A Castle in Brooklyn(65)

Reluctant at first, but after losing one day’s work nursing his aching shoulder, Zalman finally acquiesced. Almost instantly after meeting them, he knew they were the kind of men who would make good employees, both possessing a quiet, serious nature. He could tell by their manner, their eyes that never wavered from his face, that they were honest. Best of all, neither minded making the trip from climbing ladders and hauling paint, not if it was for a job that paid well. Plus, they would be open to learning the business that Zalman himself had gotten the hang of only a couple of years earlier. But there was another reason for his affection. They reminded him of himself. Although they had come from Cuba as young boys on a boat secured by their father, and were about twenty years younger than he, there was something about their spirit, a stubborn drive to do whatever was demanded of them. And, like Zalman, they were loyal—yes, there was that too. He had hired them on the spot.

As soon as they pulled up at the curb in front of the neat but aging facade of the Cape Cod home, the skies opened up and the rain began to fall—large droplets splattering against the windows, the kind that would soak them to the bone. A young, very pregnant woman greeted them at the door, opening it wide so that they could sidestep in, each with fingers curled around the handle of a can of paint. As Zalman settled up, reviewing directions with the woman, Oscar and Manny ran out again, their heads still uncovered, and retrieved the ladder, tarps, rollers, and brushes, and, in a few minutes’ time, they were standing in the front hall, dripping onto the dull wooden floor. Good thing the carpets weren’t installed yet, thought Zalman, looking around the small living room. It was a good thing, too, in fact, that the rooms were bare, not a stick of furniture to be seen. The owner thanked them, and advising the workers to let themselves out by 5:00 p.m., she wrapped a broad sheet over her head and around her expansive belly and left.

The men started the preparations immediately, reaching up from the ladder to set tape against the moldings that stretched across the ceiling, then resting on their haunches to fit the blue tape close to the edge of the floor, making sure radiators and ceiling fans were securely covered, and fastidiously spackling each yawning gap. With the rain ominously swirling against the house, the windows would have to remain shut, at least for now. Almost an hour later, they had opened the cans to reveal the paint, a silky off-white with the consistency of putty. After slowly stirring the paint to radiance, Oscar began painting the downstairs bathroom while Manny attacked the kitchen, which left Zalman with the living room, where the least strenuous effort was needed. He could no longer take the risk of reinjuring his shoulder, maneuvering the brush to avoid wall ovens and sinks, even though Miriam had begged him to stay behind and run the business from the office shortly after he had hired the brothers.

“You are a boss now, not a laborer. You have enough paperwork to keep you busy without having to get down on your hands and knees to paint and scrape,” she pleaded one evening as Zalman eased himself slowly into the kitchen chair and picked up his fork. His wife meant well, he knew, and hadn’t she already followed him all those miles to a new home in a state where they had never lived, where she had neither family nor friends, and all because he had woken up one morning and decided he could no longer work for her ailing father, who was begging him each day to take over the now-expansive farm? Isaac would ask not a penny of his son-in-law, his only compensation having the security of knowing that the farm remained in good hands, in the hands of family, now that neither of his sons had an inclination to continue on as farmers. Looking down now at the pale strands of meat on his plate, Zalman considered lessening the load for once, his thoughts churning in his head. Couldn’t he at least do Miriam this one favor? Spare her yet another day of worry?

So when she asked him again to sit back, to let others take over while he did the paperwork at home, Zalman didn’t answer at first. He chewed the chicken slowly and dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. He took a long sip from his water glass, then turned to look at his wife, standing, holding the dish towel against her chest as if it were a Bible. She was waiting, as always, patiently. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. How could he find the words? How could he tell her even now after fifteen years of marriage? Even now when she knew every wrinkle that wound along his face like a long highway, every word that came from his mouth even before he could utter it? Even now when she thought she knew him better than he knew himself? How could he tell her that he needed this job, this business that was his and nobody else’s? Something that was his and his alone. How could she understand when he already had a family, a home? When he had her.

And so, as Miriam remained standing, her deep-brown eyes laced with concern, Zalman looked up from his meal and finally said the one word that would slow the frantic beats of her heart. “Please.” Miriam blinked once, sat down, and began to eat.

Now as Zalman glided the roller along the expanse of wall, transforming the dim olive to a clean white, he felt happy. A sense of accomplishment flew through his body like a fine breeze, with each stroke, a peaceful feeling. Zalman enjoyed the weight of the roller as he moved it up and down the wall; its appearance when done would be smooth and clean. He enjoyed even the scent of the chemicals, the formaldehyde filling his lungs as he closed his eyes and breathed in. Zalman enjoyed the work.

But each day as he drove back to the shop, tucked away the cans, dappled now with clouds of color, pushing them back on the shelf until they were tight against the wall, a familiar uneasiness tugged at his heart. Outside, when he locked up the shop and walked the five long blocks home, he began to feel it more intensely. He let his feet move him forward, ignoring the pigeons pecking at a half-eaten granola bar on the sidewalk, even the next-door neighbor, an elderly Polish woman who nodded in greeting as she pulled her small cart of groceries behind her along the curb as he walked up the stairs, entered the apartment, kissed his wife’s cheek, soft, cool, compliant. Even when his daughter, seated at the kitchen table, looked up from her notebooks and smiled. Zalman didn’t notice any of it, and he realized then that it had been several months since he had.