Being Esther
Being Esther
A Novel
Miriam Karmel
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
© 2013, Text by Miriam Karmel
All rights reserved. Except for brief quotations in critical articles or reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without prior written permission from the publisher: Milkweed Editions, 1011 Washington Avenue South, Suite 300, Minneapolis, Minnesota 55415.
(800) 520-6455
www.milkweed.org
Published 2013 by Milkweed Editions
Cover design by Christian Fuenfhausen
Cover image © Margie Hurwich/Arcangel Images
Author photo by Richard Migot
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First Edition
Milkweed Editions, an independent nonprofit publisher, gratefully acknowledges sustaining support from the Bush Foundation; the Patrick and Aimee Butler Foundation; the Dougherty Family Foundation; the Jerome Foundation; the Lindquist & Vennum Foundation; the McKnight Foundation; the voters of Minnesota through a Minnesota State Arts Board Operating Support grant, thanks to a legislative appropriation from the arts and cultural heritage fund; the National Endowment for the Arts; the Target Foundation; and other generous contributions from foundations, corporations, and individuals. For a full listing of Milkweed Editions supporters, please visit www.milkweed.org.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Karmel, Miriam.
Being Esther : a novel / Miriam Karmel. — 1st ed.
p.cm.
ISBN 978-1-57131-874-9 (acid-free paper)
1. Older women—Fiction. 2. Self-realization in women—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3611.A7839B45 2013
813'.6—dc23
2012025933
Milkweed Editions is committed to ecological stewardship. We strive to align our book production practices with this principle, and to reduce the impact of our operations in the environment. We are a member of the Green Press Initiative, a nonprofit coalition of publishers, manufacturers, and authors working to protect the world’s endangered forests and conserve natural resources. Being Esther was printed on acid-free 100% postconsumer-waste paper by Friesens Corporation.
To Bill
and for Shirley
my friend said face it that’s how it goes one by one till there’s no one left on this bench in the sun
—Grace Paley
Being Esther
CONTENT
Prologue
Being Esther
Prologue
They named her Esther.
As a child, Esther believed she was named for the Persian queen who risked her life saving her people from a wicked man. Every year, on the holiday commemorating that miraculous rescue, children in costume flock to synagogues to hear the story of Esther. They rattle noisemakers whenever the wicked one’s name is uttered; they hiss and boo. Esther had loved parading around her shul in a long dress, lipstick, and a tinfoil crown, pretending to be the fearless, noble queen.
When she was older, Esther enjoyed telling people that she’d been named for Esther Williams, which, given her age, was impossible.
The fact that Esther was named for neither the famous swimming beauty nor the savior of her people was of no concern to Esther’s mother, who simply shrugged and said, “I don’t remember” whenever Esther asked the origin of her name. If Esther were to plead with her mother to remember, Mrs. Glass would merely say, “Oy, please. Can’t you see I’m busy?” Then she would instruct Esther, in Yiddish, to go play in the street or go hit her head against a wall.
One day, worn down by Esther’s nagging, Mrs. Glass finally allowed that Esther had been named after Esther Jo Berman, the daughter of Mrs. Glass’s best friend, Lottie. Not that she was named for Esther Jo. But when Esther was born, a better name had not presented itself. “It seemed like a good idea at the time,” her mother said.
The truth came as a disappointment. Still, Esther was grateful that her parents hadn’t given her the middle name of Jo. She could almost hear her father say, “What kind of name is Jo for a Jewish girl?”
And so she was Esther, with no middle name.
Recently, Esther has begun to wonder whether her life might have turned out differently had her name been deliberately chosen. Not that anything untoward had befallen her. She’d raised two healthy children; traveled some. Sometimes she wishes she had done more, had a career, like her daughter and granddaughter. Yet she’s wanted for nothing. It even embarrasses her to think that people might envy the ease with which she has sailed through life.
Still, she can’t shake the feeling that if only her parents had named her with intention, she might have grown into her name, as if it were an inheritance that mustn’t be squandered. Instead, Esther has gone through life with a borrowed name, like some off-the-rack garment or counterfeit designer handbag, a name like the fake Seiko watch she purchased on a trip to Mexico with her daughter, Ceely, whose name had been deliberately chosen.
Five people. The Markels, should they answer, will make six and seven.
Esther has been working her way through the alphabet, phoning the numbers in the tooled-leather address book her mother once brought back from a temple tour to Israel, one she’d picked up in the souk and gave to Esther for her twenty-ninth birthday. It took Esther a year before she dared to write on the creamy vellum, making the first entries with the silver fountain pen her mother-in-law had given her as an engagement present. Soon enough, she was using anything at hand—pencils, ballpoints, felt-tip pens that bled through to the other side.
Now the pages are riddled with slashes. In fifty-five years people move—like the Markels, who left Chicago for Phoenix after Buddy retired. Her sister Anna moved so often Esther had to start a second page, though she still hasn’t drawn a line through Anna’s last entry, the place on Fourteenth Street in Santa Monica.
Esther makes her calls from the kitchen table, where she can gaze out the window at the changing sky or at the pedestrians passing by. In the other direction she can see, across the divider into the living room, the few familiar furnishings she and Marty had moved from the house on Shady Hill Road—the mahogany breakfront, one of the matching love seats they’d bought on sale at Marshall Field’s, the red leather easy chair, a couple of paintings. The gilt-framed mirror that used to grace their old foyer is now wedged onto a patch of wall between the two small rooms.
They’d moved the old rotary phone, too. Esther prefers it to the infantilizing portable phone with the oversized buttons that Ceely gave her for Mother’s Day. She misplaces it. And she finds it disconcerting that she can be anywhere—even the bathroom—while speaking to some unsuspecting person on the other end. Besides, she enjoys the mild exertion of rotating a dial, the steadying effect it has on her trembling hand.
The Markels’ phone is ringing. Esther resists the urge to hang up, telling herself the odds are in her favor; this time somebody will answer. Twice already, as she has worked her way through the book, answering machines have informed Esther that the number she dialed was, in fact, the number she dialed. The first time she got a machine she panicked and hung up. The second time, she was prepared. “Hi! This is Esther Lustig. Remember me? I was just calling . . .”
Then Marty interrupts. Even in death his gravelly voice intrudes. Essie, Essie. After all these years, a person doesn’t call just like that. Out of the blue. Use your head.
Setting the receiver down, she looks across the table, as if her husband were sitting there working the crossword puzzle or finishing his second cup of coffee. “And why not out of the blue?” she d
emands.
Marty is forever looking over her shoulder, monitoring her every move, offering unsolicited advice. After he died, after she left him at Waldheim on that bitter afternoon wrapped in his flimsy prayer shawl, left him with the gravediggers who were off to the side, not so patiently revving their backhoes as the last mourners tossed dirt on his coffin, after all that, she had expected that finally she’d get some peace and quiet. Not that she doesn’t miss him. Marty’s absence is palpable.
Now she consoles herself that friends lose touch, not intentionally, but because eleven years ago you made a mental note to give someone a call and then the days slipped by. Of course, that wouldn’t satisfy Marty, who always had to analyze every little thing, examine it from this angle and that. If Esther lost her temper, burned a pot roast, forgot to pick up the dry cleaning—he would draw a line clear back to her childhood.
While the Markels’ phone rings, Esther glances at her leather book, the blur of lines running through the names. What if Sonia isn’t there?
Gently, she sets the receiver back in its cradle. The last number she dialed had been reassigned, though Esther still wasn’t ready to draw a line through Charlene Fink’s name. And when she phoned Sadie Sherman, Emily answered, all grown-up and pleasant enough, though Esther still recalled the colicky baby who had grown into a churlish child and then an insubordinate teen. Emily informed Esther that she and her sisters were sorting through their mother’s belongings. “Mom moved to assisted living last month.” Windy Shores or Cedar Hollow—the name sounds like the overnight camps the children once attended. Esther tries picturing Sadie, who’d run a successful travel agency for twenty-nine years, making lanyards or pot holders or clay pinch pots.
Esther takes a deep breath as she prepares to redial the Markels. She hopes that Sonia will be the one to pick up, though at this point it will be a relief to get anyone on the other end, even prickly old Buddy. BM, they’d called him behind his back.
The phone rings twice. Three times. Four. She is about to hang up, when someone answers. A man. “Hello!” she blurts. “This is Esther Lustig calling.” When the man doesn’t reply, she repeats her name, and then, always quick on his feet (Buddy and Sonia were remarkable dancers—tango, cha-cha, rumba, you name it), Buddy cries, “Esther! Esther Lustig! Is that really you?”
Giddy with excitement, she practically bursts from her seat, as if they were rushing headlong to embrace. “I suppose it is!” she exclaims, her hand flying to her head as if to affirm her identity. Oddly, she feels reassured by the soft nimbus of hair, which is as familiar as the sound of her own voice. Then she catches her reflection in the old gilt-framed mirror. There she is, the same basic model: green eyes, coppery-blond hair, broad forehead, and the full mouth, which she has been painting the same shade of red since college. With her free hand, she adjusts her silver glasses and recalls Marty saying that when she removed them she looked like Judy Holliday. After Marty got sick she let the blond go, but the steely gray reminded her of cloistered nuns, and soon she was coloring it again.
She’s held on to her figure, more or less, carefully selecting her garments to compensate for the less. Other than the loss of an inch or two—she stands just a bit over five feet—everything is the same. Yet nothing is. She has become a caricature of herself.
“Yes, it’s me,” she sighs, sinking back into her chair. “It’s Esther. Esther Lustig.”
Then Marty is back, accusing her, in a high-pitched falsetto, of behaving like a schoolgirl. I suppose it is. Esther. Esther Lustig.
Placing her hand over the receiver, she tells him to shut up. “Am-scray! Get out of my hair!”
“What was that, Esther?” Buddy says.
“The cat,” she lies. “He was clawing the sofa.”
Animated by her anger and pleased with the convincing riposte (Buddy wouldn’t know, but Sonia would, that Esther loathes cats, that she once drove the family tabby, who’d been clawing the furniture, to a secluded ravine off Sheridan Road, where she released it into the wild), Esther launches into her spiel, the one she’s been honing since the first few awkward calls. She no longer lets on that she is going through her address book, checking to see who is here and who has gone to the other side. After that rather indelicate attempt at gallows humor fell flat, she started telling people that she’s been sorting through boxes of old photos. “And you’ll never guess what I came across,” she says.
The picture she describes to Buddy was taken at a college dance. “Sonia’s in it,” she tells him. “Along with me and Ruthie and Helen. We were the Starrlites. With a double r, like Brenda Starr! And that silly play on light.” They’d adored Brenda, she tells Buddy. “She was so thoroughly modern, and she had that boyfriend with the mysterious eye patch and the dashing name. Basil. Basil St. John.” Esther repeats Basil’s name, as if she were under a spell induced to unleash ancient memories. She studies the picture. There they are, the four Starrlites—and their dates. Was it on a dare that they’d all hopped up on the bandstand during the musicians’ break and mugged for the camera, pretending to play the instruments? She’s forgotten the names of the young men, except for her date—Jackson Pflug. Who can forget a name like that? Sonia will remember the others, though she probably won’t recall any better than Esther how they’d managed to round up four men in those days. Esther probably encouraged Jackson to dance with the girls who came alone because she remembers dancing with Sonia, wishing she were with Marty, who had been shipped off to Holland shortly after they’d met. Sonia smelled faintly of lily of the valley, and when Esther rested her head on Sonia’s shoulder and felt Sonia’s sweet, warm breath on her neck while the band played “I’ll Be Seeing You,” she was glad Jackson was dancing with some other girl. Poor Jack. In two months, he would be killed in the Siege of Bastogne.
“I don’t know what got into us,” she tells Buddy. “You should see Helen, perched on the piano, legs crossed, open-toed shoes peeking out from under a long, flowing skirt. Remember Ruthie? She’s blowing a sax. I’m at the drums. And Sonia. Sonia is hugging the bass, beaming. Her hair is swept up to one side, with a flower pinned in it.”
“A flower!” Buddy exclaims, as if he’s never heard anything so extraordinary. “What kind?”
“Why, I don’t know,” Esther stammers, irritated that he’d ask about a flower, rather than the name of Sonia’s date or even what Sonia was wearing, until she remembers that Buddy is a landscape architect and might reasonably wonder about such things. Then it occurs to her that Buddy is retired, in which case it might be more accurate to say, “He was a landscape architect.” Is. Was. She wishes there were better road maps for growing old.
Lately, Esther has been preoccupied with such thoughts, though she keeps them to herself. If Ceely knew, she’d have her in assisted living faster than you can say “Bingo!” Esther plans to die first.
Buddy is still going on about the flower. Should she make something up? Gardenia? Orchid? Esther’s earliest (and unhappy) exposure to flowers occurred during the two weeks each summer when her parents rented a room in the Dunes from Mrs. Zaretsky, a sharp-tongued woman who used to come tearing out of her kitchen, apron flapping, to scold the children in Russian if they got anywhere near her dusty flower bed. Later, when Esther and Marty started to travel, she expanded her understanding of flora, but it was mostly limited to the names of plants that grew abundantly in sultry places—bird-of-paradise, calla lily, jacaranda.
Hastening to change the subject, she reports that Sonia is wearing an embroidered blouse with flounce sleeves. “It’s the kind you might bring back from a foreign market,” she tells Buddy. “Then one day, you see it hanging in your closet and wonder, ‘What on earth was I thinking?’ But Sonia had flair. On her, it doesn’t look like a costume.”
“Sonia’s uncle lived in Mexico City,” Buddy says. “Her folks drove down there once a year. They’d return with a carload of silver pins and bracelets, straw chairs for the children, wool shawls, and embroidered blouses. Lou had d
reams of starting an import-export business.”
“I remember,” Esther lies. Then she reminds Buddy of the winters their group spent in San Miguel. Every January, once all the kids were in college, the Starrlites and their husbands took rooms at the old Aristos Hotel. They set up house for a month, with their toasters and coffee pots and electric fry pans. In the evenings, they gathered for cocktails.
“Sonia made the best margaritas,” Esther says.
“It was the limes,” Buddy remarks, and suddenly Esther remembers how stingy he’d been with praise. It wasn’t the limes, she wants to say. Instead, she asks if he remembers the parrot that lived in the Aristos courtyard, and when he says, “Can’t say that I do,” she decides she’s had about all she can take of Buddy Markel.
It was time to put Sonia on. She’ll remember. What’s more, if Esther were to say, “Parrot,” Sonia will mock the bird and cry, “Hola!” And Esther will feel as if she’s come home, that at long last she’s returned to the place where you don’t need reminding that the front door sticks or the toilet handle needs jiggling or the third runner on the staircase is loose. Sonia will recall how the parrot squawked until Lolita, the hotel’s duenna, fed it breakfast.
Then Esther will say, “Papaya and banana.”
“Yes,” Sonia will exclaim. “The same fruits she left in baskets outside our doors each morning.”
“With the bread.”
“From the panaderia down the road!”
Sonia will remember it all. She’ll vouch for Esther’s memories; she will validate Esther’s existence.
The first time Sonia followed Esther home after school, a carp, which Esther’s mother had bought at the kosher market on Kedzie Avenue, was swimming in the bathtub. Esther hadn’t wanted Sonia to see the fish flopping around in the rusty tub. She’d already been to her friend’s home where Sonia’s mother had been seated at a desk writing letters on pale blue stationery, a cardigan with pearl buttons draped across her shoulders. Esther told her new friend that until the fateful day when her mother knocked the fish out with a wooden mallet, chopped it up, ground it and shaped it into fish patties, she loved perching on the toilet seat and reaching into the tub to feed it bits of lettuce and crusts of bread. “It was the closest thing we ever had to a family pet,” she confessed.
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