It’s too late, thought Pasha. These conversations are like seeing the light from a star that hasn’t existed for a century (because that’s how poets think). Two years ago it was too late, and now the matter’s dead. There’s no tiptoeing around a corpse, and neither would bulldozing be of much use. His decision to stay in Odessa had been made long ago, only why hadn’t he realized until now? The lag!
His son losing patience, Robert needed to forge ahead, no more beating around the bush. What about the book? he practically screamed. Any news?
What news?
Reviews, remarks . . . My God, Pasha, absolutely anything!
Here and there. Nothing substantial.
What’s here, what’s there?
I got a letter.
From?
Massachusetts.
Who?
Some academic.
Why?
Wants to translate my poems.
Robert tried to fight off the glow. You must write back, Pasha! Don’t miss out on such an opportunity. Maybe you can arrange to meet while you’re here? Did he say where exactly?
Cambridge.
But Pasha, Cambridge, that’s where—
Shhh! Did you hear that? said Pasha.
What?
Suddenly, in an amplified yet familiar voice distorted by distance, their names were called. Caught! It was as if they’d committed some petty crime and were about to be uncovered. The terror pulsed through their thighs. The voice was shrill, blaring. Was it too late to disassociate from their names and hide behind the mirror of the lake? A boat soon came into view. Levik sat in back with widespread arms. Marina perched in front. A lightning-shaped vein throbbed down the length of her forehead, and her neck was double its usual size, engorged with blood. An outstanding feature was her stillness. She seemed to have been frozen as she raged. A large, open sky was the background to this disquieted woman, who appeared manipulated by a force of which she wasn’t aware (like the mute button on TV). Levik’s discarded National Geographic had contained a photo spread of tornadoes, or killer wind tunnels as the magazine referred to them, in the act of destruction. One of the images particularly confused the senses. The left half of the photo was an intact shed and an automobile whose rear end was beginning to lift, and the right half was exploded debris, pixels in chaos. The image was highly polished, colors vibrant and provocative. Now Pasha’s senses were similarly confused. An implicit contradictory quality detached the moment from the present, exposing time’s scaffolding.
Marina’s stillness was concentration. She’d been putting off a visit to the ophthalmologist and was having difficulty ascertaining whether the objects in her purview were father blob and brother blob. Once this was confirmed, her spine turned to string.
Marina! yelled Robert. Are you OK?
OK, OK, OK, echoed the lake.
We lost our oar, Pasha said as Levik drew level.
Levik’s cough sounded a lot like idiots, but this wasn’t the time to interpret the coughs of heroes. Levik was prepared to give up an oar. He began by inspecting the oarlocks, ended by attempting to rip the oars out of them. Neither stick came loose. How’d you—cough—manage? He regrouped. In three spasmodic strokes, he docked the boat. With a grunt he dove into the lake and bored a trail of froth up to Robert and Pasha’s feet. He thrust his weight upward like a flying whale (propelled by sheer mania), grabbed the oar from Robert’s hands, and docked their boat alongside. A finger pointed. Robert and Pasha, unsteady on their feet, got out of their boat and into the one where Marina lay with wide, unblinking eyes, looking rather peaceful. Levik got in and pushed off. The boat wasn’t meant to hold this much weight. They were sitting below water level, in a ditch. Pasha resumed his project of ladling out the water with his cap. Robert assisted with his hands.
But they made it back and weren’t even charged—a measly victory, insignificant when faced with Esther, who blamed them for the fact that she’d originally found humor in their enterprise. Laughter had been the wrong response. None of this was funny, because they were idiots. Nothing was wrong with Esther’s throat. They were also to blame for the worrying she’d been obliged to do, when the doctor had specifically ordered her to manage the stress, and for the fuss she and Marina had been obliged to make. They’d bothered the lifeguards, harassed two suntanned and dazed park rangers, thrown a fit at the rental station, threatened the adolescent staff, requested to speak to managers, who turned out to be the ultimate in suntanned and dazed. No one was inclined to go on a search for two grown men in a rowboat after an hour and a half. That’s because no one could imagine what sort of grown men these were! But Esther could. Image retrieved, she began to quiver.
• • •
A CEREMONIOUS BIRTHDAY breakfast had been mentioned, not a ceremonious time. Quarter to seven probably wasn’t what had been meant. It could still be hours before the others awoke, but stomachs were antisocial and had no regard for ceremony. The fridge’s purr drew the early birds near. Pasha and the birthday girl eyed the steely beast with desperation, avoiding coming irrevocably close but not letting it out of sight. Did Marina’s enforced fantasy of a lazy Sunday start, a phrase she’d been repeating these past few days like a mantra, mean a breakfast time of nine, which was a reasonable duration to make their grumbling stomachs wait, or some preposterous hour like noon?
To hell with it, said Esther, and charged. Pasha disengaged her from the cold cuts. They set out on a nice morning stroll to break the fridge’s spell.
Directly behind their cabin was a road, more of a highway, and in front was a scorched field, twigs scattered in loose clusters and patterns, as if a giant bird’s nest had exploded. Just past the field, a few interspersed willows seemed promising; they had no choice but to. Amazing that a human could cover distances. Tread in place long enough and the earth turned underneath. A time curtain fell over the field. Hopscotching from willow to willow, they kept hoping they were not only getting farther but deeper, about to hit wild country at any moment, but the density of flora refused to increase. They thought they’d at least find a creek. Instead they found that the highway curved. They saw no option but to hike along the shoulder. Cars were few and far between. When they did fly by, it was rather thrilling. And hilarious—every blur of solid color that shot past, honking at their pedestrian recklessness, made them wheeze with delight. The tension in Pasha’s shoulders released as he realized that Esther didn’t intend to torture him with questions. He’d braced for another interrogation, but her mind was elsewhere. Too much so. Pasha almost wished she’d intrude. He was ready. Defenses, disclaimers, diversions, open-ended promises, even jokes—by now he’d worked out a repertoire. Instead they focused on breath, following the highway’s turns, its snaking white line, until coming to a broken stoplight. All three colors flashed in confusion. The earth grew sidewalk. A defaced street sign cast a cactus’s fat shadow. Sluggish humanity had entered the atmosphere. In the distance Pasha spotted a steeple. He gently guided them toward it.
Trying to kill your mother on her birthday, said Esther, catching wind.
Ten minutes, no more, said Pasha.
A Jew has no business in there. Not even a second’s worth.
Think of it as sightseeing.
Esther’s ears perked. She looked up, considering the architecture.
No, she said. It’s only sightseeing when there are stained-glass windows.
Often they hide in the back, over the altar. Sightseeing involves going inside.
Esther’s veiny hand was resting on the railing. A swollen foot had been raised onto a step for elevation. Sounds issued from the depths, and she was once again alarmed. It’s alive, she said. It’s not sightseeing when the sight’s alive. It’s attending.
The pope uses the Sistine Chapel—would you not visit that?
Don’t pull your tricks with me, she said, taking hold of the railing. She yanked herself up step by step until eventually reaching the top, where Pasha already held open the door.
&nb
sp; • • •
SHE ACTUALLY GOT UP there and danced, said Pasha, arms shooting into the air, hands twirling in demonstration. Levik steadied the wine bottle caught by Pasha’s elbow. She fit right in. The black ladies took her for one of their own. And not only was she prancing around up there, her mouth was moving, which means she was either singing along to the gospels or speaking in tongues.
I wasn’t about to sulk in the pews like somebody here, said Esther.
And wasn’t there stained glass as promised?
The church equivalent of a bathroom window, said Esther as she tried to curl spaghetti onto her fork the proper way, which looked deceptively simple.
They were at what was supposed to be the ceremonious breakfast but, considering the birthday girl’s disappearance and return in such a state that several valerian pills and a nap were required, had been revised to a late lunch in a seafood restaurant that Kelly, the landlord of the string of cottages to which theirs belonged, vouched was the fanciest in the area. For the paper tablecloth, Frida was given a plastic cup of gnawed crayons but took little interest. They all intentionally pointed to different items on the menu but got identical creamy shellfish dishes on giant plates too heavy to take part in their habitual plate-swapping ritual, so they just threw white globs of mysterious seafood at each other, finding that their dishes didn’t only look the same but tasted the same, too. Feeling cautious and uncertain, they offered toasts that grossly overcompensated: May Esther make a quick and easy recovery and have perfect health for a hundred years to come and continue to take trips to places like Venice and Vermont. Pasha added how happy he was to be able to be there for her birthday, to which she replied that if he wanted to give her a real gift, it would be permanently relocating to Brooklyn by the time she turned sixty-six. After thinking about it for a moment, she said, Queens would also work, but that’s the limit. Pasha was oddly relieved to see the subject revived. That night Robert and Pasha convened at the chipped toilet bowl, which looked as if a bear had taken a bite out of it. No, a woolly mammoth. Their unsettled stomachs gave them plenty of time to study the tooth marks and argue. Frida got a plastic tub so she wouldn’t have to get out of bed.
They left satisfied, enriched. There had been a moment of calm, hadn’t there? They’d forgotten that such a moment was possible—everyone together and at peace. Such a moment was created in retrospect. Treading quietly side by side along a dusty trail of allergies, trudging up a comely hill, tugging at their insolent shadows, panting ecstatically, pointing out fungal colonies and rattlesnake-like twigs. Esther hadn’t even complained about the cardboard-stiff comforters, stained sheets, mildew splotches on the ceiling, the death rattle of the ventilation system, the bizarre centipede population in the bedrooms. A vacation was a vacation out of their awful personalities; it was permission to not be themselves, and everybody would get angry whenever those selves showed up in an unsuppressed comment, an impromptu two cents.
On the six-hour drive home, the improved personalities were shed. Traffic. Frida had slept sweetly over the numb laps of Robert, Esther, and Pasha while their car made a valiant attempt at speed limit, but the instant it came to a stagnant, sweaty stop, she swallowed awkwardly, bumped her head on the roll-down window handle, and awoke for good. She didn’t feel well.
Nobody feels well, honey, said Marina from the airy front seat.
She might have a fever, offered Esther.
I’m sure she doesn’t. Everybody’s hot and uncomfortable.
But she’s particularly hot.
I don’t feel well, whined Frida.
They took turns feeling her forehead with the backs of their fingers. The count was three to one, no fever (Levik refused to participate, as he was driving). Fury made Esther lose her voice. She stopped responding to her name. Frida found a dog in the window of the car to the right and switched complaints. Why couldn’t they get a dog? They’d been promising her a dog for years. The drain unclogged, movement reentered the universe. Soon they were lost, driving circles in a town with boarded-up windows and no one to ask for help. How about that man? said Marina, but Levik sped past all human beings until, almost two hours later, after he’d taken every possible wrong turn twice, somebody took pity and inserted the needed highway underneath their wheels.
Their first American vacation, and its chief discovery wasn’t where they went but where they returned. Brooklyn took them back. They hadn’t the strength to wish for anything else.
FIVE
SPUTTERING DOWN BEDFORD AVENUE was a giant rusty green automobile. Marina clutched the steering wheel, the tip of her nose almost grazing the windshield. She was of the belief that one must change lanes—if one didn’t, one wasn’t really driving. Her tendency was to choose an inauspicious moment. She chose not entirely at random—a lane change went into effect once every fifteen minutes or on an in-breath, whichever came first. Before attempting the maneuver, an inner voice started up: Just do it, show those other cars, Go Go Go, you’re the big Green Cow, why not now, the big Green Cow, OK now, Yes now, Go Go Go!
Marina tended to get things she didn’t deserve, a driver’s license being no exception. The midnight before her exam, their friend Yuri, a doctor who lived with his perfect family in a three-story house on lordly Manhattan Beach, administered Marina’s first driving lesson, which had to be cut short because of uncontrollable laughter (his). During parking practice he said, No more, you’ll kill me, I’m going to have a heart attack. He shared a parallel-parking technique for idiots who knew how to waltz, and said, Good luck, you need it. Six hours later Marina was in the driver’s seat a second time. Initially she suspected that her DMV examiner was drunk. But no, she was just hysterical—her mother had taken a turn for the worse in Coney Island Hospital, where the examiner was going right after Marina did her thing. Mothers and hospitals happened to be two topics in which Marina was a genius conversationalist. She forgot the turn signal and straddled the curb while waltzing, but the license was hers, like a key into a house of horrors. (Just learn to drive before you hit the highway, her examiner advised.)
When honks or ugly gestures were insufficient, people lowered their windows to better transmit obscenities. Marina lowered hers to better receive them. A car that would’ve drawn a groan of longing from Levik went out of its way to draw level, and behind the triptych of glass was a man possessed. She slammed down the brakes—and with what mad speed the chiding party scrammed. After outwitting her attacker, she was blasted by a fury of honks. But by then she was impervious. Cars quickly sensed when their aggression would go unappreciated.
Marina, admittedly, had her own aggression to release. Not only did she have to go to work on this gorgeous Saturday afternoon while the rest of humanity enjoyed its slice of paradise on earth, and not only was this the absolute worst of her countless jobs (as it was the one she was going to at the moment), but afterward she had to drive to the Upper West Side to fetch Pasha from his party. His party! Those were Esther’s last-minute orders: Deliver our precious boy home safely. If fully sober, he went to the edge of the Bronx; after a few drinks, he’d end up in a dumpster on Staten Island. Of course, Marina had replied, I’ll pick up my dear brother. But that dear brother hadn’t even told her that his plans included a party, not to mention invited her. She wouldn’t have gone, but did it hurt to ask?
Merging into the right lane before her exit, all she got was a measly middle finger, which had about as much effect as a blown kiss or a catcall—the juvenile methods of American men. The frequency with which these methods were applied to her was an absurdity of daily life. Though it wasn’t really an absurdity if you looked around. Women left home in unfitted pants, wrinkled jackets, and the ultimate ignominy: sneakers. It didn’t have to be a stiletto, but anything less than two inches was indecent! Of course she’d been prepared for the sorry state of the American female; the stereotype had spread across the globe. The surprise was that her friends—Lyuba, Vera, Irina—hadn’t wasted any time. Their physical assimila
tion had been total. In the few years Marina hadn’t seen them, they’d lost their waistlines, cropped their hair to ear length, and fully converted to the religion of comfort, wearing trousers that could fit a diaper inside and the modern equivalent of bast shoes. They’d all been equally brusque with themselves, as if one day they all shook hands on their resignation and since then held monthly evaluations. Marina made a promise not to succumb. She smoked twice as hard and pretended to dislike the taste of French fries. A passion for Coca-Cola was impossible to conceal.
She pulled into the cobblestone driveway of a house at which it was best not to look directly so as to avoid being overwhelmed by its dimensions. It was two houses, really, conjoined. Better to take it room by room, which she did every Saturday, though a once-a-week scrub-down hardly kept the place out of the grip of chaos. A concatenation of bolts was unlocked, and the fancy door from the Russian-owned door store swung open.
Oh, said Marina.
It’s me, said Shmulka. Charna fled today.
Shmulka was younger than Marina but had six kids under the age of ten, all boys, all running around the house in formal attire. Isolated locks of hair hung like the strings you pulled in the old country to flush the toilet. Charna, who usually opened the door, was Marina’s age and had her own flock. The patriarchs were brothers. They wouldn’t have hired Marina were she not Jewish, but neither did they consider her Jewish. She considered them the filthiest people she’d ever met in her life. They paid by the hour. Maximal accumulation didn’t take much ingenuity.
Panic in a Suitcase: A Novel Page 7
