The Forgotten Hours(5)
After her run, she showered and, at a loss for what to do with herself, slipped back under the covers. The musky smell from earlier was gone, and the sheets were chilly, like the limp skin of a reptile. It took a long time for her to finally warm up. She begged off seeing Zev later, claiming to be coming down with a cold. She so badly wanted life to be simple, to move ahead steadily, and yet now she was being drawn in once again to the impossible question of why things had veered so terribly off course. In a matter of weeks, her father would be with her again, warm and funny and indelibly present. Life would not be the same anymore, and that was good. Wasn’t it? The reporters’ questions had stirred up feelings she didn’t know what to do with. She tried calling her brother, David, again—still no answer. Call me!!!! she texted.
Fitfully, she dozed; she was afraid of dreaming, but the dreams didn’t come. Instead there was a blank kind of panic that erased all conscious thought. It was a relief, really, and she sank into it.
Things looked different on Sunday morning. On her run along the Greenway, Katie reveled in the awesome power of her legs. Salty air blew over her face, cool and sharp, spurring her on. She was looking forward to her call with her father later that day. All her life, he’d made her feel like she was a priority for him. When she was younger, he’d been present at every parent-teacher meeting; he’d loved accompanying her on class outings or to buy a special dress for a bat mitzvah. During her brief flirtation with playing the violin, he’d sit and hold the notes up for her, encouraging her to keep sawing away, trying to persuade her she’d get better if she just kept trying. Even now—with unthinkable constraints reducing his life to a whisper—he focused on how he could help her. Not that long ago, she’d complained on the phone of sudden dizziness when rising, nausea sloshing unexpectedly in her stomach. During their next call he’d regaled her with advice about checking iron levels and having her thyroid looked at. He’d spent the hour allocated to him on the library computer searching for solutions to her problems.
“You’ve got to take care of yourself,” he’d said. “You’re my Amazon warrior, remember.”
At midday when she entered the Gaslight gallery on Houston, Katie walked in with squared shoulders. Her jeans were tight fitting and flared, embroidered with vines along the side seams. She wore no makeup except scarlet lipstick. Zev looked up from a trestle table on which he was cutting up a sliver of wood with a handsaw. The overhead lights were turned up fully, bleaching the faces of the others milling around the gallery, unpacking crates and hanging art, but Zev’s skin was dark hued, healthy looking. There was color high on his cheeks.
“You,” he said. He smiled, and sharp creases sprang from the corners of his eyes. He was a striking-looking man, but it was his eyes that were hard to turn away from. They were so frank, startling, and there was something sad about them. “Come to spread your germs, huh?”
At first she didn’t know what he meant; then she remembered her supposed cold. “Just the sniffles,” she said. In the paper bag she was holding were twenty lemons from the market. Zev grew up in Tel Aviv, where his neighbor allowed him and his little sisters to pick lemons from her tree; he loved their scent and considered them good luck. Katie held the bag out toward him. “Brought you something.”
He sank his nose into it and breathed in deeply. He swooned backward a bit and fluttered his lids as though he’d just taken a hit of something fabulous. “Yeah, baby,” he said. With one arm, he pulled her toward him. “Glad you came. And thanks. We’re slightly freaking out here.”
The gallery was surprisingly spacious. The floors were wide-plank wood painted a high-gloss white and shimmering with reflections: blues and grays, the bright yellow of one woman’s top. At the front of the space was a bank of large windows that sank almost to the ground. The walls were still mostly bare except for a few paintings hanging at the far end. Sounds echoed hollowly. “You’re opening tonight, right?” Katie asked. “Isn’t it tonight?”
“I know, I know,” Zev answered, releasing her. “Better roll up our sleeves.” His voice was deep and measured, with a singsong cadence that she’d originally thought was French but was in fact Israeli. He dropped his h’s and said “em” when hesitating, rather than the rounded, resonant American “um.”
“Where’s all your stuff supposed to go?” Katie asked, looking at the four walls, one of which was entirely made up of windows.
“Partitions,” he said, picking up the saw and waggling it in the air. “We’re figuring out a way to secure them to the pillars.”
When they first met years ago, she had been a freshman at Vassar, and Zev an art professor. She hadn’t known him all that well back then, but they’d developed a casual friendship over the years. She’d go to his studio with friends now and then, and he’d offer them cardamom tea with honey. His energy was so steady, so deep and calm. He was unlike anyone she’d ever met. When he looked at people, it was with a kind of forthrightness that wasn’t accompanied by meddling inquisitiveness. Even when he engaged in conversation, that demanding curiosity she so often felt from others was entirely absent. This man seemed to want nothing from you, while at the same time thoroughly enjoying the fact of your presence. She loved to let his voice waft over her. Her father had been in jail six months when they’d met, and she didn’t let on to anyone what was going on. Using her grandfather’s name had allowed her to keep her story a secret in college and afterward, but she’d paid the price too. Nervous energy that kept her up at night, anxiety fueling ever longer, more punishing runs. During that time Zev’s solidity, his easy silences, had been a great comfort.