A Narrow Bridge

by J. J. Gesher

  The frailty of the door reminded her of the children’s story of the three little pigs. I will huff and I will puff and I will blow your house down. Good Lord, was she the big bad wolf? Rosie knocked again, this time more loudly.

  “Use your damn key,” she heard an old woman say from within.

  “It’s not Hansom, Mrs. Fredericks. I’m Mrs. Yarber, Hansom’s English teacher. I want to talk to you for a few minutes.”

  “Hold your horses. I’m moving slow today.”

  Rosie waited for what seemed forever until the door unlocked and gradually swung open. Hansom’s grandmother sat in an old wheelchair. A worn bathrobe with faded daisies barely covered her obese body. Her white hair was thin, revealing patches of shiny scalp. Her feet had been squeezed into slippers below her swollen legs.

  “Well, what did you want to talk about? Is he failing? The boy’s dumber than wood. My daughter was on drugs when she was pregnant. I think it fried his brains,” the woman said as she rolled herself backward into the room.

  “No, ma’am. Hansom is doing fine in school. He’s a bright boy.”

  The grandmother snorted.

  “Then why are you here?” she asked, her heavily lidded eyes narrowing in suspicion. “Did he do something wrong?”

  “No, ma’am. He’s well behaved. I want to talk to you about…” Rosie stood in the doorway. “Can I come in? This is personal and we should talk about it privately.”

  The grandmother rolled herself closer to the door to block the entry. Still, Rosie saw plenty from the doorstep: a tattered corduroy couch dominated the living space, with a rickety card table and four folding chairs. The table was piled high with old magazines and newspapers. The beige carpet was ancient, buckled and stained with the grime of wheelchair tracks.

  She looked Rosie up and down. “We’re private enough right here.”

  Rosie began, “His acne needs to be treated. I would like to take him to a doctor, and I need your permission.”

  The grandmother took in a deep breath through her mouth and exhaled through her nose. Her entire demeanor went steel cold. “My family don’t need charity.”

  Rosie continued, “I’m concerned that Hansom is being bullied at school.”

  “That boy knows how to take care of himself. And if Hansom needs a doctor, he gets one. Who the hell are you to tell me that I’m not taking proper care of that child? Next thing you’re gonna have the county take him away because the boy has pimples? That’s my grandchild!”

  “That’s not what I said, Mrs. Fredericks. I want to help him.”

  “Well, we don’t need your help. Me and Hansom do fine on our own. Now you get your scrawny behind out of here and don’t you come back.” She swung her huge leg at the door, slamming it in Rosie’s face.

  Rosie didn’t know whether to hang her head in defeat or bang on the door and threaten. She turned to go and realized that Hansom was standing a few yards in back of her, his arms filled with groceries. His face was a confusion of fear and embarrassment. He had heard the encounter.

  “I just wanted her permission to take you to a doctor for your skin,” she explained.

  “Yeah. Well, you pissed Grandma off,” he muttered as he walked past her into the house.

  Rosie noticed the contents of the grocery bags: bread, milk, eggs, and adult diapers. Grandma didn’t take care of Hansom. He took care of her.

  CHAPTER 27

  Rosie was so preoccupied with her frustration about Hansom that driving home was automatic. She didn’t notice Robert’s parked car and was caught off guard by seeing him sitting on the front steps of her house. His presence startled her, and the way her heart jumped in her chest was unsettling. Damn if she didn’t still find him attractive. She dredged up old memories of his deception and bad husbanding. Once she rallied the familiar animosity, she stepped from the car.

  “And what brings you here unannounced?” she asked as she walked by him and put her key in the door. “Langston’s not around today. He went to a friend’s house…and I’m not changing his plans to accommodate your whim.”

  “I didn’t come to see Langston. I came to see you.”

  Rosie stood on the steps and gave him a good long look. “You need money.” She waited for the predictable excuse and request.

  Robert half grinned, “No, I don’t need money.”

  “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

  “Not a bit. I came to see you specifically. May I come in?”

  Rosie pushed open the front door and Robert followed her inside. She made a weak attempt at courtesy. She offered food and a cold drink. Robert declined and waited for her attention.

  Feeling awkward, Rosie put her hands on her hips and pressed her point. “So why did you drive all the way here?”

  “I’ve been trying to work through some of my problems, and I think I figured it out.”

  Rosie’s arms moved to cross defensively over her chest. Robert took a deep breath. “I want us to try again. We had a good thing, baby, and I want to see if we can make it work.”

  Rosie was stunned. His suggestion was the furthest thought from her mind. Before she could respond, Robert put his arms around her.

  “I have missed you more than you know,” he whispered in her ear. His hands moved down her back and rested on her waist.

  Rosie’s feelings were a conflicted jumble. How dare he be so familiar with her body, and yet how comforting the familiarity felt. She missed loving him and having a complete home, and yet she was satisfied being her own person and no longer a victim. She pushed him away and stepped back.

  “You’re not good for me,” she said quietly.

  “I wasn’t good for you, but I’m sober now.”

  “It’s so much more than that.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Okay then,” he said. “You can’t say I didn’t try.” And with that he walked out.

  Robert intentionally left the front door open, and Rosie knew why. He wanted her to run after him, to beg him to return like she had so many times before. But she didn’t move. She stood absolutely still, listening to him walk to his car, waiting for the sound of the motor turning over, and anticipating the grind of tires on asphalt.

  When she was certain that he’d left, she closed the front door and locked it. The click of the deadbolt acted as emotional punctuation.

  That night, Rosie cooked spaghetti with meatballs, Langston’s favorite. She welcomed the distraction of chopping and preparing. Langston wolfed down his dinner without a compliment and escaped from the dinner table to practice basketball in the last moments of daylight.

  After dinner, Rosie crossed the street for choir practice. In the dusk, she noticed Langston shooting baskets with Jacob. A moment of wistfulness settled on her shoulders like a lightweight scarf, familiar but unnecessary. When Rosie was a child she had a tendency to embellish. Uncle Mo would always pose the question, “Is that a real story or a ‘wannabe’?” which was his way of asking, “Are we dealing with truth or fantasy?” When Rosie saw how much Langston enjoyed playing with Jacob, she experienced a clear moment of “wannabe.” She wished someone like Jacob was his father.

  Edmond pretended not to be waiting for her at the church entrance. She could tell it was a charade because she saw him look at her, then look away, then look back again with exaggerated welcome. Was he interested or not? More importantly, was she interested in him?

  “Are you free on Saturday?” he asked. “I’ve got tickets for the symphony, an all-Mozart program.”

  Without looking at him, she responded, “All the way in Birmingham?”

  Rosie heard the edge in her own voice.

  “It’s only fifty miles.”

  Langston made a basket, and Jacob high-fived him. Once again, Rosie observed the easy connection between her son and Jacob.

  Edmond followed her gaze.

  “Okay, then…you think about it. We need to get in for rehearsal.” Edmond held the door open for her, and Rosie forced a smile.

  Befo
re she entered the church, she cupped her hands around her mouth and hollered instructions toward the basketball hoop: “Langston! Enough! It’s a school night.”

  Jacob observed the rehearsal from the last row of the sanctuary. It had taken him weeks to feel comfortable listening to the choir from the back row instead of the loft. The choir members were connected to their music, and his presence was that of interloper. In the past month, Jacob had begun to feel more familiar to himself. He attributed that sense of ease to his growing relationship with Langston. The boy made him laugh, and his willingness to be coached gave Jacob an hour to look forward to each day.

  Mr. Day kept running the sopranos through their part, but when the choir combined, the sound was off. The sections didn’t balance. Attempting to ascertain the problem, Mr. Day asked that only the tenors sing.

  From the back of the room came Jacob’s voice, escaping his throat before he realized he was singing. So pure was his sound, so plaintive and powerful, that everyone else stopped singing. Jacob trailed off when he realized no one else was participating.

  Mr. Day suggested, “Well, you can’t sit all the way back there—it throws the rest of us off. Move up.”

  As Jacob walked to the choir he thought of a long-ago childhood toy, Wooly Willy, a cartoon face with iron shavings that were pulled into position by a magnetized stylus. He felt like those magnetic scraps, being dragged by some unseen hand to the front of the church. He sat with the other tenors.

  Jacob hardly noticed that two hours passed. Mr. Day called the practice to a close. Wordlessly, the choir members came together, joined hands, and swayed. Ill at ease and unsure of what was expected of him, Jacob got up to leave.

  Rosie waved him into the prayer circle next to her. As she took his hand she leaned in. “You are exactly what this choir needs.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Hava sighed deeply as she arrived at Jacob’s row house. She was surprised how much she missed her daughter-in-law. She’d been suspicious of Julia in the beginning. Jacob brought her to the house not long after they met. Hava could see that they’d fallen in love. Julia had been a kitchen Jew, assimilated and non-observant, identifying her religious connection with chicken soup and bagels and lox. Her parents had brought her up to believe that religion was narrow-minded and superstitious. Like many others of her generation, she had sought spiritual understanding in yoga classes, self-help books, and late-night philosophical discussions. Hava worried that Julia wasn’t good enough for her son, that she would never fit into their world.

  Julia was not the type to accept doctrine blindly. Hava listened to her objections and assured her that observant Jews knew what was going on in the outside world but chose not to live in it. Instead, they preferred a life of gratitude and consideration for the needs of others. In time, Julia couldn’t deny the appeal.

  Jacob was a kind and patient teacher. He was strict in his own observance of the laws and expected Julia to be the same. Under his tutelage and with his mother’s help, Julia came to understand the Orthodox way of life. At Jacob’s urging, she began keeping the Sabbath and holidays required by the Jewish calendar. Over several months, Hava taught her to incorporate the many blessings for daily life and to keep a kosher home. A wedding date was set.

  Hava took the mail from the box and unlocked the front door. She added the envelopes to the considerable pile on the entry table and looked around the house—untouched since the explosion. Sara’s dollhouse made her short of breath and dizzy.

  She forced herself to finish the chores. She ran a dust rag over the furniture and went to the backyard. She swept the fallen leaves and pushed them into a garbage bag. She unrolled a garden hose hidden in a pot. The shrubs would die if they didn’t get watered twice a week. As she turned on the hose, Jacob’s neighbor, Frank DeFazio, stepped out of his house.

  “Hello, Mrs. Fisher,” he said tentatively.

  “Frank.”

  She acknowledged him but didn’t want a real conversation. Perhaps saying his name out loud would be enough, and he would go about his business. No such luck.

  “You know there were some detectives here the other day asking questions about Julia and the kids. They asked about Jacob, but I didn’t know what to tell them,” Frank said. “I hope that’s okay.”

  “They’re very thorough.” She was still hoping Frank would go away.

  “Have they found anything?” he asked. He stood there as if he was thinking about every word, his right hand jiggling change in his pocket. Hava couldn’t bear the tension, nor did she want to talk about Detective Rosenberg’s latest investigations. She shook her head.

  Hava uncoiled the hose and turned on the water.

  Frank cleared his throat. “Those hoses are a pain in the neck.”

  “I should let his garden die?” she said, her voice filled with irony and sadness.

  “No, not at all. You know, Mrs. Fisher, there really is no need for you to come over here all the time…I can do that for you.”

  “It gives me something to do while we wait.”

  “I understand,” he said as he walked away. He turned back again. Hava thought to herself, now what?

  “Me and Donna light a candle for them every Sunday at Mass.” He jiggled his pocket change again. “Is that okay, you being Jewish and all?”

  Hava wanted to hug him for his bumbling generosity, but all she did was offer a perfunctory, “Thank you.”

  Back in her own kitchen, Hava dusted the countertop with flour and pushed her hands into the pile of wheat, sugar, and eggs. She kneaded the newly risen dough into a malleable lump, rolled out three long tubes, and braided them together in a loaf. Most Shabbats, Hava bought her challah from the bakery. Every once in a while she made her own. Lately, the never-ending occupation with housework had led to a feeling of emptiness and insignificance. What personal or spiritual growth was there in washing dishes, cleaning the floor, or the labor-intensive process of making bread? Yet, as she anchored each section of dough to the other, she recited the required blessings and a sense of calm settled on her.

  As Hava wove the dough together, she was reminded of the meaning behind each section of the braided challah. Truth, peace, and justice were carefully intertwined. Each needed the other to function. Her daughter-in-law, Julia, had once learned to make challah at her side. Hava now imagined that she was teaching her granddaughters, Miriam and Sarah, the same way she had taught their mother. She told them of each braid’s purpose. She explained aloud to the girls that the woman of the house was referred to as the akeret habayit, the foundation of the home. Her granddaughters were so real to her that she became distraught when she noticed that she was alone in the kitchen.

  Hava awoke from that night’s sleep having dreamt that she had gone to the mikvah, the ritual bath of purification that all married women who menstruate were required to observe. She was sixty-four, and her body no longer linked her to a monthly cycle—it hadn’t for twelve years—but the dream had been so vivid that she lifted the crook of her elbow to her nose to see if there was any lingering hint of the rosewater moisturizer that the mikvah provided. Clearly, the dream had been her subconscious desire that time be rolled back—her husband asleep beside her, the children protected and safe. What could she do today to keep from feeling sorry for herself? What mundane distraction would keep her from believing that Jacob’s way of dealing with his loss had been to take his own life?

  When her own husband died, she thought the sadness would kill her. She was afraid to be alone in their bedroom because she might inhale some lingering remnant of his physical being. Grief became familiar, the only place she felt comfortable and loyal to her husband’s memory. She would scrape the wound over and over again to make sure it stayed fresh. Slowly, in the tiniest of increments, she let an emotional scab form. Even so, she would start each day crushed by the reality that, against her will, she continued to breathe.

  In time, her pain eased and she admitted—guiltily—that she enjoyed her freedom. Altho
ugh she had run their household without complaint, Aaron had been a demanding husband. She was always concerned with his needs, his schedule. Now she liked sleeping in, having scrambled eggs for dinner, and watching television programs that he would have labeled immodest. Yes, he had been funny and loving, but he was often opinionated and temperamental, too. Now she was her own boss.

  Loss was a complicated tangle of emotions.

  If Hava were honest, she would admit that she had emotionally separated from her husband long before he died. Jacob was the reason for that. For the longest time she suspected there was something wrong with her son, an illness or hidden genetic malfunction or, God forbid, a mental instability. He was bright, and yet he couldn’t study. He was personable and yet constantly argumentative. At first she attributed those qualities to adolescence, but puberty came and went and the qualities lingered, taking root, changing her child, and frightening her. When she attempted to involve her husband, he dismissed her concerns, declaring Jacob immature. Hava became hyper-vigilant and perpetually anxious.

  Aaron had no patience for rule breaking or experimentation. He blamed everybody else for Jacob’s flagrant truancy and abrogation of Orthodox dictates. It was her fault, his friend’s fault, but most of all, it was Jacob’s fault. Her husband ranted and bellowed, screaming at Jacob that he was flawed.

  Jacob’s response was to prove him right. He had lived away from them for a year when Hava got the phone call that altered her life. Some man named Trench called to tell them that Jacob was in the hospital. She was beside herself with frenzied disbelief. Although visibly upset, her husband refused to get out of his chair and talk on the phone. When he forbade her to go to Jacob, it took her less than thirty seconds to make up her mind. She covered her head with a scarf, put reading glasses in her purse, and headed for the hospital.