Good on Paper

by Rachel Cantor

  I wanted to but his eyes were too open, they always were, my billboard artist of the heart.

  Hold me, I said, and he did.

  •

  May I see what Romei wrote about me? Benny asked after some time had passed.

  I couldn’t speak. I wanted to say no but I couldn’t.

  Please, Shira? It’s weird to be written about. Romei used me for some purpose, to get to you. You don’t seem to know why. I’d like to see for myself.

  It’s not translated, I murmured.

  You could do a running translation, couldn’t you? How long is it?

  Not long, I admitted.

  Please?

  Of course. Get me the pages—the ones on the table, not the ones on the floor. I’ll make tea.

  Licorice, Benny said. Or twig.

  You’re crazy, I said, gazing into his serious face, his ragged beard. Chamomile, or Very-Berry.

  As I waited for the water to boil, I could hear him humming a mournful tune, a wordless melody, his voice like a wounded clarinet. I tried to imagine him, my lanky, unlikely, stretched-out guy as a character in Romei’s drama. I’d challenged Romei to treat Esther and himself as characters, then lost that perspective, assuming everything I read was “true.” Yet it was false, possibly all of it. But true in a more fundamental way, at least for him.

  Why turn Benny into a character, why bring him into the story?

  Because he was in the story: he was in my story.

  Jesus.

  Romei was using Benny as he’d used my words and images, to lure me into his text. Benny as love’s counsel, helping him snare the woman he loved, helping Esther understand the book of love. Benny the savior, the wise man, Benny as cupid, love’s messenger, associated everywhere only with love … I left the water warming on the stove and returned to the living room. Benny was sorting through Romei’s pages.

  You told him you were interested in me, didn’t you?

  I may have, he said.

  I turned to go back to the kitchen. Incredible! Romei was trying to fix us up!

  •

  The Ukraine Writers’ Union? Absurd! Benny said, and laughed. Romei’s work was never published in the Soviet Union. It was everything they despised.

  That had never occurred to me.

  He turned a hostile audience there into an appreciative one, Benny said. Just as he tried to do with you.

  I hadn’t thought of that either.

  He claims to have sent me those earlier sections? As if he’d written them in, what, 1987?

  The names of Esther’s Midrash friends! Peshat, Remez, Drash, and Sod? Those are the four levels of biblical hermeneutics: the literal, allegorical, moral, and symbolic. There’s a Hebrew acrostic that refers to these four levels—Pardes, or Eden. He’s trying to help us understand how to read his work!

  More disbelief: He said we went to her mother’s nursing home? We did no such thing! Esther’s mother died in Esther’s childhood home. And left her not a penny. It was your aunt, what’s-her-name …

  Emma?

  No, Elisheva.

  Same difference.

  It was Elisheva who sent her the obituary.

  Emma had my mother’s address?

  I guess so. You have another aunt?

  Just Emma.

  That’s her, then. Your namesake.

  I’m named after Emma?

  No, sorry, your Grandma Melody. She never did a Jewish thing in her life, but she couldn’t forgive Esther for naming you after her. She said Esther put a curse on her. Jews don’t name their children after the living, but Esther didn’t know that. She was just trying to make her mother happy. She wasn’t a nice woman, your grandmama. Her Hebrew name, of course …

  Was Shira. For song, melody.

  I leaned back on the couch. I couldn’t believe how devastated I felt. I’d thought my mother had named me for some higher purpose, to communicate something of her aspirations for my life, to instill in me through the magic of naming an aptitude for love. I’d found in my name a secret pocket of regard, a message left by her after decades of silence. I’d dared imagine a bond between us, based on this, something we held in common: the desire to love and love well. But no: I was named for her mother, who never forgave her for it.

  Emma knew where my mother was and said nothing? I said.

  You didn’t ask.

  I didn’t ask? She hated my mother! Why would I think she knew where my mother was?

  Blood is thicker than water. Or so I’m told.

  Blood?

  Sisters, Benny said.

  Sisters? Emma is my father’s sister.

  Shira.

  What do you mean? How do you know?

  How do I know? Esther refers to Elisheva as my sister Elisheva. She’s baal t’shuvah, right?

  Huh?

  “Returned” to orthodoxy. That’s what they call themselves: “masters of return.”

  That’s her.

  She’s there now, in Rome, helping out. She’s been there since September.

  Emma’s in Rome? I asked stupidly. I couldn’t incorporate this into my consciousness. I can’t believe you know more about my family than I do, I said finally.

  Benny shrugged. Nothing you can’t learn if you want to.

  What else do you know?

  Benny looked at me, kissed my hand.

  You look like Esther, he said, you look like your mother.

  •

  Eventually, Benny stopped interrupting.

  It’s beautiful, he said, when I finished the section where Romei describes Esther to herself. A complete fiction, but it says something true.

  Like what?

  Like about how we love.

  By trying to imagine the other’s experience.

  By putting ourselves in their shoes, yes. About how Romei learned to love.

  How he thinks I should love.

  Obviously. Your grandmother’s regrets, the too-late visit to the nursing home, these are not-too-subtle hints, when you look at them a certain way.

  When you know it’s fiction you can look at it this way. I’d assumed it was “true.”

  Then I realized another reason for including Benny in the story: so he could prove Romei’s story a fiction, so I could eventually interpret it, make it my own.

  Also, Benny said, how difficult the work of loving is.

  I hadn’t thought of that.

  Romei’s task of trying to see the world through Esther’s eyes is gargantuan, he said.

  And incomplete. He hasn’t finished when he gets the call about her illness.

  She is sick, Benny said. She does have lupus.

  I didn’t say good, because I didn’t think that, but I was glad to know that something in Romei’s story was real. Then wondered if this wasn’t part of his plan: the one “true,” unchanging, always-reliable fact, visible in the photo he sent me and verifiable by Benny: Esther’s sickness unto death. Lest I forget. I was about to share this observation when I realized that Benny was crying into my translation.

  I kept forgetting: Esther was a real person, loved by my love.

  Honey! I said. I am so sorry! and lifted his face to mine; his tears now falling from my cheeks.

  This isn’t about Esther, he said, after a moment. It’s about Romei. I wish you knew what he’s really like. He’s such a wonderful, loving soul. He wrote this section partly for me, you know. You don’t realize this. It’s his gift. You can’t see this, can you?

  I watched him, astonished, prepared to listen, to save my reaction, whatever it might be.

  Benny said nothing.

  Explain, I said. I’d like to understand.

  He just shook his head.

  54

  THE INDISPENSABLE PIVOT

  Later that night, Benny called.

  I’d like to explain, he said.

  Talk to me by the window, I said. I put on my father’s robe and lifted the shade. Across the avenue, I could see Benny’s backlit silhouette.

 
Romei made me important in Esther’s life, he said. Her confidant, her study partner. He’s given me something of her to hold on to, for after she dies. A vision of what I meant to her.

  Oh, sweetie, I said, and felt myself begin to tear.

  There’s more, he said, and I could hear he was choking up again.

  Tell me, I said, putting my hand on the glass, as if that would bring me closer.

  It’s terribly Freudian, he said, and laughed weakly.

  Yes?

  Well, he knows about my father, how my father thought I was … well, a loser, you know. He knows that I view him—Romei, I mean—as a father figure. Do you see what he’s done?

  He’s made you the indispensable pivot around which his story turns. The one he turns to when he loses Esther, the only one who can help. The child as father of the man.

  You see, he said.

  I see.

  I’m sorry I woke you, he murmured. I feel rather foolish.

  I love you, I said, surprised to hear myself say it.

  Really?

  With all my heart, it seems.

  55

  HE’S BACK

  We always celebrated Thanksgiving with Dotty and Jeanette. Jeanette and Ahmad would tug war over fixings, Jeanette preferring traditional fare—string bean casserole with cornflakes—Ahmad preferring the exotic: millet-shitake stuffing with chestnut-and-caper sauce. Jen stopped by a week before to make sure Thanksgiving was on, with or without the one who could not be named.

  I’ll take care of everything, she said, and got out her Day-Timer.

  I can help, I said.

  She considered this.

  You make the cranberry sauce, she said, and started her shopping list.

  I smiled. I didn’t eat the stuff, and both Jeanette and Andi liked theirs from a can.

  You can also do coffee, she said, looking up. Georges likes hazelnut. You bringing anyone?

  Jen! No!

  Aren’t you seeing that guy?

  What guy?

  That rabbi guy?

  I told you no!

  Something about the way you said no made me think yes.

  Well, kinda. I’m kinda seeing him. It’s complicated, and I tried to explain.

  He’s crazy about you, she said. That’s a good thing.

  I don’t trust him.

  Trust? Who’s trustable? Everyone’s always hiding something, anyone can disappear, or disappoint. Not just men—everyone!

  There is no absolute fidelity, I murmured. The translated one is always betrayed.

  I beg your pardon?

  Nothing. I’m quoting myself.

  Shira, you have a choice: stay in and never get hurt, or get out there. Out there is much more fun, I promise you. So when are you and Ahmad making up?

  Never, I said, and I don’t want to talk about it.

  I have three things to say to you, Shira, and you will listen. One: you look like shit, which means you’re more upset than you say. Two: Ahmad’s not perfect, he did a stupid thing. But it was one stupid thing, and he’s your oldest friend.

  One stupid thing? He didn’t just take Andi for the night—he wanted to take her forever!

  What does he have to do to make things right?

  What’s number three?

  Andi needs him.

  No, she doesn’t.

  Yes, she does. And she has a right to see him.

  Whatever, I said. You said Georges likes what kind of coffee?

  Do you have a plan for what to do if you don’t make up with Ahmad?

  I’m working on it, I said.

  Jeanette gave me a look that said, You’re not working on it and Y2K is a month away.

  Hazelnut, she said, finally. Georges likes hazelnut.

  When I woke up Thanksgiving morning, she’d used her spare key and was already in the kitchen. The apartment was redolent of turkey, and the table was set: yellow and brown crepe-paper turkey centerpiece, dried orange flowers, Thanksgiving horn o’ plenty. If Ahmad saw this, he’d have a cow.

  But wait! Six place settings? Andi, Jeanette, Georges, me … Dotty might stop by on her way to see her father in the hospital, but unless Ovidio got his own spot, I couldn’t figure six.

  Jeanette?? I shouted. Jeanette! Because already I knew. Her explanation, whispered so Andi wouldn’t hear, was simple: if I had told you, you might have gone elsewhere.

  What was I to do? Deprive Andi of her Thanksgiving, take her to some lonely restaurant with the rest of New York’s sorry singles? Andi had family, people who loved her. She had a right to be with them, I too. Was I ready for this? No. But I could always leave if I had to, say I’d promised to help Benny ladle lentils at the Vegan Ecumenical Soup Kitchen.

  Benny. I needed Benny. Even if it upset Andi.

  You’re kidding, he said. You don’t want me at Thanksgiving, you don’t want me in your house at all because you don’t want to upset your daughter, then suddenly Ahmad’s coming over and you want me at your side?

  That’s about it, I said.

  Hmm, he said. You mean what you said last night?

  I did, I said, and blushed.

  How about you come over and convince me? I want convincing.

  I giggled despite myself. Benny laughed and hung up.

  Jeanette didn’t need me. Her instant mashed potatoes were reconstituting, she’d only pretended to need my cranberry sauce, which in any case was done. She was in the kitchen now, teaching Andi to top and tail beans. Snap, snap.

  This is fun! Andi said, delighted.

  I didn’t know if Andi knew Ahmad was coming for dinner, I didn’t think so. She’d be so happy! I could see her leaping off the couch when Ahmad arrived, the soft expression on his face when he gathered her in his arms, and there it was again, that crazy lump in my throat.

  Thanksgiving this year would be a regular Hallmark card.

  Almost. I snuck out the door in a long coat, stockings, a garter belt, and not much else.

  Benny was in bed, half asleep. I let my coat drop to the floor.

  Hallelujah, he said. Come to Poppa!

  •

  Benny and I arrived at the Den in time for me into slip into a dress, for Jeanette (holding a yam-and-marshmallow casserole) to say, Aren’t we looking rosy, for me to wink and smile, for Andi to say, Oh, he’s back, for me to say, Andi! I won’t have you being rude to my friends!, for her to stick out her lip and cross her arms, for me to walk her to her room, and leave her there till she learned some manners, in time for Ahmad, who arrived carrying bottles of wine and wrapped presents in a Bloomingdale bag.

  Where’s my girl? he asked softly, looking at me, putting down his bags.

  I’ll get her, I said, and then, as if in afterthought, leaned over to kiss his cheek.

  You ready to come out? I said, knocking on Andi’s door, then opening it. She was involved in a game, six dolls being instructed by a seventh; she wouldn’t look at me.

  I have a surprise for you, if you’re ready to come out.

  She heard Jeanette’s voice in the living room, jumped up.

  Dotty! she cried. You said she wasn’t coming!

  No, another surprise. Also a good one.

  I’m ready, she said, trying to nudge past me through the door.

  Not yet, I said, blocking her way. First you have to promise you’ll be polite to our guests.

  Yes, she said, still trying to squeeze by.

  I’m serious. Look at me, I said, kneeling down, aware that I’d never asked this of her before. You will only ever be polite to Benny or any of my friends, do you understand?

  Yes, Mom, she said, rolling her eyes.

  That’s not good enough, I said, unsure what I wanted from her. You’re going to be seeing a lot of Benny …

  It was too late: from the living room, she heard Ahmad laughing.

  Ahmad! Andi whispered. Ahmad’s come to see me!

  Yes, sweetie. Go say hello.

  Off she ran.

  When I reentered the living room, Ah
mad was swinging my daughter around, her legs flying. She wrapped her legs around his torso and held his cheeks with her small brown hands, their foreheads touching, her brown eyes watching his.

  Then Ahmad distributed gifts: a Spirograph for Andi, a crystal vase for Jeanette, a box of cigars for the absent Georges. He shrugged at Benny: Sorry, mate, didn’t know you’d be here.

  For me, a drawing, framed, of young Shira in ecstasy—Botticelli hair flying, arms raised, dancing, as if for a lover, gold-flecked eyes open, looking at the viewer—the very picture I’d imagined him drawing in “Domino,” that story he’d hated, the story about Jonah at fourteen.

  It was beautiful. Not just because it was beautiful, but because it was from that story. He was trying to tell me something: he was accepting my work, he was accepting me.

  56

  LET’S MAKE A DEAL

  Conversation was subdued: all-time best stuffings, did people really eat tofu turkeys. Then Jeanette got a call from Georges; she shrugged and kissed our cheeks goodbye.

  I told Andi it was time for bed. She asked if Ahmad would be there in the morning.

  No, lovebug, he won’t.

  I’m not going to bed, then! she said, clamping her hands to her chair, and you can’t make me!

  Andi! I said. That’s enough! It’s past your bedtime!

  Ahmad! she insisted. Tell her!

  Shira, Ahmad began, then stopped himself. He’d been about to tell me to let her be, but didn’t. Our eyes met. He was telling me he wouldn’t second-guess me, he wouldn’t undermine my authority. He was giving me back my child. Under the table, Benny squeezed my hand.

  I extricated my hand and moved toward my daughter. The table was silent, but for her fierce breathing. Her face was pale and strained as she continued to grip her chair; even her jaw was clamped shut.

  I knelt down beside her, looked into her eyes. Deep behind their blackness, which was trying to say no, she was trying to say please. I placed a hand on her small brown cheek, so soft!, another on her shoulder, fragile like a bird’s wing.

  I hate you! she said. You can’t make me go!

  You must be very sad that Ahmad’s not been here.

  Andi looked at me, surprised, unsure what to say.

  I’m sorry you’ve been sad. I’ve been sad, too. Sometimes adults mess up and kids get the worst of it. It’s not fair. I’m sorry.