What Is Missing

by Michael Frank

  Now Andrew was a senior in high school, and Henry had come to tell him that Leopold’s turn had come.

  “It’s Grandpa. Something happened,” Andrew said anxiously.

  “To Leopold?” Henry was confused. “Nothing has happened to Leopold. Nothing else.”

  “Is it Mom? Justin? Why aren’t you at work?”

  “It’s nothing like that. I just wanted to talk to you. Can we…?” Henry indicated the sidewalk ahead, away from Andrew’s classmates.

  Andrew and Henry stepped off to the side of the street. “Actually, I’ve come about Costanza.”

  Andrew’s stomach tightened. “Is she all right?”

  “Physically she’s fine. But mentally … mentally she’s rather … low. The cycle didn’t work, and she’s coming off the drugs, and quite honestly, I’m finding her a little unreachable right now. Well, quite a lot unreachable. She’s very low. I said that. Very, very low.”

  Andrew noticed that Henry’s skin had a gray, almost sickly cast, and that his eyes seemed tired and distant under heavy lids. “And you have come to tell me this because…”

  “You’re her friend. And because you care for her. I thought that maybe … maybe you could go see her.”

  Andrew nodded slowly. “I care for Costanza and I’m her friend, yet when it was inconvenient for you, you asked me to stay away. Now that things have changed, now that she’s low, very, very low, you’re asking me to come back.”

  “Yes, now I am asking you to come back.” Henry’s mouth puckered, as though the words had a sour taste. “Please. She’s having trouble—and I think you—I think that she might like to see you.”

  Andrew nodded again. He was aware of his head bobbing rhythmically as he absorbed what Henry was saying. Absorbed just how selfish a man his father was turning out to be.

  “I’ll have to think about it,” Andrew said finally.

  “You’ll have to think about it? What does that mean?”

  “It means I have to think about it.”

  “You can be mad at me for all kinds of things, but please don’t take it out on Costanza.”

  Andrew considered for a moment. “If I agree, can we consider this ban on my coming home lifted? I can come and go again the way I used to?”

  “Yes, yes, anything you want. So you’ll go see her? You’ll go today, Andy?”

  Andy? Things must have been very difficult for Henry to reach back for that old nickname.

  “I’ll think about it, Dad,” Andrew repeated evenly.

  * * *

  In the Manhattan equivalent of coming home to find the locks on the front door had been changed, Andrew stepped into the lobby on the East Side and saw that Joe, the midweek doorman, had a substitute—LEWIS, it said on his name tag. Lewis intercepted Andrew before he could head for the elevator.

  When Andrew explained that he was going up to apartment 9E, his apartment, Lewis said, “Oh, you’re Dr. Weissman’s son. The younger one. Your father said I should be on the lookout for you. Jeremy is your brother.”

  Andrew didn’t correct him. The idea of Justin one day being greeted as Jeremy was just too sweet.

  The apartment was dark and quiet. Andrew called out, “Hello?” But the question floated off into all the new interior décor.

  He went into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator. The refrigerator was as good a reflection as any of Costanza’s state of mind. Other than condiments and a carton of milk, there was nothing but a chunk of Parmigiano, a few lemons, and a bunch of limp greens.

  He made his way to the back of the apartment. A narrow band of light was shining out from the bottom of Henry’s bedroom door. Andrew stepped toward it and knocked.

  Costanza, if she was there, didn’t answer.

  He knocked again and waited.

  Finally there was a faint “Yes?”

  He opened the door. Costanza was lying in bed, or rather on it, fully dressed. She was even wearing her shoes. Her eyes were pink and dim. Her hair was spread out on the pillow.

  “Oh, Andrew,” she said in a low, flat, faraway voice. “I wasn’t expecting you.”

  “I left you a message on your cell phone. I said I was coming by around seven.”

  “Is it seven already?” She propped herself up to look at the bedside clock, then dropped back down again. “I haven’t been—engaging with the phone.”

  “Henry told me about the cycle. I’m sorry.”

  She shrugged. Her jaw quivered.

  “Is my father coming home soon?”

  “I honestly don’t remember.”

  “Would you like me to order out, or even make some dinner? I think you should eat. I know I should.”

  “Dinner?” Costanza looked at the clock again. “Let’s order in.”

  “But doesn’t cooking usually … make you feel better?”

  “Usually—but not tonight.”

  “Do you want to talk about the cycle?”

  “It failed. What else is there to say?”

  “Are you going to try again?”

  “I can’t think about that right now, Andrew. I need to get back to myself first.”

  “What’s going to help you do that?”

  “Time.”

  They both fell silent.

  “My birthday’s a week from Saturday. And so is Grandpa’s.”

  “Your father said something about a dinner. He said Justin might be coming in as it’s also Presidents’ Day weekend.”

  “An extra special birthday treat,” Andrew said flatly.

  “What do you usually do?”

  “We bring in deli, of course. Sometimes Henry remembers to buy a cake.”

  Costanza thought for a moment. “If I’m up to it, maybe we can do something a little more creative.”

  “I don’t know if Grandpa will go for that. But after all it’s my birthday too, right?”

  * * *

  As soon as she stepped into the Greek market that was just a few blocks away from the Thirtieth Avenue subway stop in Astoria, Costanza felt her heaviness of being lift for the first time in weeks. She felt as if she had traveled somewhere far from her regular life. All the usual markers were different: the scale of the buildings; the look and bearing of the people; the scents; the words, in this case also in places the alphabet, on signs and packages; and especially the food. There were dozens of different kinds of olives in open containers; enormous bricks of feta that looked like blocks of snow; bunches of fragrant dried oregano; spanakopita just out of the oven, flaky, crisp, and oozing spinach and cheese. An aisle along the front window was filled with religious candles, soap scented with lavender or rosemary, worry beads, mugs printed with images of ancient Greek statuary, and blue glass eyes that were meant to bring luck.

  Costanza fingered one of these for a moment, before reminding herself that she didn’t believe in such talismans. Actually, in talismans of any kind.

  She and Andrew filled a shopping cart nearly to the top, then arranged for their bags to be held while they went to have coffee in a café next door.

  “Coming out here makes me think of our walks in Florence,” Andrew said when they were out on the street. “Maybe we could do more of that kind of thing here…”

  “Maybe,” she said, but in a tone that suggested the opposite.

  “You know, my father seems to feel it’s okay for me to be around again now.”

  “That was something he and I never discussed, just for the record.”

  They walked on in silence. After a moment Andrew said, “You came to my practice the other day. Why didn’t you stay?”

  Costanza flushed. “I didn’t think you saw me. I wasn’t myself, with all the drugs. It was so warm in there…”

  “I see.”

  His I see was like her maybe earlier. Deliberately untruthful, or imperfectly truthful.

  “You swim gracefully, Andrew. You are graceful, in so many ways. You’re a very caring young man. So patient with me, and so thoughtful. One day I think you will make a wonderf
ul partner to a very lucky girl—woman.”

  “I appreciate the nice words, Costanza. But it feels like you’re speaking from some distance. Like you’re a remote grown-up.”

  “I hope I’m not remote. But I am a grown-up, or trying to be.”

  “Trying…?”

  She looked at him. “You know that you and your father share a certain … insistence?”

  “No, we don’t. He insists. I just think aloud, sometimes.”

  Costanza produced a small smile. “Henry is not always the easiest person. I recognize that, from my own experience now and of course from the way you speak about him. But you have to understand, he is—this is—my path, my life.”

  They had reached the café, which was helpful, as the atmosphere between them had become uncomfortable. They sat down and ordered coffee and a plate of baklava.

  “We haven’t really had a chance to talk about your news.”

  “Well, it’s not exactly news anymore. I do think Penn will be a good fit for me. I got lucky with the early decision—I just wish I hadn’t put so much time in on all the other applications, but my mother and Charlie insisted.”

  Costanza took a sip of coffee. “My own feeling, and this may come from having grown up where I did, is that all this to-do about where you go to college is kind of out of proportion to what really matters, which is what you make of wherever you land, and I have a feeling you’ll make a lot of it.”

  “I’ll try.”

  She sat back in her chair. “Has anyone caught your interest at school, or not at school?”

  “You mean, I’m guessing, girls-wise?”

  “Yes, that’s what I mean.”

  He shook his head.

  “Have you heard from Charlotte?”

  “Not a word.”

  “There comes a time, you know, when you just have to let go. When I was near the end of the longest relationship of my younger life, the man I was involved with, and still cared for deeply, said something to me that I have never forgotten: ‘You cannot make someone love you.’”

  Andrew studied Costanza’s face closely. “That must have hurt coming from someone you loved.”

  “Hugely. And it seemed so unfeeling as to be cruel. But I have come to see that he was wise, in his way.”

  “You cannot make someone love you.”

  “No. You cannot.”

  * * *

  On the afternoon of Leopold and Andrew’s shared birthday dinner Henry was called to the hospital, where one of his patients, six weeks into her pregnancy, was having a complication. He returned close to six o’clock, drained and irritable.

  “This was not an easy day,” he said to Costanza as he took off his jacket. “I think I might need to move up the cocktail hour.” He uncorked a bottle of wine. “I assume you got my message and the deli is all sorted out.”

  Costanza explained about her adventure in Astoria with Andrew, and the menu the two of them had planned.

  “The two of you? Don’t you think it would have been more appropriate for it to have been decided by the two of us?”

  “Well, it is Andrew’s birthday as well as Leopold’s.”

  “Yes, but what’s my father going to eat?”

  “I made a substantial salad,” Costanza said with forced brightness. “There are all kinds of different dishes to try. I’m sure he’ll find something he likes.”

  “I wonder if it’s too late to call over there.” Henry reached for the phone. Costanza, offended, hurried out of the room. Henry put the phone down and turned to follow her, but stopped when he saw that they had an audience.

  “Going out to Queens really helped take Costanza’s mind off things,” Andrew said. “And anyway I picked up a pastrami sandwich for Grandpa just in case.”

  Henry just glared at his son.

  “She worked hard to put this meal together. She was trying to be creative, different. It’s what makes her Costanza.”

  “I don’t need you to tell me what makes Costanza Costanza.”

  Henry found Costanza and apologized. “The food doesn’t matter,” Henry said as he stepped into the shower. Costanza, for her part, said, “I know I’m extra sensitive right now. It won’t last forever. I hope it won’t last forever.”

  Henry was still getting dressed when the house phone rang, so Costanza alone greeted Leopold at the front door.

  “Leopold,” she said, after kissing him on both cheeks, “happy birthday to you. You look wonderful.”

  “You are charming, my dear. A charming liar. The lady”—he stepped aside so that Lorna could precede him—“now she looks wonderful. I look as I am, fatigued.”

  Lorna did look wonderful, in a pretty green blouse and with her black and silver hair pulled into a chic bun. She and Costanza exchanged an embrace before Lorna, indicating a bag, said that she had a few things to take into the kitchen.

  “You’ll wait for me just a minute?” Leopold asked Costanza.

  As last time, he headed straight to the bathroom to wash his hands. When he emerged, she could smell the scent of lavender, from a bar of the Greek soap she had bought that afternoon.

  “I have some things for you,” he announced. “Shall we sit?”

  They headed for the living room.

  “But wait? What happened here?”

  Costanza explained about her refurbishing project. Leopold inspected. Leopold absorbed. “No more trace of Her Whose Name I Do Not Speak. And such a good color sense too.”

  “Thank you, Leopold.”

  “An auspicious sign.”

  She pointedly did not ask him of what. He told her anyway: “I know from ferpitzing the house. In my business, it meant something when a couple came in to select fabric together.”

  As they sat down, Leopold reached into his pocket and handed Costanza a burgundy leather jewelry box. It was old and worn around the edges.

  “You bring me a present on your birthday? Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around?”

  “It’s much nicer to give than to get.”

  Costanza pressed a small brass button at the front of the box to unlock a padded, silk-lined interior stamped with the name of a long-vanished Viennese jeweler. Resting against the padding was a pair of dangling rose-gold earrings set with modest emeralds. “They belonged to Nina’s mother,” Leopold said. “She had given them for safekeeping to a neighbor, a goy. They found us afterward, a strange stroke of luck. ‘The jewelry could survive, but not the woman,’ Nina used to say. ‘Explain that.’ She wore them for fancy. She loved that she could touch something her mother had touched.”

  “They’re beautiful, Leopold. But shouldn’t you save them for one of the boys? For their wives, or maybe one day their daughters?”

  “You think I’ll live long enough to meet their wives? And what are we saying, their? I don’t think Justin will have much use for his great-grandmama’s baubles. And as for the other, he’ll be having his heart broken another fifteen times before he settles down. No, I want you to have them.”

  “I don’t know what to say.”

  “How about thank you?”

  She thanked him. She embraced him.

  “There’s something else.” Leopold reached into the breast pocket of his jacket and handed her a small cloth pouch. “It too was Nina’s.”

  Inside the pouch was a yellow Star of David. The fabric was so thin that in places Costanza could see where the warp and weft came together, and just barely at that.

  “Leopold. I—”

  “It’s a little unusual maybe. But you see I have given one to Henry, one to each of the boys. I have two left. Just one now.”

  “But why me?”

  “Because you are with my son, and—” Leopold stopped. “You see I, Nina and I, we could only bring into the world the one child. We were so—so beat up after the war. We had to start our lives again from zilch. There was too little time, too little money. Nina lost several pregnancies before Henry…” He paused. “Well, it was not to be.”

 
; She touched the star gingerly.

  “The science is quite miraculous now. The way they can help nature. ICSI is the one that gets me. Injecting a single sperm into an egg—this is impressive. This is a way of beating fate.” His old fogged eyes fixed on her. “As maybe you can imagine, I like the idea of beating fate.”

  She understood what he was getting at now. “I gather you know then, Leopold.”

  He hesitated—but only briefly—before nodding.

  “But for all the science, all the miracles, we didn’t beat fate, did we?”

  “This time.” Leopold paused. “You must try again. You must try until you cannot try anymore.”

  * * *

  A few minutes before seven o’clock the front door opened. “Jeremy has arrived,” Justin called into the library-cum-dining-room, where everyone was already sitting at the table, which had again been elegantly set to Leopold’s standard. “I hope you haven’t started yet.”

  Leopold leaned into Lorna. “What did he say?”

  “It’s Justin. But he said Jeremy has arrived.”

  “Who’s Jeremy? Another boyfriend?”

  She answered with a shrug just as Justin stepped into the room. “It appears I have a new name.”

  A thin waif of a girl in tight jeans and a flowing white blouse trailed in after Justin. “Someone called Lewis just baptized him,” she said.

  Leopold turned to look at her. “Baptized Justin? What?”

  “It’s just a manner of speech, Grandpa.” Justin planted a kiss on top of his grandfather’s head. “This is Zoë. She’s always been Zoë, right?”