He found her in the garden, pulling weeds from the ivy.
Carla stood up and placed her hands on his shoulders. “Papa, it’s getting much too cold. You should be in the house now. Come, I’ll make you some coffee.”
Felix rested his hands on hers. “I’ve been thinking, liebchen, I must apologize.”
“Apologize?” Carla had considered for some months that her father’s mind tended to wander. She had not yet discussed this with Sophie.
“You were so little, so beautiful. A tiny flower. I held you close to me to keep you safe. We might have lost you in Europe. We might have lost everything. I had to hold you very close to keep you safe.”
“I know, Papa. It was a terrible time. I’m very grateful.” She leaned her face to his and kissed him lightly.
But Felix drew back. “But, you know, I hurt you, I think. I held you too tight, I never let you breathe your own air. You never learned to.…”
“Papa! You’ve been wonderful. You and Mother both!” It seemed to Carla that her father’s self-reproach was the sort of thing men drown in as they begin to die.
“I only want to tell you,” Felix continued, “that we have been here in America a very long time now.”
“Yes,” she said cautiously, “a very long time.”
“And we have been safe for a very long time,” Felix continued. “You’re no longer the little flower pressed tight in my hand. You are a good strong tree. You don’t have to be afraid anymore.”
He drew her into an embrace so strong it surprised her. He held her until her breathing became slow and even against his chest. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I brought you into a frightening world. But now you can stop being afraid.”
Carla began to weep. She did not know what to make of this speech. But her tears gave way to deep, throaty sobs and she let her father hold her until they passed.
A woman with soft grey eyes approached Nathan after Robin Colby’s memorial service.
“That was such a moving speech,” she said. “He must have been a very good friend.”
“Possibly,” Nathan replied. “Have we met?”
“Vera Lenz,” she said. “At the Szabos. The urologist? God, I think he was.”
“Ah, yes,” Nathan said. “Of course. Good to see you again.” He hadn’t thought to remember her. Armand’s women went by so rapidly. “What did you say your name was?”
“Vera. Vera Lenz. I’m Armand’s.…”
“Yes, yes. Lucky man, Armand.”
They chatted over wine and cake. There was a brightly-colored Guatemalan shawl draped about her black wool dress, and the dark gypsy hair, again plaited into a thick, impudent rope, hung down her back. She cast a bright beam through the sombre little parlor.
Mourners interrupted with thanks for the eulogy. More wine, more conversation. Her face, Nathan noticed, was remarkably mobile, her eyebrows pulling up high, furrowing her brow when the grey eyes widened. Her hands darted constantly, punctuating her thoughts, hands that tapered into surprisingly long fingers. Nathan struggled to match the husky voice to this small, wiry woman. This woman, he decided as they spoke, is astonishing in her warmth, penetrating in her perceptions. Nathan had the sensation of mandolins, of dancers circling.
Armand came for her. “We’re leaving, sweetie. Nathan and Carla are coming over later for supper. See you tonight, Nathan.”
She had potted a chicken and made dumplings. Armand had set the table with French country faience.
“My mother never made it this well,” Nathan said as he ladled more yellow liquid into his bowl. “Carla doesn’t cook like this. In fact, no one we know cooks like this. It’s quite original of you, Vera, to be so old-fashioned.”
There were brandies with the coffee and warm apple and nut pie. Vivaldi. And laughter. Vera made the brooding Armand laugh, Nathan noticed. He followed her into the kitchen.
“So who are you, actually?” he began. “I mean, where are you from? How do you know Armand?” He’d had too much brandy. Her answers passed through him. Her gaze, it seemed, made him shrink back and squint. The confusion of waking into sunlight.
“Do you have children? Do you work somewhere?” These were questions he was accustomed to asking and they anchored him.
She had two children. She taught.
“Yes?”
“At Columbia. Teachers’ College. I teach art therapy.”
“I’m a Columbia man, you know. An ophthalmologist. I’m at N.Y.U. now. Until recently, I directed research there. Cancer research.”
“That’s wonderful,” she beamed. “I’m doing research now. On a grant.”
Nathan leaned back against the kitchen counter. A heaviness pressed upon him, compacting him. He was uncertain of his size, his height, his volume.
“That’s very, very nice,” he finally managed to say.
“It’s stressful,” she said, “but also stimulating.” She was scraping plates, stacking them in the dishwasher, scouring pots as she spoke. It was disorienting. He really did hate kitchens. “Autistic children,” she said. “We’re studying their paintings.”
“Remarkable,” he said. “Are you the principal investigator?”
“Oh no,” she said, “just assisting. I also teach two days at the college and also one morning a week with preschoolers at the synagogue. Then I have my own two boys. I’m pretty busy,” she smiled.
Nathan’s eyes followed her about the kitchen. “I loved my projects,” he said. “They were my life.” His lips, his jaw had turned to stone. “They’re gone now.”
Vera’s gaze had become an immense embrace; he thought he might dissolve in it. Unbearable. He put his hand to his face, then pulled it away and stared at it, aghast. It was wet with tears. “My God!” he said.
“It’s all right,” she said softly. “Tears are cleansing.”
“I never cry,” Nathan began.
“Sweetie, come join us by the fire,” he heard Armand call to her.
“It’s all right,” Vera reassured him.
“Go ahead,” he said. “I’m okay. Just a little drunk.”
They were sitting by the hearth. Carla on the great brocade armchair, the glow of embers reflected on her cheek. Vera lolling on the floor, her head in Armand’s lap. She rose when Nathan entered and drew up a chair for him.
The Four Seasons, Nathan thought. Vivaldi and a glowing fire. It really is too much. Armand might have a taste for paintings, but he’s utterly naive about music.
“Do you enjoy music?” he asked Vera. She was standing now, behind Armand’s chair, her fingers rubbing his hair, his temples. She slid her hands along his neck to his shoulders and dug her thumbs into his back. Armand moaned. Nathan averted his eyes.
“Yes,” she said. “I love music.”
“Vivaldi?” Nathan asked.
“It is a bit of a Christmas card, isn’t it?” she smiled. “I mean with the embers and the brandy and all.”
“Do you like Vivaldi,” he asked Armand.
“Uhmmmm,” Armand said. His moans deepened as Vera continued, rotating her fingers into his neck, swaying gently behind his chair.
“Never mind,” Nathan murmured.
Armand’s eyes were closed and he flexed his shoulders under Vera’s hands. Nathan tucked his chin down as if he were attending to the music. But he heard only Armand. A leonine rumble. A purr. A vast, blissful yawn. He doesn’t deserve her, Nathan thought. He knows nothing about music.
He hazarded a second glance at Vera. Her eyes were closed lightly now and she leaned into Armand and then back with the rhythm of her kneading fingers, the swivel of her pelvis barely perceptible. My God, Nathan thought as he felt the erection swell in his trousers. He wished he’d kept his jacket on.
“We should be leaving,” he said dryly.
“I love a massage,” Armand said. He rubbed his eyes and reached back for Vera’s hands to still them. “Let’s say good night to our guests, sweetie.”
“Terrific dinner,” Nathan told Vera at
the door.
“Thank you,” Vera said. “Glad you enjoyed it.” She stretched her slender arms and yawned sweetly.
A jungle creature, Nathan decided. Research. Chicken soup. Velvet eyes. So confusing. He thought he must be very tired.
“And that was a memorable eulogy,” Vera was telling him. The eulogy for Robin, it seemed, had occurred ages ago. It had been a terribly long and complicated day.
“Such warmth in that woman,” Carla said as she turned into the driveway of the sprawling old house. “I hope Armand appreciates her.”
“He doesn’t,” Nathan said.
He was too tired to read himself to sleep. Too tired to wait for Carla to finish in the bathroom. He pulled the quilt around himself.
A massive figure loomed in the corner, an armored knight. A lance extended, hung with black pennons. Colby! It had to be! Those were Colby’s weasel eyes peering through the vizor. And under the armor, Nathan knew, was a man whose skin had flaked away.
“Jesus Christ!” he exhaled. He rolled over, pulled the quilt higher over his head and hugged himself.
Carla’s hand was on his arm as he sat up with a convulsive jerk.
“You were having a nightmare,” she said. “I couldn’t wake you. Are you okay? Oh, Nathan! You’re sweating!”
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“Can I get you something? Some water?”
“No, Carla, I’m okay. I’m sorry I woke you.” He turned his pillow and lay back on it. “Did I cry out?”
“Several times,” she said. “Something about a massage. You seemed to be protesting.”
“Robin,” he said.
“Robin?”
“Robin. He was rubbing my neck and my back. Rubbing his hands all over my skin. It started out as Armand, but then it was Robin. And I was melting, dissolving. My skin was coming off.”
“Dreams are so strange,” she said.
“I’m sorry I disturbed you, Carla. Go back to sleep.”
The air in the bedroom was clotted and his bedlinens sodden with sweat. His daughters, his in-laws, were asleep. The huge study rattled. The kitchen was unendurable, the living room icy.
There simply was no place to pass the night.
Twenty-four
Somehow, it was September again. His daughters would soon depart for school. Felix and Sophie would head south; they no longer waited for the autumn chill to toll. He would be left with Carla and the thickness that lay between them.
“Just be sure to bring Vera,” he heard his wife say into the telephone. “Nathan is more irritable than ever. He’s upset that I’m giving a party in honor of Nina’s book. Vera has a really cheering effect on him. Be sure she comes along.”
He backed quickly out of the room but it was clear that he had overheard.
“Armand’s having problems with Vera,” Carla said. “I persuaded him to bring her to the party. You ought to talk with him. Tell him how much we like her.”
Nina Phillips’s autobiography, he thought, must be a hideous book. He was certain he would never read it. Worse than the book itself was the prospect of this party. Nina Phillips in his home, sitting on his chairs. Castrated, mutilated. Crossing her panty-hosed legs, brushing her hair back from her electrolysized face.
Carla had invited everyone they knew and some they had never met. Phil’s college roomate, for example. Mike Ross.
“How is he going to feel?” Nathan demanded to know.
“Only you have a problem with it,” she said. “I need to do this, Nathan. I’ve spent so many years not understanding. Now everything is finally all right.”
She wore a pale blue cashmere sweater he hadn’t seen in years and a gold bracelet he could not recall. Tiny baubles dangled from it: a tennis racquet, a sailboat, a heart, a Yale key.
By the window overlooking the lake, surrounded by Tom, Stew Abrams, and Mike Ross, stood Vera, dark pendulum of a braid against her narrow back, her body animated as she spoke.
“Men always flock to you, don’t they?” Nathan said, planting a kiss on her cheek.
“Your guest of honor is a lovely woman,” Vera said, nodding in Nina’s direction.
“She gives me the creeps,” Nathan said.
Armand rushed toward them. “Jesus, Nathan! I sat down right next to him. To her. She looks like a woman. God, it made me queasy.”
“Perhaps we should step out onto the porch,” Nathan suggested.
“You’re both overreacting,” Vera said. “Nina Phillips is a really sweet woman.”
“Give Nina our regards,” Nathan said, ushering Armand to the porch.
“Vera’s the best woman you’ve ever known,” Nathan told Armand when they were alone. “You’re not thinking of giving her up, I hope.”
“She’s like the others,” Armand sighed. “Marriage. It’s all they think about.”
“She’s not at all like the others,” Nathan insisted. “We’ve met the others. Vera is an absolute original. And she’s funny, she makes you laugh. Haven’t you realized how much she cheers you?” He took Armand’s elbow and led him away from the house and down the sloping lawn toward the lake. “We’ve all noticed the difference she’s made. She’s so vital, so alive.” Nathan’s voice dropped and he slowed his pace. “It’s clear she loves you,” he told Armand. “The love of a good woman is a powerful thing, you know.”
“Maybe too powerful for me just now,” Armand mused.
They turned and started walking back to the house.
“I’ll tell you this much,” Nathan said. “If you don’t marry her …”
“Yes,” Armand said, “if I don’t marry her, I should have my head examined.”
“What I was going to say,” Nathan continued, a boyish grin lighting his face, “was if you don’t marry her … uh, I will!”
“That’s quite a challenge,” Armand laughed.
They were still laughing as they returned to the party. Nina stood tall beside the piano, her willowy arms slung about the shoulders of Carla and Mike Ross. Sifting through old photos.
“How could she have done this?” Armand wondered aloud.
“You mean Nina?”
“Well, Nina too. But I meant Carla. This really is a terrible party.”
“Please,” Nathan said, “you don’t know the half of it. She’s wearing Phil Neuman’s class key. For friendship’s sake.”
“Good God!” Armand said.
Over the grey linoleum his patients came and went, following the tiny squeaks of Doris Needham’s crepe-soled shoes.
“Good Yom Tov!” said one elderly man.
“A happy New Year!” said another.
“Happy New Year to you,” Nathan replied.
The holidays always surprised him. He hadn’t attended holiday services since he’d left for college. His wife had left Judaism behind in the mitteleurope that had almost cost her life. Alex had become quite religious and had often rebuked them both for their laxity. Today, his patients’ good wishes embarrassed him.
“Will you be finishing early this evening?” Doris Needham wanted to know. “I mean, with your holiday and all.”
His holiday? Well, it was his holiday. A sharp twinge dissolved in nostalgia. Tekiah! Teruah! He remembered the words that called forth the blasts of the shofar! He remembered its plaintive wail. And his father’s hand extending from the hem of a tallis and resting on his shoulder. Some years, it would be his birthday and Rosh Hashonah on the same day.
“Yes,” he said. “It’s a very important holiday, Mrs. Needham. Ring Alex for me, would you please?”
Alexandra was overjoyed. She would meet him at the little synagogue on Gramercy Park. They might have to stand in the rear but it would be worth it.
“Tekiah! Teruah!” he sang out as he embraced her. She wrapped her arms about his neck. She was beginning to be pretty, he thought. She deserves a boyfriend, this daughter of mine.
A cellist accompanied the cantor. What gorgeous music, Nathan thought. He thumbed through the Siddur, raci
ng ahead to the text for the next day. It was there, just where he remembered it. After the Kaddish, a “Meditation”:
“And remember that the companionship of Time is but of short duration. It flies more quickly than the shades of evening. We are like a child that grasps in his hand a sunbeam. He opens his hand soon again but, to his amazement, finds it empty and the brightness gone.”
What is this, he wondered. How did it come to be in the Rosh Hashonah liturgy? Not a prayer, not a portion of the Torah. There were others, he realized, peppering the service. They’re never read aloud, these little poems. Who put them here? He withdrew a pen and a bit of paper from his breast pocket and quickly noted the words.
The companionship of Time. Odd, he reflected. He had always considered Time an enemy.
“This was grand,” he told Alexandra as they walked home around the Park. “Thank you for accompanying me.”
“We’ll go back tomorrow,” she said.
Lisle thrust herself against him as he let himself through the apartment door. Felix. An afternoon nap from which he never woke.
He held his rosy daughter close and nuzzled her fragrant hair. He could not recall the womanly shape of her. Perhaps he had never known it. He remembered only a radiant, succulent child. She had, it seemed, worn garlands. And then she had become lost to him. She was her grandfather’s favorite. He had given her the name she was called. Since her earliest days, they had shared some secret and mysterious bond. Poor Lisle, he thought. And Alex, too. Their first death. He wanted to wrap them both in their nursery quilts and trundle them off in a wooden shoe.
“You’ll have another eulogy, Daddy,” Alex said.
“I’m afraid my eulogizing days are over.”
“But you’ll have to,” Alex said. “Who else can do it?” Nathan thought of the day he had stood in Butler Library, conjuring an image of Felix Weisenthal. Of Felix cheering him on as he … That really was so long ago.
Nathan vowed to his wife and his daughters that his eulogy for Felix would be his last.
“You’re a wonderful son-in-law,” Sophie told him. “Felix would have been so pleased.”
The Speed of Light Page 13