Shadows, page 6
Miri had shaken him when she said she wanted to talk about their marriage, though he shouldn’t have been surprised. They’d come close to recognizing there were problems but had somehow put off discussions. He couldn’t remember the last time they’d had a talk that had to do with just them and not one that dealt with their son or family or her business. In the beginning, of course, that was all they talked about. How wonderful their lives were. How lucky they were that they had each other. There were no thoughts other than that they would be together forever.
He sat on the old chair in the basement. The cushion was worn so that the springs pushed uncomfortably into his ass. He was torn between thinking of his past and the past of the man who had written the diary he held in his hands. In spite of himself he opened the cover and began reading it again.
I have this feeling in my gut. I think she planned to have this baby all the time. I remember once she says why bother, wouldn’t it be nice to do it natural. I knew it was dumb but I couldn’t stop myself. It was heaven on earth. She said, any time, Maxie, any time, but I didn’t. I didn’t give in to temptation again, that one time was enough.
The next page:
I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. I’m pretty sure now it was all a trick. She didn’t love me. She never said she loved me. I never told her I loved her. But I did. Now I think I hate her, too.
Another page:
I could never hate her. She gave me a gift. She gave me a feeling I never had in my whole life.
I came down here to write something but I can’t do it.
And:
I think about the baby all the time. I can’t help it. I can’t help it.
And:
Nothing. Nothing. I want to tear out the paper and rip it into pieces.
And then he came to the part he’d read over and over again, trying to distill from it the certainty he’d lived with most of his life:
My son hates me. I see it in his eyes. Last night something bad happened. I was talking to Clarice in her room. She is unhappy. She is sad all the time. I was trying to find out what was wrong, but she wouldn’t talk. I tried holding her like I used to when she was little. She is not a little girl anymore. She is almost a woman. God forgive me for the feelings I had when I held her in my arms. I couldn’t help myself. But I didn’t do anything. I didn’t do anything but hold her. She never cried. Never said a word. I left. When I came out of her room the boy was standing there. His eyes were accusing me. I almost hit him. I never hit my children, but I wanted to beat the crap out of him. From the day he was born, the second I held him he would cry.
His eyes stung with tears. He didn’t know if they were tears of pity or of hate. He stood up, held the notebook like a baseball pitcher, and threw it as hard as he could. It skidded across the floor and stopped at the wall under the poster of Alfred E. Newman.
Chapter 11
Later that night Daniel ran the events of the afternoon He had spent hours in libraries obsessively reading sources on the subject of incest. There were more than a few theories about causes: stress in the family, drinking, a need for a nurturing figure, etc. One that got his attention was a study that centered on a poor relationship between the husband and wife. Because there was little or no affection, the result was usually infrequent or non-existent sex. In this kind of situation, the husband often turned to the eldest daughter to provide what was missing.
He had never seen any affection between his father and mother, so according to that theory, it was more than possible his father could have turned his attention to his daughter, Clarice.
He stared at the notebook spread out on the gray floor. He picked it up, sat down, and opened it once more.
Rumors are flying around the factory that F. had a baby. How do these things start? Nobody knows who the father is. But that doesn’t stop people from guessing. They name everybody from Mr. Knudsen to Blackie. I don’t talk about it with anybody. Meanwhile I am waiting. I promised I would help her but I haven’t seen her or heard from her in months. Not since before she left the factory. I think about her. I want to see her, touch her. I want to see the baby. I think about finding where she is but I know if I ask any questions I will give myself away. I wonder if the baby looks like me. I don’t know if it is a boy or a girl. I even dream about F. We go to that Italian restaurant. We have dinner. We drink wine. Sometimes in the dream, I try to hold her, but I never do, something always stops me.
A letter. One of the girls from assembly walks past me on a break and shoves an envelope into my hand when nobody is looking. I put it in my lunch pail. I knew right away who it was from. I read it in the car on the way home. After I read it I hid it under the seat under a bunch of rags. It was a short letter but nice. She tells me she is fine, the baby is fine. It is a girl. Her name is Angelina. She says I can send money to a post office box she set up. Whatever I want to send she says will be appreciated. Thanks a lot. No mention if I will ever see her or the baby. She makes it pretty plain they are out of my life. And I am out of their life. All she wants now is money. But I promised. So I will send it.
When I send her money I write asking to see her, to see the baby. She never answers. I look for the girl in the factory who gave me the letter. I see her but I don’t know what to say. She might know but she might not know. I think about waiting to get her alone, but then what? I write again. This time I beg. Please let me see the baby. Still no answer. I threaten to stop sending money, but it makes no difference. She knows her Max. She knows that when I make a promise it is good as gold.
Alex turned to the next page. There was nothing on it. He went on for several more. He remembered they were blank as well. He let the pages run against his thumb. He went through them, searching for what he had seen before. Towards the end, perhaps the fourth or fifth page from the back, there they were, the words on the page, letters tilting in all directions as if they were bowing before a force of nature. They were on the lines, above and below the lines, in large letters and small letters, in script and in block print; some of the letters were straight, some were backward, and some were tipped forward. All the words were the same word. It was as if he were practicing how to write the word in every manner possible. The single word was, “Angelina.”
Chapter 12
Alex read the notebook again and again. He skipped pages. He went back and forth, rummaging through it like a scavenger in an attic full of memories. He had never before grasped what should have been obvious: that his father was more than just the man he had hated all his life. His father was a person, another fucking human being with the flaws and character traits and emotions and desires that other ordinary human beings had. He could not believe it, but he was beginning to feel a certain amount of sympathy for the old man.
⅏⅏
Clarice was his protector. When he was little and their father made him cry, she was there to hold him. “I won’t let him hurt you,” she said. And when he got older and would not cry but would get angry instead, she would calm him. “Don’t get upset. It’s not worth it. He doesn’t hate you. It’s just that he likes girls better.”
Chapter 13
When Alex finally left the basement he found the house dark. He turned on a light and looked at his watch. It was almost midnight. He carried the notebook upstairs and found Miriam in bed holding a book and watching Nightline on TV. He put the book on top of the dresser.
“Are you finally done with it?” She wore a sleeveless nightgown—she was never cold—which left her shoulders bare. Her glasses were sitting on the end of her nose. Her eyes above them, gray with flecks of blue, were not as cold as they had been for quite a long time. The button at the neck of her nightgown was open, revealing the top of her full breasts, a reminder of their ability to arouse him.
He nodded. “Finally.”
“Before I forget,” she said. “Richard called today. He’s in a play. It opens next week.”
“Off-Broadway?”
“More like Off Off Off-Broadway. It’s on Avenue B. He invited us to the premier.”
“Premier. You make it sound like they’re going to have klieg lights and celebrities.”
“Give him a break. He’s got to start somewhere.”
“Sure. I just can’t help feeling that they’re going to eat him alive. He’s too soft, too sweet.”
“You never know. He might surprise you.”
“They’re going to swallow him and spit him out on the sidewalk.”
“He’s got plenty of resilience.”
“He’ll need it.”
“You’re going to be there, aren’t you?”
He took off his shirt and loosened his belt. “There’s that tone in your voice.”
“I just asked a simple question.”
“I’ll never be forgiven for missing the school play in eighth grade.”
“I didn’t say a word.”
“You said it all then.” He stepped out of his pants and reached under the pillow for his pajamas. “Anyhow, I’ll be there. You can count on it.”
“Good.”
He was on his way to the bathroom when Miriam said, “Would you mind if I read the diary now?”
He got it from the dresser and handed it to her. “Knock yourself out.”
The next morning he felt hungover. He had a headache and a foul taste in his mouth. He showered and dressed and went downstairs to find Miriam having breakfast.
“There’s coffee,” she said.
“Thanks.” He filled a mug and sipped it slowly. Some mornings the first cup of coffee was something to be grateful for.
“I was up a long time after you fell asleep,” she said.
“I was out in two seconds, I think.”
“I couldn’t stop reading. I read most of it twice. And what he had to say about you must have hurt like hell.”
“It did,” he said. “But I was no prize, either. He treated me like shit and I gave it right back to him.”
“I saw that thing about Clarice. He swears he didn’t do anything to her,” she said.
“I know what he says. But what do you believe?”
“Honestly, I can’t say.”
“Can’t or won’t?” he asked.
“Why would I lie to you? If I thought what he wrote proved anything I’d tell you.”
“Okay, I can see I’ll never convince you,” he said. “So let me ask you something else. What do you think I ought to do about my newfound sister?”
“What do you mean, do about her?”
“Like try and find her.”
Miriam set her cup down. “You’ve got to be kidding, right?”
“I’m not kidding. You think it’s such an outrageous idea?”
“My first thought is, it’s insane.”
“Why? What’s so nuts about it? I find out I have a sister. Isn’t it natural to want to locate her?”
“I don’t think so.” Shaking her head. “Not after so many years.”
“What do the years have to do with it?”
“Look, I know you’re all shook up over this. And I don’t blame you. I would be, too. But there are a million questions. How do you find her? And if you do, what do you tell her? The truth? Does she want to know? Will she thank you or shoot you? All kinds of things like that.”
“People are found all the time,” he said. “I’m just thinking off the top of my head. I could hire a detective. A private eye.”
“You’re not serious, are you?”
He had no answer. For whatever reason, everything that was going on suddenly seemed bizarre. He and Miriam, talking together as if nothing had ever happened between them. Here they were, living in the same house as a married couple, in the same bed every night for more than a year where their only touch was accidental. It was like being in a theater of the absurd, like they were actors on a stage, playing at being a couple.
“I don’t know,” he finally managed to say. He knew he was equivocating and despised himself for it. “Maybe I am serious.”
Chapter 14
The funeral home had been in Rockville Centre, not far from where they lived. It was a square, brick building that occupied the entire block.
The day of his father’s funeral they had entered through double glass doors. The lobby was carpeted in a dark patterned broadloom. To the side of the entrance was a discreet signboard with white plastic letters on a black background containing the names of the dead and the rooms in which they were to be found. Alex had seen his father’s name listed there as if he were one of the speakers at a convention: Gunther, Max…2B.
They had found the room, coffin at the back, polished oak, and bronze fittings. Part of the cover was hinged back, revealing the upper half of the body. A soft light beamed down on the coffin, bathing it in an eerie glow.
There was only one person in the room when they arrived. A stranger to Alex. He was a short man with a round face, the skin of which had as many creases and folds as a bloodhound. His eyes were blue dots. “I worked with Max in the same shop. Before he retired. He was a good tool and die man. Very good. I worked with him for years.” He glanced at the coffin. “I saw the obituary in the papers. I am sorry.”
“Thank you,” Alex said.
“Very kind of you,” his mother added.
“For what? I pay my respects to an old friend. For that, I don’t need thanks.”
The man went over to the coffin and stood with his hands clasped behind his back.
Alex followed and forced himself to look at his dead father. He saw the lightly rouged cheeks, the gray hair neatly parted on the left, the thin nose, the once hard mouth now soft, closed for good. He ought to feel something. There should be some grittiness in the eyeballs, at least. A dryness in the throat. It was his father, after all. A bubble had exploded in his father’s brain and he was dead. He could not repress the heave that came up from his stomach, burning his throat, gagging him.
Now, almost two weeks later, he tried to remember the man’s name. What was it? It would come to him he was sure, but if not, his mother might remember, or it might be in the guest book they always gave you in funeral parlors. If he had written his name, he would probably have also written his address, in which case there would be no problem locating him. But after he found him what would he learn? That was one question. And what other questions would he ask? And what if there were no answers to his other questions?
He called his mother.
“Rudi Emmenthaler,” she said immediately.
Rudi, a friendly, familiar kind of name. “I wasn’t sure you’d remember.”
“I wouldn’t have, except he sent me a sympathy card.”
“Is his return address on the envelope?”
“I don’t know. I may have thrown it out. What do you want it for?”
“Would you look?” His mother threw out things almost as fast as she got them. Leftovers, clothes, and souvenirs were disposed of before they had a chance to become memories.
“Just a minute.” He heard the phone being put down, only a moment later she was back. “It was on my desk. I still have to send him a thank you card.”
“Is there an address?”
She read it to him, someplace in Brooklyn, a number on East 3lst Street. It meant nothing; he didn’t know Brooklyn. “Thanks, Ma.”
“What do you want it for?” she asked again.
He hesitated, “I thought I’d talk to him. He said he was a friend of Dad’s. Maybe he knows something.”
There was a long silence. “This has to do with the diary?”
“Yes.”
“Alex, I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“Why not? You read it. You must realize I have a sister out there somewhere.”
“So that’s what this is all about?”
“I don’t even know myself what it’s all about. I just have this feeling that I want to know more.”
"I think you should let it rest.”
“I don’t think I can. Besides, why should I?”
“Lots of reasons. So many reasons. I can’t even begin to tell you.”
“Give me one.”
She sighed. “For a start, it can’t help but open old wounds. Don’t you see that?”
“Then why did you let me know about the diary in the first place? Why did you give it to me? You were the one who said I should read it.”
“You know what? I shouldn’t have. I made a mistake. I thought you…” He could hear her voice break. “I thought you would learn something about your father. That he was not a monster. That he was a decent man. Even though he had an affair he was still a decent man.” She was clearly crying now.
“Mom, Mom. Please don’t. I’m not trying to upset you.”
“Then tell me you won’t do this.”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“I didn’t expect anything like this to happen.”
“I’m sorry. But I lost one sister and now I know I have another one. How can I just forget about that?”
She sighed. “I was never able to change your mind about anything before. I’d be foolish to think I could do it now.”
“I’m not trying to hurt you, Mom.”
“I know, Alex. I know. But I still wish you wouldn’t do this. It can’t lead to anything good. At least tell me you’ll give it some thought before you go ahead. At least promise me that.”
