The Family Tabor

by Cherise Wolas

  He stares at the cantor.

  Who is he to Harry?

  Why is he seeing him?

  Or why is he being shown him?

  The face, it seems familiar, a face he has seen before.

  But where?

  He hears daguerreotype, registers that it, too, is reverberating only in his head, spoken in a voice dry and unfamiliar to him.

  Daguerreotype. He knows what that is. An early type of photograph. Yes, he has one in his possession, a single photograph, very old and wrinkled, the edges furred.

  Is it of this man, this cantor?

  It could be.

  It might be.

  He thinks it is.

  He stares at the vision.

  Yes, he is sure it is.

  The small photograph in the gilt frame passed down to Harry by Mordy. Passed down to Mordy by Aleph. Passed down to Aleph by Abraham. Then, in Harry’s head, his father’s guttural throat clearing, once a known sound, used to dislodge the years, and he hears Mordy say, “Time, I think, for me to recite once again the beginning of the oft-told tale …

  “As you know, your great-grandfather’s brother trained as a cantor. And when his training was complete, when his teachers determined they had nothing more to teach him, not that they ever really did, he applied for the desirable and desired position at the shtetl’s one shul. Potential cantors were required to have deep knowledge of the prayers, an artistic musical delivery, a pleasing appearance, a flowing beard, and a wife. These rules were as nonnegotiable as the Russian Empire’s rules for Jews that created desperation and deprivation—where and when and how they could move outside the Pale of Settlement, what they could study, what professions they might enter, how much money they might earn. When the shul’s rabbi heard him sing, he took an unorthodox stance. So what if the young man was unbearded and unmarried, a beard could always grow and a marriageable woman could be found, but rare was the stunning anomaly before him: a young cantor who possessed perfect pitch and impeccable delivery despite being profoundly deaf.”

  Harry is sitting on a bench on a tennis court in the desert and this profoundly deaf cantor to whom he’s related—dead these last, what, hundred and forty years?—is, was, singing the Kol Nidre in the Pale of Settlement way back when. Maybe it would make sense if Harry had been there, been alive at that time, been in that shul during Yom Kippur, heard his great-uncle doing his thing, but he wasn’t.

  This isn’t his own memory he’s recalling—seeing unfold in real time 140 years ago.

  It’s not Mordy’s memory either.

  How is Harry seeing this mad bright vision?

  Is this a hallucination, a harbinger of something else, a brain tumor, for instance?

  No, not a harbinger, but a reminder.

  Not a harbinger, but a reminder? That sentence is enunciated in the same dry voice unknown to him. But the words in his head are clear, and if he can hear them, then surely he is not about to keel over, the image of his ancestral cantor glued to his irises, his unforgettable voice ringing in his ears, the last thing Harry Tabor sees and hears before exploding internally.

  Never once in his life has he ever taken a morning shot of something to neutralize his fears, but right this minute, he could use a short one, something very strong to knock back quick—that eighty-proof Croatian cherry brandy, an undrunk soldier in the drinks cabinet in the living room, a gift from a Jewish Croat family he brought here—would do the trick.

  “Ice water.”

  Levitt’s voice slips in, returning Harry to the present. Levitt’s face and bulky body is in front of him, but the fading figment of the cantor is there, too, standing right next to his tennis-playing plastic surgeon friend, and just then, the idea that the dogs and the cantorial vision, the singing of that first repentant prayer, has something to do with tonight’s honor sends an electrical current through him, and he thinks how that vision was set on the unordinary day when one atones for his sins—

  “Harry, you look odd.”

  The vision is gone and Harry looks up at his friend, and searches for his voice, opens his mouth to encourage it, feels a tickle at the back of his throat, tries expelling a little air, expects to hear a little cry, but nothing, nothing at all. And he feels a fresh ripple of panic. His voice, he seems to have lost it, gone, disappeared, kaput.

  “Drink. You look like you might be dehydrated,” Levitt says.

  Harry drinks deeply, and when he feels words again gathering in his throat, he says, “I’m fine. A hundred percent fine,” thinking he’ll phone his GP on Monday for an appointment, have his physical early, just in case. Until then, he won’t speculate about what the hell is going on with him.

  “CHANGEOVER,” LEVITT CALLS OUT, a crowing in his voice, because he’s never done this well against Harry. They meet again at the bench and Levitt reaches into his tennis bag for a fresh can of balls, peels back the plastic cap, and sticks his thumb through the pull. The unzipping of the metal lid sounds to Harry like a hard key turning in a lock, a lock on a metal-barred door, a metal-barred door of a jail cell, and there he is, inside, and that confounds him entirely, and he feels a trembling fear he’s never experienced before. He recalls not at all experiencing that precise fear more than three decades ago, then getting down on his knees and praying for a way out. What he recalls is the term Owen Kaufmann had employed, his origin story. But it wasn’t a story at all. All of it was true, properly humble tales he told Owen Kaufmann about the good man that he is.

  He is that good man, isn’t he?

  Of course he is.

  He heads to the baseline and trips, and trips again a moment later, going down on one knee. He’s not hurt or scraped, but he is supremely unbalanced, as if one wrong step will undo who he is, and then a correction intrudes in his mind, a clarification he does not understand, in that same dry and unfamiliar voice: The wrong step deserving of punishment you avoided by repairing to the desert.

  He looks around wildly, at the people in the park, at Levitt on the other side of the court, bouncing the ball, preparing to serve, and he feels that trembling fear again, a fear that feels new, a fear untied to anything he can put his finger on, but makes him think he is poised to go tumbling down.

  Why is he hearing that voice?

  And what does the voice mean, about the wrong step he avoided by moving to the desert?

  Isn’t he the same man he’s always been?

  The same before the desert and after stepping into it?

  What wrong step? What wrong step?

  Then Levitt’s serving, a crack of the racquet, the ball fast as a bullet aimed straight at Harry.

  TWELVE

  SHOULD PHOEBE HAVE PURCHASED a present for her father? Did Simon and Elena? Did Camille? As the oldest, she should have called them and asked, or suggested they go in together on a gift commensurate with the honorific of Man of the Decade. She didn’t, and likely they didn’t, but it’s not too late. It’s not too late because she left LA too early, and she’s got time to spare before arriving home at noon, when she said she would, and right here is the exit to the better of the two outlet malls on the way into town. Just a quick detour, a walk around to see if anything appeals to her, something her father might like.

  The mall is neatly laid out and has a late-morning hush despite the families holding hands, ducking into stores, sitting on benches and eating handfuls of warm, soft pretzels out of bright yellow bags. Do those families look happy? That one does. And that one. But not that one at all, or rather the father does not look happy. Youngish and tattooed, but wearing chinos and loafers, he seems unsure of what he’s become, with a wife and two toddlers. Poor guy. Well, at least he’s participating, the way Harry used to, although Harry had taken, still takes, enormous delight in all their family outings.

  The lingerie displayed in a window draws her close—such alluring things she might buy for herself if only there were a real Aaron Green. She takes in the lace, the frills, the gossamer, then resumes her useless wandering searc
h. There’s really nothing she could buy for her father that he would either want or need.

  She knows what she’s doing—evading arriving home early and walking through the tall front doors of the house alone. Before inventing Aaron, Phoebe loved arriving in advance of Camille, with her stories of outlandish places and people, her esoteric facts, in advance of Simon, with his harem of tall and tiny princesses, having Roma and Harry to herself for those couple of hours before all the Tabors congregated. She never finds reentry an adjustment, the way Camille does. How many times has Camille called her when she’s close, saying, “I always settle in, but those first hours, it’s like a pitched internal battle between my selves. Who I am in Seattle versus who I am in Palm Springs.” Phoebe has never understood what Camille means about an internal psychic split, because, until February, Phoebe relished returning to the hearth and bosom, seeing herself in the curve of her mother’s neck, the shape of her father’s hands, but she thinks she has a sense now of what Camille always feels. She doesn’t want to show up without her siblings today; she needs their bodies, their voices, their lives, as a buffer from the pointed questions she will be asked about the nonexistent man in her life.

  It’s only eleven, an hour to go. She’ll have a coffee, sit at one of the picnic tables, practice her explanation about why Aaron couldn’t join her until she does not sound, at least in her own head, like the fake and the liar she is.

  There is no line at the coffee place, and she nearly has her hand on the knob when her cell rings.

  “Save me,” Camille says. “From what?” Phoebe says.

  “From my life,” Camille says.

  Phoebe feels a tightening in her throat, a clenching in her gut, then says, “I’ll save you if you’ll save me.”

  “From what? Are you joking, Phoebe?”

  Phoebe looks up at the sky, a high dome of blue, a flock of birds flying by in the shape of a boomerang, the black-brown mountains in the distance spackled in sun.

  “Yes, I’m joking,” she says. “Did you buy a present for Dad?”

  “No, should I have?”

  “I just thought about it. Where are you?”

  “Twenty minutes from the city limits.”

  “Great. Come meet me at the better outlet mall. I’ll call Simon, see if they’re close, have them meet us here, too. We can buy a present for Dad if we decide we should, then we can do what you always want us to do, ascend the driveway in formation, storm the house like battle-ready troops.”

  “Last time when I suggested that, you said, ‘Grow up, Camille, you don’t need armor when you come home.’”

  “Well, that was unkind.”

  “It was,” Camille says. “What’s going on? Why do you want to do that now?”

  “Just being supportive, so hurry up. I don’t want to sit here all day.”

  “Hey, is Aaron with—”

  Phoebe hangs up.

  THIRTEEN

  THE HOUSE ONLY FEELS empty when Roma is waiting for her family to arrive. Twenty years since Phoebe has lived here. Eighteen since Camille. Fifteen since Simon. She loves the emptiness, the expansiveness, not finding her children’s belongings strewn around. She does not miss the way the girls especially repeatedly asked her, in increasingly aggravated voices, whether she had seen whatever it was they were missing. And yet knowing everyone will soon be here, kicking off shoes at the front door, unpacking bags in their bedrooms, opening and closing the fridge, the cabinets, splashing in the pool, the smell of suntan lotion wafting on the hot air, she feels a deep pang that none of them live here anymore. No matter how often she tells herself to stay mum, she won’t be able to curb herself, will ask within the first several hours if they really must all leave so soon. “Why not stay longer?” she’ll say to them. “Stay the whole week, be kids again for a little while, hang out with us, your parents, who miss you so much.” Of course, by tomorrow afternoon, when the dishwasher is full and no one has thought to empty it, when damp pool and shower towels are heaved onto hooks in the bathrooms so none properly dry, when squiggles of tanning oil leave impossible stains on the polished outdoor concrete, she will not mind as much that their departures are imminent. She used to feel guilty about her empty-nest teeter-tottering desires—needing them to stay, not too disappointed when they leave—but it’s important her children know they are wanted, that their presence, their company, is highly prized. Never once has she barked at them during these visits regarding habits she broke them of in their youth and they trot back out when in temporary residence, as if demonstrating to their mother that they can’t fully, truly be tamed. Not even by her, the psychologist miracle worker. She knows what all those bad habits exhibited only in this house mean: a deep comfort that they are home, can relax, be who they are completely, certain they will always be accepted here, that they’ve learned the world can be a rough place, and the roof under which they came into their own is the safest place to be.

  Roma wanders through the serene rooms, stepping through rays of sunlight, making sure the bunches of flowers Esmeralda set out yesterday still look fresh, no flowers wilting, the comforters and pillows fluffed, enough clean and folded towels and rolls of toilet paper in all of the bathrooms. Yes, everything is ready for the deluge. The clock in Simon’s old bedroom, where her marvelous granddaughters sleep, says it’s eleven. An hour to go.

  She’s swum, drunk her coffee, read the morning paper, showered and dressed, taken another look at the gown and heels she will be wearing tonight, chosen her earrings, arranged the lunch on platters Saran wrapped in the refrigerator, set the outdoor table in the main courtyard next to the big pool, and put a couple of bottles of prosecco in the freezer, because although there will be much celebration at the gala tonight, she wants to have a family-only toast for Harry this afternoon.

  She could check her voicemails, see if Jeanine McCadden called with an update on Noelani. It’s not yet been twenty-four hours since the girl was on Roma’s couch, a pillow on her lap, worrying the material between her small fingers, but maybe the mother has reached out. Yes, she will check. Office voicemail, number, code, five messages. The first from Feeno, her sixteen-year-old depressive, telling her he meditated for ten minutes yesterday and will try it again today. The second from Julie and Carlos about their seven-year-old who has settled on a new name, abandoning Mick for Michelle, and that he doesn’t care if he’s teased, he’s wearing dresses to school when it resumes, and then Carlos is talking over Julie, asking what they ought to do if Mick, now Michelle, is made fun of or, worse, beaten up. The third from Tanya, who, at nineteen, is struggling with body dysmorphia, as she has been the last four years, making headway, then losing ground, telling Roma she needs to reschedule her appointment next week, which never bodes well. The fourth from Lane, the single father of Leo, a twelve-year-old who suffers from crippling anxiety and severe full-body psoriasis, that he’s cleaned out their kitchen, gotten rid of the gluten, which the three of them decided ought to be tried first, to see if that mitigates any of Leo’s symptoms. The fifth from the mother of Kimball, a six-year-old stutterer, that she has made an appointment with the pediatric speech pathologist Roma recommended to confirm there are no abnormalities in speech motor control, like timing, sensory, or coordination, which could be causing the girl’s inability to speak with ease. But no call from Jeanine McCadden about Noelani.

  She checks for messages on her cell phone next. No call from Jeanine. No call yet from Harry, telling her he’s on his way home. Saturday morning tennis with Levitt must be running long, but he’ll be here. He’s never once missed being at the door when their children arrive for a weekend.

  FOURTEEN

  AT ONE OF THE MALL’S picnic tables, hunched over her coffee, rehearsing what she will say to explain Aaron Green’s absence, Phoebe glances up and spots a woman who looks like her sister, but can’t be.

  Where is Camille’s skull-hugging hair, shorn by a barber for ten bucks in a shop with a spinning pole outside?

  Where are C
amille’s shapeless secondhand clothes?

  Phoebe raises a tentative hand, to see if the woman waves, and she does.

  It is Camille, but she’s grown out her hair. Long now, dark and lush and straight, swinging back and forth, perfectly cut. And she’s wearing jeans, not her usual three-sizes-too-large jeans, but tight jeans that make her legs look great, and a tight white muscle tee, and her stomach is flat as a pancake, and the muscles in her arms are nicely defined. Camille, who’s never needed to worry about her weight, or been on a diet, or belonged to a gym, who lived on yams and coconut meat on those islands of hers, is svelte as a model. She looks like a model.

  And what’s on her feet?

  Not her typical beat-up boy’s sneakers, but pretty yellow sandals.

  Phoebe stands and waves again, and Camille waves back; then she’s walking faster, then running, then hugging Phoebe. Well, that’s changed, the force of a Camille hug usually threatens to break the ribs of the person she’s embracing, but not this time.

  Camille steps back and Phoebe inspects her sister close up. “What’s happened to you?”

  Camille frowns. “What do you mean?”

  “You. Your clothes. Your hair. Your body. You’re wearing sandals. Your toenails have gold polish on them. When did you get so thin?”

  “What are you talking about? I’m the same as always.”