“I was arranging my things,” he answered briefly.
“Your things?” I wondered.
“Yes, I’ll be here for now,” he declared.
I didn’t say a word. Inside I was happy that he took the initiative and reached a decision on his own without consulting me. I needed someone to take care of me. I wanted someone to insist on watching over me, to not listen to me, and Roy fulfilled my silent wish.
The next day, when I woke up, I heard him fiddling with the dishes in the kitchen. The clock said it was nine o’clock in the morning. What is he doing home? He’s usually at work by this time. I tried to get out of bed, but the moment I got up, a bout of dizziness threw me back into bed and I tightly shut my eyes. A few minutes later, he came into my room with a tray full of all sorts of good things.
“Come on, I’ll help you sit up.”
“I’m dizzy,” I complained.
“We’ll do it slowly.” He came up to the bed and leaned toward me. His head moved close to mine and I took a deep breath of his cologne, which smelled of wildflowers mixed with sweat. He rearranged the pillows behind my head and leaned me back against them. Then he set down the tray, which held a pot of tea, a glass of orange juice, fragrant cakes, and dollops of tasty jams and butter. The scent of the cakes spread throughout the room and the aroma stimulated my nostrils. I took a deep breath of the smells and felt my chest expand.
“What about you?” I asked.
“I already had something to drink.”
“Roy, don’t you need to be at work now?”
“Nope, I’m not working today.”
“But—”
“Shh,” he whispered. “I also deserve a day off.”
He sat down on the bed and waited for me to start eating.
“I can’t eat with you watching me like that,” I said.
“OK, I’ll be in the other room. Call me if you need anything.”
I devoured everything on the tray. The little cakes were sweet and crunchy, and I swallowed each one, filling my empty body.
Roy came back to take away the tray. He leaned toward me just when I moved to sit up straight. Our heads bashed together and our eyes met. My hands automatically reached out and grasped both his cheeks. I brought his head close to me and kissed him lightly on the lips. “Thanks,” I whispered.
He put the tray back down on my knees and took my face in his two hands and kissed me long and passionately. He then pulled back, moved away, and said, “You’re welcome.”
He took the tray and left the room.
29
A few days later, while I was still recuperating, the telephone rang. I was sitting in the living room with a blanket covering my legs and a cup of tea in my hand. Roy sat next to me, looking over some papers related to his job. The ringing broke the silence and caused us both to look at each other in question. It was nine o’clock in the evening. Roy got up to answer. I heard him say into the receiver, “This is Roy. One moment.” He put the receiver down on the table, sat down next to me, and said, “Michael.”
I got up slowly, walked toward the telephone holding on to the wall to my left.
“Hi. Mickey. How are you?” I said into the phone, my heart skipping a beat.
“I’m OK. Really OK,” he emphasized.
I felt uncomfortable speaking to Mickey with Roy sitting near me, so I turned around so that Roy couldn’t hear what I was saying.
“I wanted to know how you are,” he continued.
“I’m all right now,” I said.
“What happened?”
“I was sick, but now I’m recuperating.”
“Something serious?”
“It’s a long story, not for the telephone.”
“I see,” he said. Then he asked, all of a sudden, “Would you like me to come over?”
I hesitated for a second before I answered. “Not yet, Mickey, I want to get well first.”
“I want to see you before…” He stopped.
“Before what?” I asked.
“Before I leave.”
“Leave?”
“Yes, I’m moving to London.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m going to live in London,” he repeated.
“Why?”
There was a long silence, and then he said, “I need to get away from here.”
“I understand. You’re right.”
“I know you understand,” he said gently. Then he tossed out a question that left me breathless. “Eva, will you come with me?”
“What?”
“I want you to come with me to London.”
“Mickey, I don’t understand.”
“I love you. I need you. I want you to come with me to London. Eva, are you still there?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry to surprise you like this. I was actually calling to ask if I could come over. I wanted to talk to you in person. But somehow it just came out. I’m sorry.”
Once again there was only silence, and then I said, “I don’t know what to say.”
“Look, I’m leaving in about a month. Can we get together before then?”
“I think so.”
“Can I call you again?”
“Yes.”
“I hope you feel better.”
Before he hung up, he said again, “Eva, I love you.” And then I heard a dial tone.
I found it difficult to turn around and face Roy. I was overcome with guilt. I told myself that I didn’t do anything wrong, but still, I felt uncomfortable.
But Roy wasn’t in the living room. I saw that the sofa was unoccupied. Only a cold cup of tea remained on the table.
I held on to the wall and shuffled to the living room. I sat down on the new easy chair and stayed there till morning. My thoughts gave me no rest. Mickey wants me to go with him to London. He said that he needs me. This is the first time anyone ever said that to me. I had never felt needed by anyone, and that particular sentence had quite a strong influence on my judgement. On the one hand, the temptation to leave everything behind and start afresh in a new life in a different place, far from my personal history, was huge; the possibility of a relationship, something I had never experienced before, both stirred me and terrified me; and finally, the fact that Mickey was Jewish held a strong connection to new feelings growing inside me. On the other hand, leaving everything behind would mean never knowing. All my questions about my parents and my life would remain questions forever. And then there was Roy. It was clear that moving to London would spoil the new connection formed between us. Exhaustion finally took hold. I fell asleep folded into the chair. That’s how Roy found me the next morning.
“You slept in the chair?”
“Yes, I fell asleep,” I answered drowsily.
“Shall I help you back to your bedroom?”
“Yes, please.”
Roy helped me into bed. He made me a sandwich and poured a glass of milk and left them on the side table next to me.
“I have to get to the office,” he said. “I’ll be in touch.” Before he left the room, he looked at me for a good long moment, as if he was going to say something, but turned around and left instead.
I fell back asleep immediately, not awakening until the early afternoon hours. The house was cold. When I sat up in bed, another bout of dizziness rocked me. I waited for it to pass and then got up and ambled toward the kitchen. I have to get back to my old self. I have some tasks to finish.
I went into the hallway where I had hung my purse. I took out a note with a telephone number and dialed. A formal voice answered, “Police, how can I help you?”
“I’m looking for Mr. Peter Jenkins,” I said.
“With what is this regarding, ma’am?”
“Personal.”
“One moment please.”
“Peter Jenkins,” I heard his deep voice say.
“Hello, this is Eva Brown speaking, I—”
“Eva, I called you several times, but there was no answer.
”
My heart was pounding like a galloping racehorse.
“I found the address you wanted, the last known address.”
The pen in my hand shook. I wrote down the address he gave me and thanked him for his efforts.
“Don’t hesitate to call if you need help.”
I folded the note and stuffed it into my wallet. I wanted to get up and go there at that very moment, but I didn’t have the energy. I decided that I would make the trip alone as soon as my strength returned.
30
A month after my conversation with Officer Peter, I drove to the address he gave me. I put on a sweatshirt and blue jeans, tied a flowery scarf around my neck, and was on my way. I was already in the city by ten o’clock. I stopped at one of the gas stations in order to ask for directions. The friendly man at the station explained that I had to leave the city and drive to one of the neighborhoods in the outskirts.
I arrived in the neighborhood where the houses were old; time had scratched its marks into them. The paint was faded, the yards looked unkempt, and the streets were dirty. Elderly people sat on the stoops.
I went to the address Peter gave me. The yellow paint on the front of the house was stained with signs of age. There was a motionless old rocking chair on the front porch. The house looked neglected. I knocked on the door with a trembling hand. No answer came. I knocked again, and then I heard the sound of legs being dragged. The door opened and in front of me stood a large woman. Her legs, visible under the old dress she wore, were thick like tree trunks, with a network of bulging veins. Her hair was disheveled, and she looked like she had just woken up. She scared me a bit. I took a step backward and spoke to her through the screen door.
“Hello, my name is Eva Brown. I’m looking for information about someone who once lived here. His name is John Brown.”
“And what’s your connection to him?” she asked, with a thin voice in direct contrast to her physical appearance.
“I’m his daughter.”
The woman looked me over with piercing eyes and said, “His daughter, eh?”
I nodded. “Do you know him?” I asked.
“Unfortunately, yes,” she answered and my heart skipped a beat. “Come inside.”
The inside of the house was completely different from its exterior. The floor was covered with carpets, and in the middle of the room stood a table with a vase of fresh flowers on it, spreading a pleasant, unfamiliar scent. Light-colored curtains hung over the windows and moved gently with occasional gusts of wind. The house was spotless. The hallway leading out of the living room was unadorned with neither photographs nor carpets, but looked sparkling from where I stood.
“Please have a seat.”
“Thank you.”
“Can I offer you a glass of juice?”
“I would love a glass of water, thank you.”
She dragged the weight of her body and returned with a small tray holding two glasses of water. She then sat down on a chair next to the sofa, turned to me and asked, “What made you come here today?”
“I only received the address a few days ago. My parents were killed in a car accident a few years ago.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” she said, but her voice sounded uninterested.
“Did you know my father?”
“I lived in this neighborhood with my parents, on the other side of the street. Everyone knew everyone back then. Your father’s family kept their distance from the rest of the neighbors. He continued to live in this house after his parents died.”
“When did they die?”
“I gather he didn’t tell you anything about his family,” she said.
I nodded.
“His parents were hardworking people. His father was a construction worker and his mother worked as a cleaning lady. They came home late at night, and until then he and his brother would roam the streets picking on other children. Actually, his younger brother just followed him around, the poor kid; he was a few years younger than your father and was at his mercy. There were times when the adults living on the street got together to try and figure out what to do about their behavior. They also tried to talk to the parents, but nothing helped.”
“I didn’t know he had a brother.”
“Look, you seem like a very nice girl. Are you sure you want to know everything? Sometimes not knowing is better than knowing.”
“I want to know all of it!” I said. “That’s why I’m here.”
“There was a rumor that he killed someone,” she said all of a sudden. Maybe she wanted to shock me, but my expression never changed.
“Who?”
“I don’t know, but it was a rumor going around the neighborhood. I wouldn’t be surprised if it turned out to be true.”
“When did you buy the house from him?” I changed the subject.
“I bought it from his brother after your father disappeared, more than twenty years ago.”
“And where did he move to?”
“I don’t know and I don’t care.”
The animosity she showed toward my father oozed from every word that came out of her mouth. “Why do you hate him so much?” I asked.
She didn’t hesitate for a second. She said, “Because he was a bad man.”
“He was a wonderful father,” I said. I was surprised by my need to defend him, especially after what I had learned about him recently.
She didn’t react.
“What else do you want to know?” she asked.
“Why do you hate him so much?” I repeated my question.
“It doesn’t matter. It’s something personal.”
I decided to leave it alone.
“Do you know where his brother lives?”
“The last time I heard, he was living somewhere in or near the city.”
“Do you have his address?”
She hesitated but then got up and went into the hallway. A few moments later she came back and handed me a piece of paper.
“Thanks,” I said and got up to shake her hand. “Wait, I don’t know your name,” I said.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said and went to open the door for me.
I left the house feeling awful. Something unsaid stood between us throughout the entire conversation—something I decided to place at the bottom of a box and seal away forever. Her hatred toward my father was enormous, of that I was sure.
I stood on the sidewalk across from the house and looked around the street. It was the street where my father lived and where he spent his childhood and teenage years. I tried to imagine him as a teenager, roving the street right there in front of me, going up to one of the kids, hitting him and stealing his backpack. I imagined him sneering at the child’s tears as he ran away. The picture was etched into my brain. It seemed so realistic that tears of sorrow, anger, frustration, and pity began to roll down my face and drop onto the sidewalk—the same sidewalk that had borne witness to the painful images of a frustrated teenager whose self-hatred was eating him alive.
I placed my hands on the steering wheel of my car and took a deep breath. I asked myself if I really wanted to know. Maybe it was better to stay in the dark and accept a quiet conscience in return.
The temptation was huge, but so was the need to know. The bullet had left the chamber and there was no way to put it back. I hit the gas pedal and turned my car toward the address in my hand. After a fifteen-minute drive, I reached a quiet street lined with one-story houses. This street was completely different than the one I had just visited. There were elm trees standing on both sides of the street. Their fallen leaves mingled together, generating a cheerful sound with each step. The street cleaner drove along slowly at the curb, gathering the remaining leaves and sand. It was the afternoon. The street was quiet except for the mechanical sound of the vehicle disturbing the peace.
I finally found the house. The name Brown was written on the mailbox in brown lettering. I was smiling, even though my body was as taut as a guitar string. Suddenly I didn�
�t know what to do. They don’t even know me. Maybe they don’t even know I exist. What kind of reaction will I get? The fear pushed me back, made me want to get back into my car and flee. I took one more step forward and reached the green fence in front of the house. On the other side, there was a garden hose in the grass, its nozzle resting in a recently prepared flower bed, with some digging tools and a small rake by its side.
There was an iron knocker on the front door. I knocked with it. My heart was pounding louder than the cleaner’s pump on the street. I knocked again, harder.
“Just a minute,” said a woman’s voice.
The door opened a second later. Before me stood a woman about forty-five years old. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail and her face had no makeup. I was tongue-tied. I stood there like a statue and didn’t know what to say.
The woman looked at me in wonder and finally asked, “How can I help you?”
I wanted to talk, to respond, but no voice was forthcoming.
“Are you OK?” she asked in concern. “Come sit down.” She came out of the house and led me to a chair on the porch. “I’ll bring you a glass of water.” She went inside and came back with a cold glass of water.
“I’m sorry,” I said in a voice so low it could hardly be heard.
“It’s OK. Would you like me to call someone for you?”
I shook my head no. “I’ll be all right in a minute,” I promised. I took a sip of the cool water and felt my throat open up and my tongue begin to work again.
“My name is Eva,” I was finally able to say.
“Hi, Eva. I’m Michelle.”
“Eva Brown,” I added, and I saw her face transform. I had piqued her curiosity, although the name Eva by itself didn’t mean anything to her. She looked at me and waited for me to continue.
“I’m John Brown’s daughter.”
She didn’t react at first, but then she clenched her lips and I saw her jaw tighten. She got up from the chair and leaned against a wooden banister on the porch, as if she felt the need to put some distance between us.
“I’m sorry I came out of the blue. I only found out today that my father had a brother. I didn’t know I had family.”
Apparently, it was a mistake to refer to her as my family. Michelle apologized and went into the house. After a few minutes, she came back and said, “Ron will be here soon. You can wait for him here.” She went back into the house and left me alone on the porch.
Life in a Box Page 25
