by Evergreen
"Today? This afternoon?"
"Yes, it's much too sudden for you, I know. I was supposed to get here last week to talk to you, but I had to go to Galveston instead and that's why it's all being done at the last minute. I'm sorry."
"I just wish I'd had more time to think about it before they came."
"Maybe in a way this is easier. Not to have so much time to think about it, I mean."
George climbed back up on the seat, his great head almost on a level with Eric's. The dog leaned heavily, closer, as if he knew. Eric was sure George knew when to give comfort. He thought of the time he had been scolded, his worst and only real, furious scolding, the time when he was ten and he had started the car up and taken it out the driveway. And then there was the time, not long after that, when Gramp had had his heart attack and died out on the porch after dinner. He remembered going up to his room, and sitting there all that evening with his arm around George just like this. There was something between himself and George that he'd never felt with anybody else.
The boat drew up at the dock with a soft bump and Chris tied the rope.
"Gran will be wanting to talk to you, Eric." They walked up through the hemlock grove toward the house. "You know, she's been far more worried about you than about her sickness. You'll make it easier for her to go back to the hospital and—you'll make everything easier for her if she knows you're all right. Remember it's hard for her, too. Not only for you."
He knew he would find her at her desk in the upstairs sitting room. She was mostly there lately, paying bills and going over papers, those stiff long crackly sheets that come from lawyers' offices. Trusts and wills and deeds, he heard her say, when she talked on the telephone.
He waited in the doorway. "Gran?" he called. Sometimes she didn't hear people coming up the stairs. "Gran?"
She swung round in the chair and he saw at once that she had been crying. It was the first time in his life that he had seen her
340
tears. Even when Gramp died, she had said very quietly with a still, sad face, "He went without suffering, in his own home, at the end of a happy day. We must remember that and not cry."
But now she was crying. She stood up and put her head on his shoulder. He was as tall as she. And he was consoling her the way Chris had been trying to console him in the boat only a few minutes ago.
"I'll be all right, Gran, I promise I will." Remember, it's hard for her too, Chris had said. "Just take care of yourself, Gran. Don't be afraid for me."
She straightened up. "Oh, my dear, how wrong of me! As if there were anything for you to be afraid of! You'll have a good home, you'll be cared for! I'm not crying about that, it's just that—"
And he understood that they were being uprooted, torn away and apart. It was all without warning, like the night that the storm had destroyed the great elm in front of the house, the tree that had soared above their roof for almost seventy-five years, Gramp had said. In a few minutes of rage the storm had torn it out of the earth and it had fallen, with its great roots ripped, the clotted wet earth dripping from them. He remembered wondering whether trees could possibly feel pain.
"Sit down," Gran said. She wiped her eyes and wiped her glasses, straightening her face into the one he knew. Her face never changed very much. Even when she was happy it was kind of firm and plain. When she was cross—and she could get quite cross sometimes—he'd even hated her face. But not now. All he could think of now was that this face was soon going to disappear.
"Surely there must be a lot of questions you want to ask me? Things Cousin Chris didn't explain?"
"He explained, but I still don't understand it."
"No, of course not. How could you absorb all these changes in just a few minutes? I wish so much that there were more time."
"Tell me, why didn't they come to see me before? Why was everything such a secret?"
"We agreed, we all agreed, it would have been too confusing for a young child. You were only a baby. . . . This way, you had no doubts about where you belonged. It was really healthier for you. Yes, it must have been right, because you've always been so happy. . . . Still," she said thoughtfully, "still, I always did feel sorry in many ways. Mr. and Mrs. Friedman—by the way, Eric, we've been
341
spelling your name differently, because we wanted to make it easier, more English. But they say 'Friedman. I, E, D.' That's the German way." When Eric didn't comment, she added, "I know it must be awful for you to find out that even your name isn't spelled the way you thought it was." He was silent.
"You'll make a new life, Eric. You'll see so many things in the city! You remember what a fine time we had that weekend last year when we went to the theatre and the planetarium and—"
He didn't want to talk about things like that. "Why did everybody hate everybody else so much? Why did it matter so terribly that they had another religion?"
But while he asked the questions he knew the reason, really. It was because—because Jews were odd people, not like the ordinary, everyday people you knew. They were different. He didn't know why, but they were. And he was one of them! Was he, or wasn't he? Yet, if he was, he didn't feel any change in himself.
Gran sighed. "The hatred, if you want to call it that, well, whatever it was, it wasn't all on our side. Believe me. Of course, Gramp did have very definite ideas, I can't say I agreed with them all. Sometimes they were extreme, but he was a very proud American and in a sense I can see what he meant by keeping your own ways, among your own people. . . . 'Let them go their way and I'll go mine,' he always said."
"But if he—disliked them so—how is it he never talked about them to me?"
"I suppose he felt he'd be talking about you, or a part of you, wouldn't he? And he loved you so!" She stopped. Her eyes had a remembering look, as though she were seeing things that had happened long ago, and hearing voices. "Yet I always felt," she went on, "that I would have done it differently, if it had been left to me. Not that I'm finding fault with your grandfather. He did what he thought was best for you. Perhaps he was right; dividing a child between two worlds is wicked and harmful. . . ."
Eric thought of something. "Did you ever see them? My father's
parents?"
"Only once, when your own parents died. Oh," Gran said, "they're nice people, Eric! Gentle people, I thought. They'll talk to ' you about all this, I'm sure, when you get to know them. I've been speaking to them on the telephone these past few weeks and—"
Chris knocked at the door. "May I join you, or is this private?"
342
"Not private. Eric and I were only finishing what you began. I think—I hope he understands things a little."
"Aunt Polly? Perhaps you ought to go and lie down for a bit," Chris urged.
"Yes, I think I might. For fifteen minutes or so." She stood up and Eric saw that she tottered and had to take hold of the back of the chair. Her face was an awful yellowed gray; there were sweat stains under her arms. She was so fastidious. He'd never seen her sweat before.
He looked past her to the window. When the wind moved the leaves you could see the flat silver shimmer of the lake. He would be leaving that, too. It was like shedding one skin and growing another. This house, these trees, these faces would all be here, except for Gran's face! They would be here, and he not here. He would be someplace else, where he had never been before.
"Gran! Have you asked them—I mean, I have to take George. I can't go without George, you know."
"I'm sure that will be all right," Gran said. She looked at Chris and smiled. At the door she remembered something. "Eric, don't forget who you are. We've tried to teach you and I know you've learned good ways. You won't forget them?"
"I won't forget," he said. "And now I think I want to go out." And, seeing the question on their faces, added, "Not far. I won't be long."
He had a vaguely formed idea of talking to Dr. Shane, but when he passed the yellow house and saw that there were no cars in the garage he was in a way rel
ieved. As Chris had told him, the doctor would only repeat what he now knew. He retraced his steps to his friend Teddy's, but Teddy had gone to the dentist and again he was relieved. He felt that he had to talk to somebody, had to tell somebody, like Chicken Little in the ridiculous childhood tale, running out to report that the sky had fallen. And yet he didn't really want to talk to anybody at all.
The Whitelys' horses were grazing near the road. He went over and stood by the rail fence, waiting until they saw him. He wondered whether they really knew him, or were only smelling the sugar in his pockets. Their soft noses snuffled into his palm. The brown and white pony, Lafayette, had a habit of shoving into the hollow of Eric's shoulder. He thought, I'd like to get on him and ride through empty woods; I'd just like to shed everything, feel empty of everything but motion, not think about Gran or school or
343
whether I'll make senior basketball (I never will now, not in that school, anyway: somewhere else, perhaps; but where?). Not to think of anything at all. Animals understand. Dogs and horses. I'd rather be with them than with people sometimes. Gramp had promised him a horse of his own when he got to be twelve, but Gramp was dead by that time and Gran said that, what with tuition at the Academy and all, she just couldn't afford to maintain a horse. But the Whitelys were really nice; they let him ride Lafayette anytime.
"No more sugar," he said aloud, giving the last, and then walked on down the road, not knowing where he was going, with George plodding slowly behind. Now and then their feet cracked last year's fallen twigs.
At the top of a small rise the road branched off. Half a mile beyond you could see where one branch ran into the state highway. This was as far as he had been allowed to walk when he was a little boy. He remembered how, when he was so young that he had hardly been out of Brewerstown, he had stood there looking at the blacktop road with the white dividing line, wondering where it went after it rounded the curve and fell out of sight, who lived there, what happened there, where he couldn't see. He smiled to himself. Such a child! He hadn't known anything at all, still didn't, for that matter. He hadn't been anywhere except to Maine, to Niagara Falls with Teddy's family and last year to New York City with Gran. He wondered whether any of that curiosity, that surging excitement, would come back again, that feeling that there must be 'something down the road.' It didn't come back. There was only a great, looming dark. School and Teddy and all his friends, the scout troop, his boat and his room and Lafayette, all to be wiped out, to disappear, as when you wipe the eraser over the blackboard.
He turned around and started back. He was ashamed; he oughtn't to be thinking about himself, when Gran was going to lose everything. He oughtn't be thinking about what would be coming next for him when for Gran there would be nothing coming next. Or probably there wouldn't. He hoped he was wrong about that, hoped she would really meet Gramp again, as she was certain she would. (Was she really, truly certain? Or did she only say so for his sake, and perhaps for her own as well?) Anyway, one thing he could hope for her, that she wouldn't have too much pain.
344
Ahead of him he recognized Father Duncan's car turning into the Busbys' driveway. He would be making his weekly visit to the old lady, who had broken her hip. He started to cross over, not wanting to be caught up in greeting or conversation, but Father Duncan hailed him and he was caught after all.
"So everything has been straightened out, has it, Eric? I talked to your grandmother on the telephone awhile ago."
It seemed that everyone except himself had known about what was to happen to him. His future had been disposed of the way you sell a horse or a dog, except that he would never sell a horse or a dog, never send it away from its home.
"Yes, Father. All settled," he said.
Father Duncan had a keen gaze, a way of putting his head on one side as if he were estimating your size and weight. "If there are things that puzzle you, that trouble you, Eric, come and talk to me. Tomorrow or anytime. Will you?"
"There isn't anything," Eric said. Or rather so much that he didn't want to talk about it. It was like looking for the needle in the haystack; you'd never find it, so why even try?
"Let me just say one thing quickly, Eric. Your other grandparents—they're of a different faith. You must respect it. I know I don't have to tell you that. Respect it, but hold on to your own. You can. It's perfectly possible for you to live there happily and love them as I know they love you, and still keep your faith. You understand?"
"Yes, Father."
"You remember Christ said to his disciples, 'And lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the world.' If you remember that He is with you, times when you may feel lonely, missing people, it will help enormously."
"I know," Eric answered, feeling nothing.
"Well, I'll be going in to Mrs. Busby," Father Duncan said.
Dr. Shane's car was still out. Lafayette was still grazing near the fence. Nearing home, Eric saw the car in the driveway. It was a long dark car. Even from here he could tell it was a Cadillac.
He slowed his walk. Jeepers, he thought, and hoped they wouldn't get all sloppy, maybe cry and hug him and kiss him and all that crap. He went sweaty with embarrassment and fear.
Gran was standing with some other people on the front steps. She was looking up and down the road, looking for him. Then she saw him.
345
"Eric!" she called.
His heart began to knock, actually knock inside him. He was so scared he hoped he wouldn't do something awful like crying again or throwing up. He had a crazy flash of memory, something about Gramp and Indians and battles and brave ancestors. He knew it was ludicrous, that it had nothing to do with the present situation. Still, Gramp would have expected him to put his head up.
They were all turned now, looking toward him. There was a man in a dark city suit. There was a tall lady in a bright dress, looking too young to be a grandmother. His grandmother. He had a crazy sense of unreality: maybe I am dreaming all this? The lady had red hair, and that surprised him. He hadn't expected red hair, although he didn't know just what he had expected.
They were coming down the steps. He straightened, and with one hand resting on George's collar, walked toward them slowly across the grass.
31
Anna lifted the warm dough from the bowl as carefully as if it were alive and placed it on the porcelain table, then floured it and took up the rolling pin. A fine, soothing, calm washed over her, as always when she had the kitchen to herself. She moved without haste, handling the familiar pans and spoons.
Eric came in from the yard. "What are you making?" he asked.
"Stradel. Do you know what that is?"
He shook his head.
"It's a kind of pie, only much better, I think. I've already made one batch this morning for your Aunt Iris' house. It's in the pantry. Go take a piece and tell me how you like it."
When the dough had been rolled flat she brushed it with salted butter and began to pull it carefully, so as not to tear it, stretching it as thin as tissue paper until it hung over the edge of the table. Eric watched silently. He had cut a small piece and stood there, eating.
"Is that all you took? Don't you like it?"
He nodded.
"Well, then, take more! Go take a big piece. A tall boy like you, you've two hollow legs to fill up." She smiled and he smiled back, returning measure for measure. She wondered whether her own smile had been as urgent. Probably it had been.
"Don't you want milk? Something to wash it down with?"
He went to the refrigerator and poured a glass. She saw that he
347
had been thirsty. Cutting the strudel dough, mixing the filling, she watched him without letting it seem that she was doing so.
After four months of living together she was not yet accustomed to the sight of this stranger who was of her flesh. She kept noticing new features: a mole on the cheek, a scar on the elbow. He would have distinction when he was grown, she thought. His hair, now sun-
streaked, was exceptionally thick and rich. The aquiline nose, found usually on darker, Mediterranean faces, gave his a kind of elegance. His eyes were guarded by the arc of heavy lids; when he lifted them abruptly you were surprised by a gaze of charming candor.
She wondered whether, in that other life, he had ever been talkative. When boys came over after school now, pushing noisily into the house on these bright fall afternoons, she saw that Eric always stood a little apart, a little quietly. It was not that he was rejected or ignored; it was just that he seemed to be not quite of them. She suspected that it was his height and good looks which were passing him successfully through the cruel gamut of adolescence. Thought-fulness at that time of life, she reflected, remembering Iris, was not a social asset, especially when it was accompanied by private school manners. Eric's homeroom teacher here in the public school had told him not to address teachers as 'sir,' an instruction which had confounded Eric; he still forgot sometimes and used the form when speaking to adults.
