The only solution was to hide it. She’d put it in the back of her closet or in the bookcase behind the books she’d outgrown but didn’t want to give away. It wasn’t as if she was going to light the candles he’d given her or anything like that. She just wanted to have it.
* * *
Her mother always apologized for all the Christmas parties she had to go to for work, but Vivi didn’t mind. Sometimes when her mom and Uncle Horace were both at a party, she and Aunt Hannah had dinner at the big farmhouse table in the kitchen with the stone floor and the old dumbwaiter that still worked, though no one ever used it. At Aunt Hannah’s she had the kind of dinners she had at her friends’ houses. A lamb chop or hamburger, green beans, and a baked potato. She liked her mother’s cooking, but she knew her friends thought having an omelet for dinner was weird, and more than once when they’d come for supper she’d seen them trying to hide uneaten mushrooms on their plates. Sometimes she just liked being alone in the apartment. At least, she didn’t mind being alone. It made her feel less guilty for the times she went out and left her mother alone. And tonight she had a reason for being glad she was on her own.
She took the menorah from behind the set of Betsy-Tacy books, put it on the radiator cover in front of the window, and stood looking at it. That was when she got the idea. She hadn’t planned to light the candles Mr. Rosenblum had given her, but what harm could there be if she did it and then blew them out right away? It wasn’t as if she were playing with fire. She was just lighting a couple of candles. She was seeing what it was like to be Jewish.
She went back to the bookcase, took out the candles, and carried them to the menorah. Mr. Rosenblum said she was supposed to light the top candle first, then use it to light the others going from right to left. Backwards from the way you read, she’d said. Not in Hebrew, he’d answered. You were supposed to light one candle on the first night, then add one each night until the holiday was over. She had no idea when the first night was, but who knew if her mother would be out then? Besides, she wasn’t celebrating the holiday. She was just seeing what it would be like if she did.
She put a candle in the top and another in the first holder on the right, then struck a match, lit one candle, and used it to light the second. The flames shimmered. Their reflection danced against the darkened window. She crossed the room to the switch beside the door and turned out the overhead light. That was even better. That was beautiful. She didn’t care what her mother said. She bet if her father were alive, they’d celebrate Chanukah. If her father were alive, she’d be like everyone else, almost.
* * *
Horace opened the back door and wheeled out into the small garden that was clipped and pruned and shrouded for the winter. Hannah was indefatigable. He wasn’t being ironic, even in the privacy of his own mind. She took care of the house and the garden and a full load of patients. She would have taken care of him, too, if he’d let her. That was why he was out in the garden on an icy December night. No, that wasn’t true. This had nothing to do with Hannah. This was all his.
He grasped the wheels in both hands and propelled himself forward, seventeen feet away from the house, nineteen and a half across the bottom of the garden, seventeen feet back. A handkerchief-sized yard is no place to work off anything, but he had no choice. In the beginning, when he’d gone careening up and down streets, or tried to, someone had always stopped him. Can I get you a cab, sir? You all right, mister? Hey, buddy, need some help? Hannah left him alone. At least she did now. She hadn’t the first few times. She’d come crunching down the gravel path in her high heels—her legs were her best feature, next to her mind she liked to say, and she enjoyed showing them off—and stood in front of him blocking his path. Even in the darkness, her eyes blazed with her determination to help, and her hair, which had a tendency to escape its French twist, made a pale halo against the sky.
“What are you doing out here alone in the middle of the night?” she’d ask.
“It’s not the middle of the night.”
“What are you doing out here alone in the dark?”
“What does it look like I’m doing?”
“I don’t know, that’s why I’m asking.”
“I’m going for a walk, my version of it. And alone is the point, Hannah.”
He knew that was cruel, but he couldn’t help himself.
“It would be better if you’d talk.”
“So says the William Alanson White Institute.”
That was another low blow. She was proud of her professional affiliation. She could never have been a physician, she admitted. She was too squeamish. But accreditation by the institute let her treat people’s minds without having to deal with their bodies. Still, his making fun of the place made her the grown-up and him the child taunting her.
At least those arguments in the yard had stopped before Charlie moved in. He would have hated to subject her to them. No, he wasn’t worried about subjecting her; he was concerned about exposing himself. Not that he and Hannah had to go outside to argue. Charlotte had probably overheard her share of indoor disagreements. She never said anything. Unlike Hannah, she did not believe in the healing power of the spoken word. He and Charlie were two of a kind, all right, wary, secretive, shamed, though he’d be damned if he knew what she had to be ashamed of. No, that wasn’t true either. Survival never comes with a clear conscience.
He reached the end of the path, swung the chair around, spun along the bottom of the garden, and turned right again. That was when he saw it. He grabbed the wheels to stop the movement and sat looking up at the window on the top floor. Flames. There were goddamn flames in the window. They leapt and flickered and burned holes in the night.
His hands spun the wheels forward. The chair shot up the path, through the back door, and down the hall to the elevator. His fist hit the button. The cage began to lumber down the shaft. It shook. It growled like a menacing animal. It took forever.
When it finally arrived, he yanked the outer door and pushed the cage door open. The metal screamed in protest. He wheeled in with such force that his withered knees hit the back of the cage. His fist jabbed the button that said four. The inner door slid closed. As the elevator began to inch upward, he rotated the chair to face the door. The climb was a nightmare in slow motion. One slid by, then two, then three, finally four appeared. He wrenched the cage opening halfway across and began pushing on the outer door, but he’d been too impatient. The grating had frozen halfway. The door was locked in place. He pushed against it, though he knew force wouldn’t work. His sweat-slick palms slid down the door. His breathing rasped in the silent cage. He closed his eyes for a moment and tried to regulate his breathing. He opened them and managed to force the cage door closed, then pushed the four button again. The cab lurched into place. He slid the grating across, pushed open the outer door, and spun himself out into the hall.
The door to the apartment was closed. He rang the bell and hit the knocker against the plate and banged with both fists.
“Charlie,” he howled. “Vivi!”
He waited. There was no answer. He rang and knocked and banged and shouted again. Later, he’d realize she had taken so long because she was trying to hide the evidence, but that would be later. Now all he knew was that someone was in there playing with fire.
The door opened. Vivi’s eyes were terrified saucers in her white face.
“The candles,” he shouted. “Put out those goddamn candles!”
“What candles?” she asked.
“Don’t ‘what candles’ me. The goddamn candles you’re burning in the window. Put them out!”
She went on staring at him.
“I said put them out!”
“They’re out.”
He closed his eyes for a moment, opened them, sat up in his chair, and tried to hide his humiliation, but it was no good. He was sweating the way he used to after a couple of hours on the tennis court in the midday heat. He could feel the veins in his temple pulsing.
�
�Your mother isn’t home, is she?” At least his voice wasn’t shaking.
She shook her head.
“Didn’t she tell you? In this house we do not play with fire.”
She stood looking at him for a moment. “I wasn’t…,” she began, then stopped. “I’m sorry. I forgot.”
* * *
Hannah was waiting for him in the hall when the elevator door opened. He wheeled past her into the parlor. She closed the door behind them and stood watching as he made his way across the room to the marble-topped Victorian sideboard that served as a bar. It seemed impossible to her now that she’d once taken such pride in this room, in the whole house. She’d had the moldings restored and the marble mantels over the fireplaces rebuilt, the hardwood floors refinished and the generations of paint and wallpaper scraped and stripped. Beautiful, friends had said. So authentic, they’d added. But it wasn’t authentic. It was a stage set, and she was stuck in it for the run of the play.
She stood in the middle of the room, watching him as he poured a drink. His hands were shaking so badly that the bottle clinked against the glass. His back was to her, but his face, reflected in the mirror over the mantel, was distorted with rage, and something else. Shame. The shame should have stopped her from speaking, but it didn’t.
“Don’t you think you were a little rough on her?”
Holding the glass in one hand, he maneuvered the chair around with short angry jerks until he was facing her again.
“I just reminded her that in this house we do not play with fire.”
“Just reminded her? I was in the bedroom, you were on the fourth floor, and I could hear you.”
“Maybe now she’ll remember.”
“Oh, she’ll remember, all right.”
He wheeled away from her toward one of the tall front windows, then pivoted again to face her.
“Okay, I was a little rough on her. I’ll apologize tomorrow. To her. And to Charlotte.”
“You didn’t shout at Charlotte.”
He took another swallow of his drink.
“I’m not stupid, Horace.”
“I never thought you were.”
“I see what’s going on.”
“Nothing is going on.”
“I’m not talking about sex. I wouldn’t mind that. Not anymore.”
“Not anymore? You wouldn’t have minded it the day I came home from the hospital. Hell, you would have been grateful if I’d taken my so-called affections elsewhere. You may not be stupid, but you’re lousy at hiding disgust.”
“I was trying to help.”
“You were trying to manage. Do this, don’t do this. It’s supposed to be sex, not physical therapy.”
“Actually, it’s supposed to be making love.”
He sat staring at her for what felt to both of them like a long moment. “Let’s not ask for the impossible.”
“That’s not fair.”
“Fair! You’ve walked this earth for thirty-eight years, you’re married to a cripple, and you still think life is fair?”
“What I think is that there’s such a thing as emotional infidelity.”
“If only that were grounds for divorce in New York State. But even then you couldn’t do it, could you? You couldn’t bear to look in the mirror and have the kind of woman who leaves a crippled husband look back at you.”
She started to say that wasn’t fair, then caught herself. Not because he’d come back with the same line about life not being fair, but because he was right. And she hated herself for it.
* * *
“You didn’t shout at Charlotte.”
The sound of her own name on the other side of the wall stopped her on the stairs. She didn’t think of herself as an eavesdropper, but even the most scrupulous woman does not keep going when she hears herself being discussed in what people think is private, especially if voices are raised.
She went on standing there. The accusations were mounting, but her name wasn’t mentioned again. She took two more stairs.
“I’m not talking about sex. I wouldn’t mind that. Not anymore.”
She stopped again. She couldn’t help herself. She wasn’t like everyone else in the office, wondering, speculating, could he, couldn’t he. Their interest was prurient. And what, a voice masquerading as her conscience asked, is yours? She had no answer to that, or rather she had an answer, but it was even worse than prurience. It was personal.
* * *
“What I don’t understand,” Charlotte said, “is what you were doing lighting candles in the first place.” She and Vivi were standing in the living room facing each other. Vivi had confessed as soon as her mother walked in the door.
Vivi shrugged.
“That’s not an answer.”
“I just wanted to see what it looked like.”
“What what looked like?”
“The menorah when it was lit.”
“The candles you were lighting were in a menorah?”
“I only lit them for a minute. At least that was what I was going to do. I would have blown them out even if he hadn’t come up here screaming bloody murder.”
“What on earth were you doing with a menorah?”
“Mr. Rosenblum at Goodman’s gave it to me.”
“That little old man who works in the hardware store gave you a menorah?”
“When I went to buy the lights for the tree. He said America was a free country. I could celebrate as many holidays as I wanted.”
“Since when did Mr. Rosenblum become the arbiter of your behavior?”
“I don’t see what you’re so upset about. It’s only a kind of candlestick. Even if it is Jewish.”
She hears the explosions going off. Seven of them. Seven synagogues. Does she count them or does she learn the number from the rumor mill? The next morning, people pick their way through the debris. She stumbles over a candelabra melted almost beyond recognition. She closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, the image was gone and she was facing Vivi again.
“It has nothing to do with the religious significance,” she said.
“Oh, sure.”
“It doesn’t. But we do not keep secrets in this family.”
She could have sworn Vivi smirked at that.
* * *
Half an hour later, she was waiting in the hall when Vivi, smelling of soap and peppermint toothpaste, came out of the bathroom. Vivi dropped her eyes and started to slide past. The gesture cut Charlotte. She blocked the way and lifted Vivi’s chin so she was forced to face her.
“You don’t have to agree with me about religion,” she said, “but you do have to promise me you won’t play with fire anymore.”
Vivi slumped against the wall and dropped her eyes again. “Lighting candles for two minutes isn’t playing with fire. I’m not a five-year-old.”
“I know that. But it’s still dangerous.”
“According to Uncle Horace’s phobia.”
Charlotte felt herself stiffen. “A phobia implies an extreme or irrational fear. I see nothing extreme or irrational in being afraid of fire if you’re in a wheelchair. He can’t navigate stairs, and elevators are dangerous in a fire, or so say the signs. ‘In case of fire, use stairs.’”
Vivi shrugged. “Aunt Hannah was the one who called it a phobia. And she’s a psychiatrist.”
“She may be a psychiatrist, but she’s certainly not a semanticist.”
“What’s a semanticist?”
“A woman with compassion.”
Now Vivi’s eyes snapped up to meet her mother’s. “I don’t believe you said that.”
They went on standing face-to-face in the narrow hall.
“I’m sorry. You’re right. That wasn’t exactly compassionate on my part. A person who studies the meaning of words.”
* * *
The night after Vivi lit the candles in the menorah and Horace lost his temper at the top of his lungs, he took the elevator to the fourth floor again. This time there was no assaulting of buttons, w
renching open of steel cabs, or pounding on doors, though his manner was still brusque.
He rang the bell and waited. Charlotte opened the door. He was sorry he hadn’t come earlier. He would have preferred to do this without her in the apartment.
He wheeled past her into the living room. “Is the kid around?” he asked without meeting her eyes.
“If you mean Vivi, she’s in her room doing her homework.”
He looked up at her, finally. “I suppose you know why I’m here.”
“Do you want me to get her?”
“Do you mind if I go in there?”
“Tread gently.”
“I put on my kid gloves before I came up here.” He wheeled across the living room and down the short hall.
She didn’t follow, but she was listening.
“Hi, kiddo.” His voice carried to the living room. It was too hearty.
If Vivi replied, Charlotte couldn’t hear it.
“Mind if I come in?”
Again she couldn’t make out Vivi’s answer, but she heard the rubber wheels roll over the place in the floor that always squeaked.
“About last night,” he said, and now his voice grew so quiet that she couldn’t make out his words either, but later Vivi told her about the conversation.
“He said he was sorry he lost his temper, but he hoped I’d understand. He couldn’t go up or down stairs, and you’re not supposed to use an elevator in a fire. He said he had nightmares about it all the time. He said President Roosevelt used to, too, though no one knew it until after he was dead.”
Paris Never Leaves You Page 7
