Hope: A Tragedy (10 page)

Hannah’s face had grown red with anger, and a family feud was only narrowly averted when, just then, the tenant appeared at the top of the attic stairs.

No space, Mr. Kugel? said the tenant, looking around the attic. It certainly seems to me you have plenty of space.

We’ve just been tidying up, said Kugel.

Very good, said the tenant. So then at last I can bring my belongings up?

Yes, said Kugel, of course. Let me just figure out a reasonable time . . .

Reasonable time? the tenant asked. What’s wrong with right now?

It’s late, said Kugel. My son will be going to bed soon, and I’m concerned the noise overhead will keep him up.

I truly hope we won’t have to settle this in court, Mr. Kugel, said the tenant.

Big talker, said Mother.

Pardon me? said the tenant.

Do you really think, Mother said to Hannah, he’d be opening his fresh mouth like that if Alan Dershowitz was here?

Mother, said Kugel, guiding her to the stairs. Let’s just go downstairs.

You left your grocery bag, said Hannah.

I’ll get it later, said Kugel.

Mother wagged a finger at the tenant.

He’d wipe the floor with you, she said, that’s what he’d do. One little phone call, one little letter from Alan Dershowitz, and you’d run away with your tail between your legs.

Let’s go, Mother, said Kugel.

Yes, sir, Mother continued, even though the tenant had already gone. If Alan Dershowitz was here, young man, you’d be shaking in your boots.

13.

MOTHER WENT TO BED EARLY; this was fortunate, because all through dinner, the tapping on the vents never ceased. At times it sounded to Kugel as if Anne Frank were using her arthritic, gnarled knuckles to rap on the metal register; at times it sounded as if she were using her talonlike fingernails; at times something metal—a spoon or a knife.

Tap, tap-tap.

No, he thought.

Tap. Tap-tap.

No.

Go fuck yourself.

He refused to respond to her, to encourage her.

Six million he kills, thought Kugel, and this one gets away.

I shouldn’t have thought that, he thought.

At least I didn’t
say
it.

But you thought it.

That’s not as bad.

It’s bad, though.

I just wish she’d shut up. I just wish she’d go away.

It was exhausting. Whenever the tapping began, Kugel did something to try and mask it—clanking his dinnerware, shuffling his chair on the floor, coughing.

Are you okay? Bree asked.

Wrong pipe, Kugel said, clapping his chest.

Bree probably hadn’t heard the tapping anyway, thought Kugel, rapt as her attention was in the discussion she was having with Hannah about Brooklyn.

Bree loved talking about Brooklyn. When Mother moved in with them, Hannah and Pinkus had taken over her old apartment in Williamsburg, and Bree couldn’t hear enough about it.

Bree had always wanted to be a writer, and though she had been writing for a while now, and applying herself with fierce determination to learning her chosen craft, she had yet to find success in the publishing world. In her darkest moments of frustration, when she swore she would never write again and swore a moment later that she could never do anything else, Kugel tried to convince her that her writing was improving, deepening, and that was all that mattered. Everyone, though, needs some external acknowledgment, and Bree was no different. She began to have regrets, doubts. She wondered if she should have gone to a different university, if she should have taken more workshops, if she should have read more books. And she wondered, lately, if she should be living in Brooklyn.

You know who I saw the other day? Hannah said to Bree, and, not waiting for an answer, continued: Philip Roth.

Brooklyn seemed to be the center of the literary world of late, and Bree couldn’t help wondering if living in a more artistic, urbane location would prove helpful to her career, would inspire her. What would Joyce have been without Dublin, Miller without Paris, Kafka without Prague?

Really? said Bree. Does he live in Brooklyn?

Of course, said Hannah. Philip Roth?

Tap, tap-tap.

I thought he was dead, said Bree.

Tap, tap-tap.

Kugel stood, went to the sideboard, and turned on the stereo.

Maybe it was that other guy, then, said Hannah. What’s his name?

Can you lower that? Bree asked Kugel.

Sorry, said Kugel.

What is that, anyway? she asked.

Wagner, said Kugel.

It’s depressing, said Bree.

Kugel shut off the music.

Tap, tap-tap.

He ran the sink.

He flushed the toilet.

Bree said, What’s with you? Sit down and eat already.

Kugel said, I’m not hungry.

Later that evening, as Bree lay beside him in bed with her head on his chest, pressing her warm body against his, Kugel stared up at the ceiling and wondered what Anne might have needed. The tapping had stopped some time ago. Was she dead? She had her bread, she had her vitamins. Water? Had he given her water?

Bree ran her hand over Kugel’s arm and looked up at him.

I’m worried about you, she said.

He hadn’t been sleeping well for some time, she pointed out, and now he wasn’t eating.

Are you really that worried, she asked, about some stupid arsonist?

Kugel shrugged.

He hated keeping things from her, hated the bottomless chasm even the smallest lie created between them.

Oh, who cares, said Bree with a smile, sliding her leg over his and snuggling tightly to him. Let him burn it down; the insurance is worth more than the house anyway.

She looked up at him.

We’ll go to Brooklyn, she said with a grin.

Kugel kissed her and smiled. He assured her that nothing was wrong, that it was just the stress of the move. Bree ran her fingers gently through his hair, told him that the storm was over, that they could just settle in now and enjoy life. She lightly traced her fingertips over his lips.

The tapping on the vents began again.

Tap, tap-tap.

Bree kissed his cheek, his chin, his mouth.

Kugel turned his head from her; she kissed his neck, and he stared at the heating vent in the floor.

I can’t, he said.

Tap, tap-tap.

Bree ran her hand over his chest and whispered in his ear, Of course you can. It’s been so long.

I know.

What’s wrong?

I just can’t.

Why?

There’s just . . .

He shook his head again.

There’s just too many damn people in this house, he said.

Bree pressed herself up and looked at him.

It’s your mother, isn’t it? she said.

Kugel sighed; he knew that this had been coming for a while. They’d never really discussed Mother’s moving in, or the effect it was having on them. Bree’s anger, he knew, had been building for a while.

Bree stood and angrily pulled on her robe—tap, tap-tap—tying it tightly around herself as she went on a furious tirade against Kugel’s mother, and against Kugel himself, leveling the same accusations at him as she had when he had first told her that Mother was to move in: that he cared only for his mother, that he was a momma’s boy, that he was Abrahamically sacrificing the Isaac of their future on the altar of his miserable past. That she was getting tired of this. That there was just so much she could take.

Kugel, meanwhile, had dropped to his knees on the floor, and was busily covering the vent with as many pillows and quilts as he could gather, piling them into a small mound above it.

What in God’s name are you doing? Bree asked.

She can hear us, whispered Kugel as he worked.

Perfect, said Bree. That’s just perfect. I’m yelling at you for only caring about your mother, and you’re covering the heating vents so she won’t hear me. That’s perfect, Sol.

He stopped, sat back on his heels, and looked up at her.

It’s not Mother, he whispered.

Who is it, then? Bree asked. Jonah? He knows more than you think.

Kugel stood and ran a hand through his hair. It was time.

It’s . . . someone else, he said as he got to his feet.

Someone else, asked Bree, crossing her arms. What are you talking about? You’re fucking someone else, is that what you’re trying to tell me?

Kugel pulled the chair away from his desk and sat down, his head heavy in his hands. He rubbed his face and looked up.

It’s Anne Frank, he said.

Bree stared at him for a moment, hands on her hips.

You’re fucking Anne Frank? Bree asked. Isn’t she a little young for you, Sol?

Last night, he began. I heard something.

He told her everything. That she was up there, that she was old, grotesquely so, and that she claimed to be Anne Frank. That Wilbur Junior seemed to think that was who she actually was. Bree stared at him, now dumbfounded, now incredulous, but Kugel felt better already. Why hadn’t he told her right away? It was as Professor Jove always said—hoping he could protect her, he had only succeeded in hurting her, lying to her, when all she ever gave him was support and encouragement.

Tap, tap-tap.

Goddamn it, said Kugel. That’s her.

He kicked the pillows aside and threw himself onto the floor.

Shut up, he shouted into the vent. Shut the fuck up!

Bree stepped backward, a hand over her mouth.

You’re mad, she whispered in horror. It’s the move, the money, the stress . . . You need help, Sol, we’ll get you help . . .

Kugel sat back on his heels and placed his hands on his heart.

The important thing, he said, is that we’re communicating. That we’re being honest with each other. Nothing can come between us when we’re together. It’s been a hell of a twenty-four hours, Bree, I’m just, I’m wiped out.

Tap, tap-tap.

Shut up, he hissed at the vent.

He looked to Bree, who was staring now at the vent.

She’s a little high maintenance, he said.

Bree pointed to the vent.

Right now? Bree asked, her voice soft and trembling. There’s someone up there? In our attic? Right now?

Kugel nodded.

Right now there’s someone in the attic?

Kugel nodded.

Just calm down, he said.

Calm down?

Calm down.

Calm down? she said, her voice rising.

Her eyes filled with rage.

How, she demanded, was she supposed to calm down? How did he know that she wasn’t dangerous, that she wasn’t a criminal, a thief?

She can barely move, Bree.

How did he know she wasn’t carrying some disease? He had a son to think about, even if he didn’t care about his wife. Had he thought about his son for even a moment?

Of course I care about you.

What kind of man was he being? What kind of father? Was that why he hadn’t gone to work? Was he risking his family’s well-being in the middle of an economic depression to take care of this old lunatic? Where were his priorities? Had he called the police?

He stood and went to the desk chair.

I called the Simon Wiesenthal Center, Kugel said with some pride. He wasn’t, after all, an idiot.

You called the Simon Wiesenthal Center.

Yes.

Before calling the police.

Yes, he said. Keep your voice down. To find out if she was dead.

You called the Simon Wiesenthal Center to find out if Anne Frank is dead.

Yes.

How did that go?

They were less than helpful.

The book sold twenty million copies, Sol.

Thirty-two, said Kugel. It’s a tough act to follow.

Bree would take no more. This was just like the situation with Mother, she said—someone else always comes first, someone else always needs Kugel more than his wife and son. She demanded that he throw the woman out, immediately. And she insisted that he phone the police.

Or, so help me God, she said, I’ll take Jonah and leave. I’ll go to Brooklyn. I will not subject him to this.

Kugel sat in the chair, unable to fight back, unable to answer, his head in his hands as he weathered all the abuse and anger she rained upon him. He knew she was right. And he knew he couldn’t do as she asked.

Tap, tap-tap.

She has numbers, he said without looking up.

She
what
?

She has numbers.

What numbers?

On her arm. Camp numbers.

So?

So she’s a survivor.

So?

Only now did Kugel look at her, surprised by her lack of compassion.

So? he asked.
So?

I don’t understand, said Bree. If Elie Wiesel knocks on the front door tomorrow, we’re supposed to give him the guest room?

Not if he shows up, no, said Kugel, not if he knocks on the door. But if we find him in the guest room?

Find him?

Yes, find him, said Kugel. Under the bed, or in the closet or something. Like I found her. You’d want me to throw Elie Wiesel out of our house?

What are you saying? asked Bree. If I’m cleaning the guest room next week and I find Elie Wiesel hiding under the bed, you’re not going to throw him out?

Kugel shook his head.

No, he said, surprising even himself.

Why not?

He’s Elie Wiesel, hon.

You’re insane.

Keep your voice down.

You’re insane.

I’m insane? said Kugel. You want to throw Elie Wiesel out of the house and I’m insane.

So if Simon Wiesenthal turns up in the dryer you’re not going to ask him to leave?

He’s dead, honey.

Hypothetically.

Hypothetically? asked Kugel.

He didn’t like what he was thinking, didn’t like what he heard himself saying.

Hypothetically, she said.