The History of Love (16 page)

Robert?
Bernard struggled to understand. He seemed to grasp that I was talking about the man hanging on to my elbow with his teeth.
Robert was Isaac’s editor. You knew Isaac?

The pit bull tightened his hold. I opened my mouth. And yet.

Sorry
, Bernard said.
I wish I spoke Yiddish, but. Well, thank you for coming.
It’s been moving to see how many people have come out. Isaac would have been pleased.
He took my hand between his own and shook it. He turned to go.

Slonim,
I said. I hadn’t planned on it. And yet.

Bernard turned back.

Pardon?

I said it again.

I come from Slonim
, I said.

Slonim?
he repeated.

I nodded.

He looked suddenly like a child whose mother has been late to pick him up, and only now that she’s arrived allows himself to give in to tears.

She used to tell us about it.

Who’s she?
demanded the dog.

My mother. He comes from the same town as my mother,
Bernard said.
I’ve heard so many stories.

I meant to pat his arm but he moved to brush something from his eye, the result being that I ended up patting his man-breast. Not knowing what else to do, I gave it a squeeze.

The river, right? Where she used to swim,
Bernard said
.

The water was freezing. We would take our clothes off and dive off the bridge screaming bloody murder. Our hearts would stop. Our bodies would turn to stone. For a moment we felt we were drowning. When we scrambled back onto the bank, gasping for air, our legs would be heavy, pain shooting up the ankles. Your mother was skinny, with small pale breasts. I would fall asleep drying in the sun, and wake to the shock of ice-cold water on my back. And her laughter.

Did you know her father’s shoe shop?
Bernard asked.

Every morning I picked her up there so we could walk together to school. Except for the time we got in a fight and didn’t talk for three weeks, hardly a day passed that we didn’t walk together. In the cold, her wet hair would freeze into icicles.

I could go on and on, all the stories she told us. The field where she used to play.

Ya,
I said, patting his hand.
Ze field.

Fifteen minutes later I was sandwiched between the pit bull and a young woman in the back of a stretch limousine, you would think I was making a habit of it. We were going to Bernard’s house for a small gathering of family and friends. I would have preferred to go to my son’s house, to mourn among his things, but I had to content myself with going to his half-brother’s. Sitting in the seat opposite me in the limousine were two others. When one nodded and smiled in my direction, I nodded and smiled back.
A relative of Isaac’s?
he asked.
Apparently
, the dog replied, groping for a lock of hair snapping in the draft from the window the woman had just lowered.

It took almost an hour to get to Bernard’s house. Somewhere in Long Island. Beautiful trees. I’d never seen such beautiful trees. Out in the driveway, one of Bernard’s nephews had slit his pants legs to the knee and was running up and down in the sunlight, watching how they caught the breeze. Inside the house, people stood around a table piled with food talking about Isaac. I knew I didn’t belong there. I felt like a fool and an imposter. I stood by the window, making myself invisible. I didn’t think it would be so painful. And yet. To hear people talk about the son I’d only been able to imagine as if he were as familiar to them as a relative was almost too much to bear. So I slipped away. I wandered through the rooms of Isaac’s half-brother’s house. I thought: My son walked on this carpet. I came to a guest bedroom. I thought: From time to time, he slept in this bed. This very bed! His head on these pillows. I lay down. I was tired, I couldn’t help myself. The pillow sank under my cheek. And as he lay here, I thought, he looked out this very window, at that very tree.

You’re such a dreamer
, Bruno says, and maybe I am. Maybe I was also dreaming this, in a moment the doorbell would ring, I’d open my eyes, and Bruno would be standing there asking if I had a roll of toilet paper.

I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I knew, Bernard was standing above me.

Sorry! Didn’t realize anyone was in here. Are you sick?

I sprang up. If the word
spring
can be used in reference to my movements at all, this was the moment. And that’s when I saw it. It was on a shelf right behind his shoulder. In a silver picture frame. I would say
plain to see,
but I’ve never understood that expression. What could be less plain than seeing?

Bernard turned.

Oh,
that,
he said taking it down off the shelf.
Let’s see. This is my mother when she was a child. My mother, see? Did you know her then, the way she looked in this picture?

(“Let’s stand under a tree,” she said. “Why?”
“Because it’s nicer.” “Maybe you should sit on a chair, and I’ll stand above you, like they always do with husbands and wives.” “That’s stupid.”
“Why’s it stupid?”
“Because we’re not married.” “Should we hold hands?”
“We can’t.”
“But why?” “Because, people will know.” “Know what?” “About us.” “So what if they know?” “It’s better when it’s a secret.” “Why?” “So no one can take it from us.”)

Isaac found it in her things after she died,
Bernard said
.
It’s a nice photograph, isn’t it? Don’t know who he is. She didn’t have much from over there. A couple of photos of her parents and her sisters, that’s all. Of course, she had no idea she wouldn’t see them again, so she didn’t bring much. But I never saw this one until one day Isaac found it in a drawer in her apartment. It was inside an envelope with some letters. They were all in Yiddish. Isaac thought they were from someone she used to be in love with in Slonim. I doubt it, though. She never mentioned anyone. You can’t understand a word I’m saying, can you?

(“If I had a camera,” I said, “I’d take a picture of you every day. That way I’d remember how you looked every single day of your life.” “I look exactly the same.” “No, you don’t. You’re changing all the time. Every day a tiny bit. If I could, I’d keep a record of it all.” “If you’re so smart, how did I change today?” “You got a fraction of a millimeter taller, for one thing. Your hair grew a fraction of a millimeter longer. And your breasts grew a fraction of a—” “They did not!” “Yes, they did.” “Did NOT.” “Did too.” “What else, you big pig?” “You got a little happier and also a little sadder.” “Meaning they cancel each other out, leaving me exactly the same.” “Not at all. The fact that you got a little happier today doesn’t change the fact that you also became a little sadder. Every day you become a little more of both, which means that right now, at this exact moment, you’re the happiest and the saddest you’ve ever been in your whole life.” “How do you know?” “Think about it. Have you ever been happier than right now, lying here in the grass?” “I guess not. No.” “And have you ever been sadder?” “No.” “It isn’t like that for everyone, you know. Some people, like your sister, just get happier and happier everyday. And some people, like Beyla Asch, just get sadder and sadder. And some people, like you, get both.” “What about you? Are you the happiest and saddest right now that you’ve ever been?” “Of course I am.” “Why?” “Because nothing makes me happier and nothing makes me sadder than you.”)

My tears fell on the picture frame. Luckily there was glass.

I’d love to stay here reminiscing,
Bernard said,
but I really should go.
All those people out there.
He gestured.
Let me know if you need anything
. I nodded. He closed the door behind him, and then, God help me, I took the photograph and shoved it in my pants. Down the stairs I went, and out the door. In the driveway I knocked on the window of one of the limousines. The driver roused himself from sleep.

I’m ready to go back now
, I said.

To my surprise, he got out, opened the door, and helped me in.

When I got back to my apartment, I thought I’d been robbed. The furniture was overturned, and the floor was dusted with white powder. I grabbed the baseball bat I keep in the umbrella stand and followed the trail of footsteps to the kitchen. Every surface was covered with pots and pans and dirty bowls. It seemed that whoever had broken in to rob me had taken time to make a meal. I stood with the photograph down my pants. There was a crash behind me, and I turned and swung blindly. But it was just a pot that had slipped from the counter and rolled across the floor. On the kitchen table, next to my typewriter, was a large cake, sunk in the middle. Standing, nonetheless. It was frosted with yellow icing, and across the top, in sloppy pink letters, it read, LOOK WHO BAKED A CAKE. On the other side of my typewriter was a note: WAITED ALL DAY.

I couldn’t help it, I smiled. I put the baseball bat away, upturned the furniture that I remembered I had knocked over the night before, took out the picture frame, breathed on the glass, rubbed it with my shirt, and set it up on my night table. I climbed the stairs to Bruno’s floor. I was about to knock when I saw the note on the door. It said: DO NOT DISTURB. GIFT UNDER YOUR PILLOW.

It had been a long time since anyone had given me a gift. A feeling of happiness nudged my heart. That I can wake up each morning and warm my hands on a hot cup of tea. That I can watch the pigeons fly. That at the end of my life, Bruno has not forgotten me.

Back down the stairs I went. To delay the pleasure I knew was coming my way, I stopped to pick up my mail. I let myself back into my apartment. Bruno had managed to leave a dusting of flour over the entire floor of the place. Maybe a wind had blown in, who knows. In the bedroom I saw that he had gotten down on the floor and made an angel in the flour. I stepped around it, not wanting to ruin what had been made so lovingly. I lifted my pillow.

It was a large brown envelope. On the outside was my name, written in a handwriting I didn’t recognize. I opened it. Inside was a stack of printed pages. I began to read. The words were familiar. For a moment I couldn’t place them. Then I realized they were my own.

MY FATHER’S TENT

1.
MY FATHER DID NOT LIKE TO WRITE LETTERS

The old Cadbury tin full of my mother’s letters doesn’t contain any of his replies. I’ve looked for them everywhere, but never found them. Also, he didn’t leave me a letter to open when I get older. I know because I asked my mother if he did, and she said No. She said he was not that sort of man. When I asked her what sort of man he was she thought for a minute. Her forehead creased. She thought some more. Then she said he was the sort of man who liked to challenge authority. “Also,” she said, “he couldn’t sit still.” This is not the way I remember him. I remember him sitting in chairs or lying in beds. Except for when I was very little and thought that being an “engineer” meant he drove a train. Then I imagined him in the seat of an engine car the color of coal, a string of shiny passenger cars trailing behind. One day my father laughed and corrected me. Everything snapped into focus. It’s one of those unforgettable moments that happen as a child, when you discover that all along the world has been betraying you.