The Middlesteins (18 page)

After the meeting, in the parking lot, in the last car he had before this one (no,
it was definitely not a Honda), barely after Robin had closed the door, she turned
to give him one more smart-ass comment, and he greeted her with an open palm. Hard,
he smacked her hard, he could admit it now. Maybe it was too hard. Maybe it was just
hard enough. She pulled back flat against the car door and put her hands up to her
face, and then she began to cry noisily. He started the car. He didn’t care. Let her
cry. And she did, the whole way home. He had thought hitting her would make him feel
better, but it only fueled his anger; he could feel it clutching at his chest, a red-hot
grip. “Cut it out, Robin,” he said. She wailed and wailed.

When he pulled in to the driveway, she burst out of the car and into the house as
if she were being chased, so dramatic as always. All he had done was hit her, his
child, once, what was the big deal? Yet Middlestein felt his insides get sucked out
and replaced with dread. His dad used to beat him with his belt, and Middlestein had
done the same a few times (though definitely much less than his father) to his own
children. Mostly he took his belt and bent it into a loop, snapping the insides together
as a warning call. It had always worked; often the children would burst into tears
just at the sight of it, never mind the snapping noise. But this was obviously different.
This was less one part of an orderly system of punishment (bend over and take what’s
coming to you) and more an act of spontaneous violence. He had felt a jagged line
of energy coming from his hand when he struck his daughter’s face, as if a lightning
bolt had sprung forth from it. Oh yes, for many reasons this was different, but perhaps
the biggest one was that he hadn’t discussed it with his wife first.

“What happened?” Edie, younger, thinner, but never thin, walking out of her office
(always working, tireless, ceaseless, she loved her work more than him, this had always
been obvious) and into the foyer, where Middlestein had stopped himself, helplessly.

“Our daughter . . .” Yes, that’s smart, Middlestein, that’s the tack, make sure she
knows you’re both in it together. “Decided to mouth off to the cantor.”

“What did she say, exactly?”

“What didn’t she say?”

“Do I need to go ask her what she said? Why is it difficult for you to answer the
question? Why, Richard, is it always so difficult for you to answer the goddamn question?”
Robin’s crying stopped in a choke, regrouped, and then commenced even louder than
before. Edie moved closer to him, and he found himself backing up flat against the
front door. “Why do I have a child up there losing her mind?”

“She was completely disrespectful to the cantor,” he said. He stood up straight. He
was taller than Edie. He was her husband. He was allowed to make decisions.

“What did you do?” she said.

“I hit her,” he said. “A slap.”

Edie gave him a dark look—the pits of hell were in those eyes sometimes—and then burst
out with her hands, her own lightning springing forth, slapping him on his shoulder,
on his neck, on the side of his head, as far up as she could reach. “You don’t hit
my child,” she said. Everywhere Richard covered himself, she struck somewhere else.
“You are not allowed to hit her, do you understand me?” Her slaps stung him. Her lips
shone with spit. “You don’t go near my child.” She hit him once more, in the face.
“I have a deadline tomorrow and a terrified child tonight. It is like you don’t want
this house to function, Richard.” She pushed a hand into his chest. “You are a ridiculous
human being.”

She shook her head and then ran up the stairs to her daughter’s room, where, after
a minute, the crying abruptly ceased.

Middlestein looked at Emily, smashed up against the window, dark, fearful eyes. She
knew she had screwed up.

“If I were your father, I’d smack you so hard your head would spin,” he said.

Emily’s eyes widened, but she did not cry.

“But I’m not. I am your grandfather. So all I can tell you is that was just terrible,
terrible behavior tonight. You, too, Josh. Just because you’re the lesser of two evils,
that doesn’t mean you weren’t being bad.”

“I’m really sorry,” said Josh.

“It’s not your fault we didn’t want to come,” said Emily, remorseful at last. “I had
a birthday party tonight. We both did. This kid at school.”

“It was at a laser park,” said Josh.

“I don’t even know what a laser park is,” said Middlestein.

“It’s pretty cool,” said Josh.

“I’m tired of going to the synagogue,” said Emily. “We have Hebrew school all the
time this year.”

Middlestein let out an enormous sigh. “Emily, there are so many things we don’t want
to do in this life of ours. You have zero concept of this. You will someday miss this
moment when the worst thing about your day is contemplating God’s word for an hour
or two.”

“Doubtful,” mumbled Emily, but he heard her, and his hand snapped out, and she jerked
her neck back, and he nailed nothingness, just the air, the air between him and his
granddaughter. He held his hand there for a second, and then patted her shoulder,
as if that’s what he had intended to do all along.

“You’ll see,” he said. “You’ll see someday.”

It was a silent car ride home; the children wisely kept their phones in their pockets,
so it was just the sound of their breathing, the car engine, a light-rock station
playing barely above mute. In their driveway they got out of the car before he had
even turned off the engine and darted inside. Why were these children always running
away from him? Didn’t they know that he loved them with all his heart?

His son, Benny, walked outside, his arms tight across his chest, Rachelle only briefly
poking her head out the door to wave hello, and then retreating inside, presumably
to quiz the children on the night.

“How was it?” said Benny.

“The rabbi went on for way too long about Israel tonight,” said Middlestein. “It’s
not that I don’t agree, but he’s like a broken record sometimes.”

“The kids were okay?” said Benny.

“The kids were fine,” said Richard. “I don’t think they wanted to be there, but they’re
kids. They like hanging out with their friends.”

“They kicked up a storm,” said Benny. “There was this party—”

“I heard all about it,” said Middlestein. “A laser park. Whatever that is.”

“It’s where they play with lasers,” said Benny. He relaxed his arms. Middlestein had
offered up just enough information to prove that he had bonded with the children.
“There’s one over in Wheeling. It’s been around for a while.”

Middlestein shrugged. “Whatever makes them happy, right?”

“Right. Well, they didn’t get to go, so they weren’t that happy about it.”

“They’re good kids,” said Middlestein.

Benny nodded, looked back into the house, and then put his arm around his father.
“You want to go out back for a little bit?” he said. The two of them walked around
the front lawn, through the darkness, and onto the back patio, where Benny promptly
pulled out a joint.

“You still doing that stuff?” said Middlestein.

“Once in a blue moon.” Benny looked up in the sky. “It looks pretty blue to me tonight.”

“I’d have a hit. Just one, though, because I have to drive.”

 “One’s all you need anyway,” said Benny. He lit up, dragged off it a few times, then
a few more—
Blue moon my ass
, thought Middlestein—then handed it to his father. He immediately relaxed, the crush
of tension in his heart and his back collapsing down toward the earth.

“Not bad stuff,” said Middlestein.

“It’s government grade,” said Benny. “No hangover supposedly, though sometimes I’m
a little slow in the morning.” Benny sat down on a patio chair and motioned for Middlestein
to join him. They both put their feet up on the table. Benny handed him the joint,
and he took one quick last puff. “Enough for me,” he said.

“All right,
no más
,” said Benny.

There was no crying upstairs, Middlestein noticed. Rachelle passed by a window, and
then one light went out and then another.

“So. Dad,” said Benny.

“Son,” said Middlestein.

“I wanted to let you know something regarding the b’nai mitzvah,” said Benny.

“So formal,” said Middlestein, and he laughed. “What’s wrong? I can still come, right?”

“Of course,” said Benny. “I just wanted to give you advance warning about something.”
He stubbed out the joint and looked up and smiled weakly at his father. “Mom’s got
a boyfriend, and she’s bringing him.”

“How the fuck does your mother have a boyfriend?”
Who would want your mother?
was what he was thinking.

“Dad!” he said. “Don’t talk that way about my mother, please.”

“I just meant, already? That’s all I meant. I mean, we only just split up.”

“I don’t know. She talked to Rachelle about it, and Robin’s met him and said he’s
great, and Emily liked him a lot, too.”

“
Emily
met him?” he said.

 “I didn’t have anything to do with it!” said Benny. “I can’t watch over everyone
all the time.”

Middlestein shook his head. If he didn’t have to drive, he would have smoked that
entire joint right there, and it still wouldn’t have been enough to calm him down.
Some other man lying with Edie. He’d believe it when he saw it, and then he still
wouldn’t believe it.

“I wanted to let you know in advance so there were no surprises,” said Benny. “I’m
not on anybody’s side but the kids’. We want them to have a good time and feel like
they are loved by the family. And if it would make you feel better and you wanted
to bring a friend, you absolutely could.”

Beverly!

“I have to go,” said Middlestein, who stood up awkwardly, knocking over the patio
chair behind him.

“You don’t want to stay? Rachelle cut up some fruit.”

“I have a date,” he said.

“Are you all right to drive?” said Benny.

“Never better,” said Middlestein.

In the front seat of his car, not the old car, not the future car, just the car, his
car that he had at this time in his life on this planet earth—crap, he was kind of
stoned after all—he called Beverly on his cell phone.

“It’s me,” he said.

“I know who this is,” she said. “It’s a bit late to be calling.” Oh Beverly, the sound
of her voice slowly unfolding itself through the ear, luxurious, silky smooth, as
he could only imagine her skin must feel like.

“It’s not that late. Can I come over?”

Beverly laughed. “Well, I never expected to get one of these kinds of phone calls
at my age.”

“I just want to talk,” said Middlestein.

“If you want to talk, we can meet somewhere,” she said.

“Anywhere!” said Middlestein.

She paused, and he imagined her sweet breath flowing out of her mouth as loopy pink
swirls of miniature flowers. “Meet me down at the pub, then,” she said.

Through this town and the next one and the next—
Slow it down, Middlestein, the last thing you need is to be pulled over by a cop,
try explaining that one to your daughter-in-law, you’ll never see those kids again
—every last one of them looking identical to him. He was a part of this, his stores
were, his store, the last one anyway, those other two closed (not failures, just not
successes), but this last one, his legacy, the last one standing, he believed it was
special. Was it not unique and important to have been one of the first Jewish business
owners in the town? Had he not provided a service to his neighbors and friends? Was
that not a success? Was he not worthy of being admired? Wasn’t he worthy of Beverly’s
love?

Beverly, I’m coming for you.

The parking lot at the pub was nearly packed; it was the best fiddle night in the
Chicagoland area, said the sign. He wormed his way through the lot, footsteps in gravel,
dust rising in car headlights. The fiddlers fiddled. Middlestein straightened his
suit coat, fluffed up his hair, his beautiful, thick, gray hair. Richard Middlestein,
Jew, independent business owner, father, grandfather, a man—he believed—among men,
walked into a dirty, crowded bar, where he had no business being on a Friday night,
on a path to retrieve and secure the woman of his dreams.

He pushed through the crowd of middle-aged drunks knee-deep in Guinness and spilled
popcorn and empty, crumpled-up bags of potato chips. They weren’t even paying any
attention to the fiddlers. Were they looking for love just like him? Where was it,
where was love? What was it? Just what turned up in the dark?

Beverly, on a barstool at the corner of the bar, her hair in a ponytail, only a lick
of makeup, dark mascara on those pretty peepers of hers. He must have called just
when she was getting ready for bed. This is what she looked like right before she
slept. For reasons unclear, he gave her a formal bow, and she laughed at him. He kissed
her on the cheek, sat next to her, and took her hand in his.

“Enough waiting around, Beverly,” he said.

“You’re a married man, Richard,” she said.

“Paperwork is being filed,” he said. “I would say at this very moment, but the lawyer’s
got to sleep sometime.” This was not entirely the truth, but it was close enough.

“That’s not what I mean,” she said. “All you do is talk about her all the time. I
have listened to you talk for hours about your wife, your family, your grandchildren.”

“But we talk about lots of things, Beverly! That’s what I like about our relationship.
So many interests.”

“I have been down this road before. You are not available to me.”

“I am so available. You have no idea,” said Richard.

She shook her head, and her charming red ponytail swirled back and forth, and Richard
lost himself momentarily in the sway.

“I’m serious about what I want from a partner in this life. When I walked into your
pharmacy that day, it was because I’d heard from my manicurist there was a good, single
man there.”