A Castle in Brooklyn(67)
More than once she had suggested he return to the home to visit with Jacob’s wife, Esther, who would surely be delighted to see Jacob’s old friend again. She offered to go with him, for Miriam had never met Esther, and she was curious. She was even curious about the home. But Zalman would not hear of it. It would be too painful for the wife, for them both, feeling the emptiness of Jacob’s passing. He was so adamant in his refusals that Miriam relented. And still, Zalman remained anxious, sad, and each day he disappeared a little bit more.
And so she was overwhelmed with joy when Zalman came home one evening and informed Miriam that he had changed his mind. He would visit Jacob’s widow in a week’s time, and maybe he would feel better too. Surely, he would.
The night before he left for the home in Brooklyn, he asked Miriam to accompany him on his evening walk. She grabbed her orange wool sweater, as the night would be a chilly one, and, telling Debbie to make sure to finish her homework, the couple slipped out the door. Miriam said nothing but could not help beaming as Zalman took her hand and the two headed down Raritan Avenue toward River Road.
“I shouldn’t be too long, Miriam,” he said, breaking the evening’s serenity. “No more than five hours at most.”
She watched as a robin swooped down from a hanging branch, landed on the sidewalk in front of them, and, just as their footsteps approached, soared up in a straight line toward the evening clouds.
“Please, Zalman, don’t worry,” she responded, still staring ahead as they crossed the busy street. “Take as much time as you need. I’m sure your friend, Mrs. Stein, will be so happy to see you. She’ll probably want to know why you haven’t come by before, especially because you and Jacob were so close.”
“Yes,” he answered, the sound of his voice dropping an octave. But as they walked past the dimly lit shops, the narrow delicatessen, the photography studio, the Judaica store where owners were hurriedly closing for the night, Zalman wasn’t quite so sure. Would Esther be happy to see him after all these years? And surely if she missed him even a tenth of how much he missed her, wouldn’t she have made an attempt to find him? Wouldn’t she have reached out to him before this? He felt certain that because he was the one who had cut off communication, who couldn’t bear to hear any more of Jacob’s recriminations, who could no longer witness the tears of a childless woman roll down her face, that Esther was ignorant of the family he now had—his wife, the farmer’s daughter, his child. He could only imagine the shock on her face when he told her that for the past two years he had been living right here, in a different state, yes, but one that was only a couple of hours away from the old Brooklyn home. And then she would laugh at the absurdity of it all and look at him with watery blue eyes, and say, “Oh, Zalman,” as he took her hand.
Zalman gazed down at the fingers entwined in his as a thought occurred to him. Maybe Esther hadn’t thought of him at all. Maybe, even in death, Jacob was still in control of her actions, her feelings. Seeing the familiar figure through the window, she would walk away, go up the stairs, where she would creep under the covers of their bed, the one she had shared with Jacob all those years, the door shut. Maybe she had forgotten.
He glanced at Miriam as they turned the corner on the way home. She caught his eye then and smiled. His wife had a strange capacity for reading his thoughts, and he wondered if she could read them now.
Zalman leaned back into the gray leather seat of the light-blue Chevy Celebrity, the car he had received as a parting gift from his father-in-law, the rabbi. After two years, the automobile still felt new, and sometimes he could swear that it even had that new-car smell. It had barely been driven since the family’s cross-country journey from Minnesota. Now, except for the occasional trip to visit his wife’s cousins, who lived in Queens, the car mostly sat in front of their home, Zalman moving it on Tuesdays and Thursdays only to comply with parking regulations. He could walk to the shop now and took the truck for calls to customers and, as for Debbie, well, he didn’t even want to think about his only child behind the wheel right now. He should have sold the vehicle, he knew, as it would have been the practical thing to do; he might still recover a reasonable sum. Still, he couldn’t imagine giving it up. He shifted the car into drive.
The Chevy purred alive, and he pulled the visor down to avoid the sun in his vision. He should have left earlier, he thought, because the sun was always a hindrance at this time of day. Again, despite it all, Miriam and Debbie popped into his mind—Miriam giving him an extra squeeze that morning as he hugged her goodbye, advising him to send her regards; Debbie’s quick “Have fun, Daddy,” as she slipped back into her room. How much did she know of his reasons for the journey? he wondered.
He entered onto the Belt Parkway, joining the steady stream of traffic. The distance was relatively short, but the ride was not pleasurable, with it being a Friday and, worse yet, all the family vacationers seeking that sweet spot to spend their Memorial Day weekend. He knew Esther wasn’t one of them. As a teacher, she easily might have left for her brothers’ homes in Florida, but he knew she’d be in the home that she had lived in with Jacob, the home of her husband’s dreams.
As Zalman cruised past the tired fishers along the waterfront, the joggers, their water bottles hugging their hips, a few college students flying kites or loitering on benches beneath a violet, breezy sky, he felt his fingers gripping the wheel tighter, the image of the home taking shape in his mind. It was the Brooklyn home that was once Jacob’s dream, true, but the house had been just as much his own, maybe more. The idea of it had sprung from Jacob’s mind, to be sure, but it was Zalman’s brain that had worked out the plans. It was Zalman who sketched the slope of the roof, angled each corner of the bedrooms, he who lovingly increased the span of the windows that looked out at a thousand days of sun and rain. It was Zalman’s house from the baseboards to the moldings to the chimney, and he had a right to it as much as anyone. But what about Esther? That day in the coffee shop when he could barely look at her face. No, Zalman had no right to that house, just as he had no right to his best friend’s wife.