What Is Missing

by Michael Frank

  He tapped against the chair with his cane. “So what do you make of it?”

  The question was easy enough; it was the answering that was hard.

  “I think it was very difficult. Very sad for everyone. She must have been very—unhappy. In herself.”

  “A translator and a diplomat too. They should pay you double.”

  She smiled.

  “Of course my son comes up with you. Literate, a thinker—I can tell. Gentile, European, so different. Serene—on the outside. Inside, who knows. But clearly not like Her Whose Name Shall Not Be Spoken. The opposite. That is what men do, when they have been broken.”

  He waited.

  “I don’t know what to say to this, Leopold.”

  “Who asked for commentary? It is what it is.”

  Again, further, the icy eyes worked over her body, her face. She could almost feel them lowering the temperature of her skin.

  “This husband of yours. What was his name?”

  She told him.

  “The Morton Sarnoff?”

  “You’ve read him?”

  “Who hasn’t read Sarnoff? Bitter, sarcastic books. But also in places very funny. Delightful.”

  “Sometimes, yes.”

  “His shortcoming was his women. Too many frail waifs. In my personal experience, women are ten times stronger than men.”

  “But the last novel—”

  “Was not his best, even if he put a woman—three women—at its center.” Leopold smiled. “You didn’t mark me as a reader.”

  Was something showing through on her face? “I didn’t mark you at all. I’m simply getting to know you.”

  “We can exchange reading lists.”

  “I’d like that.”

  “Do you have a book club?”

  She shook her head.

  “I do. Me and seven ladies. At the synagogue. We meet Tuesday evenings in the Community Room. Some of them have big brains. They’ve spent entire lifetimes with their noses in books. Right now we’re reading a new biography of Primo Levi.”

  “What do you think?”

  “For me Primo Levi poses a problem. The books, especially the one he wrote after the war, the one no one wanted at first, they are more like the actual experience of being in the camps than anything else I have come across. But I will never read them again. I even put them back to front on my shelf. The man who wrote that sentence—I knew it by heart once, how does it go?—‘The business of living is the best weapon we have against death’—no, the best defense, that’s it—‘the best defense against death’—in the end chose to close up shop. He himself chose death instead.”

  “Isn’t it more correct to say that he seemed to choose death?” Costanza asked gently.

  “Really? How did he end up at the bottom of that stairwell then? Why, afterward, did his wife say he’d done what he’d always said he’d do?”

  Costanza thought for a moment. “No one knows for sure what happened that day. It’s possible that he fell. He left no note. He’d been taking medicine that made him dizzy. From my reading of him, it just didn’t seem—in character. It doesn’t feel like a suicide.”

  Leopold gave her an inquisitive look, which she correctly interpreted. “My father,” she said.

  “I regret to hear that. How old were you?”

  “Fourteen.”

  “Even more regrettable.” He paused. “And what about your husband?”

  “Cancer.”

  “Like my wife.”

  “I’m sorry.” He put a small silence, a bracket, around that exchange; then he was off again. “Now you are available. Do you love my son?”

  “We haven’t known each other very long.”

  “What does time have to do with it, my dear? It’s gut. Gut and gonads.”

  “If those are the measures, then, yes, I do love your son. I haven’t felt this much—this much hope in years.”

  “You wouldn’t say this to humor an old man.”

  “No.”

  “Love.” Leopold’s eyes lit up. “Ha!”

  * * *

  Costanza found it difficult to work out whether Leopold was a little bit, or more than a little bit, off or whether his curious directness was a result of what he had lived and survived or whether age might have unleashed in him, as it sometimes did in the old, a frankness that would have seemed rude or confounding in a younger person. Obviously she did not know him well enough, after just half an hour, to decide—and why did she need to? She didn’t need to understand him to feel for him, to feel for his life, his lucky, fierce endurance. That, all that, was enough for the moment.

  Over dinner Leopold asked Henry a number of questions about his practice. He was interested, in particular, in what he kept calling “the figures”: how many women were cycling, how many had recently had a positive pregnancy test, how many were carrying multiples. He especially liked the multiples. “Gut, gut.”

  Henry and Lorna had arranged the cold cuts on a platter and served them alongside rye bread, pickles, onions, sliced tomatoes, coleslaw, and mustard (the American French’s). Henry, Lorna, and the boys made themselves thick sandwiches; Leopold, like Costanza, ate his pastrami with a knife and a fork.

  “We two are the Europeans at the table,” Leopold said gaily, tossing a nod in Costanza’s direction. “These Americans…”

  “Grandpa,” said Justin. “Lorna is from Jamaica. The last time I looked at a map, Jamaica was not part of America.”

  “Thank you for the geography lesson, Justin.”

  “And what’s wrong with a sandwich anyway?” Justin added sourly. Ever since Leopold had used the word fagele, a scowl had stamped itself on Justin’s face and had shown no sign of lifting.

  “Did I say something was wrong with a sandwich? I simply said that this young lady and I have a different style at the table.”

  “But you implied—”

  “I hear that the French eat their ice cream with a fork,” Lorna piped up cheerfully. “Can you imagine?”

  “I never noticed that,” said Justin. “We were in France last year.”

  “Did we eat ice cream?” asked Andrew.

  “Of course we ate ice cream,” Henry said. “At Berthillon. I had framboise.”

  “That’s raspberry,” Lorna said. “Fraise is strawberry and citron is lemon.”

  “We tacky Americans,” said Justin. “We didn’t use a fork, did we?”

  “Very likely there was a spoon involved,” said Henry.

  A silence fell over the table as everyone dug into their ice cream. Henry was looking at Lorna, thinking …

  “Why all this interest in things French, Lorna, if I may ask?” he said after a moment.

  “Well”—Lorna smiled—“I’m going on an extended visit to Paris.”

  Henry turned to Leopold. “Please don’t tell me you fired her. Please, Father.”

  “In fact, Lorna’s position with me has been terminated, effective last week.”

  “I begged you, Leopold.” Leopold was for when Henry was exasperated. “And you promised me.”

  Leopold reached over and put his hand on Lorna’s. “Lorna and I would like to announce to you all that we … are a we.”

  Henry swallowed his breath. “You are a we. With Lorna.”

  To the table Leopold said, “He still has his hearing. That’s good. He won’t end up like me.” He paused. “I don’t want to know what you feel if it’s anything other than happy. Nina has been dead for eight years. Lorna has had no husband for nearly twelve. We are discussing the possibility of her converting, but if she doesn’t, that’s her business. I will not leave her all of my money, if you need to know that.”

  “I’m not interested in your money,” said Henry. “And, Father, I am happy for you. I’m just—surprised.”

  “You’re not the only one,” said Lorna. “I’ve done this work for forty years. I’ve never before had feelings for anyone the way I do for Leopold.”

  “Boys,” said Leopold. “Have you noth
ing to say?”

  “Félicitations?” Andrew said, with a discernible question mark in his voice.

  Justin asked more ambiguously, “When do you leave?”

  “We travel Wednesday night,” answered Leopold. “By Thursday we’ll be having ice cream on the rue de Rivoli.”

  “And we’ll be eating it,” Lorna said, beaming, “with our forks.”

  * * *

  On Monday morning, the day after Justin returned to college and the day before Andrew was to begin his senior year in high school, he woke to the sound of something shattering. He slowly hauled himself out of bed and into the living room, where Costanza was sweeping up the shards of a yellow ceramic lamp. The room was entirely unmade. Chairs and tables had been moved to the periphery. So had the sofa. Leaning against it was the apparent culprit: a large rug, rolled up and tied with rope.

  “It didn’t look particularly valuable. I hope your father won’t mind…”

  Andrew stepped over to the rug and peeled back one corner.

  “What do you think?”

  “It’s okay. It’s just—” He looked around the room. “It’s just that it’s been like this ever since my mother left.”

  “She made a new home for herself, didn’t she?” Costanza said logically. “And for you boys.”

  They stood together in silence, each seeing the room through different eyes.

  “So will you give me a hand?” she asked as she finished sweeping.

  What Costanza said made sense, but still it felt as if she were trespassing on a place, or a time, that was objectively no longer relevant but seemed surprisingly important, to him.

  She picked up one end of the rug. When he hesitated, she put it down again. “It’s all right. I can wait for your father.”

  “No, it’s okay.”

  Together they wrestled the rug into place. Then they shifted some of the furniture around on top of it, in an arrangement Costanza proposed that was different from the one there before.

  “Well?”

  Andrew shrugged. “Not bad. I have to admit.”

  Costanza put her hands on her hips and assessed. “This always happens when you bring in a new piece.”

  “What always happens?”

  “It shows you everything else that needs doing.”

  * * *

  At the other end of the day Henry looked in on Andrew, who was again deep into the work of sorting through his photographs.

  “I understand you helped Costanza lay down our new rug this morning.”

  Andrew nodded but didn’t say anything.

  “I didn’t know you cared so much about interior décor.”

  “I care about change. At least I thought I did.”

  Andrew’s bed was covered with nearly as many photographs as the desk and the floor. Henry shifted several aside without looking at them. He sat down and rested his palms on his knees. “I might as well just say what’s on my mind. I’ve been wondering what you would think about spending some more time at your mother’s.”

  Andrew moved a photograph from one stack to another without looking at his father.

  “I don’t expect you to be able to understand this, Andrew, but starting a new relationship when you’re my age—and Costanza’s—isn’t so easy. It can help to create a … little air around things, that’s all.”

  “I take up so much of it?”

  “It’s not that exactly…”

  Andrew turned to face his father now and crossed his arms in front of his chest. “All those years you spent battling Mom about sharing us fifty-fifty, down to the last day, the last hour sometimes. The time you made us go in—do you remember?—to talk to the judge ourselves, to tell him how much we wanted to have equal time with both of you?” Andrew gestured at his neck. “I was just a kid. I had to put on a tie. I hate ties.”

  “It would just be for a month or two, until things fall into place here. You’d still have one set night and alternating weekends. And of course you could always come back here if things on the West Side became complicated.”

  “Things on the West Side are always complicated.”

  “Consider it a special favor to me, will you, Andrew? Please?”

  * * *

  The next day, Costanza brought another suitcase and a box of books to Henry’s apartment and arranged to have the rest of her things from Morton’s moved downtown. After she returned from doing her food shopping later that evening, she glanced into Andrew’s room, where she saw at once that he had organized and filed away his piles of photographs. He had sorted through all his books too and arranged them neatly, with all their spines lined up at the edge of the shelves. He had tidied his desk and made his bed. He had even emptied his wastepaper basket.

  As she was moving in he appeared to be moving, or thinning, out. But why?

  Only a single photograph remained on the bulletin board, one Costanza had not seen before. Andrew had taken a picture of her from behind as she left him that day in Florence after they had gone to the Mercato Centrale. She was wearing a white linen dress, which she later stained with wine and abandoned at her mother’s. Receding into the crowd, she looked like a shadow, a white shadow, of herself.

  She leaned against Andrew’s desk and studied the picture.

  Henry found her there several minutes later. He stood beside her and followed her gaze to the bulletin board.

  “It’s from the first day we met,” Costanza said.

  Henry nodded.

  “We’d gone to buy mushrooms.”

  They both examined the photograph in silence.

  “It almost feels like Andrew has moved out.” Costanza turned to Henry. “Why would he do that?”

  “Did he say anything to you?” Henry asked evasively.

  She shook her head.

  “My understanding is that he’s going to be spending a little more time at Judith’s.”

  “Why all of a sudden?”

  “Well, he’s got all his applications to tackle, and Judith has the time to help him with them. He’s also got extra swim practice, since his meets are coming up, and her apartment is closer to the pool…”

  Henry’s explanation had an overly logical quality that wasn’t quite convincing.

  “It’s not because of me, is it?”

  “Andrew wants you to feel comfortable here as much as I do.”

  That sounded less convincing still; but what was she to do? She couldn’t simply drop into a family and understand overnight how it worked. Or over several nights, or months, or years even.

  Henry distracted her by kissing her on the back of her neck. She closed her eyes.

  * * *

  Their conversations went on for hours, often deep into the night. Over and over she asked him a variation on the same question: How could two people who knew each other for such a brief time decide to have a baby together, just like that? Because time isn’t as important as timing, Henry kept saying. Because there are some situations in life where you have to follow your heart. Because, in trying to make a baby together, we will come to know each other well, to see each other clearly.

  But what if we don’t like what we see?

  “Quite honestly the possibility doesn’t even occur to me,” he said.

  * * *

  Allowing the idea of having a baby to rise up in her again made Costanza feel like someone who had been traumatized, a survivor of a car accident who moved tentatively and vulnerably through space. Space and time. She felt fragile, uncertain, wary. But her wariness had gaps. Gaps that let in air, light. Gradually the accumulated normality of her days and nights with Henry began to have an effect. They made room for different sorts of feelings to surface. She allowed herself to taste, just taste, a bit of her old yearning. She allowed herself to think what if.

  Once she opened herself to the yearning, it returned, spilling, then gushing, into an old channel that appeared to have been waiting all along to receive it.

  She woke up one morning feeling deeply rested, the
way she felt after having had a fever or a flu. Everything seemed put back, put right. And clear. Beautifully clear. She showered and washed her hair, then she threw away the birth control pills she had begun taking soon after she moved into Henry’s apartment. After sitting at her desk and working for several hours, she went out and bought a kit to track her ovulation. That night, when she told Henry what she had done, he opened a bottle of champagne.

  * * *

  For two months Costanza and Henry tried to conceive a baby together. In the days leading up to Costanza’s ovulation they made love every night. Henry came to know her body’s calendar better than she did. In bed he was giving. He was not always passionate, but who would be under the circumstances? He never flagged or hesitated, and he never failed. He did not have a stitch of Morton’s ambiguity or tortured ambivalence. He was so clear about what he wanted and what he hoped for that at moments Costanza wondered whether this quest was somehow more about Henry, Henry and Judith, Henry and the boys, Henry and Leopold maybe, or Henry and the world—showing the world that he could start his life over. She decided that if this was, in part, what was driving him, it was okay. At least his need of her and her need of him dovetailed, and in a way that might well lead to a new life. A baby; their baby.

  When Costanza’s period started, Henry seemed unsurprised, almost disengaged: “It’s as expected. We’re simply falling in with the statistics.” Later: “It’s as I thought.” And: “You know what I think. You should come in and let me see what we can do.”

  Nevertheless after the second month she failed to become pregnant, Costanza couldn’t quite bring herself to go into Henry’s office. She asked Henry if they could continue to try for another two months on their own, and he showed his impatience with her for the first time. “When you turn forty, the numbers are more steeply against you. It seems like an arbitrary thing, just another birthday, and it’s true that not every woman’s ovarian reserve drops at the same moment, but still, statistically speaking, once you cross that line, you start off in a far more challenging reproductive field.”