by Lev Raphael
So he tried to learn something new, a piece too hard for him. He forced himself from bar to bar for more than an hour, making only linear progress and not much of that.
The buzzer rang too early for it to be Sasha.
“Hi.” Jenny stood at the door, flushed and hesitant.
He squeezed her hand hello without even knowing it, but said “Come in” very formally.
“Sure?” she asked, wavering.
“Come on.”
Now Jenny brightened, entering with pleasure in her stride. Stefan brought her a soda where she stood with her back to the piano like a recitalist. She gulped half of it down, plucked at her T-shirt, which he noticed now was sweat-stained. Her sandaled feet were dirty and even the long fringe of her purple suede belt hung limp.
“How was it?” He sat in Sasha’s chair.
“Great, tons of people, everyone’s out.”
“Trouble?”
“None.” Jaunty, radiant, she plopped onto the couch. “Except it was hot. Where’s your dad?”
“Good question.”
“What?”
“He’s at a lesson.”
Jenny nodded and the following silence lay on him heavy, humid; something had to be said, to just go on from before would be a kind of lie—he didn’t believe people could really forgive and forget when they were hurt. It happened too often to be talked away, cut too deeply. But he didn’t know what that left.
Jenny launched on a long overdetailed description of the day, as if creating it for someone blind. She’s nervous, Stefan sensed; so was he.
“Oh, there was a counterdemonstration,” Jenny said. “It wasn’t very big,” she added, wavering between delight and tact. “People believe different things,” she continued, softly.
“I don’t know what I believe,” Stefan brought out.
“I worry about you.”
Stefan tensed; Jenny’s voice was suddenly thick with something she hadn’t said. He didn’t look up at her though her tone demanded it.
“You’re so cut off,” she said. “Where are you?”
“Now?”
“Now—yesterday—any day. It’s like I can only get next to you and that’s it.” Jenny looked tight, frustrated. He met her hard anxious stare, so fixed she could have been willing him across to her.
“That’s not enough?” He spoke only because it was his turn; he had no idea what he meant. He had never talked to anyone like this, never felt the air between him and anyone so charged and frightening.
“You only kiss me when you’re drunk,” Jenny dropped.
“You only let me when you’re drunk.” It was silly, like a sandbox fight; he grinned at her and Jenny relaxed, pushed the hair from her face. “I’m not drunk now,” Stefan went on, surprised at the ease with which the words left him.
“You’re also not kissing me.”
He rose and went to where she sat, drew her up into his arms; Jenny stroked his back, his hair. He held her, afraid of the open searching face he looked down at. Her eyes were so strange and green; usually when they were this close it was in shadow or darkness. Her white face shone up at him, guiding him down. He kissed her slowly, more slowly than ever.
In a minute she whispered: “Now play for me.” Jenny pushed hair back off his ears as if to see more of him. “I’ll sit next to you,” she said, joining him at the bench. Stefan didn’t know what to play, what he wanted to say to Jenny, who sat all appreciative and ready at his side. He was only used to sharing the bench with Sasha. He fiddled at the keys with one hand, the other going through the music on the stand.
The downstairs bell rang.
“Your father?”
He nodded and went to buzz, reluctant. When he turned back, Jenny looked so delicate at the piano, one thin hand up at the edge of a page, the other palm down on the bench. He didn’t move, just stood and wondered what next between them, and when, how? Not here, Stefan thought, it would make him too nervous.
Sasha seemed very tired but smiled at Jenny and chatted before he excused himself.
“Your dad’s neat,” Jenny said at the door. “But not as neat as you.” She kissed him good-bye and left with a little wave just as Sasha emerged from the bedroom, changed.
“I like her,” Sasha threw off, heading to the kitchen.
Stefan tensed and went to the bedroom, closed the door, but he couldn’t sit; he paced and then stood at the window glaring out at the street. He didn’t want Sasha and Jenny together, didn’t want them to talk to each other—it split him apart to stand with them both. Sasha knew everything, Jenny nothing. No, that wasn’t even true, they knew him in different ways, and the two clanged and clashed inside him. He hated it.
“I have to tell her.”
After dinner, Jenny called. “Meet me at Dooley’s—people are coming by at ten.”
He went to wash up and put on a fresh shirt. Sasha sat a bit stiffly in the living room, reading the Times. Sasha didn’t really like him to go drinking, especially since he was underage, and also Sasha didn’t approve of the run-down neighborhood bar two blocks over, so Stefan always felt sort of guilty going there. Still, it was seedy enough, dark and narrow and quiet enough even when crowded to be interesting, romantic almost.
Jenny was talking to the bartender, a third cousin of hers, when Stefan entered. She had her hair up in a loose tendrilly bun and leaned across the bar looking much older than seventeen. They talked nonsense to Johnny for a while, Stefan playing with his seven and seven, stirring it more than drinking it. He liked the anonymity of Dooley’s, the plain small tables and chairs, the bottle rows, the vague trophies, the funny signs he never read; it made him feel warm and private, alone with Jenny no matter who else was there or what jokes her skinny, stooped cousin made at the two of them.
Some regulars came in and he and Jenny retired with their drinks to a back table beyond the jukebox. Before they could really say anything, the crowd from school descended, on the way back from an early movie downtown, pulling over chairs and tables. The talk soon shifted to the morning’s demonstration and Stefan drifted away from the excited involved figures; they relived the demonstration there at the back of the bar, all its tiny mounting successes, while up at the front.… No, how could he be sure those squat red-faced men up there were for or against anything? That was making it all too “Us” and “Them,” too simple.
Stefan nodded and nodded, trying not to look inattentive.
Jenny stroked his hand under the table, placed it on her knee and held it there, as if to make up for not having been able to say much to him. He was concentrated now all in his hand under Jenny’s, wondering if he really could feel each of her fingers or if that was just imaginary.
When the crowd broke up with promises of getting together on Friday night, leaving Stefan and Jenny at a table thick with glasses and wet napkins, Jenny said, offhand, “My folks aren’t coming home tonight, they’re with my aunt in Jersey. They called me before.”
So this was it, he thought in Jenny’s elevator a few minutes later; he would not have to listen to other guys so blankly anymore; he would be one of them, really smile, really know. But it was strange, he thought while jenny was in the bathroom, strange that they would make love—they were too close, and not close enough.
When she entered her bedroom in a simple pink nightgown, her hair loose on her shoulders, he flushed and felt hot in a way he hadn’t before.
“What were you waiting for?” Jenny smiled, gliding across to where he sat on her bed. “I’ll help you.” She pulled him up and began unbuttoning his shirt. Stefan groaned and stroked her rear, pushing against her; he kissed her neck, her eyes, as she maneuvered him out of his shirt.
“So nice,” she murmured, stroking his chest. It was easy, he thought, kissing her forehead, focused on where a tiny freckle hid just inside her hairline. He sat her down, crossed to the door, shut it and closed the light. In the dark he slipped off his shoes and socks and pants but kept his shorts on; it embarrassed him to bear
this stiffness across to where she lay.
“Have you—?” He slipped into bed with her.
“Once, sort of by accident, that’s why I use something.” It was good that she’d been there before him. His hands roamed under Jenny’s nightgown, feeling flesh and cloth at the same time—amazing that this was Jenny in bed with him, Jenny he crushed with a kiss, Jenny he explored with a shy finger, Jenny who moved against him in a way even his night phantoms never had. She was so hot, her face so hot and her hands stroking his thighs, up, down, closer, teasing, finally pulling at his shorts. Jenny did this, Jenny spread herself out for him, saying “I love you, you know I love you?” He leaned down to slide off his shorts. Jenny reached to guide him to her, and it was over, on her hand, he was horrified.
“Oh God, I’m sorry!” He plunged from the bed to pull on his clothes.
“Stefan.” Jenny sat up, flung aside the covers.
He couldn’t find his shorts; it didn’t matter—he stuffed his socks into a pocket, grabbed his shirt and tore open the door.
“It’s okay, we have all night,” Jenny called, following, beginning to cry. He plucked at the locks in the dark.
“Let me out.”
“Stefan, please—”
He pushed her away and the door gave at last.
9
He slept without waking and Sasha was already gone when he emerged from bed. Straightening the sheets and making the bed seemed an ordeal, and it all reminded him of something, something he couldn’t bother to track down through this morning’s haze. When the bed was made, he settled onto it, dizzy perhaps; what he couldn’t think of kept creeping up to him. He shoved it away with breakfast, the image of breakfast. He padded into the kitchen to brew coffee; usually instant was enough, but Stefan had to slow down, had to fill himself. He turned on the radio, loud, didn’t listen as he scrambled eggs, merely moved behind the wall of sound.
He ate concentrating on chewing, on his fork, on the white cafe curtains. When he tried to wash up, though, his hands shook and, turning off the radio, he left the dishes to soak. He carried his cup to the bathroom, set it on the shelf near the cabinet and turned on the hot water to shave. But as soon as he looked at himself in the mirror, last night rushed upon him; he leaned over the sink head down, clutching the porcelain, forcing himself not to cry, not to break, struggling against it, his jaws so tight he feared a tooth would break, would spill from his mouth all ground and bloody.
The doorbell rang. He groaned and it rang again, sharply, his mother’s ring.
It couldn’t be. His hands loosened as the bell rang again. I won’t answer, he thought, passing into the hall to stare at the door, which seemed almost to command him across to it. He peered out the peephole: his mother.
“I had some—” she said when the door opened, and then stopped, not crossing the threshold. “You’re not at school?”
“No.”
“Are you ill?”
“No.”
“Sure?”
He opened wide the door as if that would prove he was all right; his mother stepped in.
“Sasha’s at a lesson, I think.”
She nodded. “I should’ve called first. I had some shopping to do downtown—I thought I’d come up here first.” She smiled, looking very slim and elegant in a beige linen suit. He resented how beautiful Leo had made her, how expensively Leo dressed her; it always seemed somehow that the clothes, the discreet bits of jewelry were more Leo’s than hers. His mother appeared to him costumed: Businessman’s Foreign Wife. He could not get used to her brisk perfection.
“Could I have some tea?”
Stefan obeyed while his mother walked down into the living room and over to the windows.
“Your view is beautiful this time of year,” she called like a tourist.
What did she want? He wouldn’t ask her, but he was sure she wanted something, needed something. Stefan brought out the cup and saucer, setting them down for her.
“You’re not going to change?” she asked, moving to the couch.
“Change?”
“From your pajamas?” She sat, took up the tea, crossed her legs. He glanced down at her shoes, they were alligator, probably, like her bag.
“I didn’t shower.”
“It’s almost noon.”
“I didn’t know.” He settled onto Sasha’s chair, not looking at his mother. He hadn’t expected to see her so soon after the last visit, but at least she hadn’t come with Leo; alone, she was less upsetting, though sometimes she seemed so sharp and clear as to give him a headache—then, even her smiles were too strong.
“You’re sure you’re not ill?”
“There’s the strike this week,” he reminded her. “No one’s going to school.”
“Well—as long as you’re not on a picket line where someone can see you.” She sipped from the gold-edged cup, eyes down.
Stefan didn’t even ask who “someone” was—why bother? He knew, and he didn’t know, didn’t care.
He watched her—his mother—a stranger—more a stranger than anyone ever could be just because she was so close to him. Today, luckily, he didn’t feel as uncomfortable with her as usual; Leo’s image didn’t blur and waver with hers. Maybe he was used to how they lived.
“I heard from your father,” she began, voice clear, direct.
And now there was someone else in the room with them. Stefan hadn’t looked at any of the pictures his father had sent, not for long, anyway—the beaten-down man’s face seared him even at that size. The hand holding the snapshot would feel heavy, full; the few times they’d spoken on the phone with hundreds of miles between them—and that not enough—his father’s voice made no sense to him.
Stefan forced himself to remember when the last letter came from Ann Arbor, a month ago? As usual, Sasha had left it around for a few days; as usual Stefan hadn’t read it.
“He’s getting married.” She nodded. “Not soon. Next year, in the summer.”
“Are you going?” Stefan heard himself ask.
“No.” She eyed him oddly. “Are you?”
“I didn’t know,” Stefan managed.
“I’m sure he’ll send you the plane ticket if you asked—or we’ll pay for it.”
He hadn’t asked his father for anything, or his mother, in years, not even for an explanation of what had gone wrong between them. When his mother had tried asking him what happened that night in Michigan, and tried explaining why she had lied about her past, her whole life, he had simply walked out of the room. She followed, but he refused to listen, and she gave up. But she had slowly allowed herself to become more Jewish, with Leo, and he thought she had been trying to entice him with talk of the different holidays. As if he were nothing more than a cat leaping up for a piece of fish dangled out of reach. It disgusted him.
She finished the tea now.
“I suppose I’m glad he’s decided to be with someone,” she said a bit heavily.
“Did Leo say that?”
She started. “Yes. How did you—?”
Stefan shrugged, wondering why he couldn’t have slept through the morning, her ringing, why anyone had to tell him this. Couldn’t he have found out some other way?—when he was older and didn’t care, had his own life that was unconnected with theirs, a life that could protect and enclose him. His lack of freedom had never before hurt so much; he was tied to them even now, even after he’d lived with Sasha so long.
I have to go away, he thought carefully, as if fingering something that hadn’t cooled, and wondered that his mother hadn’t sensed what he was feeling, planning.
“Well, it’s a good thing,” his mother asserted.
“That’s Sasha’s line.”
She laughed. “You’re right. I’m sure that’s what he’ll say.” She leaned forward. “Will you tell him?”
He hesitated; it was almost as if she wanted to involve him in his father’s marriage or draw him back to them, but he didn’t want to even think about it, let alone tell
Sasha.
“Of course I can call later,” his mother said smoothly. Too smoothly?
His suspicion of her was so strong today he felt ashamed. It wasn’t even her he suspected, but the gleaming assured woman she’d become, and Leo.
“I’ll call anyway.” She rose, took up her handbag.
So then he had to decide; he still didn’t know what she wanted him to do. His mother crossed to the stairs, turned. “Why don’t you come stay with us? Pick some weekend you’re free.”
He had been invited like this many times, but today he couldn’t keep silent: the way she stood, one arm stretched out to the curved railing behind her, was too expectant, too kind, and yet somehow it wasn’t real—the movement seemed chosen far too well, managed. But she was his mother; she hadn’t mentioned him visiting in a long time. Away, he thought—he had to get away.
“How about this weekend?”
She grinned. “Yes? This weekend’s fine.”
He thought she might want to kiss him, but she held back, just nodded. “Call us.” And she stepped to the door. “Tell Sasha I’m sorry I missed him.”
“ ‘Bye,” he called as she got onto the elevator. He felt like a fraud—or a liar. But he was going somewhere; even their house was somewhere.
Stefan didn’t even get the chance to decide whether he would tell Sasha or not; his mother called later just as Sasha came in around dinner time, and the long conversation drifted gradually from English through Yiddish to Polish, with some spots of Russian too. Ever since they got back from Michigan, Yiddish had emerged from hiding. Stefan sometimes couldn’t stand the sound of it—so unmusical and coarse compared to Polish or Russian.
“So.” Sasha stood in the bedroom doorway. “This is news.” Stefan turned his chair to face Sasha, who entered and sat on the bed.
“This is news.” Sasha’s eyes searched his. “She is a professor with him.”
