“Did Mommy braid your hair for you?” Natalie’s hair was set in two neatly braided pigtails. Abe was surprised Helen had found the time to fix Natalie’s hair like that. She had barely spoken since the day before but she had been in the kitchen almost all night, cooking and baking.
“I did it. Teddy likes braids. He says braids look like rope.”
Her use of the present tense made Abe’s heart ache. “You did a good job.”
“Are we going to go to the cemetery after the funeral?”
“Yes, sweetheart.”
“Is it the one where your mother and father are?
“Yes.”
Natalie’s eyes began to tear. “Do you think Grandma and Grandpa know Teddy’s coming?”
“Honey, I don’t know. It’s hard to know things like that.”
“But they’ll take care of him, won’t they?”
Abe wrapped his arms around her. “They’ll take care of him.” He held her while she cried, until the last tiny sob escaped from her lips, until he felt her exhale, long and slow, and when she finally let go and he looked at her, he saw that something within her had altered. It was like looking at a finished jigsaw puzzle with one piece missing from an undetectable place. No matter what Abe did, he knew he could never replace what had been lost.
Chapter 41
JUDITH
Black dresses made Judith think of funerals. That was why she didn’t own any. Now that she actually had a funeral to go to, she realized that what she wore—what anyone wore—didn’t matter. In the end, she chose a dark gray skirt and a navy sweater. No one would notice.
Half of the people at the funeral home were strangers to her, but all of them gave her quiet smiles or kind glances. The room was crowded, full of people shaking their heads and dabbing their eyes with tissues. One of Teddy’s teachers approached Judith to say what a special boy her brother was, but Dinah interrupted. “We’re supposed to go into the chapel,” she said. “Rabbi Hirsch wants to talk to us.”
In the front right corner of the chapel, Rabbi Hirsch was speaking quietly to her parents. He was the rabbi from their old synagogue in Brooklyn and had traveled to Long Island to be with them. Rabbi Hirsch had been at Teddy’s bris and all her cousins’ bar mitzvahs. He was in his sixties, with a full gray beard and kind gray eyes. Judith hadn’t seen him for years.
Uncle Abe, Aunt Helen and her cousins were in the chapel too, sitting on the long upholstered benches in the back. Aunt Helen’s eyes were closed and her head was resting on Uncle Abe’s shoulder. As soon as Harry saw Judith, he walked over to give her a hug. He didn’t know what to say, but she was grateful he was there. Aunt Helen hadn’t seen her come in.
“Judith, dear, come here. Your sisters too,” said the rabbi. After Judith, her sisters and her parents gathered together, Rabbi Hirsch spoke to them about keriah, the Jewish practice of tearing one’s clothes as part of mourning. Hei handed each of them a torn black ribbon attached to a safety pin. “Take this,” he told them “and pin it on the left side of your chest over your heart.”
Mimi objected. “I’d rather put mine on my skirt. This blouse is silk and it might get a hole and I—”
Rabbi Hirsch cut her off. “Why do we pin it here?” he asked her, thumping the left side of his chest with his fist. “We do it because the tear in the ribbon is a symbol, a symbol that our hearts are torn and broken in our grief. In my day, we tore our clothes. But today,” he looked at Mimi again, “we use the ribbon.”
Mimi replied, “I hope you have more of these because there are a lot of people out there—”
Rabbi Hirsch silenced Mimi for a second time. “The ribbon is not a prize that we pass around the room. It is not an accessory, to be worn wherever we like or by whomever we choose. It is worn only by the immediate family—the spouse, the parents, the siblings and the children of the deceased. No one else.” Mimi’s face reddened and the rabbi continued, “The death of your brother is a terrible tragedy. A child has no wife or children of his own to mourn him. He has only you.” Mimi was silent. She pinned the ribbon to her blouse without another word. The rest of them did the same. The rabbi told them he would begin the service in a few minutes, so Judith walked over to her aunt and uncle to tell them. “We’re almost ready to start.”
When Helen opened her eyes, they immediately went to the ribbon pinned to Judith’s sweater. “Where did you get that?”
“Rabbi Hirsch.”
Helen sprang from her seat and began barking orders at Uncle Abe. “We have to put ribbons on before the service. We need to tell the rabbi right away!”
Judith was confused. “Aunt Helen, I don’t think he has any more of them. The rabbi said…”
Her aunt wasn’t listening. “Abe, we have to get a ribbon from the rabbi now!”
“Shhhh, shhhh.” Abe’s voice was barely above a whisper. “The ribbon is for the immediate family, sweetheart. You know that.”
“You think we’re not Teddy’s family?” She was frantic now, pacing in front of them, her face flushed with distress.
He tried to soothe her. “Of course we’re his family, but only his parents and his sisters can wear the ribbon.”
“I was there when he was born! I took care of him and rocked him when he had colic! Every day I watched to make sure she didn’t neglect him!” She was yelling now, too loud for the others in the chapel to pretend not to hear.
“I know. I know how much you loved Teddy. But you’re not his mother—”
“Shut up!” Judith gasped as she watched her aunt slap her uncle across the face. His hand went immediately to his cheek as the sound of the slap echoed off the chapel’s stone walls and floor. When she realized what she had done, Aunt Helen sat back down on the bench and began to sob.
What happened next was something Judith would always remember. She thought Uncle Abe would walk away then, or yell at Aunt Helen for hitting him. Judith assumed he would be furious at what had just occurred. She worried he might retaliate. But Uncle Abe didn’t do any of those things. He didn’t even look angry, just sad. He moved close to Aunt Helen and brushed her hair gently away from her face. He took a handkerchief out of his suit pocket and wiped away her tears. He kissed her on the cheek, not just once, but twice. And then he held her hand and pressed it to the spot where she had struck him. She folded herself into his embrace and allowed him to comfort her. The rest of them, including the rabbi, looked away. “Love is always forgiving,” the rabbi murmured under his breath.
Judith looked over at her mother and father. Pale and silent, they stood at least four feet apart from each other. Each was lost in a place of personal grief, and Judith wondered if either of them would ever be able to console the other.
In a few moments, the rabbi cleared his throat and announced that it was time to begin. Obediently, they followed him out of the chapel and into the main room for the service.
Chapter 42
NATALIE
Natalie threw up on the way to Teddy’s house from the cemetery. She asked her father to pull over first, and she managed to avoid her clothes, so it wasn’t as bad as it might have been. Mostly she was relieved she hadn’t vomited at the cemetery because she thought that would have been disrespectful.
Back at Teddy’s house there were crowds of people she didn’t recognize. She looked for a drink to take away the bad taste in her mouth, but all she could find in the dining room was wine and a large urn of coffee, so she wandered into the kitchen to find a glass of juice. Mimi and Dinah were in the kitchen too, sneaking cookies from one of the dessert platters, while Mimi’s friend Josie rearranged the leftovers to make them look like nothing had been touched. Josie was the chubby, freckle-faced girl who lived next door. Her navy dress was well made but too tight, with buttons that pulled around her waist. Like Mimi, Josie was sixteen, but with none of Mimi’s easy beauty. She tended to follow Mimi around, hoping some of her glamour would rub off. It didn’t.
“Want a cookie?” Dinah asked Natalie. But Natalie co
uldn’t eat. She shook her head. “Do you have any juice? They only put out wine and coffee.”
Dinah opened the refrigerator and took out the orange juice. She handed Natalie a glass from the cabinet.
“Thanks,” Natalie told her.
Mimi said something to Josie then about sneaking a glass of wine, but Josie said they might get in trouble, so Mimi just sighed and sat down at the kitchen table. The other girls sat down with her.
“This is so sad,” Mimi said, looking up at the ceiling.
“So sad,” Josie echoed, with too much enthusiasm.
“The rabbi said it was a tragedy.”
“An awful tragedy.”
“Jeez, Jo! Would you stop repeating everything I say?”
“Sorry,” Josie mumbled, reaching for another cookie. Mimi gave her a dirty look, and Natalie felt sorry for her. “Do people usually call you Jo?”
The girl seemed surprised Natalie had noticed her. “No, mostly just Josie. Short for Josephine.”
“I figured,” Natalie told her. “Like in Little Women.”
“Yes.” Her face brightened.
“I remember that book,” Mimi interjected. “The really poor family with the four girls. And then one of them died. If Teddy was a girl, that would have been exactly the same as us.”
“Not exactly,” Dinah said. “In the book Beth dies, but she isn’t the youngest.”
Mimi was annoyed. “The point is there are four children and one of them dies. It doesn’t matter which one.”
“That’s true,” Josie was quick to agree.
Mimi went on, “If I were one of the sisters in that book I’d be Amy. She’s beautiful and she gets to go on a trip to Europe. She’s an artist, like me. And she marries the really rich boy from across the street.”
Dinah chimed in, “I’d be Meg.”
“Who cares?” Mimi rolled her eyes and sulked. “This is so boring. I can’t believe we have to do this for a whole week. Dad covered up all the mirrors in the house and this morning Judith started yelling at me just because I lifted the cloth up a tiny bit to check my face.”
Josie was Catholic and had never heard of the custom. “Why do you cover the mirrors?”
Mimi was busy examining her nails, so Natalie tried to give an explanation. “When someone close to you dies, you’re not supposed to care about what you look like. So we cover up the mirrors.”
“Oh,” said Josie. “That makes sense.”
“It’s stupid,” Mimi snapped. “And even if it isn’t, Judith still didn’t have to be so mean about it. Just because she doesn’t care what she looks like doesn’t mean the rest of us have to go around looking hideous.”
Natalie thought Judith was pretty, but she didn’t want to say so and start something unpleasant with Mimi. “Thanks for the juice,” she said. “I’m going to go find my mom now.” She put her glass in the sink and went looking for her mother in the living room.
Natalie’s mother hadn’t said one word on the way over to Teddy’s house. Natalie knew she was upset, so she wanted to check on her. Her mother was the only one who truly understood how important Teddy was to her, who knew that he wasn’t just a cousin or a friend. Her mother thought Teddy was special too. She knew it.
The living room in Teddy’s house was large but dull. It was decorated in monochromatic shades of beige and none of the couches or chairs was comfortable. Over the years Natalie had tried sitting in every spot, so she knew from experience just how uncomfortable all of them were. Once she and Teddy had gone from chair to chair and couch to couch like Goldilocks in the Three Bears’ parlor. “This one is too soft,” she would say after sitting on one. “And this one is too hard,” Teddy would rumble after resting on another. But there wasn’t a single place that was “just right” in the whole room.
Natalie spotted her mother on one of the too-hard couches near the fireplace. There was an open place next to her on the right side, so Natalie scooted in and sat down. Her mother’s arm immediately went around her, even though her head was turned so she could listen to the woman on her left. Natalie didn’t know who the woman was, but her gray-blond hair was swept up in an elegant hairstyle and she was wearing diamond earrings. She was much older than Natalie’s mother but still pretty.
“Stuart’s brother was eighty-two but still so vibrant. We came north last week for his funeral on Tuesday, and then we got the call yesterday about poor Teddy. It’s horrible—two funerals in one week. But I’m grateful we were in New York so we could be here today.”
“I’m sure it’s a great comfort to have you here, especially for Rose.”
“Yes, well, my niece is very special to me.” She peeked around Helen to get a look at Natalie. “Now who is this lovely young lady?”
“This is my daughter, Natalie. She and Teddy were born on the same day—I’m sure you’ve heard the story. Natalie was with Teddy yesterday during the accident.”
“Oh dear.” The woman took Natalie’s hand and held it. She was wearing a lot of gold rings with diamonds and other stones. “That must have been terrible for you.”
Natalie wasn’t sure how to respond. “Thank you,” she managed to say, taking her hand back. “Are you one of the neighbors?”
The woman smiled. “No, dear. I’m Aunt Faye, Rose’s aunt. Her mother was my sister.”
“You’re the rich aunt! With the fancy apartment,” she said.
“Natalie!” Her mother was mortified.
“Oh, it’s all right, dear.” Aunt Faye was amused. “I am rich, and my apartment is fancy.” She turned to Natalie to explain. “I never had any children, so I never had to worry about buying expensive things. There’s no one around to break them.”
“That’s sad,” Natalie told her.
“Natalie! Enough!” It was her mother again. “I’m so sorry, Faye, she really isn’t herself.”
“Nonsense, dear, the child is perfectly right. It is sad.”
Natalie nodded. “Did you want to have children?”
“Yes, dear, very much. But, as they say, it wasn’t in the cards.”
“Oh.” Natalie must have looked particularly glum just then, because her mother told her she was going to get her a cookie. Helen got up from the couch, patted her daughter on the head and started walking in the direction of the dining room. Natalie was left alone with Aunt Faye.
“I’m going to tell you something I don’t tell a lot of people,” Aunt Faye said to her. She scooted a little bit closer on the couch. “Have you ever heard of Emily Dickinson?” Natalie shook her head. “Of course—you’re too young. Well, Emily Dickinson was a very brilliant woman. She was a poet and she was also what people call a recluse. She didn’t like to leave her house. Anyway, someone gave me a book of her poetry when I graduated from high school. I never even opened it. But years later, after my husband and I were married, I looked at it. I remember the day because it was after I had miscarried for the third time—I couldn’t stay pregnant long enough to have a baby. So there I was at home, in my apartment.” Aunt Faye paused then and smiled. “My very fancy apartment. I had nothing to do so I opened the book and read the poems. And that was when I found a special poem that helped me feel better.”
“What is it?”
“I don’t remember all of it, but the first part goes like this.” Aunt Faye cleared her throat and closed her eyes. “‘I measure every Grief I meet, with analytic eyes—I wonder if it weighs like Mine—or has an Easier size.’”
“I don’t understand.”
“It is difficult to understand, isn’t it? Of course everyone has their own ideas, but I think it means that everyone has some sadness in life. Maybe someone they love is sick or died, or maybe someone they love doesn’t love them back. Maybe they don’t have enough money for something they really need. For me it was that I couldn’t have a baby. But for another person the grief could be something different. Something they wish they did or something they wish they didn’t do.”
“Oh.”
“
We always think our own grief is the worst—worse than everybody else’s. But the truth is, we never know for sure what the people around us are feeling. I have had some bad things happen, but then a lot of wonderful things happened to me, too. An awful thing happened to you yesterday. But you mustn’t let it ruin the happiness that lies ahead for you, dear.”
“I’ll try.”
“Good. Now, that’s enough talk from a silly old lady.”
Natalie got up off the couch and hugged Aunt Faye. “I don’t think you’re silly,” she told Faye. “And you have really pretty earrings.”
Faye threw back her head then and laughed. A few of the people in the room turned to see who was laughing so loudly. Maybe you’re not supposed to laugh when someone dies, Natalie thought, but I think it might help.
Chapter 43
ABE
Abe was relieved when Natalie threw up on the way back from the cemetery. Nothing felt normal before she got sick by the side of the road. The sight of it finally made the boys in the backseat talk again. Gross! Who knew she could puke that far? He was happy to hear their comments, no matter how obnoxious they were.
Abe thought he knew how difficult the day would be for Helen. But when she fell apart at the funeral home he realized he had not fully grasped the depth of her grief. To be told she wasn’t worthy of wearing the mourner’s ribbon had pushed her over the edge.
Seeing Natalie get sick snapped Helen out of her reverie. She had jumped out of the car to help Natalie clean her face and smooth back her hair. And for the rest of the ride Harry took the front seat next to Abe while Helen crammed into the back of the car with Natalie on her lap. Squeezed in with the boys, Helen was close enough to smell the mint of George’s toothpaste and the chemicals from Sam’s hair pomade. There was comfort for her in the closeness of her children.
By the time they got to Mort’s house, Helen’s heartbreak was slightly less visible. Abe saw that it was easier for her to talk to strangers, so he steered her toward people he didn’t recognize. Whenever he saw Rose getting close, he purposefully led Helen to the other side of the room.
The Two-Family House: A Novel Page 17
