by Ruby Namdar
“Dad, what are you doing here? Don’t you know you’re supposed to wait outside?”
Alison. His darling Alison! Dizzy and out of breath, he knelt to give her a hug, blocking the children who now burst through the door, flinging their prayer books onto a growing pile on the table by the door and expertly aiming their colored skullcaps at the basket as if warming up for a game. Although sensing Alison’s dismay, Andrew couldn’t let go of her and prolonged his embrace. “Come on, let’s go, sweetie,” he said at last, getting a grip on himself. “Mom is waiting for us.”
19
Hi, Ethel, look who’s here!” Jamila, Ethel’s private nurse, had a southern accent that seemed perpetually on the verge of laughter. The old woman went on staring unblinkingly ahead of her. If something in her still was able to recognize her visitors, she gave no sign of it. “Hey, baby,” Jamila persisted. “Don’t be like that. Say hello to your guests. It’s Alison! Don’t you remember Alison?” She put a thick arm around Ethel, its plump ebony protruding from the sleeve of her starched white uniform, and sat her up in her wheelchair, patting her thinning gray curls with an instinctive, maternal motion. She treats her like an infant, thought Andrew not unresentfully. The morning’s memory of his mother’s delicate hands on the big wheel of the Roadmaster, swinging it left and right with a confidence that seemed boundless to a child, came back to him. Automatically, he glanced at his watch. Three minutes. It happened every month. No sooner had he arrived than he felt a great need to be gone, as though he had been here for hours.
“Good, Bubby, very good.” Alison wiped the dribbled applesauce from Ethel’s chin. “Want some more? One more spoon, okay?” Ethel’s lips remained tightly shut, ignoring the spoon, then opened just enough for Alison to slip it between them. Eleven years old and she’s already feeding her grandmother, all that spittle doesn’t bother her, Andrew thought, ashamed to find himself sitting on the edge of his chair, as if afraid to stain his clothes or catch something. Jamila ate Alison up with proud, endlessly loving eyes. They called each other “baby,” too. When did it begin, all that “baby” business? She had already made Jamila promise to come to her bat mitzvah. “Come with Bubby. I want you there, baby, you’ve got to come.” He watched them silently, struck by their feminine devotion that left him outside its circle of compassion. He missed Ethel, missed the keen, peppery person she had been before her Alzheimer’s walked off with her—leaving behind the unresponsive old woman sitting motionlessly in her wheelchair and staring past him as if he weren’t there. Again he felt the urge to get up and leave. He fought it back uncomfortably, wedging his rear more firmly against the back of his seat.
“O-kay, Mr. Cohen, you’ll have to excuse us now.” Jamila took a towel and clean pair of pajamas from a drawer of the dresser and handed them to Alison, who had lately begun to assist in Ethel’s daily bath and now sponged her gently with a washcloth and helped Jamila shampoo her hair. Andrew didn’t care for the idea. He had been sure, had even hoped, that the administration would forbid it, only to be told to his surprise by the divisional head that she not only did not object to Alison’s participation but was all for encouraging it. Without noticing, she had begun in their meetings to address her remarks more to Alison than to him, turning to her as respectfully as if she were the adult responsible for the patient. While Alison’s maturity gave Andrew a kind of confidence in her, it also worried him. She was only eleven. How had she grown up so fast?
Jamila bent to lift Ethel from the wheelchair. In the nurse’s arms, his mother resembled a pale, pink-eyelidded baby bird peering out from a black nest. Alison ran to open the bathroom door and the strapping nurse carried Ethel’s frail little body through it like an infant’s. Now, too, Andrew had to control himself, this time to keep from whisking Alison urgently away, as if there were some imminent danger or ill omen in the old woman’s withered, moribund body. Never seen by him in the bathtub, he imagined it floating on a layer of soap bubbles, its white, shriveled skin hanging loose. Feeling a helpless anguish, a bitter longing for his lost mother, he tore himself from his seat, slipped into the hallway, and walked eagerly to the cafeteria like a man who hadn’t eaten or drunk all day. He had been in it many times, invariably fleeing to it even though its coffee was mediocre and its pastries weren’t fresh. It happened on every visit. The admonishing pangs of his hunger for life would make him suddenly crave choice coffee, expensive wine, red meat. Sometimes, sipping the cafeteria’s acrid, lukewarm brew, he dreamed of dapper suits, oceanic cruises, even a sporty new convertible, or else experienced sudden and bizarrely intense sexual desires. Uncharacteristically ogling the young nurses, he had feverish, pornographic thoughts that left him with a bad feeling and a sour taste in his mouth. He glanced at his watch: fifteen minutes. Only fifteen minutes since arriving! He couldn’t go on sitting here any longer. He had to go outside, to the lawn, for a breath of fresh air.
Andrew sat on a wooden bench at one end of the lawn, his untouched coffee getting cold in its Styrofoam cup, his eyes roaming over the sea of naked branches below the nursing home. It was a private, expensive, well-run institution, one of the best in Westchester. His mother had loved Westchester no less than did his father. She hated Florida, too. What had ever made them move? It was totally absurd.
Feeling vulnerable and on edge, he took deep, regular breaths, trying to calm himself. His head spun with the jetsam of memory, the flotsam of thought, the driftwood of emotion. They coursed through it as though on a river on which floated words from a half-remembered song. Stubborn and elusive, they bobbed up and down, surfacing and sinking on the restless water: an old song, taken from some musical that hadn’t played in years or a radio program that had stopped being listened to long ago. What was it? What was its name? It suddenly seemed the key to everything. If only he could remember its words. Why haven’t I told you? Where was that from? What time was it? Half an hour already. He had better get back.
Ethel sat on the bed with her back to the door. Her green pajamas, which buttoned in the back, were half-open, revealing a broad triangle of naked skin. Jamila had just finished massaging her back with baby oil. “It keeps her from getting bed sores,” she explained to Alison, who nodded seriously. Andrew approached slowly, his eyes on his mother’s bare back that was slowly disappearing behind the green pajama top with every button that Jamila deftly did up. “Come, baby, help me comb her hair. Easy does it, baby, easy does it. She doesn’t like knots in her hair.” The thick fingers ran nimbly through Ethel’s thin gray hair, plaiting pickaninny curls. “I sometimes do this for her. She likes it. You see? Like this! Next time, baby, I’ll make them for you, too. Look how pretty Ethel is today. Isn’t she, Alison?” Andrew circled the bed, staring at the old woman lying there. He stiffened as though from an electric shock. Eyes shut and head thrown back like a petted baby, she was loving it. A slight, live, almost impish smile played over her thin lips. For a moment, just for a moment, she looked like his mother again, like Ethel.
20
Five p.m. Time to head home. Alison fell asleep in the front seat, curled on her side, one arm hiding her face. Although he couldn’t be sure, she seemed to be sucking her thumb like she did as a toddler. Appearing from nowhere, heavy, leaden, low-lying clouds hung over the car. Andrew drove silently. He didn’t want to turn on the radio. It might wake Alison, and besides, he didn’t want any outside noises. The loaded silence was good for him. He needed peace and quiet. The stubborn fragment of the melody that had haunted him all afternoon wouldn’t leave him alone. Something unremembered, unsolved, was at work. Why haven’t I told you? The hungry craving felt in the nursing home had abated, leaving the emptiness of the drive back, which made his body ache as if coming down with the flu or getting out of bed after a sleepless night. I’ve told every little star. A round, heavy raindrop fell on the windshield directly in front of him. Another and another followed. The rain beat down, knocking on the windows desperately, humanly, as if begging to be let into the car. Although his field
of vision was blurred, he didn’t bother to turn on the wipers and let the unimpeded sheets of rain run down the windshield. Why haven’t you told me? Ethel was dancing with Rachel in her arms, singing to her. I’ve told every little star just how sweet I think you are. A sentimental, artfully naive song, possibly a lullaby or children’s rhyme.
I’ve told every little star
Just how sweet I think you are.
Why haven’t I told you?
He was aching, aching all over. The memory jabbed like a needle. Twenty-five years. The melody wavered, not in sync, like the sound track of an old movie.
I’ve told ripples in a brook,
Made my heart an open book,
Why haven’t I told you?
The beautiful voice she had had. Had she ever thought of being a singer when she was young? Or an actress? She never talked about it. She never talked about such things at all. Never. But wasn’t that everyone’s dream back then? Broadway, Hollywood, the klieg lights. She was a redhead, smoked, liked boys, loved to dance. Her delicate, fragile-looking hands on the wheel, gripping it tightly, steering the old Roadmaster determinedly down the wet, winding road.
Friends ask me am I in love,
I always answer yes,
Might as well confess,
If the answer’s yes.
Cheek to soft baby’s cheek, cradling her in a slow dance, singing with her eyes shut. Rachel’s open eyes blind, unseeing, as if trying to hear with them, to take in all she could of Grandma’s pretty song.
Maybe you may love me too.
Oh, my darling, if you do,
Why haven’t you told me?
His eyes smarted, their ducts filling with tears. Everything wanted out: the regret, the compassion, the guilt. Why guilt? Guilt for what? Time had been allowed to go its way as if it meant nothing. No attempt was made to stop it. None! Now it was too late. It was over. Mom was dead. Her skin was thin enough to see through. Little pickaninny curls in her gray, matted hair. Another minute and his heart would break. Too late to do anything. What a rain. He mustn’t wake the child. If only I could cry now.
END OF BOOK THREE
BOOK
FOUR
1
March 6, 2001
The 11th of Adar, 5761
One p.m. Andrew entered the apartment, carrying two large, brown paper bags while pushing ahead of him, with one foot, a case of wine that the delivery guy from Martin Brothers had left with the doorman. The spotless apartment smelled pleasantly of detergents and air fresheners: Angie had finished cleaning early, leaving him to enjoy in solitude his favorite pastime of making dinner for guests. It was too bad Ann Lee wouldn’t be there. She had left the day before with her ensemble for the West Coast—for a long time, almost two weeks. Not that she would have come anyway. Lately, she had avoided what she called his “adult evenings,” sparing them both the discomfort of appearing together in public.
A wave of longing swept over him. Desire, like God, was in the details. A few days ago he happened to glance inside her pocketbook, stirred by the sight of her touchingly small, almost girlish bra, folded next to a dog-eared copy of The House upon the Top of the Mountain and an alluringly forbidden red pack of cigarettes. Now, though, the deliciously long amount of time spent at the meat counter, vegetable racks, and wine shelves had aroused the inner chef in him. It would be a fabulous feast: a deboned, largely cubed leg of lamb, lavishly seasoned with cinnamon, cardamom, white pepper, and powdered ginger, braised with carrots, white raisins, and halved walnuts; served on a bed of homemade couscous; a small salad with a simple olive oil vinaigrette; a crisp, fruity Alsatian Riesling with the main course; and a nice, deeply golden Sauterne with the dessert—an upside-down apple tart, a tarte tatin with subtle hints of cinnamon and cardamom as to continue the arc of flavor, served with a scoop of ice cream.
Andrew kicked off his shoes, put the bags on the counter, went to the bedroom to change into shorts and a T-shirt, and returned barefoot to the kitchen, eager to get started. First came the wine. He opened the case and took out the bottles, putting some in the wine cooler and the rest in the pantry. It was a common mistake, especially in America, to chill white wine to death. An hour or two in the cooler was all that was needed, especially with such a fine Riesling. Uncorking a bottle, he poured himself a bit and left the glass on the counter; he liked pre-tasting the wines he planned to serve with the food. Next came the music. Choosing a CD, he slipped it into the slot of the player. Marvelous, simply marvelous! And now to work.
Although the recipe called for marinating the lamb overnight, Andrew, reluctant to overpower it, had put half up the previous evening and half that morning. Taking the cubes of now slightly grayish meat, he laid them on a paper towel to dry while pouring the equally gray-colored marinade into a pot. He would bring it to boil and let it simmer until it had partially steamed off, leaving a rich stock to bring out the best in the meat and vegetables that would stew in it.
The violins played a sweeping passage. Andrew caught himself humming along and smiled: humming or whistling while he worked was a sign of concentration. Yet it was not the same once he grew conscious of doing it, and he stopped after a few more bars, a bit embarrassed. He sipped some warm wine (it was truly a first-rate Riesling, with a hint of melon and a faint herbal aroma that was just right for this time of year), took a handful of couscous, and scattered it carefully in a big, handsome skillet whose heat-retaining copper surface hardly needed any cooking fat. He wanted to toast the couscous a bit before steaming it, to lend it a nutty, almost smoky, touch. Couscous was a delicate grain. If allowed to sponge up even a bit of oil, it lost its lightness and turned greasy.
The toasting couscous filled the kitchen with its subtle aroma. It was done: half a minute more and it would be brown and overcooked. Emptying its contents into a large glass bowl, he carried the skillet to the sink and let it hiss beneath the faucet. He scrubbed it, wiped it lightly, and put it back on the burner for the lamb. This was the moment that demanded the most concentration. The meat needed to be charred on the outside without drying out on the inside; a few seconds made all the difference between a sublime and a mediocre dish. Andrew took another sip of wine, put down his glass, scooped up some coarse salt, studied the lamb spread out on a tray, and dashed the salt over it with an experienced, theatrical flair. Alone, he could play the role of the master chef to his heart’s content.
The skillet sputtered with the savory odor of browned meat, conjuring up seemingly lost Sunday memories of Walter Cohen standing by the large grill in their backyard, like a captain at the helm of his ship, turning hot dogs, steaks, and hamburgers with the intensity—surprising in such an unsensual, almost ascetic a man—of someone engaged in a solemn ceremony whose rules are known to him alone.
Andrew seldom thought of his father while cooking, but this time the memory was strangely vivid. What could have evoked it? The sweet, grassy smell of the searing lamb was so different from the overpowering odor of the all-American beef Walter grilled so proudly. It was hard, almost oxymoronic, to imagine Walter grilling anything as exotic and subtle as Mediterranean marinated lamb in their New Rochelle backyard.
The cubed lamb sizzled on the hot brassy surface of the skillet, crisping at the edges and turning an appetizing amber. He and his father had been so unlike each other, so different. The meat was beginning to smoke thickly; it was time to turn it before it blackened and grew bitter. Deftly, Andrew flipped the chunks of lamb in the pan. They were almost ready to be taken out and to make way for the carrots. More images drifted through his mind, borne on the savor of the meat like puffs of cloud on a spring breeze. Escaping the confines of the New Rochelle yard, they changed texture and hue, taking him to a vast sandy sea of yellows and grays. Large, crudely cut gemstones were embedded in a heavy breastplate of burnished gold, glowing in the desert sun like small, mysterious-looking, celestial orbs. Where was this place? Where was all this light coming from? The meat was done. Andrew, rudely awakened from h
is daydream, quickly transferred the browned pieces to a platter waiting by the stove. The golden bells rang with a gentle, tranquilizing chime, a sound clearer and purer than any he had ever heard. The meat, still faintly sizzling, lay piled on its platter. Now the carrots crackled in the skillet, frizzing in the hot oil while soaking up the meat’s flavor and scent. The tinkle of bells heralded the arrival of the priest in the sanctuary, alerting God and man to his presence. Golden bells, pomegranate-shaped orbs of purple and scarlet. A golden bell and a pomegranate, a golden bell and a pomegranate, upon the hem of the robe round about. A sweet scent wafted in his nostrils, inducing a dreamy wakefulness. Thin cakes of meal anointed with oil. A bullock and two rams. The meat exuded its pink juices on the counter. Excellent: that meant it was still tender inside. The sound of the frying carrots grew louder, dulling his senses like static. He leaned over the bowl and dipped two fingers in the warm bloody liquid to check the seasoning before putting the meat into the oven. They were halfway to his mouth when, with a fascination that made no sense of what it saw, he found himself staring at them rubbing the lucent blood against his thumb. His right earlobe itched. Unthinkingly, he scratched it and smeared it with blood. From somewhere came a great tumult, the noise of a crowd—and in it, a small, still voice. Flaxen tent flaps glimmered in the sunlight. Ribbons of indigo and scarlet, twined from fine linen, shone brightly against the drab desert. Excited yet apprehensive, he disbelievingly bent and daubed the reddish liquid on the big toe of his right foot. The bleats of animals about to be slaughtered mingled with the throng’s singing and cries. Where was it coming from? What language was it? Definitely not Latin, it wasn’t ancient Greek, either. It was harsh-sounding, guttural, gritty with sand and splintered rock. Unknown sensations ran powerfully through him. The tent flaps billowed in the desert breeze. Inside them, in a tenebrous light, the tent’s golden fastenings glistened in blue loops like stars in a summer sky.