Here I Am by Jonathan Safran Foer(188)

“Pompelmo House?”

“Anonymous House?”

“Dusty House?”

“To be continued,” Julia said as she checked her phone for the time. “I’ve got to get these guys to haircuts.”

“Right,” Jacob said, knowing the inevitable, and wanting to defer it, if only for another few minutes. “Does anyone want a snack or drink first?”

“We’re going to be late,” Julia said. And then: “Everybody say ’bye to Argus.”

“Later, Argus.”

“Ciao, Argo.”

“A good goodbye,” she said.

“Why?”

“It’s his first night in the new house,” Jacob said.

“New House?” Sam suggested.

“Maybe,” Jacob said. “Although it won’t be new for long.”

“We can change the name at that point,” Sam said.

“Like the Old-New Synagogue in Prague,” Julia said.

“Or move,” Benjy said.

“No more moving,” Jacob said.

“Gotta go,” Julia said to the kids.

The kids said good goodbyes to Argus, and then Julia knelt down to be face-to-face with him. “Take care, hairy man.”

She showed nothing, nothing that anyone but Jacob could see. But he could see. He couldn’t describe the giveaway—her face revealed nothing, her body revealed nothing, and there was nothing in her voice—but she gave it all away. He could only ever manage repression. She was capable of composure. And he was in awe of it. She did it for the kids. She did it for Argus. But how did she do it?

“OK,” Jacob said.

“OK,” Julia said.

“I know what we should do,” Benjy said.

“We should go,” Julia said.

“No. We should walk around the house with our eyes closed. Like we used to do on Shabbat.”

“How about next time you’re here?” Jacob said.

Sam stepped forward, into the space of his adulthood: “Dad, we can do this for him.”

And with that, Julia put down her bag. And Jacob took his hands from his pockets. No one watched anyone close their eyes, because that would have betrayed the spirit of the ritual. And no one peeked, because there was an instinct stronger than that instinct.

It was fun at first; it was funny. The nostalgia was sweet and untinged. The kids bumped into things on purpose, and made boy noises, and laughed a lot. But then, without anyone intending it, or noticing the shift, a silence bloomed. No one stopped talking, but there was no more talking. No one suppressed a laugh, but there was no more laughing. It went on for a long time—it felt like a different amount of time to each—the five of them like ghosts, or explorers, or newborns. No one knew if anyone’s arms were extended for protection. No one knew if anyone crawled, or did leg sweeps for obstacles, or ran a finger against a wall that he kept to his right at all times. Julia’s foot touched the leg of a folding chair. Sam found a light switch, pinched it between his thumb and forefinger, searched for the place between off and on. Max felt a thrill as his hands explored the stovetop. Julia opened her eyes; they were greeted by Jacob’s open eyes.

“I figured it out,” Benjy said, old enough to know that the world doesn’t disappear when you aren’t looking at it.

“What did you figure out?” Julia asked from across the room, not betraying him by looking at him.

“Wailing House.”

—

Jacob didn’t need anything when he made his final visit to IKEA. He’d just become so accustomed to IKEA satisfying his needs—hand towels for the top bathroom, a pot of lamb’s ears, freestanding acrylic picture frames—that he came to believe IKEA knew his needs better than he did, in the same way that he scheduled physicals because the doctor knew better than Jacob if Jacob was sick.

He picked up a bright red step stool, a garlic press, three toilet brushes, a drying rack for laundry, a drying rack for dishes, half a dozen felt storage boxes that would be perfect for some still-unknown purpose, a level (despite never once, in the previous forty-two years, having had need of a level), a doormat, two letter trays, oven mitts, several glass jars with airtight seals for the storage (and attractive display) of things like beans and lentils and split peas and popcorn and quinoa and rice, more hangers, LED light strings to connect the corners of Benjy’s room, pedal bins for each bathroom, a crappy umbrella that wouldn’t survive two storms but would survive one. He was among the textiles, spreading his fingers in a faux sheepskin, when he heard his name.

“Jacob?”

He turned to face a quite beautiful woman: warm brown eyes like old leather; a gold locket that drew his gaze to the top of her tight, unmottled cleavage; bracelets halfway down her hands as if she’d once been bigger. What was in that locket? He knew her, or had known her.

“Maggie,” she said. “Silliman.”

“Hi, Maggie.”

She smiled a smile to bring a thousand ships to harbor.

“Dylan and Sam went to nursery school together. Leah and Melissa’s class.”

“Right. Of course.”

“It’s been a decade,” she said kindly.

“No, I remember.”

“I thought I saw you. Way back in living rooms. But I lost you in the shuffle. And I wasn’t sure. But when I saw you here, I knew.”