But he also withheld from Liesel a part of what he meant, he didn’t explain himself completely. Seeing Rose, wandering through her neighborhood (the houses in need of repair, the roads pot-holed, everything scraped at and knocked around by the long northeastern winters), he also saw Texas in a new light. As an escape from all that. From the narrowness of his childhood. From the two sets of plates and the Friday night dinners, from the Hebrew you could speak but not really understand. But also from something else, something like bad luck, which was connected in his mind to Jewishness. Immigrants working hard to climb up the ladder. The grocery business his uncles started had expanded. There used to be Essinger Brothers stores all over the state, selling Astor Coffee and Pillsbury Flour. Their kids became lawyers and doctors and accountants. But the ones who stayed, the cousins who stuck around, in Middletown and Port Jervis and Yonkers, had retained somehow an air of struggling against harsh conditions. There were medical issues; they put on weight; they got divorced. Maybe he still suffered from it, too, immigrant’s luck. But in Texas, raised the way his kids were raised, the effects seemed diluted – and Nathan, if that thing doesn’t … if his health holds up … might yet emerge clear of it altogether. Anyway, he didn’t want to go back, which is what upset him, saying goodbye to his sister. It was a relief to get away.
*
Susie had no special love of Manhattan, but she liked the idea of spending the day with Ben. Even just sitting on the train with him, peeling an orange and sharing it while he read his book – this is something she had looked forward to. Maybe she should have pressed David harder to come along. In fact, he offered to come, he was good at offering, but for some reason, she said no, stay home with William (who had a slight cold). I want him completely recovered by the time school starts. What he doesn’t need is a late night in New York.
But that wasn’t the only reason, and the train-ride gave her a couple of hours to think through the others. Ben was her first-born, and you never really recover the concentrated, isolated intimacy of those early years. (Though you try. Sometimes, when he was in school, if she didn’t have class, she napped in his bed; as the months wore on she got more and more tired.) In a week, he would start junior high. He still seemed to her very innocent, he was very innocent, but there was a kind of – not slyness, exactly – a kind of pleasantness, which he had inherited from his father and might later on conceal any number of thoughts and feelings. She didn’t think it concealed anything yet; he was just good company. Even though he was reading, and absorbed in his book, he looked up from time to time and told her details about the plot. He wanted her to laugh at the bits he found funny. So she laughed, feeling false and friendly. It seemed to her like a game they were playing, where he pretended to want her approval, and she pretended to give it.
Outside the window, the view kept changing. Susie had a book along, too, one of her freshman English texts, but she didn’t read it, she watched the view. And sometimes interrupted Ben to point things out. A schoolbus depot, all of them lined up like yellow pencils. When she was a kid somehow it seemed tremendously important for everyone to use number two yellow pencils. I don’t even know what that means anymore. They passed a harbor with houses strung out along the shore, and she touched her son on the knee. ‘I think one of those is the Edelmans’ place. Over there. Isn’t that the island they rowed us out to last summer?’
There were waves in the bay, which reflected the sunlight and clouds, fighting it out above them; you could feel the wind in the trees, too. The houses looked like summer houses, not in great shape – their paint was peeling, you could see sheds and disused greenhouses in the gardens, which straggled and fell to the water.
‘No, there wasn’t any building on it.’
‘I don’t remember. I thought there was.’
What she really wanted to tell him, the way you might tell an intimate friend, was just, I’m going to have a baby. Maybe you’ll have a sister, but I don’t really care. Boys are good, too. This is another reason she didn’t want David along. She expected to have the conversation with her parents that weekend and thought it might be easier without him.
Ben’s backpack, an army-green JanSport, was a present for starting Junior High. (It was also his birthday the week after, but they wanted him to have it on the first day of class.) She had let him pack it himself, with toothbrush, toothpaste, underpants, socks, a spare T-shirt, a pair of shorts, a pair of sandals, and the AIA Guide to New York City, the fifth edition, which David had bought for him. When the train pulled into Grand Central, he hoisted it over his shoulders and waited swaying by the doors – he liked being first out. And she let him lead the way, her baby boy, about four foot eleven inches tall, pushing along with everybody else like a commuter. But then, under the great domed roof, with its deep tile-green night sky, they both stopped to look up; she wanted to hold his hand but refrained.
Afterwards, they caught the shuttle to Times Square and wandered through more underground tunnels – unfinished-looking spaces, not quite for the public eye, but full of people – before beating the crush and pushing their way onto the uptown local. She watched Ben holding onto the pole, trying not to move or make eye-contact, anonymizing himself, but at the same time taking everything in. So that you see your kid the way a stranger might see him, but with this double vision, knowing him, too, but seeing him somehow more clearly from the outside, a ten-year-old boy. When they stepped into the open air again, into the changeable summer’s day, with Broadway at their back and the buildings rising everywhere around them, she said, ‘Sometimes I don’t understand how people can live in this city.’
‘I guess a lot of people do.’
He didn’t want to say it but he was very happy to be there, in Manhattan, with his mother. Just getting the subway with her, walking around. A doorman greeted them from the lobby of Michael’s apartment. He was actually standing outside, under the awning, in cap and uniform, and moved aside to let them pass. The elevator opened straight into the living room. Ben loved the apartment, too, the parquet floor, the marble fireplace, the little balcony with its potted trees. Even the Tiffany lamps and claw-footed silk-upholstered furniture appealed to his sense of strangeness, of big city grandeur, though he had to fight the vague suspicion that his mother’s taste didn’t approve of these things. And he felt shy of his aunt, who was fresh from the shower and wearing a towel. ‘Come here,’ she said. ‘Give me a hug.’ Afterwards, when she was dressed, Jean brought out the leftover babka from the kitchen and cut a few slices, one of which she offered to Ben on a plate with a glass of milk. Nobody had had any lunch.
‘Is it all right if I read my book?’ he asked his mother, who sat with a copy of the New York Times on her lap.
‘You’ve been reading all morning,’ she said. ‘Jean is here. Let’s talk.’
But in the end she agreed to help him with the crossword, something he had started to do with his father on weekends. From time to time he reached for a bite of the cake, stretching and leaning carefully over the plate, so the crumbs didn’t leave a mess.
*
When Liesel came in, limping through the elevator doors, her brown face flushed and slightly sweaty, Susie felt a pang of something, conscience or sadness or love, she couldn’t tell. Every time you see them they look older. You feel like, it’s not your job to notice certain things about them, but you do it anyway. Also, she didn’t know what Liesel would say about the baby. Her parents blamed David for the fact that her own career had taken a back seat. Somehow you have to protect yourself against their opinions. In the presence of her family she became aware of the existence inside her of ancient defenses – like the remains on a hillside of Roman fortifications, which you can just about make out from the lay of the land.
Part of what upset her is just how quickly Liesel went to bed. They talked for a few minutes, while her mother filled a glass of water at the kitchen sink, and then she retreated to her room. I haven’t seen you since Christmas, eight months, Susie thought
. But it’s always like this, there’s no point in minding it.
Instead she spent the afternoon arguing with Jean.
First they argued about calling Nathan – Susie wanted Ben to have someone to play with, someone his own age. ‘He never gets to see his cousins.’
‘What about me?’ Jean said. ‘He never gets to see me. And I’ve been cooped up in this apartment all morning.’ Waiting for you, was the implication. ‘If we call Nathan, it’s going to be another hour. Let’s just have lunch.’ But then they spent forty minutes wandering around the Upper West Side, looking for somewhere to eat – Jean had ideas about what was and was not acceptable. ‘I’ve counted them out,’ she said. ‘I’ve got twelve meals in New York before I fly home. The truth is, we should really go downtown. There’s nothing here.’
Finally Susie put her foot down. She was hungry, too, tired and pregnant (though Jean didn’t know), frequently on the edge of tears. ‘Ben has to eat, he’s ten years old, it’s almost two o’clock, he has to eat,’ and they got bagels from Barney Greengrass and took them to the little park outside the Natural History Museum. Another six-block walk – more delay. But they had a nice-enough meal, under the trees, and scattered some leftover bagel for the birds. Sparrows pecked at their feet, leaf shadows shifted in the wind. Afterwards they had an argument about when Liesel would wake up, and if they could stop in the museum quickly, before going back to the apartment.
‘She’ll be upset if she wakes up and we’re not there,’ Jean said.
‘So why don’t we call the apartment. Do you have the number?’
‘I don’t think she’ll pick up the phone. It will just wake her up.’
‘You’re not making sense. If she’s still asleep, then what are we arguing about?’
‘I don’t know if she’s asleep,’ Jean said.
‘Well, why don’t you go back, and Ben and I will just have a quick look.’
‘There is no quick look. It’s a big museum. And thanks, by the way. It’s nice to see you, too.’
For some reason, they weren’t getting along, and Susie couldn’t figure out why. Maybe Jean was being defensive with her, maybe it was the other way around. Somehow it seemed that Ben was part of the problem. Jean was very nice to him but you also got the sense that organizing her day around Ben wasn’t what she had in mind. ‘Liesel has my cell phone number,’ Susie told her. ‘If she wakes up and nobody’s home, she’ll just call me.’
‘She’s not good with that kind of thing. She won’t think of that.’
‘She calls me on my cellphone all the time.’
Susie could wield the implications, too. You don’t know what goes on, she was saying; you live in London. At least, this is what Jean heard.
By the time they got back to the apartment, hot and bothered and even a little sunburned, it was three o’clock. The sun had finally burned away the clouds, the air felt thick and close, like a laundry room or public showers, the hair on your skin responded to the moisture. But the lobby was air-conditioned and the apartment itself was pleasantly cool. Liesel sat at the dining table, tapping away one-fingered on her computer, answering emails. The reporter had sent her a thank-you note, with a few more questions, and Liesel wanted to answer them while the meeting was fresh in her mind. But after a minute she put the lid down.
‘Has anyone called Nathan?’ Liesel asked, and Susie felt a little of Jean’s irritation. Why should everything revolve around their brother. But she said, ‘I tried to call him earlier but Jean wouldn’t let me.’
‘That’s right,’ Jean said. It was all childish and petty, and somehow put them both in a better mood.
*
As children, the Essingers aligned and realigned themselves constantly. Let the boys do it, Liesel might say. Or, I need one of the girls. But they also divided according to age: Nathan and Susie; Paul and Jean. As the youngest, Jean had her pick of models to follow, which gave her a funny kind of power. Whoever she decided to like or imitate often got his way. Or her way. But even though Jean grew into Susie’s old dresses and read her old novels, she also liked watching sports with Paul and arguing with Nathan. Maybe Susie sometimes felt a little betrayed, she wanted more from her kid sister. After Jean graduated, they sometimes talked to each other about men, but not much. There was an age gap, six years, and by the time Jean was comfortable enough in her skin to joke about dating, Susie had already started having kids.
When Ben was born, the first grandchild, Jean flew out to help. It was September, she was about to start her junior year abroad. But the Oxford term didn’t begin until October and her parents paid for the flight. She changed diapers and took the first nightshift, until one or two, before bringing the baby to Susie in bed, so he could feed. Jean and David got along well, they talked about English things, frustrations, the kind of thing he had escaped to America to avoid, but also what he missed: Southampton FC, flat beer. But he was less good at changing diapers. He liked talking. When guests came to admire his son, he kept up his interest in the outside world, he asked questions and invited them for dinner. When what Susie really needed was for people to leave her alone. Jean stayed two weeks. She cooked, she cleaned up, she went shopping – and bought a cabbage for the fridge. One of Susie’s nipples had started to bleed, Ben was coughing up blood, someone had said that cold cabbage leaves helped. And every night, Jean lay on the sofa in the dark of the house, watching TV, while Ben slept on her breasts. (Sorry, buddy, she thought. No milk.) You don’t forget these things. But already she had the sense of a shift, a crack in the ground, growing wider; Susie had ended up on the other side.
Julie came next, the following summer, three weeks early, jaundiced, long and skinny, and Jean offered to help again. But Nathan told her, listen, this is our mess, we got ourselves into it, you have to live your own life. Which suddenly seemed to her a different kind of life. Then Paul ‘fell.’ You were my buffer, she told him. Now when she flew over to hang out with her family, she ended up hanging out with their kids.
Which is what she did for the rest of the afternoon. When Nathan came by, Ben and Julie disappeared together (they were exploring the apartment), but Jean ended up on the floor with Margot, playing pick-up sticks – there was an old-fashioned antique set on one of the bookshelves. Then the big kids joined in, Jean got everyone involved, they had to push the coffee table aside. The carpet underneath, a Turkish kilim, was old and rough to touch; Jean, in her short dress, got red knees. Her ankles started hurting. Approaching thirty, she had started experiencing low-level physical discomforts, which only bothered her because she was a mild hypochondriac. Even little things could contribute to her anxiety levels. Once her back gave out, she could hardly walk for a week, she didn’t want that happening again. But she also didn’t want to stop the game, the kids liked her and deferred to her, it’s amazing how quickly you can make up lost ground; she just wanted their parents to notice a little more. They acted like she was having fun.
In fact, Nathan was in one of his good moods. His dark hair, uncut, uncombed, expressed energy and enthusiasm. Everything is terrific, everyone is wonderful. He opened the French windows and stood out on the balcony and came back in. His physical restlessness took up a lot of space. ‘This is an incredible apartment. I’m not sure I would have ditched this guy for Paul.’ He was looking at the bookshelves and touched a book with his finger and lifted it out.
‘Other people have had that thought,’ Jean called out, from the carpet.
‘It’s awful,’ Liesel said. ‘It’s all for show. A man who has an apartment like this, the way he treats women, there’s no private life, it’s all public. You don’t want to live with a man like this.’
‘What are you talking about,’ Nathan said. ‘It’s an apartment on W 83rd with a view of the park.’
‘Only if you stand out on that balcony and lean over.’
‘This is what I like about you,’ her son told her. ‘You think that you’re standing up for the people, but really what you’re saying i
s, none of this is good enough for me.’
Susie kept quiet. She knew that she couldn’t compete with Nathan in this mood. His cheerfulness refused all contradiction. But she liked watching her son, who was sitting Indian-style on the floor, next to Julie, with the crossword on his lap, so he could work on it between turns. He looked like his father, without glasses. They had the same vague friendly English boyish face, though his was paler and not so fat – with blue eyes and a weak nose, the kind you like somebody for, because it suggests self-effacement. But in fact in both father and son it meant something else, indifference, or a willingness to reserve opinions. People kept saying to Ben, ‘It’s your turn. Come on, are you playing or not?’ He was trying to think of a word and read out the clue. Julie took the newspaper away. ‘Either you play or you don’t,’ she said, and Susie saw him lift a stick from the pile. But no one was watching. It moved a little, she saw him see it move, but then he started addressing himself to the pile again, using the stick he had just picked up to lever another one away from the crowd. Julie said, suddenly, ‘What are you doing?’ and Ben said, ‘I thought it was my go.’
‘It moved.’
‘I haven’t even touched it yet.’
‘No, the last one. I saw it move.’
‘Did it?’ Ben said. ‘Okay. I didn’t notice.’
And Liesel said, ‘You have much more appetite for this kind of place than I do. You’re more of an aristocrat than I am.’
‘No, I just know these people better than you do.’ Nathan had found one of the armchairs and started to flip through the book. ‘The people who make this kind of money usually make it for a reason, because they’re smart, serious people. Whoever bought this apartment is somebody who knows what he’s doing.’
A Weekend in New York Page 19