“I just wanted to make sure you were OK,” I said.
“Why?” she asked in feigned astonishment.
I got confused; I didn’t know how to answer the question. I didn’t say anything at first, and then said, “I was worried.”
“Come on inside,” Sarah said, opening the door wide.
“Never mind. I just wanted to check to see if everything was all right,” I said hesitantly.
“Come in!” she commanded.
It was the first time I’d seen Sarah’s house from the inside. The first thing I felt was the heat: the home radiated warmth and calm. The windows were covered with soft, light-colored curtains. The floor of the living room was covered with a peach-colored carpet. The furniture was covered with embroidered cloth, apparently made by her. There was a pitcher of tea and a glass half full on the table. A television was on somewhere.
“Sit down,” she said gently.
She sat across from me and poured some tea into a glass that she brought from the kitchen. It looked good. Her cheeks were round and flushed; she was wearing a flowery shirt over black sweatpants; her hair was gathered on top of her head in a gray bun and she was wearing a light lipstick; her clothes were old, but her appearance was well maintained and aesthetically appealing, like the room we were sitting in.
She was silent. It seemed like she was letting me get used to the new setting.
“How do you feel?” I asked.
“Just fine,” she answered. I could tell she wasn’t going to help me out of my embarrassment.
“I thought you were sick. I hadn’t seen you for a few days,” I muttered.
“No, I’m completely healthy,” she replied.
The embarrassment had not yet passed. We both sat quietly sipping our tea.
“How do you feel?” she asked.
“I’m also fine,” I answered.
“Great,” she said. Silence once again.
“I think I’ll go,” I said, trying to escape the awkward situation.
“Was it difficult for you to come over here?” Her question shot suddenly into the empty air and caught me unprepared. My answer also was unintentionally blurted out.
“Yes,” I whispered.
“I’m very happy that you came,” she said in a warm and sincere voice. I felt she really was happy that I had come, but why? We had never spoken before my mother’s death. Like my mother, she had been invisible to me, but even so, I felt comfortable with her now. She looked at me with real affection on her face, which surprised me.
Little by little the tension I was feeling began to dissipate. My muscles began to gradually relax and the chair became more comfortable. Sarah went into the kitchen and came back with a plate of warm cookies.
“I just baked these,” she said. “Have a taste.”
The cookie tasted wonderful, and a warm pleasant feeling filled my body. Evening had fallen and shadows began to appear around the room. Sarah didn’t bother to turn on the lights, so we both sat in the mellow dusk. We talked a bit and sat quietly as well. I had never felt so comfortable simply sitting quietly with another person. When Sarah became nothing more than a shadow herself, I got up to leave.
“Come back tomorrow,” she said. It was an order, and she knew I would obey.
4
My visits with Sarah became a matter of routine. Sometimes I went to her house and sometimes she came to mine. She always brought some kind of cooked dish; she never came empty-handed. During the many conversations we had, it always seemed that she wanted to say something to me, but was stopping herself from doing so. I let it go.
Because of my odd upbringing, I was pretty detached from the world. My communication skills were undeveloped; my social life included mostly my father and sometimes Roy. I was uncomfortable around strangers. The only time I didn’t feel foreign was when my father was present.
I remember one day my father and I were sitting on the rug in my bedroom. My father loved to build things. Occasionally he would buy me an assembly toy—usually some sort of vehicle, mostly airplanes—and we would sit together on the rug building it. This particular day, he came home from work with a big box in his hands, placed his coat on the back of the kitchen chair, and made his way to my room. I was on the phone with one of the girls from my class who had called to invite me over. This was a rare occurrence indeed, since I didn’t really have any friends. When my father entered the room, she was just explaining how to get to her house. He sat down on the rug and began to open the box, excitement apparent on his face. He spread the pieces around and began to read the instruction manual, mumbling, “An F-15 airplane. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Dad.” I tried to draw his attention away, but he didn’t hear me.
I raised my voice. “Dad, I can’t stay. I made plans to meet with a girlfriend from class.”
At first I thought he hadn’t heard me, but after a few seconds he raised his sword-like eyes and glowered at me. He didn’t say a word, only fixed me with a piercing glare. Our eyes met for a split second. I immediately lowered mine and, feeling defeated, went off to cancel the visit. There were other instances similar to this, but this particular one is engraved in my memory—maybe because the hope I had of building a relationship with someone at school was wiped away in that moment, erased by a glare.
My father was tall and built well. Even though he was almost fifty, he had a full head of black hair, clipped short at the temples and in back; his hair was a source of extreme pride for him. He was without a doubt a handsome man. When we went out to do errands in town, I noticed both women and men glancing over at him. He was someone with a presence you couldn’t ignore, and he knew it. He loved these looks: loved to be the center of attention. His voice was loud and his laughter boomed like a lion’s roar. He was always an expert on any topic, even those he knew nothing about. I think people were cautious of him—the respect they showed him seemed tempered with fear. As far as I know, he never raised a hand to anyone, but his physical appearance and demeanor caused others to be guarded.
I loved him very much. When we walked around town together, I felt a great sense of pride. I always hoped to run into kids from my class so they could also admire him; in my heart, I hoped they would turn their admiration toward me as well.
My father didn’t know about my social status—I chose not to tell him. I was ashamed, and maybe even a bit afraid that he would give me advice I couldn’t possibly carry out.
I was once tempted to share an incident that happened at school with my mother, but I changed my mind at the last minute. I think she knew what was going on with me, because there were times, albeit rare, when she asked how school was and who I had played with at recess. Surprisingly she knew the names of the girls in my class, even though I never mentioned them.
***
It was a Sunday night in June, but despite the time of year, the skies opened up and a torrential rain assaulted the town. Rivers were close to overflowing and threatened to flood many areas; schools were closed and there were intermittent blackouts.
It was eight o’clock at night after one of my visits to Sarah; as usual, we had enjoyed a pleasant evening munching on cinnamon cookies and savoring the easygoing conversation. I was once again filled with the same sensation—the feeling that Sarah wanted to say something but was holding back. Despite the warm connection we now shared, it seemed that there were undercurrents, things that were not being said. Sometimes it showed in her look; sometimes she would say things I didn’t understand, but when I would try to explore further, she would avoid a direct answer. We seemed to be playing a game. I didn’t understand the rules but played along anyway.
Upon my return to the house, I threw my colorful scarf onto the sofa in the living room and went into the kitchen to fix myself some dinner. On my way to my bedroom, after washing the dishes, I remembered the scarf and retraced my steps to retrieve it. To my surprise, it wasn’t there. I bent down to look under the sofa, looked all around, but the scarf wa
s gone.
I don’t like leaving my things lying around—it’s nice to wake up in the morning and find the house in order—so I continued my search for the elusive scarf. I lifted everything from the floor, moved the coffee table, shook the yellow curtains hoping something would fall out, and moved the sofa so that the floor underneath was visible. But the scarf was nowhere to be found. Perhaps I left it at Sarah’s; it couldn’t have disappeared just like that.
I moved my father’s brown velvet armchair. It was very heavy. It had one of those footrests that opens when you pull a handle. I had to use my feet in order to get it to budge. I pushed and pushed until it finally gave in to my efforts and moved. I discovered a square patch of dust that had accumulated with years of neglect. Curled dust balls covered a large part of the carpet underneath the chair and the darker color distinguished itself, like an unwanted child, from the rest.
I stooped down to collect the dust and my hand filled with tiny balls of wool mixed in with grains of sand. I went back to the kitchen, opened the lid of the garbage can and threw the dirt in. As the lid was closing, I noticed a white object tangled in with the dust. I pulled the object out and shook it. Upon closer examination, I found that it was a tiny plastic bracelet that newborn babies wore around their wrists and had the mother’s name on it. Pulling the bracelet closer to be able to read the writing, I read the somewhat faded ink spelling out the name Sonia Schwartz. The name from the strange telephone call!
I sat down on a chair in the kitchen and stared at the object in my hand. Thoughts were running through my head. I thought about the last few weeks, and bubbles with question marks floated around me like butterflies. “Something is going on!” I announced out loud. Oddly enough, it felt like someone was listening.
I began to make a list of all the strange events that had happened since the death of my parents: the birth certificate in the storage container, the broken window, the car accident that was avoided at the last minute, and the bizarre telephone conversation, now connected to the tiny bracelet in my hand. Is there an explanation for all of these, or is my sullen mood responsible for these unfounded imaginings? I wondered.
It was now after midnight. I took the white bracelet to my room and placed it in the drawer of my desk. I went to bed with all the unsettling thoughts still nibbling at me. Maybe everything that has happened to me is just a coincidence. But these coincidences are disturbing my sleep. Nevertheless, I finally fell asleep with these thoughts.
I completely forgot about the scarf.
5
One night I returned from work more tired than usual, wanting only to get into the bath and scrub away my annoying day at work. Everything made me upset. The secretary sitting across from me hadn’t stopped asking me questions until I politely but assertively told her to stop because of my terrible headache. This obviously hurt her feelings, but I didn’t really care. The department manager, a guy around thirty, recently married, continued to flirt with me like he always had since I started working at the company—instead of his innuendos being funny, today they made me angry. Even the sandwich lady who comes every day received a tongue-lashing from me. It felt like everyone was staring at me.
At five thirty, it was finally time to arrange my desk and gather my things. Before the clock struck six, I was out the door. The journey home seemed endless. I passed the public library and continued on to the suburbs. On the way, I also passed Henry’s Warehouse, and stopped on an impulse. I would finally buy glass for my window and replace the sheet that covered the opening left by the shattered glass.
The store manager, George, Henry’s son, came up to me. He knew me from my visits to the store on behalf of my father.
“Eva, good to see you,” he said in welcome.
“Thanks, George. Good to see you too,” I answered.
“How can I help you?” he asked.
“I need a new window pane for a window that broke,” I said.
“What are the dimensions of the window?” George was making it hard.
I stopped and cursed myself for not realizing I had to measure the window to order a new one.
“I forgot the note with the dimensions at home,” I said apologetically.
George gave me a thoughtful look. “You know what?” he said. “I’ll come over tomorrow and take measurements myself.”
“I don’t want to be a bother,” I said, a little embarrassed.
“Tomorrow at this time I’ll be at your house,” he said. I thought I saw a thin smile creep across his face.
I hesitated a moment and then nodded in agreement.
George looked at me again, this time longer, and then turned away to go back to work.
He arrived exactly at the time he promised. He was a big man with not a hair on his head. His bald head was shiny. His walk and physical appearance reminded me a bit of my father. His movements were sharp and full of confidence.
He went straight to the broken window, took measurements with practiced ease, and went back to his car to cut the glass he brought with him to size. He worked in silence. After about an hour and a half, the window was in place. George gathered his tools and placed them in his toolbox. I took out my wallet and asked him how much I owed him.
“Never mind,” he said, surprising me. “A cup of coffee will cover the cost.”
I was a bit rattled; I was not used to entertaining people I didn’t know.
“I have to go,” I stammered.
“Sit down, sit down,” he urged me as he sat down in my father’s chair. His face was shiny with sweat, and he wiped it off with his sleeve, which was covered in glass dust.
I sat down awkwardly on the sofa. I wanted him to get up from my father’s chair, but I didn’t dare ask him to.
“So, Eva, how have you been handling things alone?” The word “alone” grated on my ears.
“Just fine,” I muttered.
“So how about that cup of coffee?” he asked. Something in his voice made me uncomfortable.
I got up from the sofa and, like a robot, picked up a cup, opened the can of coffee, put a heaping spoonful of powder in the cup, and threw in a sugar cube. I poured in milk and served him the cup. I could feel his eyes watching my every movement. My body was tight as a guitar string.
“Sit with me a bit,” he said. I saw glass dust sprinkle onto my father’s chair. I wanted to ask him to change places, but my mouth refused to comply.
“I knew your father well,” he said suddenly. “You could say we were friends.” I didn’t say anything. He continued, “We would meet every week.”
He pinned me with a look that gave me the feeling he was trying to ascertain what I knew about those meetings. I don’t remember his name ever coming up in our house.
“Yeah, every week for almost twenty years.” His head was tilted to the side and his eyes wouldn’t stop scrutinizing me.
“Did your father tell you about our meetings?” he asked as he watched my face.
“No,” I answered in amazement.
“Your father was a leader. People obeyed him,” he continued in his thick voice.
This I already know, I said to myself.
George got up from the chair and sat down next to me on the sofa. My sense of unease grew, so I straightened up and moved away from him somewhat.
He put his hand on my thigh and fixed me with a penetrating gaze. I tried to get up, but he caught my arm.
“You know, your father talked about you as if you were still a little girl. I had no idea you were such a beautiful woman. With beautiful thick blonde hair and blue eyes like the ocean, just right…”
He moved closer to me and I could smell the stink of his breath. His eyes suddenly looked huge and round and his mouth mumbled words I couldn’t understand. My whole body was stiff as a statue. I couldn’t move any part of my body, even though the danger became more and more tangible.
The sound of the doorbell was like a last-minute stay of execution for me. The ringing of the bell immediately relaxed m
y entire body, and I sailed over to the door. Sarah was standing there with a smile on her face and a plate of cookies in her hand. She came in without waiting for an invitation and turned toward the living room.
“George, how are you?” she asked innocently.
George looked somewhat embarrassed but recovered quickly. “Just great,” he answered. “How are you, Sarah?”
Sarah nodded her head and said, “I see you were just about to leave.”
“Yes,” said George. He gathered his tools, gave a nod of his head and left the house.
Only then could I breathe easily. I sat down on the sofa shaking like a leaf. Sarah went into the kitchen and came back with a cup of hot tea. She held it out to me, but my hand was too shaky to hold it. I felt her hand hug my shoulder, and the fear I had just experienced burst out of me in the form of uncontrollable crying. Sarah rocked my body and made calming sounds, which only made me cry harder.
But the fear I had felt was now mixed with something else. The position we were in seemed totally natural. I unexpectedly felt love and contact—something I had received only sparingly during my life—for a brief moment.
“He’s an idiot,” I heard her whisper in my ear. “I always knew there was something devious about him.”
“He was a friend of Father’s?” I asked, my voice shaky from crying.
She hesitated before she answered, “Yes, in a manner of speaking.”
“What do you mean?” I wondered.
She didn’t answer immediately. She disengaged herself from me and increased the distance between us.
“Eva, there are things you’re going to have to find out for yourself. There are things that I also don’t know. What I do know was told to me by your mother.”
“Oh!” I blurted.
Sarah understood the significance of my reaction. Everything related to my mother gave rise to doubt and mistrust.
She said quickly, “Sometimes, Eva, what we see with our eyes isn’t necessarily real. You need to remember that. Sometimes the reality you see was created by a ‘director’ with his own interests at heart. You need to put on glasses of a different color in order to see an alternate truth, one that is hidden.”
Life in a Box Page 3