Among the Living Page 2

  Jesler tapped his hand on Pearl’s knee, and Pearl smiled and took hold of Goldah’s hand. “That’s just fine, then,” she said. “Just fine.”

  Jesler held out his hand across his wife, and tried to keep his eyes on the road. “Well, glad to meet you, Ike Goldah.”

  Goldah let go of Pearl’s hand and took Jesler’s. They shook firmly.

  “Yes,” said Goldah. “Glad to meet you.”

  Pearl insisted on a short detour. She had forgotten flowers — it simply couldn’t be helped. She said her boys could wait in the car. It was an uncomfortable few minutes until Jesler remembered the scrap of paper in his pocket. With all the preparations for Goldah’s arrival, he’d let it slip his mind completely. Jesler checked his watch. It was nearly two. He’d told Jimmy he’d get back to him no later than one thirty.

  “I’ve got to make a quick call,” Jesler said as he took his hat. “Just a few minutes. You don’t mind do you?”

  He was already out the door and heading across the street before Goldah could answer. Inside the Texaco station, Jesler found the booth free, pulled out the scrap, and dialed the number. A woman picked up. She sounded tired, irritated. Half a minute later, a man came on the line: “Jimmy, here.”

  “It’s Jesler.”

  “Hey, Abe. I was just about to give up on you.”

  “You said by two,” said Jesler. “It’s not even quarter of.” He tried not to breathe through the silence.

  “Sure … I was just thinking you might be having second thoughts this time around.”

  “Hardly,” said Jesler.

  “Good. New shipment comes in tonight.”

  “I thought it was tomorrow.”

  “Well, one a.m. is technically tomorrow but I call it tonight. Either way, that’s when it’s docking. If you’re coming, you’ll need two boys with you.”

  “I know the drill.”

  “ ‘Know the drill.’ ” Jesler heard the snort before Jimmy said, “It’s funny but you don’t sound like a Jew.”

  “And that’s good?”

  The snort became a full-fledged laugh. “So how much of a markup you getting on all this?”

  Jesler heard another voice in the background. It became muffled: Jimmy was holding the receiver to his chest. It gave Jesler time to think, but thinking was the problem, wasn’t it? Thinking left you staring up in the middle of the night at added shelf space and distribution fees and exclusivity agreements and a wife who insisted that this was how one was meant to live. So why not just cut to it? Why not fill those shelves when the opportunity presented itself? The Italians were getting their money; he was getting his shoes. And Jimmy — Jimmy just needed him there tonight.

  “You come in the back gate,” Jimmy said. “Like last time. Two envelopes, two boys. One a.m. Don’t be late this time.”

  “No,” said Jesler. “I won’t.”

  Jesler pulled up to the curb rather than into the drive. He and Pearl had discussed this earlier: better to have Yitzhak see the house from a distance this first time. A sign was strung across the portico in papered letters that read, “Welcome! Welcome! Welcome!” Beneath it, a wraparound porch sported two rocking chairs and a swing that hung idly from a chain. The lawn spread out in a wide swath of deep green grass — peppered by a few mounds of dirt and sand — and was cut in two by a stone walk that sprouted small tufts of weeds and dandelions on either side.

  Goldah stepped from the car and offered his hand to Pearl. She had told Jesler not to say a word so that Yitzhak could take it all in for himself.

  “Three thousand square feet,” said Jesler. “Not bad on Thirty-Sixth Street.”

  Pearl took hold of Goldah’s arm and walked with him along the path. She seemed to breathe more deeply as she stared up at the old Victorian, sky-blue and white trim. It was a far cry from the shack they had lived in when they were first married, down by the river, with the Greeks and the blacks and the smell of human smallness buried in the bleached clothes and too-sweet wine of a Friday night. Abe had made her a promise back then — a house on Thirty-Sixth. There had been other promises but those hadn’t been his to make.

  She mounted the steps and, on the porch, she laughed and cried and, in a flourish, reached for Goldah’s arms and pressed her head to his chest.

  “Such a joy,” she said. She pulled a handkerchief from her purse and looked down at Jesler, who was nearing the steps. “Look who’s here, Abe. Look who’s standing on our porch.”

  She laughed and her eyes filled. There was a moment when all three thought she might grab for Goldah again, but instead she lifted both her hands into the air and turned to the door. “Such a joy.”

  Jesler joined Goldah on the porch. “Always a lot of emotion with a woman. She’ll be all right.”

  Pearl’s voice echoed from the front hall. “Mary Royal! We’re back from the station. Mr. Ike is in from the station.”

  Jesler said, “Don’t feel you have to give in to it. We’re here to get you on your feet, so don’t think we’re expecting anything more of you.”

  Goldah had no idea what Jesler was talking about except that maybe Jesler needed to hear this for himself.

  Inside Goldah smelled something familiar, a roast, but it was sharper in the nose with a sweetness that seemed out of place. He couldn’t recall the last time he had eaten a meal prepared just for him.

  Jesler led him into the front parlor — settee, chairs, lamps, and some cushioning by the window. Goldah noticed small silver cups filled with nuts and raisins perched about. Jesler pawed a fistful from one and popped a few into his mouth.

  “Don’t eat the nuts, Abe!” Pearl shouted from another room. “They’re for the company. If Yitzhak — if Ike wants some, tell him he’s more than welcome.”

  Jesler popped a few more into his mouth. “Like a drink?”

  Pearl shouted, “Offer him a drink, Abe. Mary Royal’s made a nice lemonade and we have tea. Don’t start in on the hard liquor. Ask him if he drinks hard liquor.”

  Abe shouted back, “He’s right here, Pearl. He’s hearing everything you’re saying.”

  “Just ask him if he wants something. I’ll be right out. Don’t make such a to-do.”

  Jesler tried a smile. “I guess there’s lemonade or tea if you want some. She’ll be right in.”

  “Could I use the toilet?”

  Jesler’s smile faded. He looked as if he had made a terrible mistake, as if somehow he had missed the most obvious question.

  “The toilet,” he said. “Of course. Yes … of course. It’s right through here. We’ve got two more upstairs if that’d be better. Would you be needing anything from your bag?”

  Evidently Jesler and his wife had been told about Goldah’s recent medical trouble: the requisite letters exchanged between government offices, health departments, all the warnings about “mental and physical difficulties” to be expected.

  Goldah’s kidneys had been in fine working order for the past three months but why tell the Jeslers that? No need for a follow-up letter, especially when the news was good. Let them prepare for the worst.

  “No, I don’t need anything,” Goldah said. “Thank you. Just through here?”

  Inside the bathroom, Goldah turned on the light and shut the door. He heard Jesler move quickly past, whispering, “He’s gone into the bathroom. He’s using the bathroom.”

  The sink sat in front of a mirror and Goldah turned on the water. He brought two palmfuls up to his face and felt the roughness of his cheeks, the heat still in them. He let the water drip through his fingers as the tap ran, unsure if he was meant to take the soap — a light pink in the shape of a small flower — but brought it up to his nose nonetheless. Roses. Working it in his hands he barely mustered a lather. He washed it off and rinsed the little plate it sat on before setting it back down. All the while he kept his eyes from the mirror. He knew the face, knew the expression. Why bother with that? Instead he looked at his nails. He was finding them strangely compelling these days. They were c
ut and white and seemed even more foreign to him than the face. He turned out the light and opened the door.

  “We’re in here,” Pearl said from the parlor. “Was everything all right? Do you need something from your bag?”

  Jesler was sitting with Pearl on the settee. A young black woman stood by the window in a calf-length dress and maid’s apron.

  “No, thank you,” said Goldah. “Everything is fine.”

  “Mary Royal,” Pearl said, “this is Mr. Ike Goldah. Ike, this is Mary Royal. She’s been with us nearly three years.”

  “Afternoon, Mr. Ike.”

  Mary Royal had soft features with slim fingers that held a pitcher of dark, dark liquid.

  “She’s brought in the tea, and we have some pie I thought would be nice for you. People won’t be coming until after eight, but that’s still a few hours off and I want you to have an appetite. I thought pie would be good to tide you over.”

  Jesler and Pearl already had their plates on their laps. There was a third on the coffee table and Goldah stepped across to a chair.

  “Mary Royal makes an excellent tea,” said Pearl. “Would you care for some?”

  “Thank you. Yes.”

  “She makes it with a little mint. That’s the secret.”

  Jesler said, “Not a secret now.” He was eager to get to his pie but was doing what he had been told.

  Pearl said, “I said he was a handsome man, Mary Royal. Isn’t he handsome?”

  “He’s a grown man,” Jesler said with more edge than perhaps he intended.

  “Yes, Miss Pearl. A handsome man.”

  Goldah took a sip from his glass. He did his best not to wince. He wondered why they called this tea. “It’s very nice,” he said and set the glass down.

  “The bathroom was all right?” Jesler said. If he couldn’t have his pie, he wanted information.

  Goldah said, “Your soap looks like a rose.”

  “Specialty company in Atlanta,” said Jesler. “They also do cars, stars, and shells, if that’s what you like. They know how to run a business, I can tell you that.”

  “I tried the shells,” said Pearl, “but I think I prefer the rosebuds.”

  Goldah realized they were waiting on him. He picked up his fork and sliced into the pie. “They’re very pretty.” He ate.

  Jesler spoke through a mouthful. “She won’t let you in on the secret, but let me just say we go through a lot of honey this time of year.”

  “Abe!” said Pearl.

  Mary Royal stayed by the window and Goldah found it remarkable that she could stand so still with the pitcher and show almost nothing in her face. It seemed effortless, unconsidered, yet perfectly in control, and he envied her for it. He imagined she was no more than twenty.

  “It’s the crust,” said Jesler. “Even I don’t know what makes it this good.”

  “And you won’t — will he, Mary Royal?”

  “That’s our secret, Mr. Abe.”

  Jesler took another healthy forkful. “You stick to that. You like apple pie, Ike?”

  To his surprise, Goldah did. He had worked his way back to food, real food, with taste and texture and heat, and while his stomach had learned to reaccommodate it, the rest of him was having more difficulty. There were any number of reasons for it — obvious reasons such as memory and shame — but the simplest was that to savor a plate was to recognize his own worth and that was something not so easily restored.

  “It’s very nice.”

  “You probably grew up on strudel,” said Pearl. “I thought about making you one, but this seemed more … I don’t know … welcoming. Does it feel more welcoming?”

  “Much more welcoming,” said Goldah.

  “Good. That’s good.” She took Jesler’s empty plate and handed him hers, still with her untouched piece on it. “When you’re done, I’ll show you to your room and you can have a little lie-down before the company comes. That’s all right that we asked a few people over tonight, isn’t it? Everyone was just so eager to meet you.”

  Goldah wondered if there was a word in English to describe the exhaustion he now felt.

  “Of course,” he said.

  “Good. Good. Would you like some more tea? Mary Royal, leave the pitcher in case Mr. Ike wants some more tea.” She stood. “Don’t you get up. Just enjoy that pie and drink your tea, and when you’re ready you shout for me and I’ll come and show you to your room. And don’t you give Abe your piece. If you want another, you call for Mary Royal. We’ll be in the kitchen.”

  Jesler was focused on his plate as Pearl moved toward the door. She stopped at Goldah’s chair and kissed him on the top of his head.

  “Eat your pie,” she said and headed out. Mary Royal set the pitcher on the table and followed, while Jesler was busy running the back of his fork over what was left of his crust.

  “She’ll do that,” he said, “dote on you, like you were a little boy.” He stopped the fork and his eyes grew narrower as if he had just felt a small pain at the back of his head. “You don’t tell Pearl I said that. It wouldn’t do her good to hear it. Okay?”

  Upstairs, Jesler set the suitcase inside the door while Pearl turned on a lamp and moved to the drapes at the window.

  “Best to keep them closed when you can,” she said. “This room gets far too much sun and just bakes you like an oven if you’re not careful.”

  Goldah watched as her entire body seemed to stiffen. Her face grew paler.

  “Oh my God,” she whispered. Tears formed in her eyes. “I didn’t mean to say that. I didn’t mean that. That’s a terrible thing. I’m so sorry.”

  Goldah answered gently, “You said nothing.” He wondered how many ways he had learned to numb himself to this. “This is a hot room. I leave the drapes closed when I’m not here. Very simple.”

  Jesler seemed momentarily at a loss.

  Goldah added, “And you’ve given me a blotter and pen on the desk. How very kind.”

  The silence was worse than the heat until Jesler said, “A Montblanc. If you want to do some writing. And that’s another lamp.” He turned it on. “Plenty of light even if you keep the curtains closed.” He pointed to the bureau where a porcelain basin sat with a cloth draped across it. “A damp towel at night can do wonders. Mary Royal changes the water every day.” He tried to find something else in the room to talk about but found only Pearl. Her eyes had glazed over.

  “Well,” said Jesler, “we’ll leave you to it then. Have a little lie-down or just take it easy.” He gently took Pearl by the arm. “Come on, honey. I’ll help you with the …” He lost the thought. “Got to have something they need me for in that kitchen, don’t they, Yitzhak?” He caught himself. “Ike. I mean Ike. Ike Goldah. I’m the one who came up with it, and here I am … Anyway. Okay then.”

  Jesler moved Pearl to the door. As they passed, she placed a hand on Goldah’s arm and Jesler let her stand there.

  “She’ll be fine,” said Jesler. “It just comes over her sometimes. I’ll call you when it’s time to come down. Maybe we’ll have a little talk.” He turned to Pearl and said quietly, “All right, honey. Ike’s here and we couldn’t be happier.”

  Jesler led her out of the room and pulled the door closed behind them.

  Goldah waited until he heard them on the steps and then turned off the lamps. He pressed his palms down onto the bed. The mattress was thick and gave with the springs. He sat down and placed his hand on the pillow. It was cool and crisp, and he leaned his shoulder down until his cheek was resting on it. The cloth creased against his skin and, keeping his shoes on, he brought his feet up, drew his knees into his chest and placed his hands under the pillow. He stared across at the fan and tried to feel its air blow over him.

  He would lie like this, he thought, with a solitude he could barely recall, and know it would ask more of him than he could ever give.

  Goldah dreams, the same dream he has had for the past three years.

  It never varies, the sound of a train whistle, then an
other, then the first again, and his brother is sitting across from him. They are at a table under a tree, water nearby, and a small glade where Goldah remembers holding a girl by the arms for the first time. A kiss, the redness in her face, the heat in his. Others sit beyond them, eating and laughing and listening to him tell of the hunger and the filth and the beatings from the Kapos. A wonderful feeling to be at home at last, with so many he knows and with so much to tell. And Goldah speaks and they listen until they are no longer listening because they have turned away to talk among themselves — words he cannot fully hear, things he cannot understand — and his brother looks at him as if he does not know him. His brother stands to go and Goldah is left to sit and to watch and to feel the heat through the leaves, and he wonders if he has ever left the camp except in this dream.

  He remembers the first time he recounted it to Pasco, an Italian Jew, small, who shared the wooden bunk with him and who spoke German. Pasco who taught him the most important thing — that shoes are life, that shoes are food, that swollen feet are only for the dead — and who explained that they all have this dream. All? Yes all. The exact same? Exact — what is exact? There is family and friends and listening and then no more listening, and grief because they have forgotten you or never knew you at all. That is enough. And when Goldah asks how it is that so many different minds can find this one dream, Pasco says it is a kind of gift, something owned and hidden away in the night where not even a Kapo can find it and take it. This is mine, he says, this is ours, this is what we share, but Goldah, even then, finds it strange to cling to such despair, even hidden despair, as the only promise of life. What gift is that? For him they share it only so that they can know its truth; they share it so that they can each recount it … one day, one day, one day.

  Jesler sat with a whiskey held just below the lip of his desk. The light behind him had slipped in through the blinds, almost by accident.

  The study was an affectation, but Pearl said men of a certain standing required one. The real paperwork was down at the store. Even so, Jesler kept a few outdated files scattered across the desk, just enough to have her think he was putting the place to good use. He heard her in the hall and set the half-full glass in the bottom drawer.