We Were Strangers Once

by Betsy Carter

  “Where’s she from?”

  “If you mean is she from Frankfurt, the answer is no.”

  “What do you see in this Catrina Harty?”

  “She is very pretty, a different type from the women we know, very American in her manner. And she cares about animals the way I do. All of this hardly matters, as I only see her in the store. I am afraid to ask her for a real date because… well, Liesl. But also, if she says no, she might not come back, and I like talking to her. It is different than talking with Liesl. We have real conversations.”

  Meyer had the habit of cleaning his teeth with a toothpick while he talked on the phone. If he went silent during one of their conversations, as he did now, Egon guessed that was why. Finally, Meyer responded, “She has to see you as someone other than the man behind the delicatessen counter. Maybe she could help you with the animals on some weekend.”

  Egon said, “This is not your worst idea.”

  “Of course it’s not,” said Meyer. “I save my worst ideas for my really good friends.”

  “Meyer, you must promise me you won’t say anything of this to Liesl.”

  He went silent again. “No, I’ll leave that to you. But I’ll be ready to catch her when you throw her off.”

  “That is a terrible thing to say.”

  “Yes, but an even worse thing to do. When will I meet this Catrina?”

  “When I have a good reason to introduce you. And how about you? Will I be reading more of Meyer Leavitt in the Aufbau?”

  He cleared his throat. “On October 2, I hang up my sandwich board and say shits to Kallen’s, and become the fourth member of the Aufbau staff. They’re giving me a column, In the Free Country, something to write every week.”

  “That is wonderful, it really is. When were you going to tell me this news?”

  “When I was sure it was going to happen.”

  It was one of the few times Egon heard his friend sound sheepish. He knew what this job meant for Meyer. Only in America were these kinds of things possible. That thought gave him the courage to ask Catrina if she would care to help out with the animals some weekend. He was surprised and a bit terrified when she said yes.

  Catrina came to his apartment at nine on a chilly morning in October. Liesl had left at eight, as Egon said he had to start work early that day. He hadn’t lied, exactly. He was working; he simply did not mention a coworker. A cloud of her new Shalimar perfume hung over the bathroom. Before Catrina arrived, Egon opened the window, then remembered to hide Liesl’s toothbrush and various lipsticks. It amused him how she had a way of inhabiting a place as if she owned it.

  Their first patient was a spaniel who had a gash in his hind leg. The woman who brought him said he’d been hit by a car. Egon tried to calm the dog, who kicked and thrashed. He scratched the spaniel’s chest and talked to him in a soothing voice until finally the dog relaxed and allowed him to examine the leg. “Nothing to be scared about,” Egon said to the dog. “We will fix you up to be better than ever.”

  He’d turned part of his living room into a treatment room and kept all of his supplies in his oak desk. “Can you please hand me the thread from the third drawer from the bottom?” he asked Catrina. “And the scissors, please, in the middle drawer. The tape should be next to them.”

  After the spaniel and his owner left, Catrina asked him, “What did you say to that dog? I couldn’t hear, but it sounded almost as if you were humming.”

  Egon laughed. “No, we were talking. Nothing special.”

  “Whatever you said, you calmed him down.”

  “Yes, we seemed to understand one another. So it went well, no?”

  “Mmm.” Catrina studied her nails, then looked up. “You did everything. I thought you wanted me to help.”

  “You did help.”

  “I brought you things. That’s not the kind of help I had in mind.”

  “What kind of help did you have in mind?”

  “The kind where I actually get to do work, not watch you do it all. I know something about animals too.”

  “I see. I did not understand.”

  Later that morning, a man from Nagle Avenue brought in a boxer named Boris who’d split his tail from thumping it too hard against the wall.

  Egon tried wrapping the tail with gauze pads, but Boris kept wagging the pads away. “This one has complications, don’t you, sweet dog?” said Egon. “We stop the bleeding, but then what? He bangs his tail against something else and the wound stays open.”

  “Maybe this will work,” said Catrina. She reached into her pocketbook and pulled out a Kotex sanitary napkin.

  “I cannot imagine how,” said Egon, his face reddening.

  “Let me try.” She folded the pad in half, wrapped it around Boris’s tail, and taped it up.

  They watched Boris twist around and try, unsuccessfully, to bite the tail and its bandage. Egon laughed. “I have to say, this would not have occurred to me. You are a natural.”

  For the next two Saturdays, he told Liesl he had to start work early, and Catrina showed up promptly at nine. Together, they freed a chicken whose head had gotten wedged between the bars of its cage, sewed up a cat with a half-chewed-off ear, and fixed a parakeet’s claw so he could grab onto his perch again. They worked easily as a team, agreeing on most treatments and that they should only charge people what they could afford, or nothing at all. Rarely did they talk about anything other than the animals.

  One fall afternoon, after Catrina had extracted a rotting tooth from an old cat, someone dropped off a baby bird that had fallen from its nest. It was muted brown with spotting on its breast, long legs, and a straight, thin beak. Egon identified it as a wood thrush and said they must keep it warm. He emptied out a shoe box, rolled up his sleeves, and filled a hot water bottle. He put the hot water bottle on the bottom of the box, covered the bottle with tissues, and gently placed the wood thrush on top of it.

  He’d always worn long sleeves. Now Catrina saw that his arms were strong and just hairy enough. “You seem to know your birds,” she said. “I’ve noticed you have pictures of them all over the house.”

  “Yes, I know my birds.” Egon stared up at one of his mother’s drawings. “One minute. I have something to show you.”

  He went to his desk and picked up a cloth pouch, which he turned over until the glass eye fell into his hand. “It was my mother’s,” he said, holding it out for her to see. Catrina recoiled.

  “Not her actual eye. A gift from her father when she first began to draw birds. Hers are the birds that hang here.”

  He showed her his mother’s drawings and told her about their time together in the Stadtwald. “She could sit silently for hours and watch them. As close as she got to them, they rarely flew away, as if they knew a friend. My parents were famous naturalists in Europe. He wrote books and she illustrated them.”

  Catrina asked to see the books, and admired the beauty and precision of the work. “Did you ever think you wanted to do the same thing?”

  “I offered once, but I do not have the talent either of them had. Like them, I seem to have a sympathy with the animals. And some people.” He stared into Catrina’s eyes. She looked away.

  “My father didn’t write anything, but he was a good storyteller,” she said. She described the rides on his shoulders, and their Sundays at the duck pond. “He made up funny poems about the people we saw. I can still hear him.” She made her voice growly with an Irish accent: “‘That man’s so fat, his wife’s a skinny marink. He eats her dinner, that’s what I think.’ His poems were more than funny. He watched people and noticed things about them. I loved him, but he walked out on us and we never heard from him again. I consider him dead. And you? Do you miss your father?”

  Egon rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. “He is not the kind of man one misses. He was very attached to my mother and sometimes I felt I was in his way. I admired him, though ours was not the kind of relationship you describe with your father. But not a day goes by that
I do not miss my mother. I wonder what she would think of me, treating animals?” He shook his head, then asked about her mother.

  “She still works in the same hospital she worked in when I was younger. She raised me, and my brother, Kiefer. I’d say she’s very stubborn, strong, and practical. She doesn’t suffer fools. You’d like her. Maybe, if you’re not already busy, you’d like to come to our Thanksgiving dinner next week. It’s nothing fancy, us and some friends.”

  “I am flattered to be asked,” said Egon, who knew little of Thanksgiving.

  She wrapped a piece of hair around her finger. “Well then, that’s settled.”

  They talked into the long shadows of afternoon. He told her how his mother had died; she told him about James. “That’s the kind of love you never stop grieving,” she said. “But you and I are lucky. At least we were both once adored. Some people never have that.”

  Egon remembered his talk with Meyer months earlier and his voice sharpened. “I’m tired of people telling me I am lucky.”

  “You are lucky,” she said.

  “Not so much anymore.”

  “Do you think you deserve better than what you have?”

  “As a matter of fact, I do.” He told her about his practice in Germany, his office, the operas and theater performances he attended.

  “I was fancy once too,” said Catrina. She told him about Walter, the brownstone on 185th Street, the silver fox and the people she’d met at the Blue Moon. “Famous people knew my name.” When she got to the part about Walter’s inglorious end, she shrugged. “I don’t know, maybe we get what we deserve.”

  “This is not what I deserve,” said Egon, reaching for the cardigan on the chair behind his desk and pulling it over his shoulders. “Do you not think you deserve better?”

  The sun was setting. The wood thrush was making sad warbly sounds, and the smell of old Johnny hung in the air. The room that had seemed bright and bustling in the river light now felt small and chilly.

  Catrina folded her arms across her chest. “I feel lucky to have what I have. Seems to me you’re damn lucky to have a place to sleep, food to eat, and a job that pays a salary.”

  “You mean because I am a refugee that I am lucky to have these things?”

  “That’s exactly what I mean.”

  His voice rose. “I happen not to share your point of view. I worked hard for what I had; nobody gave me anything.”

  “A lot of people worked hard. Not all of them got to come to this country.”

  “Is this what you Americans do when you celebrate your Thanksgiving, you tell each other how lucky you are?” Barely had the words spilled from his mouth before Egon regretted that he’d said them and how he’d pronounced Thanksgiving, Sanksgiving.

  Catrina gathered her purse. “That’s right,” she said, jamming her arms into her jacket. “We start by giving thanks for our blessings, those of us who think we have any.”

  “Will there be prayers or that kind of thing?” He meant to continue the conversation so she wouldn’t leave, but he could hear how condescending his words must have sounded.

  Catrina opened the door. “If you mean Jesus and crosses, you’ve got the wrong holiday, come back at Christmas. On second thought, don’t come at all. I don’t think you’d enjoy it.”

  Egon heard the crispness in her voice. He walked over to where she was standing and put his hand on her elbow. “I did not mean it that way. I would love to come to your Thanksgiving. Please, do not go.”

  “I have to feed Sasha.”

  After she left, he sat at his desk staring at the glass eye. It drew him to another time and place: the morning his mother died. The smell of coffee coming from the kitchen. Her joy as she told him she’d collaborate with his father on the flower book. The table littered with her sketch pad and pencils. “I’m glad you’re so happy,” he’d said. “You deserve it.”

  “Ach, nobody deserves anything. It’s not about that,” she’d answered.

  He thought about the possibility of Catrina and about the animals and how after so short a time, he was making his way in America.

  Maybe she was right. Maybe he was a little lucky.

  16.

  By eleven thirty on Thanksgiving morning, Catrina had peeled five potatoes; sautéed the bread, onions, and celery for stuffing; stuck the turkey in the oven; snapped the ends off a pound and a half of green beans; and set the table. She’d taken the old pilgrim candles from the closet and propped them up at either end of the table. Rose had always helped with these chores, but Catrina insisted she rest. Lately, her mother had felt weak and tired. Her breathing was slow and her skin the color of old newspapers. Rose was certain that whatever it was, it had come from all her years of breathing in the rot from the laundry. Catrina missed her mother’s stern voice warning her that she was going to burn the turkey. The quiet in the kitchen and the empty chairs gathered around the table underscored her loneliness. She needed to get out of here.

  She took Sasha and headed to the river. She stared at the water, the choppy currents and stabs of reflected sun never failing to excite something in her. She remembered how she and Kiefer would jump into the cold water and swim halfway to New Jersey, or so it seemed. Kiefer’s long black hair would fan out around his head like the halo of an angel. She smiled to think about her brother’s hair: still black, but now a bald spot the size of a fifty-cent piece capped his head. She wondered if her father had gone bald, and it started her thinking about the ones who’d disappeared from her life. She commanded herself to stop the sad thoughts and count her blessings. So she began. Sasha. The animals. This flawless day. The briny smell of the river. Egon? He’d seemed like a blessing. She’d miss him today, but at least now she felt she could get through the day.

  She came home, took the apple pie she’d baked the day before from the refrigerator, and got dressed. Rose helped her set out the hors d’oeuvres. At four thirty, the doorbell rang. Martha and Lou Delaney, the upstairs tenants, were there. When they moved in, two years after Walter died, Martha and Catrina had become friends. Lou had worked nights then, and Martha would often bring down lemonade and listen patiently as Catrina poured out her heart. Martha never talked much about Lou, though Catrina had her own opinion of him. She had often heard him screaming at Martha, his brutal words seeping through the walls.

  Lou stepped in first and bent over to Sasha. “You know me, don’t you, you pretty girl?” He held out his hand for her to sniff, but Sasha backed away and growled. Catrina grabbed the dog by the collar. “Now, now, Sasha, be nice.” She led Sasha into the bedroom and helped her onto the bed. Dogs, she thought, they always know. “We’re off to a swell start, aren’t we, sweetie?” she said, chucking Sasha under the chin.

  She walked back into the living room, where Rose was offering Martha and Lou toast bits with mushrooms. Martha sat on a wooden chair by the telephone table with her purse on her lap while Lou settled into the armchair and rested his hands on his ample stomach. “I forgot, what happened to the dog’s back legs?”

  “She was hit by a car,” said Catrina.

  “Does she ever topple over?” He smirked as if he’d said something clever.

  “No, she’s smart. She’s figured out how to compensate. If you’ll excuse me, I need to go and check on our dinner.”

  Catrina closed the door and leaned against the icebox. How differently she’d envisioned this day. Egon would have made these people bearable. He’d have appreciated how Sasha growled at Lou Delaney. Kiefer would have been impressed by how down-to-earth Egon was, particularly compared with Walter.

  The bell rang again. “I’ll get it,” shouted Catrina. It was Kiefer. She threw her arms around him. “Thank God you’re here.” When he smiled, Catrina thought, he looked younger than his thirty-one years; although she was two years younger than he, today she felt she looked ten years older. She seated him on the couch, across from Lou, then retreated to the kitchen. She could hear Kiefer tell Martha how pretty her dress was and ask Lou ab
out his job as an accountant. Kiefer spoke little, and when he did, he used as few words as possible, but he asked questions and listened well. He even got shy Martha to talk about her favorite stores on Dyckman Street.

  When it was finally time for dinner, the group gathered at the table. Rose asked Kiefer to lead them in grace.

  Dear Heavenly Father, thank you for this special day…

  Catrina lifted her eyes and noticed how, for the first time, Lou and Martha were dressed up: he in a striped suit and blue silk cravat, she with a fox stole around her neck.

  Thank you for the family you have given us…

  Rose sat straight as if to show, at least outwardly, that her body had not betrayed her. Even now, in her fifties, her hair was thick, with only smudges of gray at her hairline.

  … for family and friends who have gathered together to eat this Thanksgiving Day meal…

  Kiefer was short. When she hugged him, she could rest her head on his. Egon was tall. If he hugged her, she could probably rest her head on his chest. It was probably a hairy chest. She imagined his chest hair, ticklish against her cheek, and the way it might run like a funnel down his stomach, and the odor, sweet and musky…

  … Amen. Praise God, from whom all blessings flow.

  “Amen,” said Catrina. She jumped from the table and ran to the kitchen, where she began slicing the turkey and spooning stuffing into a dish.

  After a while, Kiefer came up behind her. “Did you invite someone else to Thanksgiving?”

  “No,” she said.

  “Well, there’s a man here, says he’s a friend of yours, that you’d invited him to come, an older fella with an accent. Sound like someone you know?”

  Catrina turned around and looked at Kiefer. “I know who it is.”

  “An Eeekon something-or-other. Odd name.”

  “Yeah, something like that. I don’t even know how he got my address.”

  “Telephone book,” said Kiefer. “Ever heard of it?”

  “Very funny.”

  “Want me to get rid of him?”