The Tenth Song

by Ragen, Naomi

  “But none of it is true!”

  “Well, Stephen says the article was very well written, and they gave so many details . . . You’ve got to do something about this!” she said, phrasing it as though she were imparting valuable advice.

  Abigail’s eyes smarted. “Henrietta, there’s someone else on the line, I’ve got to go.” She hung up, feeling stunned and raw. Her hands shaking, she poured herself a cup of coffee. She opened the refrigerator for the milk, but there wasn’t any. A walk will do me good, she told herself, throwing on her coat.

  The weather had changed. The brief, glorious warmth of the morning was gone. The air was soggy, smelling of coming snows.

  “Abigail?”

  It was Sandra.

  “Well, long time no see,” Abigail said, trying to be jovial.

  “I hope it isn’t true,” the woman said.

  Abigail caught her breath. “You don’t have to hope. I’m telling you it isn’t true!”

  “I hope it isn’t true,” she repeated, unforgivably.

  Abigail turned away, her cheeks as red as if someone had slapped them. She paid for the milk as quickly as she could. She heard the door of the grocery slam behind her, as if someone else had wrenched it shut.

  Kayla telephoned. “How’s Dad?”

  “All things considered, he’s . . . all right.”

  She heard her daughter exhale. “Really?”

  “I’m sure he’d like to see you. Kayla, he hasn’t done anything wrong, not knowingly . . .” The more she repeated this now-familiar line, the less sure Abigail was.

  “Really, Mom, I’d prefer not to talk about this over the phone,” Kayla answered sharply.

  “Of course,” Abigail replied, hurt.

  “I’ll be over, Mom.”

  They said their good-byes, the unspoken words crowding out and canceling what was said. Abigail called Joshua, who said he was getting on a plane the next day. She called Shoshana, who told her not to worry because it was going to be just fine. She was planning on driving in.

  “With Matthew?”

  “Yes, of course. Matthew is very concerned.”

  The next day, the phone rang and rang and rang.

  “Please, Abby, you pick up. I just can’t,” Adam begged.

  Half the calls were from reporters. She gave them their lawyer’s number. Then there were the clients, people she didn’t really know that well. “Tell Adam that we have every confidence in his innocence. It is always the good people that they come after. Send him our love.”

  “I will, and thank you so much.” She felt her throat ache. It was not the insults of friends, but the kindnesses of strangers—so unexpected and unearned—that made her want to cry.

  What she had expected from her friends—words of concern and unconditional support—was going to be the exception, not the rule, she realized with shock. The rule was a nervous silence. The rule was the people whom you expected to call didn’t get in touch at all. This rule would also be followed through, she realized, in person. There would be the conversations that stopped when she passed by; the oh-so-ingratiating smiles that disappeared like a Popsicle on a summer sidewalk the moment her back was turned.

  At midmorning, Marsha, Seth’s mother, called.

  The conversation was filled with questions, polite concerns, and good wishes as substantial as air kisses. Then, with the niceties out of the way, she got down to business: “With all you are going through,” she said curtly, “it is clear that the engagement party should be postponed until further notice. You’ve got enough on your plate already. I’m sure the kids won’t mind.”

  “Well, Marsha, how very kind of you to be worried about all we are going through. Yes, we are busy. But we don’t mind. We don’t want to disappoint the kids.”

  “Seth really won’t be disappointed. In fact, I think he’s already discussed this with Kayla.”

  “Really? Did she agree? Is this what they both want?”

  There was a pause. “He didn’t share that information with me.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  “Has Kayla said anything to you?”

  “No. Not about this . . .”

  “Of course, there can be no question now of a formal announcement in the newspapers. Hello, are you still there?” Marsha said, tapping the phone.

  “I’m still here, Marsha,” Abigail replied, thinking of the woman’s dark, lightless eyes staring out of the heavy folds of her drooping eyelids; her puffy cheeks, her stingy mouth—a dark valley amid the drooping hills of flesh.

  “Oh, I thought the phone had gone dead.”

  Abigail pressed her lips together until she felt the veins in her throat pop up. “Let me talk it over with Kayla and get back to you.”

  “There’s nothing to discuss, Abigail,” Marsha said flatly, her high-pitched twitter suddenly gone, her voice level and cold. “There isn’t going to be any announcement, and there isn’t going to be any party. It would be a circus.”

  “Well, then, Marsha. You’d feel right at home.”

  There was the sound of a sudden intake of breath, then a dial tone.

  The next day, she called Kayla, but either her daughter’s phone wasn’t working or Kayla was looking at her caller ID and not picking up. Exasperated, Abigail sent her an SMS about the get-together that evening. There had been no reply.

  Then she called Shoshana: “Are you sure you are feeling up to the drive? Tell Matthew to take it slow.”

  “Listen, Mom, Matthew isn’t going to be able to make it.”

  There was a short silence. “Why?”

  “He says he’s got too much work to do, but I think he’s nervous about reporters taking his picture. He’s worried about his clients.”

  Of course he was.

  “Well, I don’t want you driving with the kids all by yourself in your seventh month . . .”

  “Mom . . . save it. I’m coming. I’ll be fine.”

  “Shoshana . . .”

  “Mom, I’m hanging up. I will see you and Dad in a few hours.”

  “I love you,” Abigail whispered.

  She stood over the stove stirring the pumpkin soup. She had gotten almost no sleep. Her feet were tired, and her eyes had difficulty staying open. She diced the coriander, and its pungent fragrance filled the room. She added it and the garlic to the meatballs. She shuddered at the thought of them all sitting around the table. What would they talk about? It would be more like a shiva call than, say, Thanksgiving. Still, people needed to eat. She melted a large chunk of chocolate over water for the cupcakes. They were her grandson’s favorite, and a pain to make. But the thought of her grandchildren making the exhausting drive with so little to look forward to when they arrived kept her stirring, beating, and melting.

  Despite everything, she had to admit to herself she was selfishly looking forward to seeing them under any circumstances. It had been months. Although it was only about a three-hour drive from Shoshana and Matthew’s home in Greenwich, Connecticut, she saw them only marginally more often than Joshua and Deidre, who had to fly cross-country from California.

  Joshua was in the music business, a song producer. He was doing well, or so he said. But it wasn’t the kind of job she’d imagined for her son. It wasn’t solid enough, and it was in show business, after all, a risky and suspect branch of the economy. At least he had—at long last—married. Deidre was a singer. She was also a Methodist.

  Abigail felt a dull stab whenever she remembered. She had agonized over attending a wedding in which there would be a minister and a rabbi sharing the same stage. Only at Adam’s insistence had she finally given in. The ceremony had been traumatic and painful. But afterward, she had eaten and danced with everyone else. What else could she do? It was like a plague, happening to everyone, even those, like herself, who had invested so much in their children’s religious educations, sending them to day schools, keeping the Sabbath and holidays as family affairs, deeply held and respected.

  Maybe all those guitar lessons h
ad been a mistake?

  Shoshana, thank God, had made up for him, snaring a Jewish mergers and acquisitions expert from a prestigious Wall Street firm. Abigail stirred the soup thoughtfully, tasting it, then adding some more coriander. But she wondered sometimes if her son-in-law’s success had really been such a blessing to her daughter. It had always bothered her that Shoshana seemed to be resting on her laurels, not displaying any inclination to use her expensive degree in architecture from Brown, content in her role as the perfect Greenwich hostess, mother of two beautiful children, with a third on the way. Everyone’s different. Abigail shrugged, reminding herself to be grateful. Shoshana was, after all, the sole grandchild factory up and running. She opened the oven, putting in the cupcakes. But it would be good for her daughter to be working as well, if simply for her own self-respect.

  She washed her hands, wiping them on her apron. That wouldn’t happen to Kayla. Kayla would be her own person, ensconced in a rock-solid profession, with an encouraging partner who respected her intelligence and education. Perhaps they’d even set up a practice together? It could be a wonderful, interesting life, married to the perfect partner, personally and professionally. At least, she hoped.

  She hung up her apron, walking into the living room and sitting down on the sofa. Marriage was so unpredictable. You could never know how the gears of two separate people—perfect in themselves—would mesh with one another over the long run. She thought of a friend’s daughter, a dentist, who had run a dental clinic with her orthodontist husband. They had been very successful, with a sprawling house in Newton, offices in Back Bay in one of those immaculate brownstones, and children enrolled in Maimonides, where they’d learned to lead the prayers in Hebrew. It had been perfect up until the very moment her friend’s daughter had run off with the contractor redoing their kitchen.

  The doorbell rang at six. It was Joshua and Deidre.

  “Why didn’t you call? I would have picked you up!” Abigail protested weakly, enormously relieved.

  “Right, Mom. Like you don’t have anything else to do. Besides, Deidre wouldn’t let me.”

  “You’re a brat,” she told him affectionately, thankful to Deidre, knowing Joshua wouldn’t have thought twice about making her fight the rush-hour traffic to Logan Airport.

  “I’m so sorry, Mom,” he said, hugging her.

  She hugged him back tightly. “I’m so sorry you had to schlep out all this way!”

  Deidre hung back, unsure, until Abigail went to her. “Deidre, it was so good of you to come, to take off work and fly all the way out here. I’m so grateful.”

  “Of course, Abigail! There was never any question. This is where Josh and I both need to be right now.”

  Did she mean it? Oh, what difference did that make! a voice inside of her shouted. She’s here, isn’t she? And where is Matthew, your perfect Jewish son-in-law? He hadn’t changed his plans. He wouldn’t be coming. He hadn’t even bothered to call.

  Shoshana and the children arrived a little while later.

  Abigail pulled six-year-old Alex—his great-grandfather’s namesake—to her, hugging him tight, then reached out for twelve-year-old Ellen, who reluctantly let herself be kissed.

  “Mom, are you okay?” Shoshana asked, her eyes anxious and searching.

  “I’m fine, fine. Don’t worry about me. How are you? Come in, come in.”

  Shoshana put her hand protectively over her rounded stomach. “We are both fine. Don’t worry about us. Where’s Dad?”

  Abigail looked around, realizing he hadn’t come down. “I don’t know. Maybe he’s still up in his study, or lying down?”

  “Poor Dad! What do your lawyers say?”

  “Don’t say hi to your brother,” Josh interrupted, pecking her on both cheeks.

  “You’re here too! When did you get in? Deidre!”

  The two women hugged each other.

  “Children, come in. Have something to eat!” Abigail said gaily.

  The grandchildren glanced up at each other briefly, then down at the floor. They didn’t move. “What’s going on, kids? Why so quiet?”

  “Mom, can I talk to you for a second?” Shoshana pulled her lightly toward the privacy of the kitchen.

  “They saw the papers.”

  Abigail felt her stomach flip over. “OH, NO!”

  “And . . . that’s not the worst.” Shoshana hesitated.

  “Tell me!”

  “Some moron in Ellen’s class told her: ‘Your grandfather helps kill American soldiers.’ She took it hard.”

  Abigail crossed her arms over her chest. Like a wave, the feeling rose and swelled, crashing down and covering her completely. Of all the horrors she had envisioned, this one had somehow escaped her. “No, no, no, no.” Her head felt loose and achy as she shook it in despair. She pinched Shoshana’s sleeve, whispering fiercely: “Don’t tell your father any of this!”

  “Are you kidding me? Why would I do that? I spoke to the kids. They’ll be fine. I’m going upstairs to get Dad.”

  But as they reentered the living room, he was already there. He had Alex in his lap and had one arm around Ellen, who was sitting next to him on the couch. Deidre and Josh stood behind him, gripping the sofa.

  “Well, there they are, my two beautiful girls!”

  Shoshana leaned over him, kissing the thinning salt-and-pepper hair on his crown. “Hi, Dad!”

  “Don’t look at me like that! This is all a tempest in a teapot! I’ve got great lawyers. This will all blow over soon . . . it’s ridiculous.” His jaw flinched, even as his smile never wavered. “I see the tablecloth, but no dishes or silverware. We are eating, aren’t we? Did you promise them turkey, Abigail?”

  “I haven’t promised them anything, Adam. They didn’t come to eat. They came to see you.”

  “They can do both. I’m starving. Right, we’re starving?” he said to Alex, bouncing him on his knees. “Skin and bones, this kid! Let’s fatten him up, Abigail! We can’t have such a skinny person in the family. You know, for your grandma Esther, not being a ‘good eater’ was the worst crime a person could commit!” He laughed.

  The adults cast furtive glances at each other.

  “Oh, please. Don’t be so serious! It’s a joke! I’m not a criminal, except if stupidity is somehow a jailable offense.”

  “What do your lawyers say, Dad?” Josh prodded him.

  “Oh, you know. Lawyers. They are so supercautious. And they’re still studying everything. There’s a mountain of papers. Boxes and boxes.”

  “Are they at least the best? You should get the best,” Deidre said.

  “Yes, Deidre. They are the best money can buy.”

  “Grandpa, it’s not true, right?” Ellen burst out suddenly.

  There was a collective intake of breath.

  Abigail watched her husband’s smile fade. He blinked, then pressed his fingertips into his eyes, his knuckles lifting his glasses above his eyebrows. He adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his slippery nose, gesturing to Ellen to come closer. “Of course it’s not true, Sunshine,” he whispered, hugging her.

  “Let me help you set the table,” Deidre offered.

  “Yes,” Shoshana agreed, her hands shaking. “Where’s Kayla?”

  “I don’t know,” Abigail admitted. “She’s not picking up her phone.”

  “But you’ve spoken to her, right?” Shoshana pressed.

  “Is this the right set?” Deidre asked, her hand suspended in midair, holding a plate.

  It was the special-occasion Villeroy & Boch.

  “Sure.” Abigail shrugged. With an atom bomb hanging over their heads, protecting the good china seemed ridiculous.

  Shoshana took some plates and placed them carefully on the table. “You mean to say, Kayla hasn’t even called you or Dad today?” She shook her head, incredulous. “She is unbelievable.”

  “Shush. Don’t be hard on your sister. Her engagement party is in two weeks, remember?” Adam said sharply.

  “That’s true. I
completely forgot. You’re going ahead with it, right?”

  “Of course! Why shouldn’t we?” he demanded.

  Abigail shrugged. “I got a call from Seth’s mother. She’s adamant about canceling.”

  “What does she have in mind?” Adam said with quiet bitterness. “Calling up every single person who got an invitation and telling them: ‘The engagement’s off because my husband is a crook’ ”

  “She’s an idiot. Don’t pay attention to her.” Josh nodded. “I agree with Dad.”

  “It’s not up to me, Josh.”

  “That fat, social-climbing snob with her curly, dyed blond hair and perky personality!” Shoshana fumed. “It’s her loss! Think of all the third-rate travel packages to Morocco she could have sold to all the hapless guests.”

  Abigail wanted to protest but found herself smiling instead.

  “Whenever I spend time with her and her show-off of a husband, I count my teeth.” Adam nodded.

  “Really? I thought I was the only one who felt that way,” Abigail said, strangely elated. “I wish I knew how Kayla feels about all this.”

  “I can’t believe she hasn’t been over here yet! You mean to say, Mom, you went to bail out Daddy all by yourself?”

  “The lawyer met me there, Shoshana.”

  “She is the most selfish little brat in the world.”

  “Leave her alone, Shoshana!”

  “Adam, don’t get upset. We are just talking . . .”

  “Kayla’s the one who is going to suffer the most here from all of this,” he continued hoarsely. “And none of this is her fault.”

  Shoshana knelt, hugging him. “It’s not yours either, Daddy! You shouldn’t let her get away with this stuff.”

  “She’ll be here.” He nodded confidently, stroking Shoshana’s hair.

  “The table is ready. Why don’t we all sit down and eat something?” Abigail said brightly.

  They settled around the table naturally. There was something comforting about the room being full, the voices familiar and loving. Worse things had happened to families, Abigail thought, carefully balancing the soup tureen to keep the hot liquid from sloshing over. She looked around the table. No one had died. They were all alive, and well.