decorating trysts. Many years before, Esther realized that true happiness, the complete bliss that was brought about only from the comfort of family and home, would always elude her. For now, though, she settled for contentment. So Esther found her slice of contentment in the change that had come about.
Mornings became a hurried affair, with Esther packing lunches for them both: a tuna sandwich with an apple for her, salami on a roll with a sour pickle for Jacob, and sometimes an added treat for them both, throwing in a Hostess Twinkie—but not too often. Jacob, who had always been on the thin side, was beginning to develop a paunch. She ran the day’s lessons through her mind as she stirred Jacob’s bubbling oatmeal, set down a small glass of orange juice for herself, and when the kettle sounded, steaming Sanka for Jacob and a rose tea for herself, poured into metal thermoses. The two exchanged a quick kiss behind the open pages of his Daily News, then Esther, car key in hand, rushed out the door, leaving her husband prepared for the day, her home spotless.
And in this way, the days, months, and years passed, filled with classroom activities, conferences, and the occasional lunch with colleagues, shoveling snow in the winters, watching baseball games in the summer, and nights that offered only a temporary respite until the preparation for it all began the next morning. Such a life offered scant time to think, to muse about the past, to project long term into the future. Esther thought, though, that was probably a positive thing. It was not good to think too much.
But there were those times when she looked out the kitchen window on a Saturday morning, noticed the light-green buds appearing on the trees outside when she would move to open the latch on the window just a little, breathing in the scent of a new spring, and remember. He would have been a man now, she allowed herself to think. Handsome and strong and tall, of course. Successful—maybe a doctor or a lawyer, or perhaps someone who would have joined Jacob in the real estate business, with little time for the trivialities of home, but always making the time to visit his mama. She could imagine him, shoulders back as he strode through the door, bending down to kiss her cheek, then seated at the kitchen table with his father, as he eagerly awaited the bowl of her special chicken soup, with just a tablespoon of sugar added for extra sweetness. Standing by the window, with the dish towel in hand just as she had on that fateful day, these thoughts, irrational as they were, brought a tear to her eye, but more and more now it was also with a smile as she thought of her only child lost so many years ago.
Although her life was now filled with an abundance of new experiences, new people, Esther hadn’t forgotten her friend Florrie. When she had first embarked on her teaching career, the two had decided to get their hair permed into the popular new short shag hairstyle. Not that Esther exactly needed a perm, but she wanted to share a special day with her friend, whose kindness and companionship had lifted her upon many occasions. Besides, it was Lincoln’s Birthday, and they had the entire day to themselves. After several hours in the New York City salon, and admiring their new looks in the mirror, Esther restrained herself from gasping when she looked at the bill. Nevertheless, she reasoned, a special day out with her friend was well worth it. The two then continued down Madison Avenue until they reached the French crêpe café they’d heard so much about, ordered crêpes suzette, chocolate-and-pistachio macaroons, and mugs of hot coffee and tea stirred with spiral canes of sugar. It was like the old days, although at times the conversation lagged, as her own interests had shifted from home and cooking to music and students and books.