A Castle in Brooklyn(75)

“You are mistaking me for my best friend.”

The woman stood for a while, not moving, before finally sitting down next to Florrie. Without being prompted, Florrie continued. And when before she could not find the words to speak, now she gained release in telling the story.

“She had been living near her brothers’ families down in Florida for over fifteen years. She had asked me to come join her, more times than I can count, but I was never partial to that state, not with its rainy spells almost every day, the heat, and oh, those alligators! Besides, everything I’ve ever known is here in New York. The Big Apple is really the center of the world, with Broadway and Yankee Stadium and snow in the winters! How could I ever live in a place without snow?

“But Esther seemed to like it there in the warmth, being close to family, their children, now the grandchildren. She loved them all. And since Jacob passed, well, I was the only person she really had here. Me and the house.”

“This house?”

“Yes, she loved this house. It had been the dream of her husband since the war to build a house. And he did just that; he built his house.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the woman’s cheek twitch. She continued.

“Time went by, though, and Esther retired from teaching, first staying in Florida during the winter months, and then for most of the year. But she would come back often to visit her old friend, and she would stay with me for weeks at a time. We were always friends, we’ll always be . . .” Florrie’s voice drifted off.

“And the house? She didn’t stay here at her house?”

Florrie shook her head sadly.

“It’s a lot, you know, the upkeep and all. It was a lot for one person to maintain, and besides, the house held too many memories—it was their first real home, where they had their child, their only child, and where he died. Right under the tree in the backyard. Esther saw the ball thrown by Jacob. She saw the whole thing . . . too many memories.” She sighed.

“But now you’re selling this house? This house that Esther loved so much?”

Florrie looked at her directly and shook her head.

“Oh, no! No, Esther never wanted to sell this home. Never! That’s why she rented to strangers for a few years. Usually for a year at a time. And since I live just next door, I helped collect the rent, kept an eye out for problems. Some of the tenants were okay, quiet, decent people. But with each new person, the house changed a bit, the furniture, the wear and tear in the rooms, even the smells. No, the house was never the same with all those people coming and going. The last ones nearly burned the place to the ground. Even after parts of it were rebuilt, sometimes when I’m here alone, right after a heavy rain, I swear I can still smell the smoke of it all; it gets into everything, you know. Even after all these years,” she added, looking up at the girl, lifting her eyebrows as if for confirmation.

“But now,” the young woman repeated, “now she’s decided to sell it.”

Florrie spoke slowly.

“I’ve decided to sell it.”

“But why? That couldn’t be what Esther wants! Not after it meant so much to her! After it meant so much to Jacob! Why would you make that decision?”

Florrie looked down at her clasped hands. She was kneading the skin so much that small red marks had begun to appear across her fingers. She spoke again, this time in a deliberate, measured way.

“I’m selling the house because it is mine to sell.”

A perplexed look swept across her guest’s face. Florrie gazed up at her, meeting the blue eyes directly, her own face a mask of grief.

“I’m selling the home because I can’t afford to keep it. I am selling it because Esther passed away.”

Flecks of fire sparked in the woman’s eyes and were swiftly replaced by tears. Without thinking, Florrie stood and moved to comfort her, placing her arm around her shoulders, a vague memory coming to her of someone else comforting her friend many years ago. She waited until the girl’s tears were spent, frightened a little at this sudden expression of sorrow from a stranger.

Mrs. Landau finally raised her head, dabbing at the wetness with the back of her hand. Florrie gazed at the broad face, the round blue eyes shielded by reddish lashes, now bright again.

“I’m sorry. This is so silly of me, really. I just didn’t expect that she was—that she was gone.”

Florrie patted the girl’s back, and as she did so, she felt herself growing stronger, more composed.

“We didn’t expect it either. None of us did. Esther died in her sleep a year and a half ago. A heart attack at only seventy-eight, they said. But what does it matter what the cause was? She’s gone.”

“And she willed the house to you?”

Florrie nodded.

“We were friends, friends from that first afternoon, that first afternoon I brought over my special noodle kugel. The construction of the home had just been completed. I even remember the smell of sawdust was still in the air.”

She smiled weakly at the memory.

“Oh, we had our ups and downs! Sometimes we ran around like giddy teenagers, other times we were sisters in sorrow, lamenting the things we couldn’t change, and there were a few years we barely spoke to each other at all. I taught her how to speak like a real New Yorker, how to bake a kugel and challah for the holidays. She offered to teach me how to play the piano—it was her passion—but I just had no interest in it. Instead, she taught me so many other things—decorating, baseball, but mostly how to be a friend. Esther was a true friend.”