Dalliances & Devotion

by Felicia Grossman

  “Sorry,” David mumbled. He bent and grabbed his belongings, ready to retreat behind his own divider.

  After scuffling and a few sneezes, Mrs. Weiss’s head poked out into the common area. “You got your half of the rent?” She blew a lock of mussed brown hair off her brow as the infant yanked her ear.

  “It isn’t due until next week.” David traced a circle on the floor with his toe. He wasn’t behind. Yet.

  “So no promotion? Or did you get sacked?” She pushed aside the divider and stepped out, transferring her child to her hip. “Back to lugging papers?”

  “I quit. Cleaned out my desk and all. What does it matter to you anyway? I’ll be leaving soon enough.” Because he was done. The moment he arrived back to Philadelphia he made his decision.

  It was time for a change. With Will and Meg probably leaving and the higher-ups talking about union busting, his path no longer made sense. Besides, who was he really trying to impress anyway? No matter what he did he’d never actually be good enough.

  So it was time for a new plan. Again. A new location too. Chicago, or Milwaukee, or Cleveland. Physical labor again. Mind clearing, physical labor. David stared at the floor. “Besides, lugging papers is honest work.”

  “Well, then tell your friend here to leave. He insisted on staying. We don’t want any trouble.”

  Friend? David’s head shot up as Mrs. Weiss stuck a thumb out behind him. “What friend?” He spun around just as the door closed behind him and a broad man, with thick dark curls streaked with white, stepped into the light. “Papa?” David quaked.

  It’d been almost a decade since he’d left Berlin, but who didn’t know his own father?

  “Hello, David, fancy meeting you here.” His father made no movement towards him, and instead lounged against the wall like the philandering rogue and part-time radical he was.

  “It isn’t that unlikely, as this is my apartment.” David folded his arms as the older man strolled around the common area, lifting burnt pots heavy with grease—not the flavorful kind—bending over to peer under the moth-eaten collection of rags simulating a tablecloth, toeing the grimy floorboards that turned the Weiss children’s knees green.

  “I suppose,” his father murmured. The man brushed back the divider to David’s area and plopped on the bed, bouncing hard enough that it squeaked. He shrugged.

  “What do you want?” David yanked at his hair.

  “I think we should discuss more what you want. Because I don’t think you know.” He brushed off a dusty chair and sat down, intent on David.

  “I don’t, specifically, but I do know that it isn’t here.” David pulled out his own chair and sank down into it, his legs spread wide.

  “Yes, you’re good at leaving. Quite skilled at running away.” His father cracked his knuckles.

  “You’re one to talk. And I didn’t run away, I searched and journeyed, making the world a better place. Isn’t that what you wanted me to do? Isn’t that how I could make you proud?” David twisted the tip of his finger. “Or care about me.”

  His father’s shoulders slumped. “I do care about you.”

  “Really? Then why did you abandon us?” David’s voice cracked. “Why did you leave my mother defenseless, let her family trade me to the Russian army after she died? Why did you let me...” He couldn’t finish, couldn’t say the words out loud.

  “Pay for my crimes?” His father laced his fingers together and tapped his hands against his chin. “Because I’m a rather selfish man, I’m afraid.” A sliver of a smile graced his lips. “I’m rather good at agitating for the masses but individuals...well, my attention wanders, unfortunately.”

  A pounding started in his head. He should respect the man. He was still his father after all. But he wasn’t in the mood for this discussion. Especially after he’d had his heart ripped from his chest.

  Again.

  David released a slow breath. “Why are you here?”

  “To convey an offer.” His crossed his legs.

  “I don’t want it.” David matched his posture. “Whatever it is. And I think you should leave. I’m in no mood for an apology from you that involves me being not enough to hold your ‘attention.’ Not that I hold anyone else’s.”

  “Is that so? For someone who is very clever, you’re rather dense when it comes to looking at your own life.” He snorted a little. “You work so hard to avoid my mistakes but you make them anyway. Not because you’re actually like me, but because you’re afraid you are.” He shrugged. “A bit of a self-fulfilling prophecy.”

  David frowned. “What do you mean by that? I didn’t force my grandfather and cousins to banish me.”

  “Did they?” His father inched closer and lowered his voice. “Or did you assume they did? Do you give people a chance to explain, or do you leave when you’re afraid they’ll tell you something you don’t want to hear? Do you reject people so they can’t reject you? Because of what I did to you and your mother.”

  David started. What did he know? And how?

  His father sighed. “I may not want to be married, but you do, no matter what you say and what arguments you make.”

  “I don’t.” He huffed a little. Yes, it was a bit childish, but a lecture on commitment coming from a man who changed female companionship weekly was a bit much. “It conflicts with my values.”

  A snort from his father. “Wearing those tzitzis and praying three times a day conflicts with the most logical extension of Mr. Marx’s theories, not to mention makes you a target, but you still do it.”

  Ugh. Just like his father to criticize him that way. David stroked the strings. “I wear them because it’s who I am. And I think I can still fight for equality while being true to myself, whether I get called a ‘meddlesome, troublemaking Jew’ or not.”

  “You are a meddlesome, troublemaking Jew. We both are. It’s part of our charm. And the world doesn’t change unless troublemakers meddle.” His father smirked a little. “And isn’t loving a certain woman part of who you are too? A certain, particular woman, who is a bit of a troublemaker herself?” He cocked his head. “What was her name again?”

  No. He could never say it. Not even in his head. She had too much power.

  “It doesn’t matter.” He whispered the words more to himself than to his father.

  “Doesn’t it?” His father thrust a piece of paper into his hands. “How about this? Does this change your mind? Make you want to try listening instead of assuming?”

  “What is this?” David blinked at the note.

  “Just read it.” He indicated to the missive with an imperious gesture.

  David glanced down. Was that Yiddish? He squinted as the familiar handwriting came into view.

  Dear David,

  I hope this letter really finds you, and finds you well. The family presumed you dead, though Grandfather never gave up hope after you were kidnapped. Traveled to dozens of army posts, always writing me, asking if I’d had news.

  I didn’t, just guilt over the fact I had your place, had the life you should’ve because of one unlucky twist of fate. And then, by happenstance, I came to Berlin and saw your father. And we spoke and I realized you were alive. With his help, I traced your steps to America and eventually to a shul in Philadelphia, a rabbi named Einhorn.

  And what news we had. We are all so proud of you and your success. Please, when you aren’t too busy, write us back and tell us how you are. We all miss you and your stories...

  The rest of the paper was a blur. Shmuel. The rest of his family. They didn’t hate him. They’d just lost him. He had jumped to conclusions. He’d have to write, immediately.

  David tipped his chin at his father, who grinned. “Here.” He slapped his thigh before handing David another sheet. “I’m not going to press you about the...er...other matter anymore. Even if it means a certain Lydia Nathan and Rachel Levy wil
l hound me forever and be rather vexed as they paid for my trip here. Nevertheless, I want you to consider the rest. It’s an offer to have you study to become a rabbi and teach some Hebrew school in exchange for room and board, at their rabbi, Sabato Morais’, home, which is slightly more comfortable than...”

  His father inclined his head towards the curtain where Mrs. Weiss’s peeking eye was visible between the crack. “No offense, ma’am.”

  She curtsied a little, not dropping the baby. “None taken, though if he could find me another tenant...or if you want to stay for a spell.”

  David shook his head at the woman even while his father leered at her. “You really can’t help yourself, can you?”

  “There is that saying about ‘old dogs.’” The older man threw his head back and laughed, patting his nonexistent stomach over his coat and turned back to Mrs. Weiss. “I’m sure we can find you a new immigrant to move in, a new family in need of a new life.”

  “If I accept.” David rose, clutching the chair a little as he worked to keep his voice cool and calm, even as his insides quaked and jiggled.

  “If you accept.” His father scoffed. “It’s what you were always meant to do. The journey just took a little bit of time. You understand the power of words and can harness it for good, if you try.”

  “But you rejected Judaism.” David twisted his fingers.

  “I rejected many things.” He reached out a hand. “You’re not me, David. And you don’t have to be me.”

  “But you’ll never...” He couldn’t say the rest.

  “I will always love you and be proud of you,” his father said. “In my way.” The older man tutted a little. “You probably deserve better, but I can only give what I can give. However, just because I can’t be what you need, doesn’t mean you don’t deserve it nor that you can’t do a better job in your own life.”

  David’s mind whirled. Did he want the career he’d dreamed of as a child? He did. He always would. And maybe, just maybe his father was right—he could do it better now, after everything he’d learned, after everywhere he’d been. In this place, in this time. He could make this world better from that position. As the person he was.

  “Fine.” David spread his arms wide and shook his head. “I accept. I’ll try. I can’t promise I’ll be good, but I’ll try.”

  “That’s all anyone can ask. Of anyone.” The older man gave him a full broad smile before slapping him on the back so hard he near keeled over. “I’ll give you the address and we can get things in order.” He dug into his pocket and held out a small satchel. “Here’s another letter for you. This one is from your friends, Will and Meg?”

  David blinked at him.

  “Who do you think gave Miss Levy and Miss Nathan my name?” his father said. “I believe that’s an invitation. They’re getting married. They said something about finding a way to create the life they wanted, the family they wanted. Suggested you do the same.”

  “Easy for them to say.” David grumbled a little, making a circle with his toe on the dusty floorboard. “They love each other. Think they’re good enough for each other.”

  “Or perhaps they just listen to each other.” His father turned to exit and paused. “Oh, and Will wanted to give you another message. Something about the Truitt matter. The case itself. He said that though you did an excellent job, it turns out some of your facts were incorrect.”

  Incorrect? The case was solved, everything made sense, everyone was going to jail. Everyone was safe.

  “He said to tell you that motive you discovered for the rat and the notes was right, but not the violence,” his father said.

  “What?” David gasped. What was it then, and where was the man going with this?

  “Amalia Truitt isn’t the only one who is capable of making enemies.” His father stroked his chin, his voice a bit amused. “The Walker-Whittaker folks only wanted to frighten her, put her out of business, but when you started poking around the plan expanded.”

  David gaped at the man. “Sir?”

  “You were the target of the bullet that Miss Truitt took,” he said. “Seems like you engender love and loyalty in more than your family back in Europe. It would be a shame after witnessing that and so many other actions that you’d refuse to give her a chance. Let what I did spoil that for you as well.”

  Before David could say anything more, or even process the information, his father swept out of the apartment, probably to find a willing woman who wasn’t Mrs. Weiss.

  * * *

  “Now, if we use wig pieces to extend the hair and already have them styled before we clip them in, really, it could look lovely and put together with no time commitment.” Amalia glided her hands over her recent purchases, gifts to send Meg in Boston. “Maybe a few braids to give volume and some pre-made curls matching her hair...”

  Perhaps search an even higher-end wig shop, because truth be told, Meg must chop her hair a great deal as there wasn’t much to spare, so what she ordered might not be enough. The color was nice though. Especially when washed—really thoroughly washed with ammonia and then lavender to block out the fumes.

  “And how expensive would that be, exactly?” Her mother’s cousin, Isaac, didn’t have to face her for Amalia to discern his bemused expression. He’d long been one of her favorite relatives, always willing to humor her.

  “Not inexpensive,” a voice from the hall of the house on Delancey Street remarked.

  Amalia smoothed her skirt and rounded the heavy-wood fainting couch to kiss her mother on the cheek. “I thought I wouldn’t see you for another week—that you couldn’t take another one of Lydia’s dissertations.”

  “I brought earplugs.” In a flash, her mother had swept into the room, bedecked in deep navy instead of black, and settled on a brocade chair. “Though I have it on good authority that she and Rachel are at a meeting for the hospital so I figured it would be a good time to check in on my youngest child and favorite cousin. See how things are progressing.”

  Amalia groaned. Her mother needed to cease with her nagging about David. There was no solution to that problem. She forced a bright smile and indicated to the hair. “I think things are going swimmingly. Doesn’t it look lovely?”

  “Quite.” Her mother nodded. “But you know that’s not what I was speaking of.” She inclined her head towards Isaac. “Will you leave us for a moment, dear?”

  “What? I’m not missing some Truitt-on-Truitt fireworks.” Isaac gripped the carved wave-like edge of the couch. “Princess versus queen.”

  “I keep telling you that I’m the queen,” Amalia said. “The name after all.”

  “Queen versus queen-in-training, Malcah,” Isaac repeated her Hebrew name again and kissed the top of her head.

  Her mother’s lips quirked.

  “But regardless, I’m not sure you should leave,” Amalia said with only a slight amount of bitterness. “I believe my last private chat with my parents is what began this mess.” A mess she’d never resolve. As David had not once spoken to her since the day in Centerville, despite the fact he was teaching three doors down from her on Sundays.

  Which was fine, just fine.

  “Besides, I’m getting over him. I really am.” She managed to state the entire lie out loud without crying. Which was quite a feat. “There’s no reason for us to discuss the matter anymore. I just have to learn to be happy without him—for good. And I will be. I’ve enjoyed teaching and my last column was adored by most people.”

  A relief since it was a rather long rant regarding demanding the fashion you want, the fashion that makes you happy, and not settling, and not permitting anyone to tell you it’s impractical or old-fashioned or silly or unimportant or frivolous. There was a lot in it about boldness and fuchsia, a color she’d taken to wearing daily in the weeks afterwards.

  True, there was some criticism, but she was getting better at ignoring i
t. She turned to her relatives and heaved a sigh. And the pain would go away. Eventually. “Really, you don’t have to worry.”

  “Amalia.” Isaac’s voice was soft, too soft, too pitying for her rather gallant elder cousin.

  “You don’t.” She swallowed. She’d survive. “I will be fine. I would be miserable sneaking around with him forever. I’m too loud for that. And he will be better and happier without me. It’s best this way.”

  “Do you really think so?” Her mother shifted in her seat, swirls of fabric sweeping the floor. “Because that’s not what I heard. Is it what you heard, Isaac?”

  “No, it’s not.” Isaac slid next to Amalia and gave her a shove with his elbow. “Lydia is his boss, after all. And, unlike your mother, I do listen to her. Sometimes. Anyway, she tells a very different story. Her story involves a man who is excited about his new job and his studies, but hasn’t managed to stop talking about a woman, a particular woman, who saved his life. Multiple times. He likes to moan about how he wishes he could figure out a way to thank her and let her know how much he misses her or how much he wishes he could find a way to talk to her, or more, listen to her.”

  “Yes.” Her mother nodded, her long earrings glinting in the gaslight as they danced against her high lace collar. “I heard a rather similar story, from both Thad and your father, who went to check on the young man. He apologized a bunch of times. To both of them. He went on and on about jumping to conclusions and not always listening to people, or waiting for a full explanation, or allowing them even to finish an entire thought, and how that could be a mistake, a rather large one. He also had some thoughts about how his own fear robbed him of quite a few people.”

  Her heart began to speed. The organ flopped against her rib cage with hope. Foolish, ridiculous hope.

  Her mother pulled out today’s paper. “It also turns out you’re not the only one who can write.”