The Ryer Avenue Story: A Novel

by Dorothy Uhnak

  There were many needs closer to home base. Eugene was sent to lobby the rich, the beautiful, and the powerful on a variety of assignments. He raised vast sums of money to be used for parochial schools, which were forever in financial difficulty. He studied and prepared for the cardinal a rational assault on the defined separation of church and state. Surely there were constitutional ways around the stringent rules and laws that systematically deprived Catholic parents of desperately needed state financial assistance for their institutions. Surely Catholic-school children were entitled to free academic textbooks, school lunches, and bus and subway passes. Surely the state could be persuaded to help pay for nonreligious school projects, for sports, for team expenses, for after-school recreational use of parish houses by the entire community. Things the cardinal had been accustomed to taking care of with a phone call, a friendly chat, a nicely served dinner could no longer be so easily handled. The bishop approached problems academically, rationally, in a businesslike manner more appropriate to the modern world.

  When the cardinal and the bishop appeared together at society functions, Gene never noticeably deferred. If he attracted the lion’s share of the attention, the adulation of a television star, that was just the way things were. The power, such as it now was, was the cardinal’s. He was at liberty to use and take credit for any or all of the bishop’s ideas, plans, and connections. When they succeeded, and they usually did, the credit went to the cardinal. When they failed, the cardinal turned on the bishop with the wrath of a schoolmaster toward a much-despised pupil.

  As one of his responsibilities, Eugene kept careful watch over the monies collected and the monies spent within the archdiocese. It had long been a policy of New York City’s power elite, regardless of their religious affiliations, to respond generously to any Catholic fund appeals. What Gene discovered was that there were too many luxuries, diverted funds, expensive dinners, and extra limos provided for these important “friends.” Too many out-and-out political contributions were made with money he had brought into the Society’s fund for the use of the school system, for training programs for the disabled, for special education needed by handicapped and retarded children. He had his records; he quietly kept score.

  The cardinal’s health waned as steadily as his authority. He watched what had mattered most in his life, his role as ultimate consultant to the most powerful people in the country, steadily erode; by the time he died in 1967, it was as though he had already been dead for several years.

  Gene watched as the cardinal’s recognized protégé was elevated. He accepted, with resignation and patience, the important role offered him—to remain at St. Patrick’s, to serve the new cardinal.

  It was just a matter of time.

  Only months later, Eugene found himself co-hosting with the new cardinal an informal dinner for newly ordained priests. It was one of his responsibilities to put the young men at ease, and he was good at this. He understood their discomfort, their actual terror, and he regaled them with stories of his days as a television star, always putting the joke on himself. He had them relaxed, laughing in relief and admiration, as the new cardinal, himself not truly at ease with his new role, watched gratefully.

  A slender young seminarian who was helping serve the dinner quietly whispered into the bishop’s ear as all around him chortled at some off-color remark he had just casually thrown at them. The more perceptive among the guests might have seen the bishop’s body stiffen, the color drain from his already pale face, the slight shaking of his hand as he placed his wineglass on the table.

  He rose quickly and said, in the sudden silence, “Gentlemen, you must excuse me. It is a family matter. My mother is ill.”

  His mother was in a private room at Beth Israel Hospital in Manhattan. Gene hugged his eldest sister, with whose family his mother had lived since the death of their father more than a year before. It was their mother’s second heart attack in less than eight months.

  “It’s very bad this time, Gene. She insisted we bring her from Jersey to New York. Megan made some phone calls and got her the private room. Megan was here a while ago, talking with the doctors. Looks like … you know.”

  The family, gathered outside the hospital room, conferred briefly with the specialist who had been called to treat their mother. They were able to keep her comfortable; she was in and out of coma. It would not be long.

  The collection of family members, all more or less cordial, polite strangers who came together less and less frequently, talked quietly among themselves. They brought each other up to date: children graduating from college, getting married, giving them grandchildren. Each family unit seemed closed around itself, the joyous, wide-open family celebrations of childhood now only vague memories.

  As they sat quietly in the waiting room, there was a growing relaxation; their voices became less hushed as they showed each other snapshots, exclaimed over the growth, beauty, and excellence of the new generation. They all told their success stories, avoided their disappointments. No one spoke about Vietnam, about sons who had gone into the service or sons and daughters incomprehensibly involved in protests. They didn’t talk about drugs or new lifestyles, but only the good things, the picture-pretty children, the ideal offspring perfected in their dreams.

  When Eugene arrived, in his simple black suit and white collar, the family surged around him—the brother who had become a priest, a television star, and now a bishop. He had always been the brightest and most beautiful of them all—always, from childhood on, set apart. He was the family observer and, their instinct had told them, the family judge.

  When Charley came, Eugene seemed to relax.

  The brothers had always been close; and yet in almost every way they presented a study in contrasts. Eugene had matured into a stronger, more masculine and polished beauty. His face was not touched by the cares and difficulties of raising a family, the nights spent worrying, the days arguing, trying to understand this new generation. He was still lean and graceful; he held steady and firm, looking directly, with total concentration, at whomever he addressed. It was hard sometimes to know whether his mannerisms, so controlled and careful, were natural or calculated for effect.

  Charley, on the other hand, was the most natural, feeling, and open-hearted among them. His face and body showed signs of the battle of the years. His dirty blond hair had receded alarmingly, the fringe now mostly gray and unruly. His large brown eyes blinked behind bifocals he constantly adjusted back onto the bridge of his nose. He had put on a few pounds, and his pants were beginning to ride below his waistline. He had a slightly rumpled look; even a brand-new suit turned into used goods as soon as Charley put it on. He lived in Forest Hills, Queens, where he was an active member of the local Reform synagogue. His two sons had been bar mitzvahed; his daughter, mysteriously, had opted for studying exotic Oriental religions while a law student at Columbia. He worried about her—indeed, about all his kids. He worried about drugs and radical politics, and he didn’t understand some of the passions and arguments of his children, but he respected, loved, and trusted them. And hoped for the best, that they would outgrow some of this stuff. He loved his wife, who taught at the local junior high school. He had recently retired, as a lieutenant, from the New York City Fire Department, and worked at odd jobs that took up most of his time. He was a good roofer, an excellent housepainter, a fair plumber, and a capable, though unlicensed, electrician, who was very much in demand in his neighborhood. People trusted Charley; he was an honest and decent man. His sons seemed to feel slightly ashamed: Why hadn’t he pursued higher education? Why hadn’t he ever risen higher in his department? They failed to perceive at this stage in their lives, that Charley lived that rare life—that of a happy man.

  He was glad to see all his older brothers and sisters and their families, despite the circumstances. Their parents’ deaths, after all, were natural. It was the way the cycle of life was supposed to be. There were other degrees of sadness and grieving and devastation that Charley and
his wife, Deborah, knew about.

  Years ago they had made a trip to Israel to attend a memorial service for Ben Herskel’s wife and two of his four sons. They had been blown up by bombs placed in the school where one of his sons was a student, one a teacher, and his wife the principal. That was true tragedy, those young lives cut short. They had visited Israel several more times in recent years; once Charley went alone for a short visit. His sons talked about migration; Charley hoped they wouldn’t. It was too far away and it was too dangerous. Again, he hoped it was just a stage.

  Ben hadn’t given in to his tragedy. He and his remaining sons renewed their resolve to serve their small nation with whatever skills and strengths they had. One son was a physicist, the other, as Ben had been, an intelligence officer and a pilot in the Israeli air corps.

  And Ben—large, burly, tough, blunt-talking Ben Herskel—had moved through the ranks of the Israeli parliament, getting elected, defeated, reelected, and now, nearly fifty, becoming the newly appointed Israeli delegate to the United Nations.

  Charley updated Eugene; he introduced him to their cousin, Rabbi Arthur Kramer, who had officiated at Charley’s bar mitzvah. The two clergymen shook hands cordially. They had met casually, once or twice before, at Charley’s house.

  “And those others?” Gene nodded toward a group of young men who seemed to be present for a specific purpose.

  “My sons,” the rabbi said, “those two over there, twins. The others are our nephews, cousins. They are related to you, too, Bishop O’Brien.”

  Awkwardly, the younger men were introduced to their Catholic relative, a bishop of the Church. Gene counted them, then asked his rabbi cousin, “Ten altogether, including you and Charley. A minyan. Is my mother that close?”

  Charley squeezed his brother’s arm and nodded. The doctor came and asked that the family visit the dying woman one at a time, briefly. She was conscious and fairly alert, would be aware of them, at least momentarily.

  “She especially wants to see you, Gene. She told me that once. ‘At the end, I must see Gene.’”

  “Charley, are you sure? I somehow think I tend to upset her.”

  Charley pushed his brother gently and indicated the closed door. “Go ahead, Gene. Mom really wants to see you.”

  Gene entered the room and, with the merest glance, dismissed the nurse in attendance. She left immediately; after all, this was Bishop O’Brien.

  He went to his mother’s side and stared down. The small, gray face was that of a stranger. It seemed to have collapsed; the cheeks were sunken, the lips, thin and stretched over glinting teeth, were unfamiliar, almost frightening. This had been a strong-jawed, tough-mouthed, powerful woman who had borne and raised six children successfully; had guided them through a religion that ruled their very lives without ever embracing it herself.

  Sensing a presence, Miri opened her eyes, blinked, focused. For a split second there was a look on her face of terror, panic, fear. She gasped, shook her head from side to side, and moaned, “Oh. No.”

  He took her hand and leaned close and spoke softly. “Mother, it’s Gene. I’ve come to see you. Mother?”

  “Gene?” She sounded surprised, confused. As though she had just seen someone else. “Ah. Yes. Gene, my son.”

  He was surprised and shaken by the tears that now streamed down her cheeks.

  “Who did you think I was, Mom? When you first looked at me?”

  She shook her head and then decided. She took a deep breath. “My father. I thought it was my father. You have his eyes.”

  “Do I, Mother?”

  “Strange eyes. The moment I held you, I saw … my father’s eyes.” She shuddered; her whole frail body trembled, but her grip on his hand tightened. She whispered something and Gene leaned closer. The tightening thin fingers bit into his hand, pulling him closer as he started to back away, afraid he was upsetting her.

  “No,” she said. “I must tell you. Oh, Gene. My dear son Eugene. Will you forgive me?”

  He was startled by both her words and her desperate tone. “Forgive you, mother? For what? I love you. I—”

  She shook her head to silence him, and he realized it was important to let her speak.

  “My father died, you see, when I carried you. I carried his curse. And when I saw you, that first moment, when I saw your eyes, his eyes—Gene, do you know the word dybbuk?” She whispered it, her breaking voice giving the word terrible, unbearable power.

  “Dybbuk?” he repeated softly. “Yes. A sort of devil, the spirit of a dead person that inhabits a living one.”

  “He put a curse on me, Eugene, when I married your father. On me and on my children. With all the others, each time, I looked for signs, but they were all healthy, normal. Then, when I first saw you, and he had died during my pregnancy with you, and I saw your eyes, so strange, so powerful, so like his—it was terrible of me, cruel of me, to believe such an awful thing, that he inhabited you somehow, that you were his dybbuk. I was afraid of you, of him, of the devil. Oh, it was so cruel of me, so terrible. Can you forgive me, please, Eugene? Now. At the end. Can you forgive me?”

  He wanted to explain: there was nothing to forgive. He understood superstition and curses and devils better than any of them, the power of these ancient stories to overwhelm any common sense, any rational thinking. He knew. But what she wanted from him was not an explanation. She wanted—needed—his forgiveness. He kissed her forehead.

  “Yes, Mother. I forgive you. Now you must forgive me, too.”

  “Nothing to forgive you for, Eugene. You were my perfect child, my bright, shining child, who I was … afraid to love. Afraid!”

  “Forgive me, Mother, for trying to change you. For trying to convert you. I had no right. Through the years, all those times, I was wrong. You had a right to come to God in your own way. You were more wonderful than any woman I ever knew. You not only allowed us our own religion, you never interfered. You listened to our lessons and our prayers, you made special occasions of all our celebrations. You’ve been so good …”

  She studied his face intently. If anyone had the answer, this son, with his closeness to God, would surely have it. “Gene, do you think that … He who is too powerful to name … do you think he will forgive me for marrying out of the Jewish faith?”

  He wanted to lift her in his arms, to bless her, to tell her she was one of the special people, pure and unselfish. To tell her he was so sorry her life had been lived under the curse of an ignorant man. But he knew that the curse and her belief in it were valid on their own terms. The mysteries of religion—the good and the harm it brought. He gave her the answer she sought, and she accepted it, gratefully, from him.

  “He forgives you, Mother. I am sure of it.”

  “And you, Eugene, the wrongs I’ve done you?”

  Again, there was no point in protesting. He told her what she needed to hear, however irrational her self-accusation. “Yes, Mother. I forgive you. And I love you, Mom.”

  He held her hand, aware that the tight grip was weakening. He turned as Charley entered the room. They both looked down at her, watched as she drew in one loud, sibilant, shuddering breath, and released it with a deep and final sigh.

  Gene stepped back as Charley leaned forward, kissed his mother’s face, and, with a large and trembling hand, closed her unseeing eyes. He glanced up quickly to see his brother step back away from the bed, turn discreetly, make the sign of the Cross, and silently, lips moving, offer a pray for his dead mother.

  “Did you make peace with her, Gene? Whatever it was about between the two of you?”

  “Yes. I did. We did.”

  Charley was surprised to see the stream of tears. He had never seen his older brother cry. Never, not once in his life. Charley went to the door and signaled for his cousin and the younger men who entered the room and formed a circle around his mother’s bed.

  Softly, Charley’s voice began the prayer for his mother.

  “Yis-gad-dal v’yis-kad-dash sh’meh rab’bo b’o
l-mo …”

  He looked up, startled at the sound of a strong, familiar, beautiful voice. His brother, the bishop, joined Charley in saying Kaddish for their mother.

  The others prayed with the mourners, and then the two brothers alone, in quiet unison, said the ancient words for their mother. Eugene’s Hebrew was precise and strong, and he carried Charley when his brother, grieving, faltered.

  And then the brothers stayed alone in the room with the body for a few moments.

  “Gene, I didn’t know you knew the Kaddish.”

  “I’m a scholar of religions, Charley. I reread it a few nights ago. Just in case.”

  “We’re burying her in the morning, after services in my synagogue in Forest Hills. Out on Long Island. In the Herskel family plot. Where Deborah and I will be … one day.”

  Gene nodded. He would be there for the burial.

  “And we’ll be sitting shiva in my house. Starting the day after tomorrow.”

  The word jumped out at both of them; back came the memories, happier times, silly, boyish, nonsensical times. Gene said it first, but Charley thought of it too.

  “Gonna sit and shiver, are ya, Charley?”

  “Oh, God, yes, Gene. We’re gonna sit and shiver. Remember?”

  They looked into each other’s eyes and started to laugh; they forgot they were in the presence of their dead mother, of the sorrowing relatives who had entered the room. They laughed and embraced, gasping and sputtering, and were unable to explain their demented behavior. But they knew their mother would understand, and laugh with them.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  AFTER MORE THAN TWENTY-FIVE YEARS OF marriage to Aldo Santini’s daughter, Dante D’Angelo was still slightly in awe of the man. Santini’s appearance was substantially the same as when they’d first met. He had aged well. His black hair was still thick, though laced with gray. He had gotten neither fatter nor leaner. Everything about him spoke of moderation.

  Even in his own home, there was still power in his manner, which was careful, controlled, deliberate, and expectant. While he accepted subservience from most people, he seemed pleased with the courtesy between equals extended to him by his son-in-law.