The Book of V.: A Novel(74)
Her trial will involve going to the king unbidden, Vashti thinks. Esther did that, and she will do it in the story. He is harmless, of course. But they don’t know that.
She slows further, to think. The story is like tendrils of twine she’s trying to braid into rope. Around her the people’s frustration at her pace is a palpable heat, and Vashti finds the uncle—Marduk—squinting back at her. Why he hates her she can only guess. Maybe he hates all Persians, or anyone who is higher than him, anyone who makes him feel as his brother did. Maybe he is simply exhausted. He has lost his wife, it seems, and maybe one child—it is hard to tell which children belong to which adults. Or maybe it’s simpler than all that. Maybe he does not like Vashti because she is not Esther. Vashti saw how his mouth gaped as she talked about his niece, how when she exaggerated the girl’s newfound plumpness, he flinched.
The story, she thinks, lengthening her stride again, will have to prominently and positively feature the uncle. It will begin with him. It did begin with him! The uncle with the idea of sending his niece to the king. The uncle will have to return, more than once.
As Marduk turns away and begins to walk, next to his tall son, the story grows and coalesces in Vashti’s mind, not the story Itz asked for but the one he actually needs. Itz will not be in the story. Itz needs a new story, one that has nothing to do with him. But the uncle wants the old story—not as it is but as it might have been. He wants to go back, and do better, and for everything to turn out well. He wants to slay the villain. The villain will be the minister, of course. (The villain is, in fact, the minister.) So Marduk will be a hero, too, along with Esther, Esther who will want what she has. (And she does now, in certain respects, doesn’t she?) Marduk and Esther standing atop Persia, grinding the minister’s head into the earth. Or maybe not that, exactly, but something like it. A gallows. A hanging meant for one of their own but delivered to another. Reversal, revenge. Yes. Vashti picks up her pace. And other things, she thinks, that would never happen but must happen. Things they don’t have the shamelessness for in life. The story doesn’t have to be believable, she realizes. It has to be the opposite—so unbelievable that they can believe in it. So far from what they know to be true that they can lose sight of the truth. Rivers of wine. Harlots. A pageant. A parade! Spies and riots and then a party. So much blood shed by their enemies they won’t know what to do but howl and dance. Yes. The story is cohering, the story that will become the book is coming into view. Forget the wandering, she thinks. Forget the hole. Burn the records. Hurt with nothing but laughter.
BROOKLYN
LILY
The Spiel
From the wings the empty stage looks vast and dignified, its scuffed floors brought to sleekness by the precurtain light. In the beat before her actors enter, Lily feels almost absurdly stirred. No matter that it’s an amateur and melodramatic musical comedy they’re putting on, open to anyone willing to make a fool of themselves. Her heart thuds beneath her ribs. And when the curtain rises and Mordecai leaps out crying, “All hail!” Lily finds herself cheering as wildly as the audience, her hands raised high as she claps.
In the program she is listed as the spiel’s writer and director, and though in fact what she has contributed on the writing front has been quite minor, she did not correct the proofs. Beneath her name, in italics, is written: In honor of her mother, Ruth Burnham Rubenstein, the original. Before she got sick, unbeknownst to Lily—how much had been unbeknownst to Lily!—Ruth had volunteered to write and direct the spiel, and no one was able to bear replacing her before she died. So they waited, then waited a little longer. Then, the day after Lily’s visit to Vivian Barr, she received an email from Ruth’s friend Susan Levinson—the woman who spearheaded the beautiful platters at the memorial service—asking if Lily would fill the role.
Lily replied, Sorry, I can’t. She did not say, I’m still too sad, I’m still trying to figure out how to make my daughters’ dresses, I still don’t even understand the story, I’ve got issues with it, etc. Thank you, she wrote, but surely there is someone else more qualified?
Thirty seconds later, Susan Levinson wrote back. Perhaps you’re RIGHT. But we would LIKE for you to do it and I know your mother would have, too. Your mother was IRREPLACEABLE, we miss her. We MISS her. Also, you should KNOW that the thing is basically written, we’re just recycling it from another temple, so really all you need to do is tweak it in places, a few edits, then help the crew bring it off. They’re very enthusiastic just need a boss.
Lily felt a little hurt then. They weren’t asking her to create the thing, just fix someone else’s creation. Then she worried. Boss. Was she capable of bossing? Then she reread the email and felt the pride and guilt the woman intended her to feel and said, Okay. Yes. Of course. Thank you.
And then it had been wonderful! Susan met her at the rabbi’s office to show her the script from the other temple, and every wall was lined with books, floor to ceiling; even the back of the door was covered in books, and Lily felt a calm come over her as she sank into a chair and began to read. Then the rabbi walked in and asked if Lily would like to see the original book of Esther and Lily said of course, because what else could she say, and the rabbi—a tall woman in a ponytail and track pants—pulled down the book and said, “We haven’t met, but I loved your mother.” She walked Lily through the scenes, and the corresponding songs in the spiel, and Lily thought, This isn’t something a rabbi is needed for. She must really have loved my mother. And Susan Levinson kept giggling whenever they went over a funny part of the spiel. Then the rabbi pulled down some other books, full of things people had written about the book of Esther, interpretations and arguments and stories, and here is where Lily got lost for a while—she texted the sitter and asked her to stay a little longer.