Among the Living

by Jonathan Rabb

  The bell jangled and Jesler watched as the two men passed by the window outside. Jesler’s breathing became more pronounced and he slammed his hand onto the glass. “Goddamned Micks.”

  The sound of the slap hung in the air before Goldah asked, “Who’s Harry Cohen?”

  Jesler was checking the hand, flexing it. “Co-han,” he corrected. “Irish. Like George M. Mr. Yankee Doodle Dandy. You can come on out now, Calvin. They’re gone.”

  Calvin stepped through the curtain and said, “I’m at three forty-six, Mr. Jesler, not two forty-six. You got that wrong.”

  “Did I?” Jesler shook out his hand one last time and moved to a chair. “I guess they’re going to have to knock on some doors if they need to find you at home, aren’t they?” He sat heavily, letting his head fall back. He stared at the ceiling and let out a long breath. “Harry Cohan is the man who makes sure everything runs smoothly, Mr. Doodle Dandy down at the Ports Authority. And if Harry Cohan isn’t getting what he needs, then Harry Cohan sends a message.” Jesler brought his head forward. “These two fellas were delivering that message to me. And I made sure they knew I knew exactly where it was coming from.”

  “Harry Cohan,” said Goldah.

  “Harry Cohan,” Jesler repeated; even the sound of the name exhausted him. “That’s right.” He moved himself forward on the chair as if he was about to stand. “Nothing’s been stolen, Ike. No warehouse goods. These two fellas were here to tell me that things might go missing if I don’t play ball. Pay up. And the cost keeps going up. More and more and more. What they call ‘extras.’ ” He stood and rubbed a thick hand through his hair. “That’s what Harry Cohan wanted me to know.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  Jesler let out another long breath. “Why should you? I barely understand it myself. Immigrant capitalism, Ike. That’s what I call it. And everyone’s got their own set of rules.” His eyes wandered; it was as if he was talking to himself. “You sign something, can’t get out of it, and then you get yourself squeezed beyond a point where you can pay.”

  “I still don’t —”

  Jesler snapped himself back and looked over at Goldah. “I know.” He looked as if he might say more. Instead, he took his hat, and said, “The sign says lunch. Maybe we should go get some.”

  That night, Eva mentioned Tybee Island and a picnic lunch. If the weather held — if he could take the time — she would show him the beach. They would go on Monday. It was now Monday.

  She drove with the top down while Goldah’s eyes squinted through the shaded glasses she had bought for him. A few miles back they had passed the last of the drawbridges. The marsh water was now close on either side, edging against the road with cordgrass that was bleached a yellowed green. Eva had tied a scarf around her hair and the wind was catching it each time they took a curve.

  Hers was a familiar enough look from countless magazines — dark glasses, red lipstick, the cream-colored blouse that pressed hard against her chest — but Goldah couldn’t recall a single photo showing a man so utterly foreign to this: He had seen lakes before; he had seen rivers and the Atlantic in white-capped waves; this, however, was not any water as he had known it.

  A series of hand-scrawled signs, each hawking fresh shrimp and crab, began to dot the siding. Shacks appeared, then houses, and farther on the red roofs of a cluster of buildings. Goldah assumed they were a hotel’s and Eva said as much as they drove past: the De Soto Beach — Saturday-night dancing and drinks for members of the Cabana Club. Eva preferred the pavilion, which was open to the public and where she had seen Red Nichols and His Five Pennies perform before the war. She became quiet after that and turned off the main road. A pier came into view and she pulled over. There were one or two other cars parked along the narrow lane, but it was a weekday. No one was out for the morning sun.

  Goldah took the basket from the back and followed her along the sand and dirt. The path rose and they came to a thicker sand, where she stopped and placed her hand on his shoulder. She pulled off her shoes, he did the same and, rolling up the cuffs of his pants, he felt at once the heat and the grit on his soles. He walked unsteadily behind her until, stepping atop a raised mound, he saw for the first time in his life a stretch of ocean beach.

  It wasn’t the breadth that struck him — the drifts of pale sand and rock amid the dull coloring of clustered shells — but the enormity of the water against it: steady and vast. For a moment, a thought of both wonder and fear took shape in his mind, but he couldn’t find the words for it, his lips dry, the memory mercifully clouded by the heat. He felt a momentary pain in his lungs as he walked behind her and wondered if the sensation would pass.

  The sand grew harder underfoot and she stopped to spread out the towels she had brought. Standing over them, she took off her scarf and glasses and began to unbutton her blouse.

  “My suit’s underneath,” she said, seeing his expression. “I’ve brought one for you, if you like. They have a changing room up on the pier.”

  She pulled off her blouse and then unzipped her skirt and let it fall down her legs. The swimsuit skirt clung tightly to her slender thighs and Goldah’s instinct turned him away.

  “It’s just a swimsuit,” she said, with a care he hadn’t yet heard. “If it makes you uncomfortable, I’ll put my skirt and blouse back on.”

  He turned back. She looked more puzzled than modest. It was a relief.

  “I’ve seen a bathing suit before,” he said.

  “I’m sure you have.”

  “Yours is quite lovely.”

  She held out the men’s black to him. “This should fit, I think.”

  “No, it’s all right. I’m better this way.”

  “You’re sure?”

  He nodded and she dropped the suit onto the towels.

  “I’m going to have a swim,” she said. “It seems a waste not to. Do you mind?”

  “Of course not.”

  Only now, as she smiled, did he see a moment of modesty.

  “All right, then,” she said. “I’ll be back.”

  A few yards down the beach she turned her head. For some reason she waved. He waved as well and she began to run to the water. She splashed in and dove under, and he watched as her arms rose and fell, the strength in her body a marvel all its own as she moved along the surface.

  He sat like this with his hands behind him, deep in the sand, before he closed his eyes. He felt the heat bring the first beads of sweat to his back, down along the muscles of his covered arms, into the creases of his knees. He let it drench him, the welcome feel of liquid skin, until he heard her steps in the sand. He opened his eyes into the glare and saw her, wet with water, standing above him. She peered down and he knew he would always keep this with him.

  “If you slide over I can sit.”

  He made room and said, “Do you want a towel to dry off?”

  “No, I like it when it dries on me. Lets me remember I’ve been here.”

  She sat and he felt the heat from her arms and legs next to him. She smelled of oranges, and they both stared out at the water.

  “You’ve never been to a beach, have you?” she said.

  “I haven’t, no.”

  “It was in your face. I’m so pleased to be the first to introduce you to it. It’s marvelous, isn’t it?”

  “It is.”

  “I thought at first you spoke so very little because of the language, but that’s not the case, is it?”

  “No.”

  She laughed lightly. “You see, there it is again.”

  It took everything he had not to turn to her. “I don’t need to say much with you.”

  He heard the depth of her breath, and she said, “I think that’s a very kind thing to say.”

  They found themselves looking at each other. The water was still in her hair and small beads of it had gathered on her shoulders and cheek. When their mouths met he tasted the lipstick and the salt on her lips. He waited for her to pull away and, when she did
, he saw the perfect flush of sun in her cheeks. She looked out again and smiled gently.

  “Will you start speaking more, now?”

  He put his arm around the base of her back and let his hand rest at the side of her thigh. She drew closer into him and he felt the wet through his shirt and his pants. It had been so long since he’d felt this kind of woman’s softness, the curve and the frailty in it.

  “So this is America,” he said.

  She laughed quietly to herself. “Is that what you think of us?”

  “Think what?”

  “That we’re all so ready and carefree.”

  “Is that what you are?”

  She brought her knees up and wrapped her arms around them. “Wouldn’t it be nice to feel that again?” He said nothing and she asked, “You have felt it before, haven’t you?”

  The sound of steps behind them drew close before a man and a boy with fishing rods moved past. The man turned and nodded. “Morning.”

  The two moved on and Goldah watched as they found a spot by the water.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Maybe. Yes.”

  “ ‘Maybe. Yes.’ Either you felt it or you didn’t. Either you needed to love someone or you didn’t.”

  “So it comes down to need?”

  “With love, yes — it does.”

  He said, “Then I don’t know.”

  “That seems strange to me.”

  “Does it? I’m sorry.”

  She stared out for a few moments and then said bravely, “I have a son. His name is Julian. Have the talkers thought to tell you that?”

  Goldah had grown accustomed to the recklessness in her moments of revelation — perhaps only for him. He couldn’t imagine ever growing tired of them. “The talkers?” he said.

  “The voices of reason. Your Pearl, Irene Jelinek, my mother. I’m sure the list goes on.”

  He heard the weariness in her voice.

  “No,” he said. “They haven’t.”

  “So she managed to keep that to herself when she saw you out at Johnny Harris’s? Yes, I know she spoke with you. She likes to make sure I know all about her grand gestures, even the ones she means to keep secret from me.” She looked at him. “I have a son. He’s five years old. Do you regret coming here?”

  He was so taken by her honesty that he barely noticed her caution should he turn tail and shut her out. He reminded himself that she had kissed him and spoken of love.

  “America is such a strange place,” he said.

  “Is it?”

  “I think your mother —”

  “My mother is my mother. She has compassion from a distance and she’s very protective of her place in the world. I think Judaism for her is a necessary inconvenience, which makes her protective of me for all the wrong reasons.”

  He recognized the finality in that. “No,” he said, “I don’t regret it. Is that why you brought me here?”

  “To tell you about my son? No.”

  “You brought me here so I would kiss you.”

  “Yes.”

  “And the rest just followed?”

  He watched as her gaze wandered across his face. “You don’t regret it, then?”

  “I’d like to kiss you again.”

  Her smile returned, hesitant then strong. “You would?”

  “Yes. I’ll even talk more if that would help.”

  Her eyes flashed. “All right, then. Go ahead.”

  He looked out at the water and saw the man kneel down and help the boy with his rod. The boy kept his small hand on his father’s back as he watched the line slowly come uncoiled.

  When Goldah spoke, his words came just as easily.

  “I’ve been asking myself — I can’t help it and I know maybe it’s unfair — but I want to know, was it like this during the war, sitting here, in places like this? Was it possible to come and find this and forget all the rest …? I know. No one can ever put something like that aside, but to have this, to know it was always here within reach … it’s impossible for me to understand. At dinner, in the store, the simplest words, and I can’t help but think, was it like this even then? It makes it all almost unknowable.” He turned to her. “I’m sorry. I know what you must have suffered through, but —” He shook his head. She kissed him. His hand pressed against her back — her suit wet against his skin through his shirt — and he knew, whatever else might come, that this was how a future was made.

  On the ride back they caught the worst of the sun, the glare off the water on the windscreen almost impenetrable. He managed it, even with his free hand in hers. She had insisted he drive.

  When they turned onto Thirty-Sixth Street she slid back to the passenger side of the seat, just in time to see Pearl on the porch. She wasn’t sitting. She was holding the telephone on an extension line and, when she saw them drive up, she quickly hung up. She set the telephone on the rail and started down the path. Goldah saw the panic in her step.

  “Ike,” Pearl said, not bothering to acknowledge Eva, “you need to come inside. I need to stay by the telephone.”

  Goldah was stepping around the hood of the car. “What’s the matter? Where’s Abe?”

  “Abe?” Pearl said. “Abe is fine. Why would you ask about Abe?”

  “This is Eva —”

  “I know who she is,” Pearl said tightly. She finally looked at Eva. “Good afternoon, Mrs. De la Parra. I would invite you in but I’m afraid this isn’t a convenient time.”

  Eva said, “Is everything all right, Mrs. Jesler?”

  “Everything is fine, Mrs. De la Parra. You’re very kind to ask.”

  “What’s happened?” said Goldah.

  Pearl said, “We need to go inside.”

  Eva slid over behind the wheel. “I should probably get home.”

  “No,” Goldah said more firmly. “Pearl, what’s happened?”

  Pearl’s face grew hard. She glanced at Eva, then at Goldah. “I’d like to go inside, Ike.”

  Goldah said calmly, “I understand that, but I’d like to know —”

  “Raymond’s been beaten and his hand has been shattered.” Pearl’s expression showed a bitterness Goldah had never seen in her. “I would have preferred to tell you inside, but now, there you have it.” She looked at Eva. “Raymond is a boy who works at our store, Mrs. De la Parra. It’s quite a terrible thing.”

  Goldah moved toward Pearl but she said, “I wasn’t aware you were going off today, Ike. To the beach, evidently. How very pleasant for you. We’ve had people trying to reach you, but obviously that wasn’t possible, was it?” She looked at Eva. “You’ll forgive me, Mrs. De la Parra, but I took the liberty of telephoning your parents in the hopes of finding Ike. They were not aware that the two of you were off together today.”

  Goldah matched the sharpness in her voice. “Where is Raymond now?”

  “At his home.”

  “With Abe?”

  “Yes. And a Negro doctor. I’m trying to find a surgeon who will take a look at the hand.”

  “How is Abe?”

  “How do you think, Ike? How do you think Abe is? I need to get back inside to the telephone.”

  She started to go and Goldah said, “I’d like Raymond’s address.”

  Pearl turned back. She stared coldly, then gave it to him.

  Goldah said, “I’m going to go.”

  “You do what you like,” Pearl said and turned again for the path.

  The row houses each had a box porch above the stoop, with three plank steps leading up to a front door, wood beams browned and rotted. Goldah saw Jesler’s Ambassador parked on the dirt road in front of one and he told Eva to pull over.

  Mary Royal answered the door. Her eyes were red. She was done with her crying and showed only a moment’s surprise at seeing Eva.

  “How is he?” said Goldah.

  “Bad, Mr. Ike. Real bad. He won’t get no more use out a that hand.”

  “They’re sure?”

  “The doctor’s come and gone. Raym
ond’s sleeping.”

  “And Abe?”

  Calvin’s voice came from the distance behind her. “Who’s at the door?”

  “Mr. Ike, Pawpaw.”

  “He alone?”

  “No.”

  “Invite them in,” Calvin said.

  Goldah followed Mary Royal and Eva down a corridor. He felt the need to duck his head even though he had a few inches to spare. They passed the door to a kitchen, where three women and a young boy stood and sat around a table. They barely looked over as the three moved past.

  Mary Royal stepped through a narrow doorframe and into the back room. It was small, the floorboards painted white, with a throw rug by the metal bed. The mattress was wide enough for two but Raymond lay by himself, propped up at its center, deep in sleep. His hand was in white bandages and rested on a straw pillow, traces of blood where the knuckles would have been. His face was bloated from the beating, and his breathing was hard. Jesler sat in a chair leaning forward. His elbows were on his knees, his head on his clenched hands, as he stared at Raymond. At the other side of the bed, an older woman pressed a wet cloth to Raymond’s brow. She, too, had been crying. Calvin stood in the corner.

  Goldah said, “Pearl’s been trying to find a surgeon.”

  “It won’t do no good,” Calvin said. “Evening, Miss Eva. Can we get you something to drink?”

  “No. No, thank you,” she said solemnly, her eyes on Raymond. “They gave him something?”

  “Doctor give him a shot. Morphine, I think. Said it’d let him sleep.”

  Goldah said, “Hello, Abe.”

  Only then did Jesler look over. His eyes were blank. He nodded quietly and turned back to Raymond.

  Calvin said to Mary Royal, “Why don’t you go get something to drink for Miss Eva and Mr. Ike. We have tea and lemonade, Miss Eva.” He brought a chair over to her. “I can have another brung in if you want.”

  Eva sat.

  “When did it happen?” said Goldah.

  “Early. Out at the warehouse. He was loading up for the Jacksonville run. We got a call down to the store just before lunch. Someone find Raymond against the truck.”