The Middlesteins(62)

But he was not there yet: He had only begun to regret; he had only begun to understand; he had only begun to mourn. Middlestein’s daughter was fighting with his daughter-in-law, his son was walking downstairs and then into the living room, shaking his head angrily, and his dead wife’s new boyfriend was now sobbing on his son’s living-room couch, his hands clutching his kneecaps, his daughter’s arms wrapped around his chest. The music upstairs stopped.

“She wouldn’t have wanted him here,” said Robin. “I can speak for her. I am totally correct in speaking for my mother.”

“He has every right to be here,” said Rachelle, and he could tell then that she was done discussing the matter. It was her home, after all. No one could argue with that. It was the woman’s home. It was her show.

Robin slammed the kitchen door open and burst into the room. The mourners turned their heads away. Don’t look at the poor girl. She’s lost her mother. Robin left through the front door, but moments later appeared in the backyard. Everyone could see her through the window, sitting on a deck chair near the pool. Benny appeared next to her. He pulled a joint out of his pocket and lit it. The two of them got up and turned their deck chairs facing away from the house, and passed the joint back and forth.

Middlestein was still leaning against the wall near the kitchen, unable to move. Rachelle pushed open the swinging door and poked her head into the dining room, holding her gaze on Middlestein.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“What do you have to be sorry about?” he said. “You didn’t do anything.”


“The yelling,” she said. She shrugged her tiny shoulders. She did not seem tough enough to take on his daughter, but he understood she would do anything to keep things under control in her universe. Other days she would not consider Robin and her tantrums and her ego. Rachelle might have been a princess, but Robin was the little sister. Today, though, Rachelle had restored order, at least in small part on Middlestein’s behalf. He would never forget that she did that.

She looked, bleary-eyed, at the tables of food before her. “What are we going to do with all this food?” she said.

“It’ll get eaten,” said Middlestein. He tried to muster up a joke about Jews and food, Jews and funerals, Jews and Jews, but nothing was funny.

Rachelle wandered past all the tables and then did a double take in front of the dessert tray that Josh had decorated to look like a smiley face. She turned back to Middlestein with a sour look on her face, cheeks pinched, forehead wrinkled.

“Wasn’t me,” said Middlestein.

She began to push all the cookies together in a big pile in the middle of the plate, and then she knocked some off, then finally she picked up the plate, weaving her way through the crowd, out the front door, until there she was, standing near the pool, handing cookies to her husband and her sister-in-law. She took one for herself and picked at it with her fingertips, one tiny bit at a time. She paused and licked her lips. In another minute Robin’s boyfriend, Danny, showed up by her side. He dragged up a seat for himself and Rachelle. Together, they all hid.

What was left for Middlestein in this house? Everyone he cared about had run away from him and all the other mourners. He should leave. He had paid his respects. Whatever was left for him to feel was for him to experience alone. And he wanted to take his suit off. He wanted to burn this suit. He pushed his way through the crowd, nodding at anyone willing to give him eye contact. He paused at the front door and considered following his children to the backyard to say good-bye. He decided against it. Out front, outside, it was sunny, and he felt warm and tight in his skin. He couldn’t breathe. Middlestein unbuttoned his pants and hunched over. He heard a small choking sound and lifted his head up. By the oak tree, near the mailbox, there was his granddaughter, Emily, crying. He pulled himself up and walked toward her. Sometimes she got this calm look on her face, and that’s when she looked like Benny. When she was dressed up, she looked like her mother. When she was angry, she was Robin, she was Edie. When she was clever and funny, she was like them, too. When does she look like me? There she was, alone by a tree, weeping for her grandmother. He wanted to weep, too. He went to his granddaughter and he hugged her and held her against him, and just like that, they were close. Until the day he died, they were close. Wasn’t that strange? No one would have put the two of them together like that. No one would have figured they had much in common except being family. But they were close to the end.





Acknowledgments



Irving Cutler’s thorough and fascinating book, The Jews of Chicago: From Shtetl to Suburb, was tremendously helpful during my research. I am grateful to Dr. Benjamin Lerner, who was always so thoughtful and generous in his explanations of vascular surgery, as well as the health issues of overweight Americans. Lisa Ng gave me a spirited education on Chinese cooking; if not for her, I would never have known about the magical powers of cumin and cinnamon.

Kate Christensen is the best first reader a girl could have. Deep talks with Wendy McClure were invaluable to the development of this book. Rosie Schaap, Stefan Block, and Maura Johnston have all provided love, support, and couches on which to crash. My agent, Doug Stewart, has probably achieved saint status by now. And my editor, Helen Atsma, is a powerhouse, as well as a very nice woman. Finally, I would like to extend a big thank-you to WORD Brooklyn, my favorite bookstore in the world.