A Long Island Story

by Rick Gekoski

  Best to let it go, he’d have to, he already had. It had been written fifteen years ago, was an embarrassment really, without any of the polish and restraint of his short stories. He had enough of those – twelve or thirteen – to make a small volume. Not all were as good as ‘Track Shoes’, but he could renew interest in them, take them one at a time, polish them up while studying for the Bar. It was just a matter of discipline; after all, they had been written when Jake was a baby and he had been working full time. Get up early, write for a couple of hours, move on to other (and lesser) things.

  He nodded his head, comforted by the thought. If he could salvage that, and find a way to navigate Addie’s hurt and anger – they would abate, she’d calm down, she didn’t have any better choices than he did. It was just a matter of time, really. Unpleasant time perhaps, but Rhoda might turn out to have been a benefactor after all. If he’d learned anything from his political past it was this: bide your time, stick to your beliefs, take the long view. Not that it had worked, not yet anyway. How the hell long a view do you have to take?

  At ten after four an exhausted Maurice stepped onto the platform at Huntington Station and trudged wearily round to his parked car, which started first time for once. An hour and twenty-seven minutes later a bewildered Ben arrived at that same platform, walked across the tracks and hailed a taxi. ‘Harbor Heights Park,’ he said, as if it were one of the minor circles of hell, for the eternally bruised and anxious. The taxi driver nodded, kept silent, seemed to understand.

  At much the same time, Addie, having deposited her few belongings in the apartment on West 86th Street and poured herself a whisky, was contemplating making a phone call to Ira’s office. It was daunting, and she feared a reflexive rejection, but she was cramped with loneliness and had no one to turn to. She still had former friends in the city, girls from college, now wives. No sense talking to them.

  The switchboard girl announced ‘Mayor’s Office’ – Ira was some sort of high-up associate, Deputy Chief of Staff perhaps? – and Addie could just about utter the words ‘Ira Gellhorn?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘May I speak to Ira Gellhorn?’

  ‘Hold on a moment, please . . .’

  And please God he would have left for the afternoon, or be in a meeting, or be ill, or on holidays, or anywhere, anywhere but about to be on the phone, on the phone to her . . .

  ‘Hello. Ira Gellhorn . . .’ It was his voice, of course it was, and it had that old diffidence that, when he introduced himself, always ended on a rising tone, as if asking a question, or wondering whether he was, in fact, himself: Ira Gellhorn?

  Before making the call she’d planned for this very moment, how to say the next few words in such a way as to be recognised quickly, nothing worse than the possible (and not unlikely) pause, followed by ‘Adele who?’

  The pause was already lengthening.

  ‘Hello,’ he said, beginning to doubt there was anyone on the line.

  ‘Ira,’ she said, her voice holding remarkably well, no letting it quaver or he wouldn’t recognise it.

  ‘Ira, it’s Adele . . . Adele Kaufmann.’

  ‘Adele!’

  The tone was surprised but not hostile, and the pause that followed contemplative. She could hear a faint humming sound, though whether it came from the line or Ira’s lips was unclear.

  ‘Sorry to surprise you like this, out of the blue. I didn’t even know I was going to call you until I . . .’

  ‘My God!’ he said. ‘It’s been such a long time . . .’

  In the following pause they were both recalling – it took no effort – the last time they had seen each other, on the corner of 67th Street near Hunter College, on the day after graduation. She’d broken off the relationship a few weeks earlier, prior to leaving the city to go to Philadelphia, and had only run into him after clearing her possessions from her locker and heading for the subway for the last time.

  Her announcement that it was over, and that she needed to move on, had taken him by surprise, though she had tried to ease him into it. At first he thought – how foolish was that? – that she was teasing, and when it became clear that she meant it, that it was over, he had broken into tears and rushed off. A supplicatory note followed, and another, but she thought it wise not to answer. And then there they were, on that corner, and his tears were still flowing. She’d given him a quick, fierce hug, not at all sure that she wanted to leave him but certain that she should.

  ‘Goodbye, darling Ira,’ she’d said.

  And now here he was, or there he was in some drab office with a good view, remembering as she was remembering, clearly uncertain how to proceed, or if.

  ‘Adele,’ he said, ‘I have someone in the office with me, and a meeting to finish. Can I call you back in an hour or so?’

  She was relieved, it would give both of them time to draft a script, find a way to . . . to what? To exchange histories, fill in the fifteen-year gap? Or even to do so in person, not over the phone? Was he married now, might he have children? Probably. Stupid goddamn thing to do, calling him up out of the blue like this. Unkind, preposterous.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. No problem at all. Good idea. I’ll be here . . .’

  He laughed, he had a lovely laugh with warmth in it that included you.

  ‘I don’t know where you are. Or what your phone number is.’

  She laughed too – less, well, self-conscious.

  ‘Oh, me. I’m in the city. For the weekend. In my parents’ apartment on West 86th.’ She gave him the phone number, slowly, and repeated it in case he got it wrong.

  ‘I got it,’ he said. ‘I’ll get back to you.’

  She replaced the receiver in the cradle gently, unwilling to break the ensuing silence, took a full swallow from her Scotch and water; she could already feel the effects, sank into the cushiony armchair, took a deep breath.

  ‘What have I done?’ she asked. ‘What am I doing?’ The possibility, still unlikely, that she might meet once again with her old boyfriend, who had adored her, that possibility seemed now dreadful, undesirable, embarrassing. What was she to do, and to say? Pretend everything was just dandy and she was in the city shopping for the weekend? Or tell him everything, simultaneously revealing the desperation that led her to call him and how little that call had anything to do with him, now, the adult incarnation, the husband and father (probably? Maybe not?) that had nothing to do with her, and would want nothing to do with her. A chill of humiliation spread from her spine onto the top of her skull and down the neural pathways of her arms. She shuddered. My God, what a fool she was making of herself! She couldn’t even remember what he looked like, hadn’t kept any pictures. He was gone, a ghost with a voice.

  The best thing would be to go out, go for a walk in the park, let the time pass, maybe have a cup of tea at the café? Let him call, let the phone ring unanswered. He wouldn’t try again and she’d be relieved not to have to bumble her way through the next call.

  In the bathroom she washed her face and tidied her hair with her fingers – she looked frightful! – made sure she had the keys in her purse, went out into the hallway and closed the door firmly, rang the bell for the elevator. In a few moments she had passed through the deserted lobby and turned left onto 86th Street, only a few moments from Central Park, warm in the sun, delighted by the whoosh of traffic and the honking of the cars, the accelerating stink of the buses, the pigeons on the sidewalk, people in their summer clothes, sauntering rather than rushing, making room for one another even at the close of the working day, happy to put their faces up to the sun, to feel warm. New Yorkers!

  And this, this warmth and energy, the buzz and hum of endless possibility, this was bad for children? It had been good for her, nurtured her, made her alive and alert and curious about the world. The city did that, it made you into you, not into some cookie-cutter facsimile of a person, some suburbanite. Someone real, and substantial.

  You want nature, you want trees and ponds and rocks and sunlight f
iltered through the leaves? Go to New York City! As she walked she could feel the exhaustion lifting, looked round with pleasure, watched the squirrels scamper, delighted that she wouldn’t recognise a single person, that no one would come up, unwelcome, as Michelle had, to examine her and find her wanting. In the city you could know people, lots of people, but entirely on your own terms. In the city you were free.

  If the kids were here she could have taken them to feed the ducks, popped into the zoo, gone on the subway to the Automat for dinner. Maybe caught an early evening movie? Or they might, in some alternative life, have been Ira’s children, their children, together, and she would live in Manhattan in a nice apartment on the West Side, and have a job and her fancy husband. Go to the opera, see the latest plays, keep up with the art gallery exhibitions. Go to films, try the new restaurants. Take the kids to look at the monkeys and laugh, and cry.

  She was crying now, there in the park, remembering Ira, the funny little things, even the things about which she had been scornful at the time. How his hair stuck out, how skinny he was – the first time she saw him naked she awarded him the Nobelly Prize. He loved that. They’d been so young. Why does one have to decide everything important when one is still a child?

  Ira adored Yankee Stadium, he said he felt at home there, though he had no idea what he meant by that. He had many friends who were Yankee fans, yet he always went on his own. He would have made an exception for Adele, but she had no interest in baseball: baseball players were roughnecks, she wouldn’t be caught dead in the same park as one. So Ira would bring a book, sit in the bleachers to read and watch the game, eat a hotdog and drink a beer.

  His hero was Lou Gehrig, who, if his playing wasn’t on the titanic scale of Babe Ruth, was better than him in every other respect. ‘A true gentleman,’ Ira would say. ‘A good family man.’ But he cheered as loudly as the rest of them every time the Babe rounded the bases.

  He signalled his allegiance to the Yanks by wearing one of their baggy blue caps with NY in white on the front, which meant you could always spot him in a crowd, a sporting eccentric. He had perfect manners, would never have worn it inside, but outdoors it was his trademark. No, he’d say, his uniform. Addie hated it.

  ‘You look like some retarded kid!’ she’d say, and beg him to take it off. ‘It’s the very opposite of exciting.’

  He knew exactly what she was implying, considered for a moment and left it on. She came round, eventually. If he was patient enough, she might even come round to the stadium, too.

  He’d gone to a game, once, with her father, as devoted a Yankee fan as Ira, though inclined to overestimate the Babe, who was a friend of his.

  ‘Great fellow, the Babe,’ Maurice would say. ‘Knows how to have a good time.’

  That they had come to the game together was a tacit acknowledgement that Ira, already like one of the family, was soon to become one. He was ideal son-in-law material, was going to Columbia law school next year, solid and reliable. Bit funny-looking with all that curly hair, like Harpo Marx, same goofy grin, though he didn’t cut your tie in two. Maurice would have liked that, the big pair of scissors, snip! Bit of fun. The boy was too serious, always studying, but he’d grow out of all that. His father-in-law could teach him the ways of the world, not all that college stuff, take him to some swell joints.

  Perle knew when to keep her mouth shut, and how to bide her time, but she was already naming her grandchildren. It was about time: Adele was twenty-two, most of her friends already engaged or married, several with babies on the way. Perle was constructing guest lists for the wedding and seating plans for the dinner. She and Morrie hadn’t yet met Ira’s parents – didn’t even know their names! – but when she suggested to Adele that they invite them over for a meal, the idea was brusquely rejected.

  ‘When I am ready for that, I’ll let you know,’ she said.

  ‘But Adele . . .’

  ‘And I’m not, not by a long way. Leave it, please.’

  Perle did, no sense making a scene, but she went on making her lists, thinking about a caterer, planning menus. This summer would have been a good time, right after graduation – that was when so many of them tied the knot. But no announcement from the kids was forthcoming.

  Morrie was better at this than she was, less inclined to plan and to scheme, just warm and welcoming. He and Ira would sit over a beer and talk baseball, animated and happy in each other’s company, a more natural fit – Perle sighed ruefully – than Ira and Adele were. But men were like that, they liked to be with other men, understood each other, talked the same language, laughed at whatever it was they were always laughing at. She shrugged. Women too, women were like that as well. If it wasn’t such a mucky (and sterile) business, humans should marry within their own sex.

  During the last month of their senior year, Ira spent some time in the diamond district midtown on the West Side, hondeling with the Hassids about rings, learning to distinguish qualities and sizes, discussing various mounts. He knew he should consult Adele about her taste – maybe she hated diamonds? – but he wanted it to be a surprise, perfect, memorable.

  It was. Not a surprise, a shock. Before he had even closed the deal on a one-carat beauty in a platinum setting she had said ‘we need to talk’, a phrase likely to strike fear into any lover’s heart. His was immediately seized, ceased to beat. Her face confirmed the seriousness of what was to come.

  ‘Ira,’ she said, ‘darling Ira . . .’ She had never called him darling, was not fond of terms of endearment, of honey bunch, sweetie, snookums. She was standing too close to him, her voice lowered. It was intolerable, right out there in the street. If she had something serious to say, why not say it in private? Was she afraid of his remonstration, or the excesses of his grief? He was a sensitive boy and cried easily and sometimes loudly; he was rather proud of that, it was a sign of refined sensibility.

  Adele rarely cried, was certainly not crying now, and in spite of the unusual term of endearment was neither warm nor dear. There was something clenched in her, she took his arm too firmly, pulled him towards her as if for an embrace, pushed him back slightly.

  ‘I am so sorry,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t understand!’

  ‘I can’t go on seeing you. I’m so sorry.’

  He’d had no idea. Thought things were just fine, finer all the time, heading inexorably towards the conclusion towards which fine things headed: the ring, the celebrations, the chuppah, the apartment, the children, the life. Surely she didn’t mean it?

  He couldn’t respond, and seemed unable to process what she was saying. All over? Why? How? They were jostled by passers-by, exposed, humiliated. Anyway, his voice was gone. He stood there, looking at her. Hung his head, began to cry.

  She clasped his hand, firmly and quickly.

  ‘I’m so sorry. But it’s for the best, you’ll see . . .’

  He managed a stifled NO.

  She had already turned, said goodbye, was walking down Lexington Avenue, quickly.

  She did not respond to a further series of pleading and impassioned letters demanding to know her reasons, decided it would be better for him if it was a clean break. It certainly was better for her, what was she supposed to do? Reconsider? Negotiate? It didn’t matter what her reasons were, and she couldn’t have adumbrated them with any clarity. She loved Ira, had loved him, he was her best friend, they laughed and understood each other. No, it wasn’t Ira. It was marriage. She felt the insistent shoulders of her parents impelling her into a wedding that she had no desire for, whatsoever. She felt family-bullied, culturally bullied. She was twenty-two, on the cusp of spinsterhood. So what? The mere fact that she loved Ira wasn’t sufficient to make her want to marry him, or anyone. What she wanted was to leave the city, get some proper professional training and embark on a life that was her own, not a mere dependence on a husband and (shudder) a bunch of babies.

  She didn’t think of this as a reasonable decision, or a brave one. It was the only possible choice, if
she was to become the person about whom she had been dreaming: independent, worthy of respect. And if Ira had to be sacrificed – poor dear Ira – then he did. He’d get over it, marry someone more in keeping with what he needed, a home-and-baby maker. He’d be just fine.

  Addie paused, kicked at some leaves on the pathway, walked round the pond, wondering. Was he just fine? What would he look like now, still skinny and frizzy? He’d surely have abandoned that dumb Yankees cap, though perhaps he still wore it on the weekends when no one was looking, like those funny men who dress up in their wives’ clothes.

  Had he found that archetypal accommodating woman, with an easy nature and fruitful womb? A Michelle? How disgusting, please God he’d done better than that! She looked at her watch: forty minutes had gone by. She turned back down the path and hurried towards 86th Street. If she was lucky, she’d have time to catch his call.

  Ben’s arrival, by himself in a taxi, had caused a storm of incomprehension at the bungalow. The children were predictably ecstatic for the requisite thirty seconds of leg-hugging and hand-holding and lifting up and kissing, but on being put down again enquired about their missing mother.

  ‘Where’s Addie? Is she still in Alexandria? How come she didn’t come back?’

  Ben had his story ready and prefaced it with a friendly chuckle.

  ‘Well, you know what Addie’s like! No sooner had we got into the city and off the train than she decided she had some shopping to do and headed directly for Bloomingdale’s! She had that look on her face . . .’