A Castle in Brooklyn(76)

The girl looked at Florrie, absorbing the information, but then the atmosphere appeared to shift, each realizing once again why they were there. The young woman spoke first.

“So now you wish to sell the home.”

It was more statement than question. Florrie nodded.

“Mrs. Landau, I do want to sell it, even though I have my regrets. And even though there are some more people coming to look at it today, I really might consider selling it to you since you have a connection to the home, to that piano which she loved so much. Yes, I might consider selling it to you.”

A smile flashed across the young woman’s face again.

“That would make me so happy! My husband and my boys would love to live here, a real family home! But first you must do me a favor. Please don’t call me Mrs. Landau. My name is Deborah.”

And at that moment, again something shifted in the living room with the piano, in the house.

“Zalman. You’re Zalman’s daughter.”

“Yes, yes, I am.”

Florrie looked up at the ceiling, her mind drifting past the years to the young squat man with the curly hair and blue eyes, the familiar smile in greeting, the way he tipped his cap, the man always by Jacob’s side.

Florrie’s mind began to gather the scattered memories, memories of the four of them going to baseball games or taking walks in the park when she would accompany the little family, Sid preferring to remain by himself indoors. Often, she now reflected as images of the past appeared, it was Zalman who sat long hours at the kitchen table after dinner, helping the boy with his multiplication tables, patiently teaching him the notes of the piano, the two side by side on the piano bench those times when Jacob would stay late at work. And it was Zalman who sat close to Esther, comforting her on the sofa when her world collapsed unexpectedly and Jacob had disappeared into a well of grief.

Zalman was more than a friend or even a brother. He had been a part of this home, just like the couple who owned it, for there was no Jacob, no Esther, without Zalman. And then one day, just like that, he was gone. Florrie never understood why, never dared ask Esther, who was mired in her own sorrow. It was at that time, too, that she and Esther had begun to drift away from each other. After that, she hadn’t thought about Zalman too much, knowing only that he had returned to the Midwest to become a farmer. And only once had Esther mentioned him again, a month after Jacob’s funeral, as the two were upstairs folding his suits and shoes into bags for the poor.

“I wish he could have been there.”

“What?”

Esther, on her hands and knees, holding a pair of polished black tuxedo shoes, looked across the room at her friend.

“Zalman, our old friend, I wish he could have been at the funeral. I think Jacob would have wanted it.”

Florrie stuffed a brown knitted sweater into a large garbage bag.

“Why didn’t you ask him?”

Esther shrugged, still holding the shoes in midair.

“Oh, I wouldn’t know where to begin finding him. Jacob threw away his address on the farm. And when Zalman left finally, I couldn’t even call him on the telephone. Besides, I don’t think at that time Jacob would have wanted me to. Later on, even though he never said anything, I believe he regretted it.”

Florrie knew better than to ask any more questions. Still, she couldn’t keep all her opinions to herself.

“Maybe in a few months when you are more yourself, you can try to find him. I could help you.”

Esther stuffed the shoes into the bag and stood up.

“No, Florrie, I don’t think so. He was Jacob’s to love, not mine.”

Florrie stared for several minutes at the door, which Esther slammed behind her as she left. Slowly, she began packing the rest of the pants, the shirts, and the sweaters into a bag, distracted only by the sound of Esther’s sobbing down the hall.

“Did she ever mention him?”

“Mention who?”

“My father. Zalman. He spoke of Jacob often, mostly about their days together during the war. But sometimes he would speak of her too.”

Florrie did not answer, but took in the girl, the whole of her now that they were both seated on the sofa. Then she heard her whisper.

“Do you think she loved him?”

Somehow, the question posed with such feeling, a mixture of earnestness and trepidation, didn’t surprise Florrie.

But her own answer did.

“I think . . . well, I think a part of her did. Whether it was the love one has for a friend or a brother or even a romantic love. Yes, yes, I do think she loved him.”

Deborah nodded slowly, eased back into the seat.

“My mother thought so. In fact, she really believed it. He didn’t talk about her that much, but especially after Jacob’s death, he spoke of their poor young boy, such a tragedy, and Esther. The way he spoke of Esther, I don’t know, maybe it’s how he smiled when he recalled their time together—Daddy didn’t normally smile much—or the way he would sigh, as if he wanted to go back in time. Anyway, call it woman’s intuition, my mother always thought there was something there. It was only recently that she confided in me that the day of the—” She stopped as a sob caught in her throat.

“The day he died in the car accident on the highway, that was the day he planned to come here. To see the house again, to see Esther. And maybe for something more. My mom never said a word of her belief to my father, only loved him, and loves him still. I guess she decided to see how the whole thing would have played out. But now we’ll never know.”