“No. I won’t do it,” says Gertie, who must be walked through each step of the funeral as if through the customs process of a country she never meant to visit. She wears a sheath dress that Saul made for her in 1962: sturdy black cotton, with a fitted waistline, front button closure, and detachable belt. “You can’t make me,” she adds, her eyes darting between Rabbi Chaim and her children, who have all obediently slit their clothes above the heart, and though Rabbi Chaim explains that it is not he who can make her but God, it seems that God can’t, either. In the end, the rabbi gives Gertie a black ribbon to cut, and she takes her seat with wounded victory.
Simon has never liked coming here. As a child, he thought the synagogue was haunted, with its rough, dark stone and dank interior. Worse were the services: the unending silent devotion, the fervent pleas for the restoration of Zion. Now Simon stands before the closed casket, air circulating through the slit in his shirt, and realizes he’ll never see his father’s face again. He pictures Saul’s distant eyes and demure, almost feminine smile. Rabbi Chaim calls Saul magnanimous, a person of character and fortitude, but to Simon he was a decorous, timid man who skirted conflict and trouble—a man who seemed to do so little out of passion that it was a wonder he had ever married Gertie, for no one would have viewed Simon’s mother, with her ambition and pendulum moods, as a pragmatic choice.
After the service, they follow the pallbearers to Mount Hebron Cemetery, where Saul’s parents were buried. Both girls are weeping—Varya silently, Klara as loudly as her mother—and Daniel seems to be holding himself together out of nothing more than stunned obligation. But Simon finds himself unable to cry, even as the casket is lowered into the earth. He feels only loss, not of the father he knew but of the person that Saul might have been. At dinner, they sat at opposite ends of the table, lost in private thought. The shock came when one of them glanced up, and their eyes caught—an accident, but one that joined their separate worlds like a hinge before someone looked away again.
Now, there is no hinge. Distant though he was, Saul had allowed each Gold to assume their separate roles: he the breadwinner, Gertie the general, Varya the obedient oldest, Simon the unburdened youngest. If their father’s body—his cholesterol lower than Gertie’s, his heart nothing if not steady—had simply stopped, what else could go wrong? Which other laws might warp? Varya hides in her bunk. Daniel is twenty, barely a man, but he greets guests and lays out food, leads prayers in Hebrew. Klara, whose portion of the bedroom is messier than everyone else’s, scrubs the kitchen until her biceps hurt. And Simon takes care of Gertie.
This is not their usual arrangement, for Gertie has always babied Simon more than the others. She wanted, once, to be an intellectual; she lay beside the fountain in Washington Square Park reading Kafka and Nietzsche and Proust. But at nineteen, she met Saul, who had joined his father’s business after high school, and she was pregnant by twenty. Soon Gertie withdrew from New York University, where she was on scholarship, and moved into an apartment mere blocks from Gold’s Tailor and Dressmaking, which Saul would inherit when his parents retired to Kew Gardens Hills.
Shortly after Varya was born—far sooner than Saul thought necessary, and to his embarrassment—Gertie became the receptionist at a law firm. At night, she was still their formidable captain. But in the morning, she put on a dress and applied rouge from a little round box before depositing the children at Mrs. Almendinger’s, after which she exited the building with as much lightness as she had ever been capable. When Simon was born, though, Gertie stayed home for nine months instead of five, which turned into eighteen. She carried him everywhere. When he cried, she did not respond with bullish frustration but nuzzled him and sang, as if nostalgic for an experience she had always resented because she knew she would not repeat it. Shortly after Simon’s birth, while Saul was at work, she went to the doctor’s office and returned with a small glass pill bottle—Enovid, it read—that she kept in the back of her underwear drawer.
“Si-mon!” she calls now, in a rich long blast like a foghorn’s. “Hand me that,” she might say, lying in bed and pointing to a pillow just past her feet. Or, in a low, ominous tone: “I have a sore; I’ve been lying too long in this bed,” and though Simon internally recoils, he examines the thick wedge of her heel. “That isn’t a sore, Ma,” he replies. “It’s a blister.” But by then she has moved on, asking him to bring her the Kaddish, or fish and chocolate from the shiva platter delivered by Rabbi Chaim.
Simon might think Gertie takes pleasure in commanding him, if not for the way she weeps at night—snuffled, so her children don’t hear, though Simon does—or the times he sees her curled fetal on the bed she shared with Saul for two decades, looking like the teenager she was when she met him. She sits shiva with a devoutness Simon did not know she could muster, for Gertie has always believed in superstition more than any God. She spits three times when a funeral goes by, throws salt if the shaker falls over, and never passed a cemetery while pregnant, which required the family to endure constant rerouting between 1956 and 1962. Each Friday, she observes the Sabbath with effortful patience, as if the Sabbath is a guest she can’t wait to get rid of. But this week, she wears no makeup. She avoids jewelry and leather shoes. As if in penitence for the failed kriah, she wears her black sheath day and night, ignoring the crust of brisket drippings on one thigh. Because the Golds own no wooden stools, she sits on the floor to recite the Kaddish and even tries to read the book of Job, squinting as she holds the Tanakh up to her face. When she sets it down, she appears wild-eyed and lost, like a child in search of her own parents, and then comes the call—“Si-mon!”—for something tangible: fresh fruit or pound cake, a window opened for air or closed against draft, a blanket, a washcloth, a candle.
When enough guests have assembled for a minyan, Simon helps her into a new dress and house slippers, and she emerges to pray. They’re joined by Saul’s longtime employees: the bookkeepers; the seamstresses; the pattern makers; the salesmen; and Saul’s junior partner, Arthur Milavetz, a reedy, beakish man of thirty-two.
As a child, Simon loved to visit his father’s shop. The bookkeepers gave him paper clips to play with, or pieces of scrap fabric, and Simon was proud to be Saul’s son—it was clear, by the reverence with which the staff treated him and by his large windowed office, that he was someone important. He bounced Simon on one knee as he demonstrated how to cut patterns and sew samples. Later, Simon accompanied him to fabric houses, where Saul selected the silks and tweeds that would be fashionable next season, and to Saks Fifth Avenue, whose latest styles he purchased to make knockoffs at the shop. After work, Simon was allowed to stay while the men played hearts or sat in Saul’s office with a box of cigars, debating the teachers’ strike and the sanitation strike, the Suez Canal and the Yom Kippur War.
All the while, something loomed larger, closer, until Simon was forced to see it in all its terrible majesty: his future. Daniel had always planned to be a doctor, which left one son—Simon, impatient and uncomfortable in his skin, let alone in a double-breasted suit. By the time he was a teenager, the women’s clothing bored him and the wools made him itch. He resented the tenuousness of Saul’s attention, which he sensed would not last his departure from the business, if such a thing were even possible. He bristled at Arthur, who was always at his father’s side, and who treated Simon like a helpful little dog. Most of all, he felt something far more confusing: that the shop was Saul’s true home, and that his employees knew him better than his children ever did.
Today, Arthur brings three deli platters and a tray of smoked fish. He bends his long, swanlike neck to kiss Gertie’s cheek.
“What will we do, Arthur?” she asks, her mouth in his coat.
“It’s terrible,” he says. “It’s horrific.”
Tiny droplets of spring rain perch on Arthur’s shoulders and on the lenses of his horn-rimmed glasses, but his eyes are sharp.
“Thank God for you. And for Simon,” Ge
rtie says.
• • •
On the last night of shiva, while Gertie sleeps, the siblings take to the attic. They’re worn down, washed out, with bleary, baggy eyes and curdled stomachs. The shock hasn’t faded; Simon cannot imagine it ever fading. Daniel and Varya sit on an orange velvet couch, stuffing spurting from the armrests. Klara takes the patchwork ottoman that once belonged to now-dead Mrs. Blumenstein. She pours bourbon into four chipped teacups. Simon hunches cross-legged on the floor, swirling the amber liquid with his finger.
“So, what’s the plan?” he asks, glancing at Daniel and Varya. “You’re heading out tomorrow?”
Daniel nods. He and Varya will catch early trains back to school. They’ve already said goodbye to Gertie and promised to return in a month, when their exams are finished.
“I can’t take any more time off if I’m going to pass,” Daniel says. “Some of us”—he nudges Klara with his foot—“worry about that sort of thing.”
Klara’s senior year ends in two weeks, but she’s already told her family she won’t walk at graduation. (“All those penguins, shuffling around in unison? It’s not me.”) Varya is studying biology and Daniel hopes to be a military doctor, but Klara doesn’t want to go to college. She wants to do magic.
She’s spent the past nine years under the tutelage of Ilya Hlavacek, an aging vaudevillian and sleight-of-hand magician who is also her boss at Ilya’s Magic & Co. Klara first learned of the shop at the age of nine, when she purchased The Book of Divination from Ilya; now, he is as much a father to her as Saul was. A Czech immigrant who came of age between the World Wars, Ilya—seventy-nine, stooped and arthritic, with a troll’s tuft of white hair—tells fantastic tales of his stage years: one he spent touring the Midwest’s grimiest dime museums, his card table mere feet from rows of pickled human heads; the Pennsylvania circus tent in which he successfully vanished a brown Sicilian donkey named Antonio as one thousand onlookers burst with applause.
But over a century has passed since the Davenport brothers invoked spirits in the salons of the wealthy and John Nevil Maskelyne made a woman levitate in London’s Egyptian Theatre. Today, the luckiest of America’s magicians manage theatrical special effects or work elaborate shows in Las Vegas. Almost all of them are men. When Klara visited Marinka’s, the oldest magic shop in the country, the young man at the register glanced up with disdain before directing her to a bookshelf marked Witchcraft. (“Bastard,” Klara muttered, though she did buy Demonology: The Blood Summonings just to watch him squirm.)
Besides, Klara is drawn less to stage magicians—the bright lights and evening clothes, the wire-rigged levitations—than to those who perform in more modest venues, where magic is handed from person to person like a crumpled dollar bill. On Sundays, she watches the street magician Jeff Sheridan at his usual post by the Sir Walter Scott statue in Central Park. But could she really make a living that way? New York is changing. In her neighborhood, the hippies have been replaced by hard-core kids, the drugs by harder drugs. Puerto Rican gangs hold court at Twelfth and Avenue A. Once, Klara was held up by men who probably would have done worse if Daniel had not happened to walk by at exactly that moment.
Varya ashes into an empty teacup. “I can’t believe you’re still going to leave. With Ma like this.”
“That was always the plan, Varya. I was always going to leave.”
“Well, sometimes plans change. Sometimes they have to.”
Klara raises an eyebrow. “So why don’t you change yours?”
“I can’t. I have exams.”
Varya’s hands are rigid, her back straight. She has always been uncompromising, sanctimonious, someone who walks between the lines as if on a balance beam. On her fourteenth birthday, she blew out all but three candles, and Simon, just eight, stood on his tiptoes to do the rest. Varya yelled at him and cried so intensely that even Saul and Gertie were puzzled. She has none of Klara’s beauty, no interest in clothing or makeup. Her one indulgence is her hair. It is waist length and has never been colored or dyed, not because Varya’s natural color—the dusty, light brown of dirt in summer—is in any way remarkable; she simply prefers it as it has always been. Klara dyes her hair a vivid, drugstore red. Whenever she does her roots, the sink looks bloody for days.
“Exams,” Klara says, waving a hand, as if exams are a hobby that Varya should have outgrown.
“And where do you plan to go?” asks Daniel.
“I haven’t decided.” Klara speaks coolly, but her features are tense.
“Good lord.” Varya drops her head back. “You don’t even have a plan?”
“I’m waiting,” says Klara. “For it to be revealed to me.”
Simon looks at his sister. He knows she’s terrified about her future. He also knows she hides it effectively.
“And once it’s revealed to you,” says Daniel, “this place you’re going. How will you get there? Are you waiting for that to be revealed to you, too? You don’t have the money for a car. You don’t have the money for a plane ticket.”
“There’s this new thing called hitchhiking, Danny.” Klara is the only one who calls Daniel by his childhood nickname, knowing it calls up memories of bed-wetting and buck teeth and, most of all, a family trip to Lavallette, New Jersey, during which he could not help but shit his corduroys, ruining the first day of the Golds’ vacation and the backseat of their rented Chevy. “All the cool kids are doing it.”
“Klara, please.” Varya’s head snaps forward. “Promise me you aren’t going to hitchhike. Across the country? You’ll be killed.”
“I won’t be killed.” Klara takes a drag and blows smoke to the left, away from Varya. “But if it means that much to you, I’ll take a Greyhound.”
“That’ll take days,” says Daniel.
“Cheaper than the train. And besides. Do you really think Ma needs me? She’s happier when I’m not around.” The revelation that Klara would not be applying to college was followed by long screaming matches between her and Gertie, which gave way to bitter silence. “Anyway, she won’t be alone. Sy’ll be here.”
She reaches for Simon, gives his knee a squeeze.
“That doesn’t bother you, Simon?” Daniel asks.
It does. He can already see how it will be when everyone else is gone, he and Gertie trapped alone inside a never-ending shiva—“Si-mon!”—his father nowhere and everywhere at once. Nights when he’ll sneak out to run, needing to be anywhere but home. And the business—of course, the business—which is now rightfully his. Equally bad is the thought of losing Klara, his ally, but for her sake, he shrugs.
“Nah. Klara should do what she wants. We got one life, right?”
“Far as we know.” Klara snuffs out her cigarette. “Don’t you guys ever think about it?”
Daniel raises his eyebrows. “About the afterlife?”
“No,” says Klara. “About how long yours’ll be.”
Now that the box has been opened, quiet falls in the attic.
“Not that old bitch again,” Daniel says.
Klara flinches, as if it’s she who’s been insulted. They have not discussed the woman on Hester Street in years. Tonight, though, she’s drunk. Simon sees it in the glaze of her eyes, the way her s’s slosh together.
“You guys are cowards,” she says. “You can’t even admit it.”
“Admit what?” asks Daniel.
“What she told you.” Klara points a finger at him, the nail painted with chipping red polish. “Come on, Daniel. I dare you.”
“No.”
“Coward.” Klara grins crookedly, closing her eyes.
“I couldn’t tell you if I wanted to,” says Daniel. “It was years ago—it was a decade ago. Do you honestly think I committed it to memory?”
“I did,” says Varya. “January 21st, 2044. So there.”
She takes a swig of her drink, then another, and puts
the empty teacup on the ground. Klara looks at her sister with surprise. Then she grabs the bottle of bourbon by the neck with one hand and refills Varya’s cup before her own.
“What’s that?” asks Simon. “Eighty-eight years old?”
Varya nods.
“Congratulations.” Klara closes her eyes. “She told me I’d die at thirty-one.”
Daniel clears his throat. “Well, that’s bullshit.”
Klara raises her glass. “Here’s hoping.”
“Fine.” Daniel drains his own. “November 24th, 2006. You beat me, V.”
“Forty-eight,” Klara says. “You worried?”
“Not at all. I’m sure that hag said the first thing that came to mind. I’d be a fool to put any stock in it.” He puts his cup down; it rattles on the wood plank. “What about you, Sy?”
Simon is on his seventh cigarette. He takes a drag and exhales the smoke, keeping his eyes on the wall. “Young.”
“How young?” Klara asks.
“My business.”
“Oh, come on,” says Varya. “This is ridiculous. She only has power over us if we give it to her—and it’s obvious she was a fraud. Eighty-eight? Please. With a prophecy like that, I’ll probably be hit by a truck when I’m forty.”
“Then how come all the rest of ours were so bad?” asks Simon.
“I don’t know. Variety? She can’t tell everyone the same thing.” Varya’s face is flushed. “I’m sorry we ever went to see her. The only thing she did was lodge the idea in our heads.”
“It’s Daniel’s fault,” says Klara. “He made us go.”
“Don’t you think I know that?” hisses Daniel. “Besides, you were the first to agree.”
Fury blooms in Simon’s chest. For a moment, he resents them all: Varya, rational and distant, a lifetime ahead; Daniel, who staked his claim to medicine years ago, forcing Simon to carry Gold’s; Klara, abandoning him now. He hates that they get to escape.
The Immortalists Page 3