A Castle in Brooklyn(57)

There were fewer stores and people now, as Jacob turned the corner of the residential block. He averted his eyes when he noticed the few workers out late, digging up water pipes in the middle of the street. Watching the mounds of dirt ascend as a giant pit became ever larger had always unnerved him, reminding him of his near miss with death. But here, in America, the image had taken on a different, more pleasant aspect, as each slash of the shovel into earth meant hope, the beginnings of a new house taking shape, a new dream realized. And then, years later, as a small casket was lowered into the ground, the sound of the spade, the smell of damp earth frightened him as it never had before. He crossed the street.

As he neared the home, Jacob tried to recapture his dream. Zalman seated next to him on the train, standing nearby as his best man, staying up late into the night, meticulously drawing the lines that would someday be Jacob’s house, watching patiently as his son’s fingers paused over the keys of the piano. And Jacob realized then that without Zalman, like the house, his life would have had no foundation. Again, he recalled when Esther had approached him with an idea. She wanted a new house, this time smaller, a new home only for two. But Jacob had swiftly denied the request. How could he move on to a new home? Without Zalman, how could he start again?

He wondered, too, why he had hurt him. Although there had been no words between the two men that day when he had thrown Zalman out of the home, Jacob knew that the man had suffered a pain, one so deep that only Jacob himself could fix it.

Jacob knew that it was not jealousy but fear that had incited his actions. He could not chance losing her, just as he had lost his parents, his brother, everyone he had. He would not let Esther slip into the hole. His fear had morphed into anger, an anger aimed at his best friend.

Jacob placed the key in the lock. He had planned on taking some time off from work in two weeks. That was when he would call Zalman. Jacob was sure his old friend would be glad to hear from him.





TWENTY-ONE


Esther


It was one late afternoon on the first of April when Esther, her arms filled with books and packages, pushed open the front door with her knee and set the items on the kitchen counter. A sigh escaped her lips as she removed a glass from a bottom shelf and filled it with a stream of cold tap water. An aggressive sun was boring its way through the half-opened blinds she had recently purchased when she heard a car door slam shut just outside. Perhaps it was Florrie rushing home to make her husband dinner. Their friendship as the years flew past had grown more distant, reduced to sporadic waves or hurried greetings in passing. Esther noticed at the last such sighting that her neighbor’s hair had gone from a lustrous black to nearly completely gray. While Esther, who was already past fifty herself, would never consider such a drastic change, she had to admit that the color, at least on Florrie, was rather attractive, giving her the air of a sophisticated, mature woman. Perhaps she would tell her that the next time she ran into her, maybe even invite her in for a cup of tea if they had the time.

Esther looked at the stairs and decided she was too tired to change her clothes just yet, or even grade the five classes’ worth of exam papers, and the groceries—the milk, apples, rye bread, even the Breyers coffee ice cream, Jacob’s favorite—could wait. Taking her glass into the living room, she kicked off her pumps and settled into the sofa. And as she took another long sip of the water and patted down the wrinkles in the royal-blue satin pillow, she decided that yes, this was her favorite time of day. Just as her eyelids began to flutter in sleep, though, she was startled by the click of the lock in the front door. She looked up to see him emerging, leather case in hand, shoulders slumped as he dropped the briefcase on the carpet and removed his jacket. When he turned toward her, she could see deep dark circles under his eyes and that his face had assumed an ashen-gray pallor.

“Jacob! Why are you home from work so early?”

He barely met her eyes but bent down to brush her cheek with a kiss.

“I don’t know, Esther. I just didn’t feel like working. Maybe it’s my stomach again. I’m just not right.”

“Jacob, you work too hard. Good thing you planned to take the next few days off from work. You need to relax. Maybe we’ll go up to the country, no? It would be nice to get away. Go upstairs. I’ll bring you some tea, or maybe you want some of the chicken soup I made last Friday?” But she didn’t receive an answer, and Jacob was already up the stairs.

An hour later, Esther was shutting the blinds in the kitchen and clicked on the lamp on the end table in the living room. She had refrained from going upstairs to change her clothes or even turn on the TV so as not to disturb her husband, as the house assumed a peaceful silence. When she heard the whistle of the red kettle, she removed a Lipton tea bag from the pantry and, using the earthenware mug they had purchased on a recent trip to Miami, she poured a cup of tea. Delicately ascending the stairs, she walked into the bedroom.

The room was mute except for the regular ticking of the alarm clock on Jacob’s side of the bed. His head was turned from her, sunken deep into the pillow.

“Jacob!” she called in her best singsong voice. “Time to get up. Otherwise you’ll be awake and keep me up all night!”

But then something changed. It was a feeling, a deep silence that she had sensed only once before on a sunny day in April when she looked out the kitchen window. She hesitated before coming closer. Esther placed the mug on the dresser and walked toward him. But even before she touched his hand, still the hand of a boy of twenty, she knew. She knew that she had lost him. That he was gone.