The Beautiful Possible

by Amy Gottlieb

  Just for a few days, pussycat. Tell me when you’re free and I’ll book the flight. My treat.

  ALL THE WALTERS

  June 2003

  Maya rests her head against the window of the Flecha Amarilla bus that careens out of Mexico City. She listens to the tourists chatter about San Miguel de Allende’s art galleries and she envies their allegiance to the town where her mother took her last breaths, a town that Maya identifies with grief. The man sitting next to her reeks of tequila and has fallen asleep on her arm. This is her mother’s bus, the one that brought Rosalie to the last home she would have.

  She tries out her game: Everyone-Is-Beautiful-on-This-Bus. This man who drools on my arm. The chicken that escapes from a girl’s hands. The gringo who won’t stop talking about the first-run films he just viewed in New York. The gringa with the Texas accent who won’t stop talking about the gardener who peed into her fountain. Did her mother lean her head against this same window and did this same drooling man lean against her mother’s arm? Maya wants to feel her mother again, touch everything she touched, without Madeline intruding on her private sorrow.

  The bus enters the town and parks in front of a cantina. Maya nudges the sleeping man off her arm, retrieves her bag from the shelf overhead. She wishes she could unspool time and this moment could be the same moment of arrival she shared with her brothers only a year ago, just before breakfast. Wasn’t there a theory of time somewhere that allowed for this? Go to the same place and fold yourself back into a scene that has already ended?

  Maya steps off the bus and spots a tall, wrinkled woman with cropped white hair and cat-eye glasses waving in the distance.

  “Yoo-hoo! Maya Kerem!”

  Maya winces. No one has ever shouted her name quite this loud. Her mother’s best friend sounds like a British cheerleader. Madeline wipes away a tear, then folds Maya into her arms. “You look so much like her,” she says.

  “I know.”

  Madeline picks up Maya’s bag. “Let me carry that. We’ll have lunch and then you’ll go to your hotel.”

  Maya only wants to visit her mother’s casa—now rented to another expat—and summon the sound of her mother’s voice. She would ask to go inside and stand at the kitchen sink but this time she would not cry with the anticipation of loss; she would listen closely for an echo.

  Madeline leads Maya through the jardín, stopping to greet every white-haired gringa who carries a basket filled with fresh fruit and books checked out from the town’s English library. They could be in Briar Wood, thinks Maya. They could be in Jerusalem. These people could be living anywhere, only they chose Mexico, which allows them to retire on social security, bask in the dry heat, and gather for afternoon mojitos at the local art galleries. No Spanish required.

  “Don’t you love it here?”

  “It has its appeal,” says Maya.

  “I have an extra room if you’d like to hang out for awhile,” says Madeline. “You could help me run my little press, join the Torah study group. Harvey would be honored to have a real rabbi as his partner.”

  “Thanks anyway, but no. I have a lot of decisions to make and I can’t figure it all out from here.”

  “Indecision is the privilege of youth. You eat vegetarian, right?”

  “Sure.”

  “I found a new place. El Colibri. Plenty for you to eat.”

  Before they open their menus a flamenco guitarist approaches their table and begins to play. Madeline gives him a few pesos and shoos him off. “Mas tarde,” she mutters and her eyes follow him until he leaves the dining room.

  “The water’s purified, Maya. Perfectly safe to drink.”

  Maya raises her glass and takes a sip.

  “Tell me, sweet pea. What’s going on with you now?”

  “I’m not exactly working and I’m not sure about my boyfriend, not sure if he’s right for me. I’m not sure about anything. A common rabbinic dilemma.”

  Maya wishes the guitarist would return to their table, divert them with a flamenco.

  “Your mother and I knew a French kabbalist in Jerusalem named Madame Sylvie. She parceled out little astonishments, direction signals for understanding the soul. Sometimes they were direct and other times obtuse.”

  Maya squints, vaguely recalling the old woman in a Jerusalem courtyard who gave her lemon cake. “I’ll figure things out on my own,” she says.

  Madeline glances at the menu. “I always order the vegetable enchilada with brown rice.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “You’ll pick and save the rest for later, sweet pea.”

  Maya listens to Madeline place the order in perfect Spanish. She is good at this, she thinks. I feel as if I’m five years old again.

  “Truths are skittish,” blurts Madeline, suddenly.

  “Huh?”

  “I had great love for your mother.”

  “Thank you for taking such good care of her at the end.”

  “She was my best friend.”

  “That’s why I’m here,” says Maya.

  Madeline folds her napkin into tiny squares, then unfolds it and folds it back.

  “His name was Walter Westhaus.”

  Madeline’s voice is barely audible.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Wal-ter West-haus.” Madeline draws out the syllables.

  “A friend of yours?”

  “Not my friend. Not exactly.”

  “Wait! Westhaus wrote Ordinary Sacred. I own that book.”

  “It’s a classic.”

  Maya pictures the dog-eared copy she kept on her bookshelf when she was in rabbinical school, her random marginal jottings, the blurry postage-stamp photograph of its author on the back. That book was once so important to her and now she can’t remember a single line of it.

  “An important work in the field.”

  Maya closes her eyes and waits.

  “They were in love.”

  “Who was?”

  “Rosalie and Walter. Your mother and—”

  “My Rosalie? When? With him? You can’t be—”

  Madeline lowers her voice. “Yes. Rosalie. Your mother.”

  “Before my father?”

  Madeline bites her lip, fidgets with her fork.

  “At the same time as. For a long time. It was complicated and I don’t know everything.”

  “Obviously you know quite a bit.” Maya inhales deeply and pulls up air from the bottom of her lungs. Daughters are deprived of so much but friends like Madeline know everything. When did her mother see him? Was this Walter the barefoot man in the apartment? Or was Walter the person on the other end of the phone when Rosalie said, Maya will know everything. We will figure this out.

  “He’s gone now.”

  “Who?”

  “Walter. Hit by a car in Bombay in 1987.”

  Maya sighs. Walter was her father’s chavrusa. And her mother loved him. He had smooth feet. And then he died. It was complicated. Of course it was. They were all human. Now where is that guitar player and how about we ask for the check and call it a day—

  “Walter was your father, Maya.”

  “Sol Kerem was my father.”

  “I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, sweet pea.”

  “Don’t tell me who my father was.”

  Maya’s eyes fill with tears. Who died? Anyone I know? The day she bought that black dress. Her mother sitting in the big leather chair, crying for a reason she did not understand. You hold his beauty. Your father’s. Him? The barefoot man in the brocade tunic who looked at her too long? Him?

  “Let it go, Madeline. I’ve heard enough.”

  “You have a lot to process, pussycat.”

  “I have nothing to process. I prefer my family history to your fictive tale. Besides, you are intruding on my parents, my real mother and father. They don’t deserve you clouding up the past with your lies.”

  “Do you think I’m lying to you?”

  Maya looks up at Madeline’s cat-eye glasses. She wa
s the best friend from London who was always on the other end of the phone, but not always—

  “No,” she says. “You’re not making this up.”

  “I begged her to tell you herself.”

  “My mother had her shortcomings.”

  “We can talk about that if you’d like.”

  Maya grimaces. “We have nothing to discuss, Madeline. You are not my therapist, you are not my friend, and my family is really none of your business.”

  “I’m sorry, then,” says Madeline.

  “You didn’t have to tell me.”

  “Do you truly believe that?”

  Maya shakes her head. The waiter approaches with their food and Madeline begins to eat.

  “Why do you care so much? My parents are gone.”

  “Your mother was my best friend.”

  “I get it. But why?”

  “Why? You are a rabbi, Maya! Don’t you realize that my best friend’s life became intertwined with mine? In some small way, we bear each other’s burdens, carry each other’s stories—”

  “That would sound good in a sermon, Madeline, but we’re sitting in a restaurant in San Miguel de Allende, I have no idea why I’ve come, and frankly, it’s time for me to leave. Let’s call this a very short stay.”

  “Sweet pea.”

  “Stop calling me names,” says Maya.

  “Your mother never minded.”

  “I’m not my mother.”

  “Look. Many years ago in Jerusalem, I watched her stand on a folding chair, clutching her little folded note, and she looked too sophisticated to play the part of a superstitious Jew who believes in a God who reads mail. I muttered something that probably sounded too rational for her to hear, and then I helped her down, and the words flowed from our mouths and we kept the conversation alive until she died. And I begged her to tell you.”

  “Well, she didn’t. For whatever reason. And if this story is true, it’s my choice to unravel it or keep it spooled up tight. I’m pretty good with silences, with uncertainties, and unlike you, not everything is my business.”

  “Your mother’s story enlarged my life.”

  “How convenient for you. A friend who lent you great fodder. I’m sure you enjoyed that.”

  “Please don’t be cruel. I understand that you may hate me for this. I had no choice.”

  “Of course you had a choice.”

  Maya picks up her fork, tears apart the enchilada and mashes it up.

  “I cleaned out your mother’s place. Boxed up everything for you. Letters, mostly. Some clippings, writings, sermons—”

  “And I presume you combed through every scrap.”

  “That’s your job.”

  Maya closes her eyes and opens them again. “It’s hard to breathe in here.”

  “I can’t imagine what this is like for you,” says Madeline.

  “You’ve imagined quite a lot so far. You didn’t have to do this to us.”

  “I believe I did,” says Madeline. “Maybe one day—”

  “The nerve of you to crack open my family as if we are playthings for you. My mother didn’t want me to know, okay? I trusted her, I trust her still, and who the hell are you to violate us?”

  “I know,” says Madeline.

  “You know shit.” Maya runs out of the restaurant and down the cobbled street. “Intruder!” she shouts to no one. “Trespasser!”

  The street is slippery and Maya trips and falls. She limps to her hotel, checks in, and collapses on the floor of her room, blood trickling down her leg.

  Maya cleans herself up in the bathroom sink and then leaves the hotel, runs up to the casa where her mother lived, and sits on the curb. She stays there until the sun sets, waiting for her mother to slip out of the Mexican night, unlock the door, and invite Maya in. Rosalie would wrap herself in the tallit Maya bought for her and she would tell Maya everything. There was a Walter. Yes, that Walter. Your father’s chavrusa. The man you met. He was your father. And Sol was your father in all the ways that matter. And then she would say, I’m sorry. I can’t spell it out for you. It was my life and everything happened as it did.

  When the box arrives later that night Maya brings it up to her room, places it on the bed, and stares at it. She wonders why the ancient rabbis didn’t create a prayer for setting eyes on something that had been previously hidden. She would have to create that prayer herself; she would add it to the list of new liturgies that awaited her. A prayer for finding out your father is not your father. A prayer for forgiving the woman who told you. A prayer for being confused and tired and curious and thirsty for water that doesn’t need to be purified. A prayer to understand her and him and him and why.

  Maya washes her hands and pulls the tape off the box. The tallit she bought for Rosalie rests on the top layer and Maya wraps it around her shoulders and begins to read.

  INSIDE THE WEB

  August 2003

  The Lawrence Welk Nursing Home is located one strip mall away from Eden Ranch, which is no longer an eden or a ranch, but the site of a Lexus dealership. A social worker leads Maya into a room where a dozen elderly women pour bingo chips into paper bags. A man with a thick mop of white hair sits among them and accuses the women of cheating.

  “I saw everything!” he shouts. “Nothing is lost on me.”

  “That’s him,” says the social worker. “Such a pity when a brilliant man declines. You should have known him in his prime. A self-proclaimed guru, apparently.”

  “Does he remember anything?”

  “In and out. He’s generally quite sharp, but moody. You need to be careful with him.” She pushes his wheelchair away from the others. “Let’s not start up today, Professor Richardson, okay?”

  Paul windmills his arms.

  “No punching today either. Agreed?”

  Paul notices Maya and stares. He wheels close.

  “I know you,” he says.

  Maya smiles and reaches out her hand. “I’m—”

  “No need for formalities. You’re Walter’s daughter.”

  “Yes,” says Maya. The sound of her own voice seems unnatural to her. “I believe I am.”

  “Belief is not imperative,” he says, “but it’s a good place to start.”

  He grabs Maya’s hands and kisses them.

  “How did you know? When you saw me, I mean—”

  “I loved him as a father loves a son.”

  “Good to meet you,” says Maya.

  “Let’s not waste time being polite, baby girl. Wheel me to my room. We’re just down this godforsaken hallway. Do you know this place was once a resort? Now it’s a shit farm for old people who wear diapers and dwell in dwindling reality. Welcome to my new Eden Ranch.”

  Maya wheels Paul down a long hallway and into a small, cluttered room.

  “It’s right here.” Paul reaches into a pile and pulls out a yellowing journal article. “Your father wrote this. The paper that started it all, translated into English. You like the Song of Songs?”

  “I’m more of an Ecclesiastes type, actually.”

  “Ah! Then you’re either a religious existentialist or a depressed soul.”

  “Neither.”

  “Naturally Walter’s daughter won’t be pinned down. Floating in the boat is a person I’ve never seen, playing the flute,” he recites in a sing-song melody. “That’s you.”

  “I don’t understand—”

  Paul smiles. “You’re so much like him.”

  Maya glances at the article and reads aloud. “The words of the texts echo in the lives of the people who read them.”

  “Your father lived those words.”

  Your father. Which one? The only one Paul knew, of course, but Sol, her father, lived his texts too.

  “Take the pile with you. Don’t need it anymore. The books also. I’m finished with the detritus of my life.”

  Maya reads the titles: Ordinary Sacred; Religious Themes in Tagore’s Poetry; Imposed Grace: The Clergy’s Dilemma; The Radical Theology of Athe
ism; Cremation in World Religions. She opens one and reads the inscription:

  with love to Paul Richardson who saved me

  Herzlich,

  Walter

  “I cared for him deeply,” says Paul. “More than I can say.”

  “I don’t need all the details,” says Maya.

  “Then why have you come? I have a kid of my own, grandkids too. I don’t need charity visits from strangers. It’s bingo time for me. If you don’t want details, why bother?”

  Maya begins to cry. “I only just found out. Please understand.”

  Paul shakes his head. “You are just like him, baby girl. You’ve got your head in some spice sack that smells sweet.”

  “You don’t know me.”

  Paul pulls Maya close and unbuttons his shirt.

  “Look at this scar.” He takes her hand. “Touch it. Go ahead. I’m not some old lech.”

  Maya touches the raised zipper of skin on his chest and flinches.

  “Open heart surgery. They cracked open this old salt at eighty years old. So don’t tell me what I don’t know. Anyone else on this planet understand your father like I did?”

  “My mother, apparently.” Her eyes focus on the stack of books.

  “I loved him more than words can say. He followed me off the Conte Rosso, baby girl, but the story didn’t start there.”

  Maya caresses Religious Themes in Tagore’s Poetry, examines the spine.

  “Spice sack like I told you. Put down the damn book. I’m talking to you.”

  “I’ve never read Tagore,” says Maya.

  “Walter’s daughter hasn’t read Tagore? How old are you?”

  “Too old to admit my gaps.”

  “Pitiful! Who the hell raised you?”

  Maya touches his arm. “I’ll catch up with Tagore. I promise.”

  “Suit yourself, baby girl.”

  “Tell me how it started. Please.”

  “Not yet.” Paul snatches the book from her hands. “Read this one. Aloud.” He points to a line.

  “The traveler has to knock on every alien door to come to his own, and one has to wander through all the outer walls to reach the innermost shrine at the end.”