Here I Am by Jonathan Safran Foer(79)
“Also known as fortitude, righteousness, and ingenuity,” Irv said, turning off the car.
“It’s not their Israeliness,” Jacob said, “it’s just them. And they’re ours.”
IN THE END, ONE’S HOME IS PERFECT
There were rolls of bubble wrap in the basement, like rolls of hay in a field in a painting—dozens of liters of trapped air that had been saved for years for an occasion that would never come.
The walls were bare: the bequeathed awards and diplomas had been taken down, the ketubahs, reproductions of posters for Chagall exhibits, wedding photos and graduation photos and bar mitzvah photos and bris photos and framed sonogram images. So many framed pictures, as if he’d been trying to conceal the walls. And in their absence, so many rectangles of discoloration.
The made-in-China tchotchkes had been removed from the china cabinet’s shelves and put in its drawers.
On the refrigerator, unbleached rectangles indicated where the gorgeous, genius, tumorless great-grandchildren used to be—all that remained were three class portraits, six closed eyes. The Vishniacs had been touched for the first time in a decade, moved to the floor, and those photos and cards that once covered the fridge now covered the coffee table, each in its own ziplock sandwich bag. It was for this moment that Isaac had saved all those baggies—washed them out after use, slid them over the faucet to dry.
On the bed were more piles of things still to be distributed to loved ones. The last couple of years had been an extended process of giving away everything he owned, and what remained, now, was hardest to let go of—not because of sentimental attachment, but because who would ever want such things? He’d had some genuinely decent silver. Charming porcelain teacups. And if you could imagine going to the trouble and expense of reupholstering, a non-ironic argument could be made to save a few of the chairs. But who would be willing to take home, or even to the nearest dumpster, wrapping paper that still held the creases of the boxes it had once covered?
Who would want the Post-it pads, totes, tiny spiral notebooks, and oversized pens, given as promotional items by pharmaceutical companies and taken because they were there?
That box of petrified jelly beans, pinched from the kiddush honoring the birth of someone who was now an obstetrician. Would anyone want that?
Having no visitors, he had no need for coat storage, so the entry closet was a good place to store more of the bubble wrap he didn’t need. In the summer the bubbles expanded and the closet door strained—the hinge pins turning counterclockwise by thousandths of a degree from the pressure.
Who among the living would want what he had left to give?
And what interruption of the stillness, what sudden disturbance, awakened the fizz of the last ginger ale in the fridge?
HERE COME THE ISRAELIS!
Tamir managed to pull three rolling suitcases behind him while carrying two duty-free bags overflowing with—what? What dignity-free doodie could he possibly need enough of to make his cousins wait that much longer? Swatches? Cologne? A massive plastic M&M filled with tiny chocolate M&M’s?
The surprise upon seeing him never diminished. Here was someone with whom Jacob shared more genetic material than just about anyone else on earth, and yet how many passersby would even guess they were related? His skin color could be explained by exposure to the sun, and the differences in their builds attributed to diet and exercise and willpower, but what about his sharp jaw, his overhanging brow, the hair on his knuckles and head? What about the size of his feet, his perfect eyesight, his ability to grow a full beard while a bagel toasted?
He went right to Jacob, like an Iron Dome interceptor, took him into his arms, kissed him with his full mouth, then held him at arm’s length. He squeezed Jacob’s shoulders and looked him up and down, as if he were contemplating eating or raping him.
“Apparently we aren’t children anymore!”
“Not even our children are children.”
His chest was broad and firm. It would have made a good surface on which someone like Jacob could write about someone like Tamir.
Once again, he held Jacob at arm’s length.
“What’s your shirt mean?” Jacob asked.
“Funny, no?”
“I think so, but I’m not sure I get it.”
“?‘You look like I need a drink.’ You know, you look like I need a drink.”
“What, like, you’re so ugly I need a drink? Or, I can see, reflected in your expression, my own need for alcohol?”
Tamir turned to Barak and said, “Didn’t I tell you?”
Barak nodded and laughed, and Jacob didn’t know what that meant, either.
It had been almost seven years since Tamir’s last visit; Jacob hadn’t been to Israel since he was married.
Jacob had sent Tamir only good news, much of it embellished, some of it plainly false. As it turned out, Tamir had been doing his own share of embellishing and lying, but it would take a war to make the truth known.
Hugs were exchanged all around. Tamir lifted Irv from the ground, pushing a small fart out of him—an anal Heimlich.
“I made you fart!” Tamir said, pumping a fist.
“Just some gas,” Irv said—a distinction without a difference, as Dr. Silvers would say.
“I’m going to make you fart again!”