Old News

by Ed Ifkovic

  “She’s napping,” she repeated.

  “Then I’ll…”

  “Follow me.”

  She led me into a back sunroom filled with potted ivies lining a window ledge, yellow bamboo blinds shielding the room from the afternoon sun. A door led to a screened sleeping porch built to catch the wind from the prairies and breezes from the lake. Wicker chairs with sloppy red cushions and glass-topped wicker tables, magazines everywhere. Good Housekeeping. Collier’s. The Saturday Evening Post. Everybody’s. Piled high, well-read, the corners dog-eared. A novel on a table, its pages spread open.

  “This is my room, really,” she commented. “I hide out here. I even sleep on this porch these last scorching nights. Jacob avoids it because I’m usually found here. He’s afraid of me—my acid tongue. And Leah is afraid of sunshine. She got used to shadows and clouds.”

  “That’s sad, no?” I sat down in an old chair, sank deep into the cushions.

  “Not really. At least she knows where she can be…I was going to say ‘be happy’ but that’s not a word I use with Leah.”

  “Are you happy she’s back?”

  She poured me iced tea from a pitcher.

  She debated her response. “I don’t care one way or the other. My life goes on, boring and uneventful. It’s just that someone else is in my line of view these days. And we do talk, although I never can remember what we’ve talked about the minute she leaves the room.”

  “But you lived here so long without her. You and the twins and Jacob…”

  “What can I say? Ella and Emma nodded at me, like they were surprised I was still alive. Jacob, as I say, hides.”

  “But why?”

  “I’m not the mother he missed.” She sipped tea. “Edna, you have to realize—I don’t care.”

  I locked eyes with hers. “I don’t know if I believe you.”

  A phony laugh. “Well, that’s your problem. When Ivan was alive, I was the drone who swept the hallways. The charity case in the closet. The dressmaker’s dummy, stuck with pins. Leah was his life. He barely paid attention to the twins, and only liked Emma because she was quiet, thought Ella was pushy, didn’t trust Herman, and found Jacob intolerable and weak. The happy-go-lucky swell who staggered home drunk on Shabbas. No kaddish for Papa. So much for the next generation of Americans.”

  She laughed at her own words, searching for something cynical to hurl at me, but finally, shaking her head, sat back, summing up. “I am the calendar on the kitchen wall, always one month behind.”

  I compared Sarah with her sister, the differences startling. Yes, both similar, attractive women, though Leah had inherited looks that necessitated words like stunning and ravishing. Radiant. Dreadful words: the carnival language of besotted or smitten stockyard boys or fawning drummers. Both were dark complected, with deep-set eyes, oval faces with Roman noses over cupid’s-bow mouths, a Mary Pickford-cum-Theda Bara marriage. Yet there the comparison stopped. Sarah had none of Leah’s sensuality, so elusive it was hard to define—that wave of an arm, that lifting of a finger, that tilt of a head that suggested rarity that made Antony stumble blindly off Cleopatra’s drifting barge. No, Sarah was brittle, angular, refusing soft edges, a woman hell-bent on scaring you away. With her hair skewed into a utilitarian knob secured with a long tortoise-shell hairpin, she struck me as the dreaded schoolmarm. The stepmother with the broom, the maiden with the midnight cackle.

  “You’re so different from Leah.”

  “Thank God. Men always trailed her like alley cats in heat. Me, they handed their school tablets so I could write their essays for them.”

  I laughed. “I don’t believe you’re so…blasé.”

  “Believe what you want.” She drew in her cheeks. “Who is Sarah, who is she, that all the men deplore her?” Then, abruptly, she sobered. “You are determined to find the real murderer, assuming Leah didn’t kill Ivan.”

  “Sarah—what?”

  She watched me carefully. “Edna, you’re hardly questioning and probing in a vacuum, my dear. We’re not simpletons. You, a novelist, a journalist, your picture in the paper, here asking questions, displaying more chutzpah than a good Jewish girl is allowed to, trailing Jacob like he’s the twenty-year-old handsome lad you followed a hundred years ago.”

  I started to protest, but didn’t. Here I’d thought my schoolgirl crush a secret back then. “What have you heard?”

  “Sitting on my porch, I heard your own mother sitting on the Newmann porch and loudly labeling you the town snoop. ‘We always had a problem with her, back to Appleton days. How the townsfolk talked. She never changes.’” Sarah burst out laughing, but, again, a quick locking of eyes with mine. “You’re a dangerous young woman.”

  I breathed in. “What?”

  Rapid-fire words now. “Somebody already died, Edna. Long ago. In this house. And life went on. Now it’s like it happened yesterday. That makes everything scary all over again. Don’t you see?” She leaned forward in her chair, grasping her knees with her interlaced fingers. “You have to see the trouble you’re stirring up.”

  “I don’t think your sister killed Ivan.”

  She rolled her eyes, her voice assuming the world-weary laziness. “I know, I know. We all know your thinking.”

  “Do you think Leah did it?”

  She counted a beat. “Do you think I did it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I could have, you know. Ivan was a hard man, truly, but kind to me. We never said a cross word to each other. But I was in his way, the starved pullet sister-in-law, not aging as beautifully as his centerpiece wife, who reminded him that I would always be here, stuck like a piece of linoleum to the kitchen floor.”

  I held her eye. “A good reason to kill him, no?”

  “If you say so.” Sarah now was tired of the conversation, glancing over my shoulder, stifling a yawn. She’d had her fun with me, an afternoon’s light entertainment over a glass of tepid iced tea. Now, spent, she’d rather I’d be gone.

  “You could have moved out,” I offered.

  Unwittingly, she betrayed a flash of anger, her dark eyes blinking. “Do you remember that brief, glorious war we orchestrated for the world’s amusement—the Spanish-American War, back in 1893? America stretching its raw-boned limbs like a spoiled child—Hey there, old tired Europe, look at me. I’m grown up. Anyway, there was a boy who loved me, drifting after me down the streets, handing me wilted roses. My father spotted him, and that was the end of that.” A melancholic smile, genuine. “His name was Tim Mahoney. Timmy Mahoney. Freckled and red-haired and speaking with an accent that sounded alarmingly vaudevillian. But not a boy you’d invite to Friday night Seder, if you know what I mean. Thank God he got killed in the Philippines. It saved everyone a lot of trouble. Especially me.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  She stood. “Well, I need to start supper. I need to choose the appropriate knife to chop the string beans…”

  “Just a moment,” I insisted. She sat back down. “Since we’re talking candidly—I assume we are, right?—I’m curious. Tell me what you remember of that day.”

  “Oh, no. Please. I’m not going through that again.”

  “Only what you told the police.”

  She laughed too long. “They scarcely talked to me. A few words. I was the hysterical sister screaming out of control, the maddened woman by the fireplace woodpile. Other than—if I recall—one remark on the spot. The policeman said, ‘You came downstairs to find your sister leaning over the body, right?’ To which I nodded, sobbing into a handkerchief, ‘Yes, sir, indeed, I did.’ And that was it.”

  “Unforgivable.”

  “Edna dear, we barbaric Jews are known for our murderous rages.”

  I tilted my chin. “Well, my desire to slaughter a few folks is certainly there, and well known, I’m afraid, but I resist the temptation. Prison bars d
o not appeal to me.”

  She sat back into the cushions. “What happened that day…” She drummed her fingertips against her chin. “A Homeric epic. It was a quiet day, a typical day in the neighborhood. I’d had hot tea and a slice of poppy-seed roll for breakfast…”

  “Don’t be frivolous with me, please.”

  She was quiet for a long time, regarding me with narrowed eyes. Then, resolutely, “You are a grim young woman, Edna Ferber. Probably not very likable, although I sense we could become good friends, the two of us sheltered from the storm out there.”

  Impatient: “Tell me.”

  “My, my. Another woman destined for spinsterhood.”

  “Which, frankly, I welcome.”

  “We all say that.”

  “I don’t say anything I don’t mean.”

  She deliberated a moment. “You know, I actually believe that. Most of what I say I don’t believe as it’s escaping from my tongue.”

  “Then we could never be friends.”

  “Just as well.” She interlaced her fingers and hid the lower part of her face. I noticed her nails were jagged, with a line of dried blood on one or two. Here was a woman who gnawed at her nails and I wondered why. “Let me see.” Now she rubbed an eyeball.

  “About fifteen years to the day, Edna. I’m not gonna fool you. No, I know exactly what happened. You have to remember such things clearly. The last day when there was peace in this household. Since then we live suspended in space here. We all held out breaths for years and years…until we disappeared. And since Leah’s back home, there is even less air to breathe.”

  “Tell me.”

  Her voice got soft, yet matter-of-fact, a mechanical recitation. “In the morning Leah and I went to the market, as we always did. Ivan was home sick—upset stomach, chest pain, and a little bit of a fever. So unlike him, you know. He’d traipse to his shop through blustery winter snow and whooping cough. He didn’t trust Morrie. All the men ogled Leah. All the boys, too. Herman and Jacob’s school buddies wanting the mother in a room when they visited. Can you imagine? All schoolboys run from mothers. Anyway, Ivan lay on the sofa, grumpy and complaining. Here you have a big, growling man, a butcher notorious with a kosher cleaver, reduced to a little boy begging for soup.”

  “Did anyone visit him?”

  That stopped her. “I heard Herman was here briefly early on. Ivan went onto the porch to say goodbye, or so the neighbors told the police. They were loud, but they always yelled at each other. I know Morrie called from the shop. I could hear him yelling on his end of the telephone. He’d had it with Ivan and didn’t believe he was sick. That marriage of butchers was coming to an end.”

  “So Ivan knew that?”

  “Ivan was not much fun to be around. In fact, the day before, after supper, he overheard Jacob and Ad on the porch, talking about the…scandal. I know Jacob was bothered by what folks said about his mama, even though he laughed about it, claimed it was funny. Part of the problem was that Ad, his best friend, was then a little too religious for everyday life. Under the sway of old Levi Pinsky, that hand of a malevolent God. Ad defended Leah, though he accused her. I suppose he didn’t know what to say. It was…awkward, to say the least. He was intoxicated by her beauty, too. He always got giddy around Leah, which tickled her. All men and boys did. ‘It’s not her fault,’ Ad told Jacob. ‘Hey, it’s not my papa’s,’ Jacob countered. Back and forth, really stupid. Jacob even shoved Ad. But Ivan, inside, heard the whole thing, and, flying onto the porch, slapped Jacob in the face. Ad skedaddled across the yards, but Jacob was crying, that grown man. You could hear him up and down the street, wailing. So Ivan hit him again.”

  “What did Leah do?”

  She thought a bit. “I don’t think she was at home. Otherwise, she’d have rescued Jacob, her darling boy, the one who shared her beauty. She’d have fought Ivan who never understood Jacob. He really was Herman’s advocate, and the porcelain-doll twin girls, Emma more than Ella, of course—but Jacob, the poet, the drifter—no, that boy was a mystery to him. So, no, Leah couldn’t have been home.”

  “But Leah and Ivan fought the very next morning, no?”

  “And brutally, I gotta tell you. They never fought like that. But Ivan was sick and irritated and fed up, and Leah was feeling guilty about brushing her lips against Morrie’s, but Leah can only take so much yelling at her. That—and Jacob complaining that his papa had slapped him—twice. She gave it back, and royally so.”

  “You heard the whole thing?”

  “Most. At first it was stupendous entertainment, I admit, like an over-the-top scene from the Yiddish Theater.” For a moment Sarah turned away. She wrapped her arms around her chest and shuddered. Then with a deep sigh she looked into my face. “But it went on too long, you know, a fight that got…dangerous. I don’t mean physical—I mean dangerous in a way where people say things they can’t take back. Ivan had always been perversely flattered by the ogling of Leah, some badge of victory for the schlemiel. Frankly. But Morrie had crossed the line—and Leah foolishly let him. I think Morrie did it on purpose—a slap in Ivan’s face. Maybe she was lonely. I don’t know. I don’t care. Ivan, the older he got, was not there.”

  “But the fight had ended.”

  She nodded. “It ended. I’d closed my bedroom door upstairs, tired of it, but at one point when I opened my door, I heard her rattling around in the kitchen. Quiet downstairs. Ivan still on the sofa, but breathing hard. Then nothing. I closed my door.” She bit her lip. “I know at one point I walked by the window that faces the backyard, and Leah was there, picking tomatoes, putting them in a basket. She had a small garden and liked to putter there. I started reading, and thought the day would drift by as usual.”

  “Where was Jacob?”

  She clicked her tongue. “I was waiting for you to ask that. He’s been going crazy since you caught him on that…that contradiction. Edna, Jacob can’t remember anything—least of all sequence. Even on that day. So now you’ve made him doubt his memory—and himself. Worse, you’ve taken a man hopelessly devoted to his mother and planted doubt here. But it’s all cockeyed. He was told his mama killed his papa. End of story. Now he wonders. Confused. It’s like he wanted to keep believing she killed his papa. Cockeyed, as I say.” She pointed finger at me. “Shame on you.”

  “That wasn’t my intention.”

  “Of course it was. You like to shake the bushes to see what form of life emerges. When you pick up a rock, Edna, I bet you smile at that white worm slithering there.”

  “I’m not a cruel woman, Sarah.”

  A heartbeat. “No, I suppose not. Just a pesky one.”

  “True.”

  Her eyes danced. “Anyway, the twins were in their lair, but Jacob—in my memory—was not home earlier. I heard him leaving before the argument. So he must have missed the battle. But he came back at one point.”

  “You saw him?”

  She paused to organize her thoughts. “I heard him. I think I heard his bedroom door shut. I know he said he came downstairs afterwards. He also told you he walked by his papa on the sofa, but—I don’t know.”

  “Leah was still in the backyard?”

  “I don’t know.” She waited. “I heard voices at one point. She was talking to a neighbor over the fence. From the street in back of us. I had stopped paying attention. So I don’t know when she came back into the house. I remember she’d told me she’d be running to Maxwell for some groceries. But I heard what I thought was mumbling from the parlor. Ivan, I thought, hacking away. Then a grunt—maybe a shout. Loud. That startled me. Then nothing.”

  “Then you went downstairs.”

  “Only later. For a drink. And saw Ivan on the sofa, slumped over, and Leah bending over him, her fingers tinged with blood, this blank look on her face. I started screaming and couldn’t stop. I went on and on.” A smirk on her face. “I’m not good with murder,
Edna. I remember staring at the twins who came flying downstairs. But as I did so, I spotted Jacob. He was already standing in the back corner by the Victrola, leaning on it. I don’t know how he got into the room.”

  “Had he been upstairs?”

  “He says he was.”

  “Maybe he followed Ella and Emma down.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Your words indict him, Sarah.”

  “You asked me what I saw.”

  “True.”

  “Don’t shoot the messenger.” She drummed the table with her fingers. “Everything happened so fast, really. I still can see Leah’s face—stark, empty, white.”

  “It sounds as if you don’t believe your sister killed Ivan.”

  “I don’t really know. She could have, I suppose. I could have. The man who delivers eggs on Tuesday. I don’t know…”

  “I don’t understand Jacob’s place in all this. I think…”

  “Edna.” A voice broke in. I jumped, nearly knocking over my glass. Turning, I saw Leah in the doorway. Dressed in a robe tied at the waist, her hair a jumble and her eyes heavy with sleep, she leaned against the doorjamb, her arms wrapped around her chest. She was facing Sarah, and I wondered suddenly if Sarah had seen her standing there, even as she continued talking to me.

  “Edna was telling me what really happened the day you didn’t kill Ivan.” Sarah’s voice was chilling.

  I gasped, furious.

  Leah’s face was transfixed on me. Frightened now, those luminous eyes held me, demanding.

  “I don’t want my children hurt, Edna,” she said in a raspy voice. “I told you that.”

  “Leah, I would never…”

  Ferocity in her words, chilling and desperate. “Nothing else matters, Edna. I don’t want my Jacob hurt. Do you hear me?”

  Chapter Eleven

  I worried about Jacob. From the kitchen window as I chatted with Esther or Molly, I’d spot him moping on the sidewalk, or walking in and out of his home as though he’d forgotten something, or, worse, sitting on the front steps with his head dipped into his lap. Once, hearing banging, I hurried to the kitchen window in time to see him slamming a tree limb against a porch railing, over and over, until he flung the branch across the yard. Helping my mother as she made her cherry cobbler one afternoon, I heard Ezra’s hearty greeting, followed by Jacob’s meek hello, and then the slamming of a car door. The blare of a horn as they sped away.