by Naomi Ragen
“Really…?”
They found their way to an off-campus coffee shop.
“You said you came in to visit your dad?”
“My mom died a few years back, and he took it very hard. He tends to be a bit of a recluse. He’s an archaeologist and not in the country for months on end, so whenever he gets back to New York, I make it a point to come see him.”
“I lost my dad when I was ten. My mom is also never home.”
They talked nonstop, until the light outside faded and hours passed without their even feeling it. Finally, she looked up.
“I can’t believe the time!”
Her words seemed to jog him out of some trance. He looked startled as he glanced at his watch. “It can’t have been that long!” He smiled. “And I have so much more I wanted to talk to you about…”
“When are you going back to Boston?” she asked, feeling suddenly shy.
“Monday morning. Perhaps we could meet Saturday night, and then again on Sunday…?”
They smiled at each other.
He paid the check, then held open the door for her.
She felt a small “ping” in her heart as she walked beside him, their arms gently brushing against each other.
“To be continued…” she said as they reached the subway entrance.
“Here, take my card.”
“You have a card?”
He chuckled. “My niece had this project in Hebrew school to raise money for some charity or other by selling business cards, and she talked me into ordering them for myself. Look at the title.”
She laughed. It said, DAVID ADLER: BUTCHER, BAKER, CANDLESTICK MAKER.
She tore some paper from a notebook, writing down her number. He studied it, then took out his cell phone and jabbed it in. “I tend to lose papers,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to lose this.”
She actually blushed.
39
Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York City, June 6, 2011
The gala opening of her exhibition at the Metropolitan Museum of Art was a glittering affair. Everyone Rose had ever known in the business was there: every important photographer, all her late husband’s journalist friends, all the people who had helped her and supported her along her difficult journey surrounded her with love, cheering her achievements in a meaningful way.
As she wandered around the crowded hall, she felt humbled by the accolades and excited by the interest and appreciation in the eyes of all those beholding her latest work. There was something special about this collection, she acknowledged. Far from being carbon copies of each other, the faces of the women with Muslim and Jewish head coverings and modest dresses were cast in fine relief by the sameness of their dress, the very drabness and uniformity of their outfits making the individuality in their eyes and expressions stand out that much more clearly: the struggle of the new Haredi mother to get a carriage on a crowded bus, the hands reaching out to help her; the suspicious stare of the pious matron guarding her world from outsiders; the natural curiosity of a charming toddler covered up in tights and a long skirt. The Muslim schoolgirls deep in avid conversations on a Jordanian bus. There were no clichés here, she thought. Each person was a world unto herself, a special world, a secret world, which each photo pried open like an oyster just enough to give the viewer a true glimpse of the beauty that rested within. It was her best work ever.
“Hi, Mom.”
“Hannah!” She hugged her, then pulled back, looking her over appreciatively. Her dress was lovely, sparkling with black sequins that shone as delicately as the evening sky. “You look beautiful.”
“Mom, this is David.”
Rose looked him over, pleasantly surprised. He was nothing like Hannah’s usual choice in men. He looked clean, studious, and respectable in his tweed jacket with the leather elbow patches. For some reason, she was glad he hadn’t worn a tuxedo. It showed character.
“And this is his father, Joseph.”
“I’m delighted to meet you, Mrs. Gordon. I’m embarrassed to say that as an absentminded-professor type, I’d never heard of your work. The exhibition is a marvel.”
He was a tall man with a shock of graying hair and blue eyes that were searching and intelligent. He looked distinguished and cosmopolitan in his dark suit.
“Thank you so much! I’m always happy to make new fans. Would you excuse me a minute?”
She took Hannah over to a corner. “What are you doing!”
“Dr. Adler is an archaeologist and a professor at Sarah Lawrence,” Hannah said, trying and failing not to sound like Yenta the Matchmaker. “He’s a widower, loves to travel…”
Rose shook her head. “I don’t believe this.” But then she smiled. “And this David of yours, is it serious?”
She blushed. “I hope so.”
Rose leaned over and kissed her as they returned to the two men.
“Please, won’t you both have some wine?”
“They only eat kosher food, and the wine here isn’t kosher,” Hannah said, sounding not only respectful, but knowledgeable.
It was then Rose noticed the skullcaps. She expected to cringe, but, instead, a strange calm washed over her.
“But you can have the cocktails. Liquor doesn’t have the same restrictions as wine, right? I know all about kashrus.” She smiled, saying the word with a heavy Yiddish inflection. “I’ve had an interesting past, you see.”
“I look forward to an opportunity to discuss it with you, Mrs. Gordon,” Joseph said sincerely, extending his hand.
She stared at it, startled. It was large and brown and worn, covered with rough patches and tiny scars.
“Please, call me Rose,” she said, placing her hand in his and smiling back shyly, also sincere.
She hugged Hannah again, before being overtaken and inundated by her hostess/star duties for the rest of the evening.
The next day, wanting to view the photos again in peace and quiet, she headed down to the exhibit in the late afternoon, after the lunchtime visitors had left and before the scheduled tour of the docent. In front of the photo of a little girl with smiling, curious eyes stood a young woman with thick, shoulder-length blond hair.
Rose held her breath. She had been disappointed so many times in the past, her longing and guilt providing so many mirages and false leads, each ending in heartbreak. But as she took some tentative steps forward, the woman turned around to face her.
“Aunt Rose!” Rivka said, smiling.
Rose stared at her silently. The face was the same, but the eyes were older now, the mouth firmer and less vulnerable. The long hair had been cut, but not shorn. She no longer looked like a child. She wore dark pants pilling at the cuffs and a worn pink sweater.
“Rivka? Is that really you?”
“Yes, it’s me.” Her smile was joyous.
Rose felt herself drowning in complex emotions that made her heart beat faster and her throat ache as she held back tears of anger and gratitude. “We’ve looked everywhere for you for years.”
“Really?” She seemed genuinely surprised. “Why?”
“How can you even ask that! Because we were worried sick! Because we felt responsible.”
“I guess sometimes a person can’t make a right decision that will please everyone. I thought for certain my leaving would be a big relief to you and Hannah, and even my parents. Anyhow, I took all those things you said to me in your office that morning to heart, especially the part about me taking responsibility for myself. You were so right.”
Rose felt her anger drain. “If you only knew how many times I’ve played that conversation over in my head, wishing with all my heart I had kept my mouth shut!”
“But why, Aunt Rose? You only said the truth. I was a spoiled brat, living in a dream world where I could break things and someone else would paste them back together for me. I was rebelling, but I wasn’t willing to pay the price for it. You were very kind to me, as was Hannah. I had to grow up sometime.”
“So, where are you living?
What are you doing?” Rose asked, reaching out to touch her, still half in shock, afraid she’d disappear.
“I live in Brooklyn, in one of those apartments that haven’t been fixed up since nineteen ten, when the greeners moved in straight from Ellis Island.” She laughed. “But the street is slowly getting farpootzt.”
Rose smiled. “I think the word is ‘gentrified.’”
“That too. They have these little boutiques selling overpriced schmattes, and bars and coffeehouses. I waitress in one of them. Tuesday afternoons I have off. I like to go to the city and look around like when I was a teenager.” She opened her huge handbag. “I bought myself a camera. It’s old, but very good.” She handed it to Rose.
It was a vintage Nikon without any automatic settings. “I haven’t seen one of these for years,” Rose marveled. “How did you learn how to use it?”
“I worked in a photo store for a while, you know, feeding those machines that print out digital photos. But the owner used to be a real photographer. He was the one who sold me the camera and showed me how to use it. He passed away a few months ago, and the store shut down…”
“So, you’ve been taking photographs?”
“Yes.”
“I’d love to see them.”
“Would you?” Her face lit up.
Rose nodded, sincere.
Rivka hesitated. “That would be great, but listen, Aunt Rose, you have to promise me that if I give you my address, you won’t tell my parents where I am.”
“They don’t know you’re back in New York?”
She shook her head. “And I’d like to keep it that way.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m positive.”
So, there wasn’t going to be a happy ending then after all, Rose thought, the family coming together and accepting each other with unconditional love. But at least there would be some kind of resolution. “I promise not to pass on this information without your permission. I do speak to your mom off and on, you know. I won’t lie to you. It’s going to be excruciatingly painful to have to keep this a secret from your parents, knowing how happy it would make them.”
“I get that,” she answered stoically and without further explanation or apology, taking out a pen and writing down her address. “Next Tuesday would be best, at about two o’clock?”
“I’m looking forward to it,” Rose said, taking the note and studying the girl’s hands, once so soft and tender. Now they were red, work-roughened, the once-manicured nails chipped and stained, the cuticles raw. The sight of them filled Rose with sadness.
“Can I bring Hannah with me?” she added as an afterthought. “I know she’d love to see you. She has a new boyfriend. He wears a skullcap.”
“Really?” Rivka said, her eyebrows arching in surprise.
“She didn’t speak another word to Simon from the day you left. He dropped out of school, by the way. No one really knows why or where he is now.”
She shrugged indifferently, then changed the subject. “Aunt Rose, I have nothing against Hannah, but can we keep this first meeting just between the two of us?”
“Of course, of course, whatever you say…” Rose answered, disappointed. “Can I at least tell her I’ve seen you? She’s also spent years worrying.”
“Of course. But I’m not sure she and I should meet just yet. It’s complicated.” She glanced at her watch. “Oh, it’s so late. I’ve got to run.”
“I thought this was your day off?”
“It is, but I have other … obligations. I’ll see you next week?”
“Absolutely. Good-bye, my dear. It’s so good to see you.”
The phone call to Hannah was short, filled with exclamation points, and ending in disappointment.
“You mean she’s still angry at me, after all this time?” Hannah asked, wounded.
“She said specifically that she’s not! She just said she wasn’t sure about meeting you right now. I suppose it’s a bit overwhelming for her. That doesn’t mean she never wants to see you again.”
“But why you and not me?”
“Because I’m the photographer, and I think she’s looking forward to a professional opinion about her work.”
“And I, on the other hand, can’t offer her anything. Doesn’t sound to me like any radical character transformation has taken place, Mom.”
“Don’t be so harsh! She looked poor, as if she’s been working very hard and earning very little. I’m sure she’s not the same girl.”
“Well, take in everything. I expect a full report when you get back.”
“Will do my best.”
40
Brooklyn, New York, June 14, 2011
Rose looked out into the run-down street from inside the taxi, putting the strap of her purse protectively around her neck and slipping her arm around it before exiting. But when she actually stood on the pavement, the street seemed surprisingly benign.
The buildings were old but not particularly graffiti-scarred. Scattered among the run-down bodegas and dusty luncheonettes were charming little coffee shops and tiny boutiques selling trendy clothing. Young women pushed baby carriages, and men of every ethnic shade were dressed as if they were busy with some kind of useful employment. She relaxed, taking out the paper on which she had written Rivka’s address.
She walked up the cracked but well-swept stoop. No security system was in place, she noted apprehensively as she pulled open the massive old lobby doors. Inside, cracking, uneven floor tiles from another century gave the place a colorful antique ambience. The walls were grimy, but not criminally scarred with slogans and obscenities, which might have frightened her enough to turn around and leave. Instead, she searched without much hope for an elevator before beginning her long trek to the fifth floor.
The name on the door was written on a piece of paper taped just beneath the peephole. It said WEISS-GONZALES. Oh God, what now? went through her head.
Rivka opened the door. Her hair seemed to shine with its own light in the dark apartment as she ushered Rose over the threshold. A cursory glance showed she was wearing the same frayed pants and sweater.
“You found me!” she exulted, pleased.
The place was tiny. In one corner Rose glimpsed a kitchen consisting of two parallel walls just far enough apart for a slim person to stand in sideways. It had a stained sink, an old stove, and an ancient refrigerator—all pushed together like subway passengers during rush hour. In the living room, a couch covered with a colorful African-print throw stood against the wall. Completing the “decor” was an old armchair in frayed fake leather that reminded her of Hannah’s cushionless sofa, and a coffee table that consisted of a round piece of glass over an old porcelain elephant that had seen better days. The only other piece of furniture was a cheap, fragile bookcase whose shelves sagged beneath an eclectic collection in Hebrew and English: novels, biology textbooks, a prayer book, a Bible. The main decorations, as far as Rose could tell, were the walls, which were literally covered with photographs so closely hung that the wall color itself was almost impossible to discern.
“I see you’ve got your own gallery. It’s quite a collection!”
Rivka smiled with shy pride.
Rose walked up close, studying them. There was a beggar woman on Broadway, the complicated road map of her life traced across her old face in a hundred telling lines. There was a shadow that fell across the lawn of Central Park like a picnic blanket, shielding two lovers holding hands. And here and there and everywhere, there was a baby, and then a toddler with dark, curly hair, light eyes, and a winning smile.
It was the same child, she realized, feeling suddenly dizzy. She sat down heavily on the couch. “Rivka, would you be kind enough to bring me a glass of water, please?” She gulped it down quickly, wiping the beads of perspiration from her forehead, the feeling of faintness slowly giving way to an urgent question: “Who is he, the child?”
“Isn’t that obvious?” Rivka shook her head, sitting down beside her. “He’s my son
.”
“Your son?” Rose repeated stupidly. “So you never went through with it, the abortion?”
“I never changed my mind. But my body refused to cooperate.”
“I don’t understand.”
“I was actually on the table getting prepped when I suddenly felt this thing … It was like I’d swallowed a bag of cats that were trying to punch their way out with their tiny paws. They told me it couldn’t be real; it was way too early to feel the baby move. They said I was imagining it. But after that, I couldn’t think about the abortion as if it was some tumor that had to be cut out. It was too late … too late.”
“Rivka, where did you go?”
“First, some horrible drop-in center in the Bronx where bag ladies go on rainy days. And from there to this home, a place for what they call ‘unwed mothers.’ I looked through the Yellow Pages for a Jewish home but couldn’t find one. In the end, I went to a Christian place. They were fanatic about privacy. We were all registered under the names of saints. I was Saint Agatha! Their shame issues are even worse than the Jews! Anyhow, there were lots of crosses everywhere with poor little Jesuses suffering away. I ended up eating mostly vegetarian food. Once in a while, someone told me ‘to feel Jesus’s mercy.’ You know what? I honestly tried! I was willing to take any kind of mercy I could get at that point. But I didn’t feel anything, except … I … just felt like I was on one of those people conveyer belts that move you around in airports that don’t let you get off in the middle. You have to run ahead or force yourself to go backwards to leave. I didn’t have energy for either! So I just went along, waiting for God to let me off.”
“You had the baby,” Rose repeated gratuitously, still trying to process that information.
“Yes, I did. The labor took two hours and twenty minutes, record time for a first birth, everyone said. The doctor and the midwives joked I was the type who could have a dozen, one after the other, with no problem. I wanted to tell them that the women in my family did exactly that and there was nothing funny about it! I guess those fertility genes got passed down to me, too. Funny, isn’t it? You can’t run away from biology.”