by Sharon Potts
“Wow.” She tried to sound upbeat. “I didn’t think I’d ever call you pale.”
He forced a smile. Tubes and wires connected him to various machines. One behind him beeped every few seconds. “It’s good to see you, Annie,” he said in a raspy voice.
She sat on the edge of the bed, rather than on the ugly orange chair. There was a moveable tray with a water pitcher and a plastic glass with a straw. No flowers anywhere. She should have brought him flowers. No one else would.
“Do you want your water?” she asked.
“Wouldn’t mind.”
She handed him the glass and he sipped through the straw. He still had a bandage on his pinkie where he’d cut himself the day before. It seemed so long ago. If only she had picked up on the signs.
He met her eye. His eyes looked naked.
She reached into her satchel and pulled out his tortoise-framed glasses. “Thought you might like these.”
“Wonderful.” He adjusted them on his nose. “Much better. Where did you find them?”
“On the floor of your apartment. With your smashed dishes and overturned furniture. I stopped by earlier to straighten up. And by the way, Woodward’s staying with one of your neighbors.”
“Thank you,” he said softly.
“You’re welcome.”
He stared at the bandage on his finger. “You’re angry with me.”
“I’m angrier with myself. I should have known something could go wrong last night. That Kylie would pull something.”
“So now you’re clairvoyant, my Annie?” He gave her a weak smile. “You can blame me.”
“Oh don’t worry. I’m furious with you, too. How would you feel if I hadn’t called you when I had a problem and then overdosed on pills and alcohol?”
“I’d give you an F.”
“Glad you find it funny.”
“I’m sorry.” He closed his eyes. “It just hurt so bad. What she’d done. I couldn’t bear it. Losing Billy.”
“But you haven’t lost him. It’s a temporary setback. You’ll track them down, take her to court.”
“Stop.” He held up his hand. One of the machines made a beep of protest.
“Okay.” She softened her voice. “We shouldn’t talk about this now.”
“I know you want to fix things,” he said. “You can’t help yourself. That’s why you’re my Annie-get-your-gun.” Another smile, this one stronger.
Her eyes watered. “Damn you, Bill.” She leaned over to hug him. “You’re my best friend. You know how much I love you.”
“I do.”
“Promise me,” she said, her voice too choked to continue.
“I promise,” he said. “I’ll call you if I ever feel low.”
She nodded and wiped her cheek. “And I promise I’ll try to be a better friend.”
“You’re a great friend, Annie. Most of the time.” He winked. “But it took you long enough to get here. Where the hell have you been?”
She was relieved that he was able to joke. “Are you up to talking about my stuff?”
“I sure as shit don’t want to think about my situation. Please, tell me what’s been going on.”
“Julian and I went to see Mariasha Lowe this afternoon.”
“Julian? Yesterday you said that was over.”
At least Bill’s mind was crystal clear. “Over and back on,” she said.
“I hope my situation had something to do with that happy resolution.”
“It did. But please don’t feel obligated to attempt suicide every time I have relationship issues.”
He let out a full-bodied laugh.
Tres bon. He’s back to himself.
“And did Mariasha shed any new light on Isaac Goldstein?”
“Quite a bit, though I don’t think she realized it.”
“She still doesn’t know your relation to Isaac Goldstein?”
“No,” Annette said. “But I told Julian everything.”
“Did you now?” He pursed his lips and gave a quick nod, reminding her of when she’d give an answer in class that he approved of.
“Anyway,” she said. “Mariasha had a brother named Saul who was a physicist working on the bomb at Los Alamos.”
“My, my.”
“Saul was recruited by the Soviets to pass technical information on to them.”
“And?”
“Apparently he did.”
“There’s a promising development. Saul may have been the spy the government was looking for.”
“I think he was, but it gets better. Mariasha claims that Saul deceived the Soviets. He modified the formulas he gave them, so any bombs they built wouldn’t work.”
“Ballsy,” Bill said.
“If, in fact, he was the saboteur. There’s some question about that. I’m wondering if Mariasha made that part up because she wanted to believe her brother was actually a hero.”
“Hmm.” Bill rubbed his chin, causing the machine to give beep of protest. “Do you think Isaac knew Saul? They may have met through Mariasha.”
“Yes. And I’m pretty sure my grandfather knew Saul was spying.”
“Interesting,” he said. “But if Isaac knew about Saul’s involvement, either he would have been Saul’s handler or someone else in the spy ring was. How is it possible Saul’s name never came up? Was there any mention of him in anything you read?”
“Just the Slugger reference,” she said. “And I’m sure Saul was Slugger.”
“So why do you think Isaac didn’t give Saul up to the government to save himself?”
“It gets complicated,” she said. “Apparently, Saul was so mortified about the devastation caused by the bombs dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki that he continued working for the government after the Manhattan Project was disbanded. But this time, Saul sabotaged the American bombs. He modified the sensors so the bombs wouldn’t detonate.”
“Whoa,” Bill said. “That’s huge. So America had a stockpile of dud bombs?”
“That’s right. I believe that’s the reason my grandfather didn’t turn Saul in. He must have agreed with Saul’s scheme. It was the sacrifice Isaac made to keep the world safe.”
“Sacrifice?” Bill sucked on the straw, draining the rest of the water. He handed her the empty glass. “Maybe I’m a little slow tonight, but either you’re leaving something out, or you’re jumping to conclusions.”
“Sorry. I left something out.” She reached into her satchel for the pile of her grandmother’s letters, found the last one Betty had written, and handed it to Bill. “It was written on June 11, 1953.”
“The day before the execution.” Bill squinted at the letter, and read aloud. “This is a sacrifice I must make.”
“Where did you get these letters?”
“I found them at Linda’s house. She’d lied about having them.”
“Why would she have done that?”
“She said she wanted to protect me from learning how terrible my grandfather really was. But now that I know why he made the sacrifice, I realize he had an impossible choice. His family or saving humanity.”
He rubbed his chin. “This letter isn’t dated. How do you know it’s from June 11?”
“The postmark on the envelope.” She handed him the empty envelope at the back of the pile of letters.
He studied it, then put the envelope down on the bed. “Why are you so certain Isaac knew what Saul was doing and that he agreed with him?”
“Because it all fits.”
“Really? Just like that?” He frowned. “Think of Nassim Taleb’s Black Swan theory, Annette. We talked about this in class. For every event or set of circumstances, there are an infinite number of explanations for how it happened, all of them fitting the known data. Are you sure you’re not making the pieces fit because you want to believe this? Because it makes your grandfather into a hero?”
Wasn’t that what she had just accused Mariasha of doing with her brother?
“I’m not making up the stuff about Sa
ul. It comes from Mariasha and a painting Saul made that documents what he was doing.”
Bill scratched his arm where an intravenous tube was held in place by tape. “I’m not saying Saul didn’t do those things. I just don’t see the connection to the letter.”
“My grandfather admitted his guilt to Grandma Betty the day before he was executed, so it’s effectively a confession.”
“This is a sacrifice I must make,” Bill read, again, then handed her back the letter. “That’s too general to be a confession.”
It was a bit general, but everything fit so nicely. And yes, she couldn’t deny she wanted to believe the scenario she’d painted of her grandfather’s beau geste.
She looked at the letter her Grandma Betty had written the day before her husband was executed. She studied the shaky blue penmanship. A letter, understandably written in fury. She wished she could tell her grandmother that Isaac Goldstein’s death hadn’t been in vain. Maybe Grandma Betty would have even agreed with his sacrifice.
She picked up the envelope lying on the bed. June 11, 1953 postmark. The same shaky handwriting.
In black ink.
Not blue.
Her heart hiccupped. This wasn’t necessarily the letter that had been mailed in this envelope. She had made the wrong assumption.
Again.
CHAPTER 44
She left Bill with a hug and a promise to visit the next day with the books he asked her to bring. Her brain was churning. How could she have been so rash, jumping to conclusions about the date of that letter? And she had also conveniently explained away Linda’s reference to Isaac being “a cruel, heartless man” rather than searching for the letter where Linda had very likely read the remark. Now, Annette realized, it must be in the missing letter.
She wandered down the hallway, relieved to find an empty waiting room. She turned the volume on the TV to mute and called Linda, wondering if her second cousin would talk to her after their ugly confrontation that morning.
The phone rang four times before Linda answered. “What is it, Annette?” Her voice was chilly and flat.
“I know there’s another letter. My grandmother sent it the day before Isaac was executed. I have the envelope.” She could make out droning voices in the background, perhaps the news. “Do you have the letter?”
“What if I told you I destroyed it?” Linda said.
“I don’t think you did.”
Linda didn’t say anything. In the background, the newscaster’s voice sounded harsh and robotic. Finally, Linda gave a little cough. “My mother always told me what a monster he was and how deeply he hurt her sister, but I never understood to what extent. When I found the letters after you asked me to look for them, I read them for the first time. I wanted to destroy all of them, but I couldn’t. Aunt Betty had written them and I knew I’d be destroying a part of her, as well. But I kept out that last letter, planning to burn it.”
“But you didn’t.”
“No. I didn’t.”
“Please, Linda. I need to read it.”
“Can’t you leave it alone?”
“I wish I could.”
There was a female newscaster speaking now on Linda’s end, all chipper, probably giving the weather report.
“Please, Linda. Let me come by tonight and pick it up.”
She seemed to be thinking. Finally, she said, “I’m going into the city in a few minutes to pick up Kenny. I’ll drop off the letter then, but I don’t want to see you right now.”
“Thank you,” Annette said. “Thank you so much.”
“I don’t think you’ll be thanking me after you’ve read it.”
The rain had slowed to a drizzle and turned into a frosty mist blurring the cars and buildings as she and Julian walked home from the hospital. They went down slushy streets and she filled him in on her discovery about the letter her grandmother had written just before her grandfather’s execution.
“Linda told me she’ll bring me the letter tonight.”
“And then what? The letters you already have are pretty harsh. Your grandfather chose to die a traitor and basically ruined your mother’s and grandmother’s lives. But Linda has a letter that could be even more damning. Are you sure you want to read that?”
Gray steam rose from the manholes in front of Annette’s brownstone. Her apartment was dark, as she’d left it. She looked up at Julian. His black wool cap was dotted with ice crystals. “I have to,” she said. “Because as awful as it may turn out to be, I need to know the truth.”
They went inside the building. She could smell a chicken roasting. Her mother made roast chicken for special occasions. Maybe it had been a dish Mama remembered from her childhood. Friday night dinners from ‘before,’ when she’d lived with both her parents on the Lower East Side. When her life had been simple, secure, and happy.
She hung up their jackets and went into the kitchen alcove to open a bottle of wine. She filled two glasses then brought them to the sofa and sat down beside Julian. They drank without talking. She leaned back against the sofa cushions and closed her eyes. The wine made her woozy, the strain of the day and lack of sleep finally hitting her.
Julian’s arm slipped around her shoulders. His breath warmed her ear and sent shivers down her back. “You know, Annette. You already have your truth. You have a plausible explanation for your grandfather’s actions. He was a flawed and complex man who grievously hurt your grandmother and mother by choosing to follow his convictions.”
“If that’s all there is.”
“Do you think it’s possible to know the complete truth about anything?”
“Probably not.” She opened her eyes and took another sip of wine. The edges in the room were blurring. The bookshelves, bricked-up fireplace, soft blue sofa, the old trunk. On it was the photo album, open to her grandparents’ wedding picture.
“Then if Linda brings the letter, tear it up, burn it,” he said. “Let it go.”
His face was close to hers. His blue eyes closing in. Let it go.
He was right. She had her truth about her grandfather. A flawed and complex man. Not a monster. She’d let it go.
Her lips touched his.
And a sound, gentle as a flapping bird wing came from the front door.
She turned toward it. On the floor, partially stuck beneath the door, was a manila envelope. The letter she no longer wanted to see.
“I don’t want to read it,” she said.
“Then don’t.”
She struggled with herself. Rip it up. Burn it.
“But I have to.” She put her empty wine glass down on the trunk and went to pick up the manila envelope. She felt a loosening in her gut as she took out the letter in her grandmother’s handwriting, written in same shade of blue ink as on the envelope postmarked June 11, 1953.
She sat on the sofa and read her grandmother’s words, as Julian looked over her shoulder.
Dear Irene:
My husband is a cruel, heartless man.
There, finally—Betty’s remark, just as Linda had said.
Isaac will be executed tomorrow and to Hell with him. I pray that no legal tactics or further stays of execution will intervene. I wish him gone from my life forever.
As I was arriving at the prison today, I saw a woman dressed completely in black leaving. She was stooped over and a veil shaded her eyes. There was something familiar about her, but I couldn’t place her, and the handkerchief she held prevented me from seeing her face. I think she had seen me and knew who I was because she left in a hurry. Somehow I knew she had just been to see Isaac. That she had come to say goodbye.
When I saw Isaac shortly after, I was left with no doubt. His eyes were red and he was unable to look at me. And then, without warning, he dropped to his knees and grabbed hold of my ankles. “Forgive me,” he said. “You don’t deserve any of this.”
My heart felt like it had been ripped from my chest as I listened to my husband of almost ten years tell me he loved another.
&nbs
p; Annette gasped. He loved another? Her grandfather had loved someone other than Grandma Betty? She glanced at the photo album on the trunk, open to the wedding photo of Betty and Isaac.
And then, as though loving another woman wasn’t enough to destroy what little of me is left, he told me that he loved her so much he was willing to make this sacrifice. He was going to die for her.
“Ce que l’enfer?” Annette said, stunned. There had been no grand gesture in her grandfather’s death. He hadn’t died for his principles, but for this mystery woman.
She met Julian’s eyes. “He was no hero.” She spit out the words. “Isaac Goldstein went to the electric chair because he was in love with someone else.”
CHAPTER 45
Her apartment felt too small, too close, no air to breathe.
The old photo album sat on the trunk, filled with pages of false dreams. It was too difficult to look at her grandmother’s young happy face, knowing the pain that was in store for her.
“Let’s get out of here,” Julian said.
She was only vaguely aware of a hustle out of her brownstone into the street. A taxi ride huddled against Julian, then into the lobby, up in the elevator, and into his overheated apartment.
She sat on the black leather sofa now, a glass of something stronger than wine in her hands. She took another sip, felt the burn. Cognac. But it couldn’t burn out the anger she felt toward her grandfather.
Julian was beside her, his arm draped over the back of the sofa, the fingers of one hand tapping against the leather, a glass in his other hand.
At least it was over. Her search for the truth was over.
“I turned the heat down,” Julian said. “It’s been on since last night.”
She processed that. Last night was when Bill had almost killed himself and she had called Julian to help her. She’d hardly slept since.
She stared out the window. Distant, blurred lights from lower Manhattan broke through the darkness of the night. “I guess I got what I was looking for,” she said. “Now I know the truth about Isaac Goldstein. Not a traitor to his country, but he sure hung my mother and grandmother out to dry.”
