A Castle in Brooklyn(52)

“Andrew,” she said, “do you think—could you—write some more songs like these?”

The boy looked up, a smile, for the first time that afternoon, spreading across his face.

“Mrs. Stein,” he said, “I already have.”

The following week and the week after that, he presented her with more melodies, some childish ditties, others the beginnings of overtures. And while none exceeded the excellence of the first song, each one was impressive in its own right. With each tutorial, the time seemed to go more quickly, and Esther looked forward to their meetings almost as much as she enjoyed spending coveted weekends walking in the park or shopping in the department stores with Jacob. Besides his precocious talent, there was something about this young boy, a familiarity, a need that made her think that time spent with him was never nearly enough. She would have even forgiven the fee if as soon as he entered the foyer, he didn’t open his hand to reveal two crumpled bills as an offering.

As the meetings stretched into a month, Andrew grew more comfortable, nearly settled into his abilities, and so became more loquacious as a result. Like most boys his age, he confessed a love for video games and comic books, Batman being his favorite hero. He wasn’t much into sports, though, never felt like he was agile enough catching a ball or jumping up for a basket. Above all, he loved music.

One afternoon, during another of their sessions, Esther remembered something, and now that the boy’s natural reticence was slipping away and they had become something akin to friends, she felt that the time was right.

“That song you wrote, the one you first gave me, it’s called ‘Isabel.’ Do you think you could tell me why?”

“Isabel.” He repeated the name slowly, sounding out each syllable as a trace of the old shyness returned to his face.

“Isabel is my mother’s name.”

But before she could respond with a “How sweet,” he continued quickly.

“But I never knew her. I don’t really remember her, because she died when I was three. Dad talks about her a lot, though. I know she was a kind person, and I know she loved me a lot. Dad says I look like her, and maybe I do. It’s kind of hard to tell from the pictures.”

Esther felt her heart clench. She had always guessed that there was a secret sadness behind the boy’s eyes, but to lose a mother . . . and at such a young age!

“Andrew, I’m so sorry.”

“It’s okay. I’m not sad about it, and like I said, I barely remember her, just a few things like how she used to play peekaboo with me behind the drapes, and how she would take my hands in hers and we’d play Ring Around the Rosie, oh, and she would sing to me at night before she put me into bed. But that’s about it. That’s all I know.”

“Andrew, I am so sorry,” she repeated, “but how did she die? She must have been very young.” He shrugged.

“Don’t know. I just know it had something to do with her heart. Dad said the doctors even warned her against having a baby, ’cause she’d had this condition almost all her life. But she had me anyway, and she lived—at least for a couple more years.”

Esther closed her eyes, absorbing the information.

“So young,” she murmured to herself.

“Mrs. Stein?”

“Yes, Andrew?”

“Can we go over that last piece? I don’t think I really got it right.”

“Yes, of course.”

And though the two never spoke of Andrew’s deceased mother again, the knowledge had begun to consume Esther’s thoughts until she found herself musing over how it must be for a man and a boy living in that household, motherless. She thought of Isabel, imagined what she looked like, the style of her hair, the way she moved, slowly, with a delicate motion, her long tapered fingers so like her son’s. She imagined how Andrew must have felt when she kissed the top of his head before placing him in his crib in the evening. She thought of her when Andrew appeared at Esther’s front door at precisely 5:00 p.m. Wednesday evenings, but also whenever she walked into class and looked out at the group of girls and boys chatting and laughing, all with families who were whole.

But Esther did more than think. She busied herself buying bracelets with colorful beads and woolen gloves, and music books for the boy, claiming them “extras,” things her nephews no longer cared for, or small unused items she had found around the house. Extras. Andrew accepted these things with gratitude, never complaining they were “too much,” nor did he display overt affection toward her. They were, after all, teacher and student.

When she heard that the Brooklyn Philharmonic Orchestra was playing at the Brooklyn Academy of Music in two weeks on Presidents’ Day, impulsively, she bought two tickets—one for her and one for Andrew. She tried not to think about her first excursion to hear an orchestra that evening years earlier. She tried not to think about the man she was with, either, as she kept her eyes on Andrew during the concert, almost as much as she looked ahead at the musicians. Esther reveled in the expression of delight on the boy’s face as he leaned forward, palms together, listening intently. She loved her role as a teacher this time almost as much as she had enjoyed being a student. Late that afternoon, still recalling the heavenly strains of the music and the light in Andrew’s eyes as he witnessed the talent of the players, Esther was just getting the house keys out of her bag when she was surprised at the front door. There was her husband, waiting.