Shadows, page 1
Marriage
What makes a marriage of two decades begin to unravel? There are no simple answers.
Alex and Miriam met-cute at the famous Strand bookstore in Manhattan. It was love at first sight for both of them. Their marriage was blissful. They had a son. All wonderful.
But in every family there are secrets and lies, and theirs was no different.
An unloving father, The suicide of a beloved sibling. A hidden diary, revealing more secrets, An unknown sibling. A son who is gay and wants nothing more than to be on the stage. An unrewarding job. A lousy boss. A sexual predator. Suddenly a life going nowhere.
But there is something more. Alex is on a quest, not just for knowledge and truth. He wants desperately to be a good husband, a good father, a good son. He doesn't know if he can achieve this but he knows he must try.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
It’s been one hell of a ride. I began writing this novel more than a decade ago. Don't ask me why I didn't give up on it because I have no idea. I don’t even remember what inspired me to begin writing it in the first place. At the time I was a member of the Ashawagh Hall Writer's Workshop. It was the brainchild of Marijane Meaker, the prolific Young Adult writer. She ran it for thirty years and was succeeded by Laura Stein, who has unfortunately passed away.
We met once a week. Three writers would bring ten pages, maximum, double spaced. Everyone received them in advance, so the comments were both written on the script as well as spoken in class.
When I knew my turn was scheduled, I would work doubly hard to make sure I had the best version I could come up with. No matter. There were usually plenty of suggestions as to how to make it better.
The criticism of this group was what kept me going, year after year. I finished one version and began another and just kept going. Marijane, Laura, and others, such as Lynn Blue, Rob Stuart, Ed Hannibal, and so many others, all deserve recognition for their astute comments.
In addition, I owe a lot to my family: children, grandchildren, nieces, nephews, and of course, to my love, Estelle.
Thank you and thank you.
OTHER BOOKS BY ROBERT BORIS RISKIN
The Jake Wanderman Mystery series
Scrambled Eggs
Deadly Bones
Deadly Secrets
www.robertborisriskin.com
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SHADOWS
Robert Boris Riskin
A Black Opal Books Publication
GENRE: MYSTERY/FAMILY DRAMA
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, businesses, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental. All trademarks, service marks, registered trademarks, and registered service marks are the property of their respective owners and are used herein for identification purposes only. The publisher does not have any control over or assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their contents.
SHADOWS
Copyright © 2022 by Robert Boris Riskin
Cover Design by Transformational Concepts
All cover art copyright © 2022
All Rights Reserved
eBook ISBN: 978-1-953434-48-7
First Publication: JUNE 2022
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The great mystery is not that we should have been thrown down here at random between the profusion of matter and that of the stars; it is that from our very prison we should draw, from our own selves, images powerful enough to deny our nothingness.
Andre Malraux, Man’s Fate
The fathers have eaten a sour grape, and the children’s teeth are set on edge.
Isaiah—31:29
August 1949
The rock had originally been in a plastic box obtained from an art supply store. She had mounted it on a piece of foam core and had typed its description on a 3x5 index card that she then taped to the top of the box. It was her proudest possession, always kept on the table next to her bed.
Clarice had checked into the Holiday Inn in Boston without any luggage. She had brought her rock with her. They found it placed carefully in the middle of the bed as if it were on display.
“It’s a piece of a meteor,” she had told him when he was little and he had, of course, believed her. She was his older sister. She knew everything and explained everything. “I found it once on a night when the moon was full. I wasn’t searching for it, how could I? I was just looking up at the heavens. And suddenly, there it was, at the foot of a tree, gleaming, shimmering, like a star. Actually, I like to think it found me.”
She had not taken off her coat when she went over to the window. She still had it on when she pushed the window open, stepped out, and went down fourteen stories.
He had just graduated from college and was working at the summer camp he’d gone to as a child when he heard what had happened. His parents were too overwrought to do the formal identification. He agreed to make the trip. The medical examiner had warned him it would be difficult. It was worse than difficult, worse than anything he could have imagined. There was a stench in the morgue that made him gag. When they drew back the sheet that covered her he felt his lips twisting in an attempt to keep from vomiting. Tears ran in a hot stream down his cheeks. Strangely, her face showed only a few bruises. With her eyes closed, he saw once again the extraordinary length of her lashes and remembered how fierce and dark her eyes were when she would tell him about the stars and how one could read the future in them. As he continued to look at her, she began to seem unreal, and he felt himself entering into some kind of transcendent state where he and his sister were together floating like astronauts in the darkness of outer space.
Later, he had listened to the speculation of others as to the meaning of what she had left on the bed in that hotel room, a riddle none of them had been able to solve. But he was quite sure he knew the answer to the riddle. It was that not even a part of a “heavenly body” had been enough to overcome what had been done to her. Even her beloved stars had failed her in the end.
Chapter 1
October 1975
His father died on a Friday. While his father had been anything but observant, Alex insisted that his mother follow Jewish tradition, having the funeral take place as quickly as possible, in this case a Sunday, the first day after the Sabbath. His mother had wanted no official mourning period, but Alex stayed home from work for three days. Even though he didn’t give a shit about his father he wanted his boss and the people who worked under him to know that he was a Jew and that he observed Jewish customs. He was the executive assistant to the boss of a factory that produced silver-plated hollowware, bowls, cups, and candelabra. “Executive Assistant” was a fancy name for his job, which consisted of doing everything to run the factory but the selling. That was his boss’s job. Most of the factory workers were Latinos and probably Catholic. He thought they might lose respect for him if he came back to work right away.
The following Sunday, exactly a week after the funeral, Alex got a call from his mother saying she wanted him to come over to her house.
“Now?”
“If you’ve got the time.”
“Sure. I can do it. What’s this about?
“I’ll tell you when you get here,” she said.
His wife, Miriam, was at the kitchen table with the Sunday Times spread out in front of her.
“Anything interesting happening?” he asked.
“New York City is just about bankrupt. Abe Beame is trying to get the feds to help.”
“Good luck with that. Not with President Ford in charge.”
“Who was on the phone?”
“My mother. She wants me to come over,” he said.
“So?” She didn’t look up.
“I don’t know when I’ll be back.”
“Doesn’t matter,” she said, still not looking up.
It did not surprise him that she continued reading the newspaper. It did not surprise him that she seemed to be enveloped in a chilled vapor, that her words were suspended in the air as if they were icicles. “See you later, then,” he said.
He walked out to the car feeling the tiny circle of pain in his chest. It was about the size of a dime, located just above the solar plexus
He drove to his mother’s house in Valley Stream, to the block with its narrow lawns and its neat little Cape Cods on fifty by a hundred lots. Everyone in this neighborhood made a living with his hands. His father, a tool and die man, had been considered top dog, the bluest of the blue collars.
He still had a key to the house but rang the bell. He could hear the familiar dong-ding-dong, and then his mother opened the door and turned her head with the trim brown pageboy to the side so he could kiss her cheek.
She had kept her figure, and colored her hair. She wore mourning black, but nevertheless looked chic. Gold dangled in circles from her ears, a necklace lay in an intricate pattern on her chest. He did not recall having seen that jewelry before.
He followed her into the kitchen and at a gesture from her, sat at the Formica table. Everything was the same as it had always been: the hard chairs, the round clock on the wall, the pale-yellow walls. He had grown up in this house; there wasn't a room that didn't have an echo.
There was a kettle on the stove, the water gurgling, the spout sending out puffs of steam, and the beginning of an eardrum hurting whistle. His mother lifted the kettle, changing the scream to a wail, and poured boiling water into pink and green flowered mugs already on the table, a tea bag in each one.
“Two tea bags?” he asked. “You always used to use one for two cups.”
“Your father insisted on it. Now I use whatever I want.”
“What about electricity?” His voice changed, in mock imitation of his father: “You left the lights on again. Is your name The Electric Company?”
His mother did not smile. “Old habits are hard to break.”
There was a bowl of sugar on the table, another with packets of Sweet N' Low, and a plate of oatmeal cookies which he knew had come out of a box. His mother had never baked and had made no secret of her desire to spend as little time in the kitchen as possible. He could rarely remember the smell of cooking in the house. What remained in his memory was coming home from school—father at work, Clarice off on one of her shoplifting expeditions, mother out, and that empty feeling on finding the expected note. Dad says to clean up the yard. Will be home for dinner. Mother.
She put the kettle back on the stove. “Do you want milk? I know you sometimes take milk in your tea.” When he shook his head, she sat opposite him.
He took the teabag out of the mug, put it on his napkin, and stirred in a teaspoon of sugar. He sipped carefully. His father used to put in three spoons of sugar, then drink it down like water. “How are you doing?” he asked.
“As well as can be expected.”
“That’s good.”
This was how it had always been with his mother, always a strategic distance between them. She had called him for a reason, but he knew not to ask for the reason. He would wait for her to tell him.
His mother put her cup down and looked at him as if she were studying his face. “You don’t look well. You’re flushed. Do you have a fever?”
“No,” he said. “I’m okay.”
“I could always tell when you were getting sick,” she said. “Not that you got sick that often.”
Before he could restrain himself, he said, “You could always tell? I guess that’s when I was really little. I don’t remember you being around much to tell anything about me.”
“That’s not in the least true. I paid a lot of attention to you. Didn’t I always go to open school nights?”
“What was I thinking? Of course. Forgive me.”
“I don’t like it when you’re sarcastic.”
He realized he was angry and upset about Miriam and taking it out on his mother. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that.”
“I know how you felt about your father but I didn’t think you thought so little of me. I’ve always loved you. Maybe I didn’t give you as much attention as I gave Clarice, but now that you’re an adult I’m sure you can understand why. She needed so much.”
He put his cup down. “I said I’m sorry. And I don’t want to talk about Clarice.”
She nodded. “That’s not what I called you for, anyhow.”
“Okay, why did you call?” Finally, he thought. The talk about love had unsettled him. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d heard the word escape his mother’s lips.
She said, “It's only one little notebook.”
“What is? I’m not following you.”
“I was cleaning out the basement. It was under his workbench. It wasn't hidden. Maybe he wanted me to find it.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I found a cookie tin in the basement. You know, the kind those imported cookies come in? The ones they sell in the supermarket? I used to get them on sale. It had letters in it.”
“Whose letters?”
“All the letters you and your sister ever wrote home, or most of them anyway. There weren’t that many. Mostly they were from when you went away to camp. And the ones Clarice wrote from that looney bin. And a couple you wrote from college…a letter I wrote him before we were married.”
“He saved all those?”
“Can you believe it?” she said. “I had no idea. He never breathed a word of it.” She paused. “There was something else there, too. There was a diary. Under the cookie tin.”
He laughed. “A diary? From that old bastard Max Gunther? I don’t believe it. Are you sure it’s his?”
His mother had made a face when he’d said “old bastard,” but all she said was, “It’s his, all right.
“It’s hard to believe he kept a diary.” Alex bit into a cookie.
“Are you hungry?” his mother asked. “I could fix you something.”
He wasn’t the least bit hungry and the thought of what she might offer him did not increase his appetite. “No. This is fine.” He sipped the tea. “So I assume you read everything, including the diary.”
“Yes.”
“And? What was in it?”
She paused. “I don’t think I ought to tell you. I think you should read it. I want you to read it yourself.”
“You don’t want to tell me anything?”
She shrugged, put both hands on the edge of the table, and stood up. “I'll get it.”
⅏⅏
He remembered that in music class he’d chosen the clarinet. He’d taken a liking to the playing of Artie Shaw. At first he practiced in the living room. His father sat in the wing chair with Clarice on his lap. Clarice was twelve but big for her age. She looked uncomfortable. His mother sat on the couch reading the newspaper.
“What is that?” his father asked. His fingers played with Clarice’s hair as he looked over at Alex.
“Scales,” Alex said.
“I don’t know much about music, but I know that’s not music.”
“I have to learn the notes first.”
“He has to practice,” his mother said, without looking up from the paper. “Everyone who wants to play an instrument has to practice.”
“It hurts my ears. Clary’s too. Don’t it hurt your ears, Clary?”
Clarice squirmed but didn’t say anything.
“I can tell you’re never going to be much good at it. Why don’t you try writing poetry, like Clarice? Might suit you better. At least we won’t have to listen to you practice. Right, Clary?” And he laughed and bent to nuzzle Clarice’s neck.
