The Two-Family House(43)

Helen did most of the work when the boys were at school. She would give Natalie a “job” every morning: packing up this or that, collections of spoons, books or socks—anything she could think of that wasn’t fragile enough to break. For the most part, it was just monotonous. But some tasks, like going through their photographs, were difficult for Helen. There was a framed picture of Mort and Abe with their father a few years before he passed away; a wedding photo of her own mother and father, now long gone; a photo of her and Rose from Harry’s bar mitzvah, before all the quarreling began.

Helen sat on the floor, wrapping the frames in sheets of old newspapers, wondering if she would ever be able to unpack them. Maybe it was better for the pictures to stay boxed up at the new house. They were going to have so much more space—an attic and a basement for storing things. Some of the boxes could go there. There were plenty of other family pictures she could scatter around. Why torture herself with reminders of what had already been lost? After she taped the box shut, Helen wrote, STORAGE, on it with a thick black Magic Marker she had picked up at the drugstore. She underlined the word twice.

Once the photos were packed, Helen decided to move on to something easier, something less sentimental. But even emptying the kitchen cabinets brought a lump to her throat. The cake pans reminded her of all the birthdays they had celebrated in the house. The pots made her think of all the times she had made chicken soup when someone was sick. Helen was unable to separate even the most mundane objects from her own unshakeable feelings of sadness and loss. It was only after the packing of a vegetable peeler sent her into hysterics that she decided she needed to get some fresh air.

“Natalie, honey!” Helen called out toward the living room. “Get your shoes on. We’re going for a walk.”

As soon as they entered the drugstore, Helen teared up. She knew it would be the last time she would set foot in it, so she let Natalie pick out a candy bar and decided to buy a tube of lipstick for old times’ sake. She remembered back to the day almost five years earlier when Judith helped her pick out a color before their dinner with Sol. She had been pregnant then, hoping for a girl, wondering whether she would ever be able to share a moment like that with her own daughter. And now, here she was, back in the very same spot, hoping again that the next big step in her life would turn out well. “Do you like this color?” she asked Natalie, after applying a generous coat of “Cardinal Sunset” to her lips. Natalie had already unwrapped her candy bar. She inspected her mother’s face and shook her head vigorously. “Your lips look dirty,” she told Helen. “Take it off.”

Helen picked up some candy for the boys and an extra box of Band-Aids. The owner’s wife, Mrs. Feldman, was working at the register. She was a thick, unappetizing woman, well into her sixties. “When do you leave?” Mrs. Feldman asked, dispensing with the niceties. She patted the stiff graying mound on her head and slid her glasses down to the tip of her nose to read the price on the Band-Aids.

“The day after tomorrow,” Helen answered. “Today is the last day of school for the boys and then they have to pack up their rooms.”

“Why you have to move to that fakakta island is beyond me, but you should only have health in your new home.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Feldman. We’ll miss you. Won’t we, Natalie?”

Mrs. Feldman leaned over the counter to get a good look at Natalie. “So long, Mamaleh!” she shouted. Natalie dug her face into Helen’s skirt and covered her eyes. She was afraid of Mrs. Feldman. “Hmmph,” Mrs. Feldman said, miffed. “That one takes after the uncle.” For the rest of the afternoon, every time Helen was tempted to cry, she forced herself to think of the old woman’s face.

She packed for the rest of the evening and all the next day. The last night they spent in the house was endless for her, and as she lay awake, listening to the trucks and buses make their routes on Christopher Avenue, she wondered how she would ever sleep once they moved. The absence of noise was impossible to imagine, and the thought of a lifetime of silence frightened her.

When she got out of bed the next morning, her eyes were swollen and her neck was stiff. Abe was still sleeping. She dressed quickly and threw her nightgown into the last open box on the bedroom floor. She took out her curlers and threw those in as well, along with Abe’s slippers and the small clock on her nightstand. Then she walked to the kitchen to make a pot of coffee.

Abe came in after her a few minutes later. “Did you sleep?” he asked, even though he knew she hadn’t. She shook her head and opened the refrigerator. The only thing left inside was a glass bottle of milk on the top shelf. Helen’s refrigerator had always been full, loaded to excess with casseroles and fruit salads, butter and eggs, lunch meats and leftovers. But that morning, all that remained was the miserable bottle, half filled and alone. The sight of it was so discouraging, so contrary to Helen’s nature, that she couldn’t help but cry. Abe patted her on the back and poured some milk into her coffee.

An hour later, the movers arrived and Helen stood to the side as they carried box after box to the truck. The furniture was next—beds and chairs, sofas and tables. There was nothing for her to do but watch. She was as wooden as the furniture, stiff and dead. Would they carry her out too? But when at last the movers were done, she realized, no. She would have to walk out on her own.