Then, on the day after the wedding, while with her mother at the house in Forest Hills, Ruth, who'd had that Old World physiqueâthe tremendous bosom, a full-barreled middle, an elephant's buttocks, and thick rings of flesh for a neckâsaid to her daughter, “I have a gift for you. Come with me.”
In Ruth's bedroom, it was difficult for Eliza to help her mother move the brass bed. Her hands were damp against the metal. Her legs were unstable. But she managed, yes. With the bed set at an angle, Ruth lifted up a piece of the floorboard, reached down, and pulled out a cigar box. She said, “You remember what I promised you, dear?” She flipped open the lid of the cigar box, revealing the stones. “Take any one you like.”
Eliza had suffered neuralgia as a child, and, with her fingers massaging her face, she seemed just then to be enduring the painful symptoms of that condition. She said, “Only one?”
Ruth nodded.
“You told me I could have them all.”
“Better I give you one a year.”
“Why?”
“It will be our special thing.”
“But you said I could have them all when I married. That's what you said.”
“Eliza.”
“Well, it's what you said!”
“Eliza!”
“But you said it! You did!”
“Would you rather I gave you nothing?”
At that, Eliza took command of herself, apologized, and left with a single diamond.
Ruth lived till her early nineties, and their tradition was observed each year. But toward the end of her mother's life, even though Ruth was handing off a stone whose value was high, the ritual of sitting on her mother's bed and choosing her diamond had long felt silly to Eliza. That is to say, it made her feel young, like a child, and for that reason, Eliza told herself, she held little attachment to the diamonds and didn't mind exchanging them for so much cash.
The next morning, the Arkins rode in the Cadillac to the Diamond District. From the passenger seat, Ben punched the end of his cane into the floor of the car and groaned, oblivious to his noise-making and the unhappiness it was causing his wife in the back seat and his assistant, Jerome, behind the wheel. For the third time today, Ben was calculating Jerome's and Violet's wages, the cost of Eliza's medication, the upkeep for the loft and the house in Southampton, the loans against both homes which he had to pay back each month, as well as his art supplies. It all ran him about twenty-five thousand a month. The Arkins only had sixty thousand in the bank. To think there'd once been so much money, many millions. Over the decades, with the sizeable expenses and no earnings, that figure had dwindled. It was true there was much more jewelry, gold and other diamond pieces, perhaps two million dollars' worth. And the houses, yes. Ben wanted to sell Southampton, but he knew it might kill Eliza. He had bought the place in 1981, for her. Leisure meant little to him. A mere hundred yards from the ocean and sand, it was where he did his thinking. Every Saturday and Sunday morning, sitting at the head of the dining table with books, his pile of newspaper clippings, his journals, and a cup of red and black pens, and staying there and
Einsteining it
until 5 p.m. He believed that this practice opened up a side of his brain that made the never-before-seen possible.
Could he execute and dream up his new ideas in New York?
Perhaps he would have to, he reckoned.
Yes, perhaps so.
Two times in the past the Russian had come through on his promise to take, sell, and pay the Arkins for jewelry they'd brought him. His fee was twenty percent. Yet never had the Arkins come with so much. The Russian looked at the diamonds with his clean, square face turned in confusion. They were of an exquisite cut. There were twenty-eight of them. He asked how they'd acquired the stones. Eliza said, “They were my mother's.”
“She was a jewel thief?” the dealer asked, his thin eyebrows lifting.
Eliza wasn't amused. “
Nooo.
She married a smart man.”
The Russian smiled. “Like her daughter.”
Eliza glanced doubtfully at her husband. “Right,” she said.
“You must have bought your wife a lot of jewelry, eh?”
Ben puckered his lips. His face resembled a bald eagle's in the scowling eyes, the aquiline nose. “You going to take all day or what?”
Pointing at Ben, his fingers clean, the nails manicured, glossy, the Russian said, “I like you. No bullshit.”
The Russian leaned against a long white counter, studying the diamonds with a magnifying glass which he wore like a ring on his finger. His breathing was strong with concentration, and Ben and Eliza swayed ever so slightly with the sound of air coming in and out of the younger man's mouth. Earlier that morning, Eliza had applied red lipstick, but here she wiped away what remained of it, leaving red streaks below her wrinkled bottom lip. Ben's feet were so swollen day in and day out that he couldn't fit them into the kinds of shoes sold in stores. Last month he'd had a pair custom-made. They were very wide brown leather shoes. But he felt now as if his feet required slightly more room. They were constricted, suffocating. Seeing a chair, he thought he might sit down and undo the laces. It was exactly what he needed, yes.
But then the Russian sighed, lowering the magnifying glass away from his eye. Eliza and Ben were, all of a sudden, standing upright with their attention directed right at him. The Russian was saying, “Yes, well, I'll see what I can do. The market is tough. I think I should be able to sell them. Though one never knows.”
“They're extremely valuable,” Eliza assured him.
At which point, Ben said, “Shut up, Eliza!” He took his wife firmly by the arm, thanking the Russian and leading her out the door.
For the artist and his wife, the following days were especially difficult. Should they call the Russian or wait for him to contact them? Whenever the phone rang, they both perked up, expecting news of the diamonds. A week passed, and another week, and still no word. Eliza was having a hard time sleeping. Ben couldn't work. He cooked instead. He had always been a nervous eater and chef. The kitchen was a place where he could shut out the world. The grocery store, too.
With coupons in hand, he went five blocks through an early summer afternoon drizzle to the Morton Williams on the corner of Bleecker and La Guardia. Crescent rolls were on sale, as were chicken nuggets, lite cola, salt-free potato chips. Ben didn't want any of these products. But it was nearly impossible for him to resist a discounted item. Oh, did he love the grocery store. The food, but also the arrangement of the food. The stocking of milk and juice and eggs and meat and coffee and produce and the jars of tomato sauce and boxes of cerealâthere was an aesthetic brilliance here that Ben admired. He was partial to the frozen food section. Take the waffles. The packaging's strong primary colors set against the light and glass of the refrigerator was powerful enough to hold him in place. To mesmerize. To narcotize.
“Just lovely,” he said to himself.
He reached into his pocket for a pen, removed the cap, and, on the back of a coupon offering a twenty percent discount on bran flakes, wrote, “There is an idea in refrigeration. Refrigerators.
Einstein it.
”
At home, Ben began preparing a chicken soup. It wouldn't be ready for some time, but he brought plain yogurt and melon in to his wife, who was in bed reading
Vogue
. During late afternoons, Eliza was at her physical worst, with the spastic motion of her arms, legs, and head. It had been this way for years. Ben spoon-fed Eliza. She could hardly sit up. She was having trouble taking in breaths. Seeing her wheeze, Ben proposed driving out to Southampton the next morning. He could have Jerome pick up the car at 6 a.m., they would be on the road shortly thereafter, Eliza would be lying under an umbrella on the beach by 8:30. She would feel better there. Her health, her spirits, always improved when she left the city and came into contact with the ocean air and open sky.
Eliza said, “Yes,” though it required much of her.
Ben prepared a second spoonful of yogurt. The anger that lived in his eyes and shaped his mouth and brows vanished the instant Eliza swallowed. Ben liked feeding his wife; it made him feel close to her. Now, dabbing her lips with a tissue, Ben proposed that Violet join them. With her nurse there, Eliza could be pushed in the chair along the beach, as well as have a companion with whom to pass the time.
“Would you like that?” Ben asked.
Eliza said she would. Ben told her that it was settled then. He could use a break from the loft, himself. To get away from New York and refresh his mind. Yes, a few days of reading, and walking, and thinking, and communing with nature, and cooking, and writing in his journal, gardening, and cutting coupons would be excellent for his mental wellbeing.
“I'll try Jerome and Violet now,” Ben said, standing from the bed.
But at the next moment, the phone began to ring. Ben reached for the portable, stumbling on empty water glasses and magazines and a vibrating contraption meant for massaging a person, which were littered around the bed. Ben glared at the floor. “Damn it to hell!” Then he screamed into the phone, “What do you want!”
In fact, it was the Russian calling to say the sale of the diamonds had been finalized.
“Yeah? So what?”
The Russian said he didn't talk numbers over the phone. Nevertheless, he was in a kind of frenzy about his triumph.
“A big score,” he told Ben. “You can come pick up your money in the morning.”
“Who was that?” Eliza asked, once Ben was off.
“It was the Russian,” he said. “Seems our horse came in.”
A moment later, everything turned. Ben was shaking his hands over his head in a kind of ecstasy. He kissed his wife on the lips. Eliza was suddenly up out of the bed, and, though she used a walker, she was mobile. Ben had a bottle of nonalcoholic red wine in the pantry. He popped the cork and set dinner for himself and his wife at the kitchen counter, a rarity. And that night they slept undisturbed, straight into the morning.
At 10 a.m., Jerome drove Ben and Eliza up to Forty-Seventh Street to see the Russian. In the elevator, the long-married couple didn't glance each other's way. On the fourth floor, there was a single small, square window looking into the Russian's office, a security measure. Eliza rang the buzzer, and in a moment the Russian was staring back at her, his cheerful grin filling the window.
Seeing the diamond dealer, Eliza said, “He's here.”
Ben replied, “No shit,” and he took his pants up higher on his waist.
The door opened, and, with his head lowered, the Russian stood aside to let Ben and Eliza pass. “Toward the rear,” the Russian said.
Ben walked, using the wall for assistance, and was the last among them to take his seat at the round table in the smoky back room. A lit cigarette burned in an ashtray on the windowsill. The Russian stamped it out, reached under the table, and presented a large black backpack, resting it on a metal stool. The backpack appeared full. And though it was the oversized kind used for camping, it surprised Ben and Eliza both to see just a backpack. They'd each imagined a bigger piece of luggage. Perhaps a suitcase. They stared at one another, skeptical. All of a sudden, the Russian was drawing back the zipper. Ben's heart began to thrump. Eliza's, too. She said to him, “How much is it?”
“A lot,” said the Russian.
“A lot?” Eliza repeated.
“Yes,” the Russian said.
Ben, who'd looked greatly damaged a moment earlier, seemed to come alive. He could sense kindness from the universe. He could feel it between his fingers, which he rubbed together in small circles.
“So what you have here,” said the Russian, “is two hundred and eighty thousand dollars. I'm extremely happy. Go ahead and count it, if you like.”
There was silence in the room. Then the Russian lit a cigarette. He shook out the match, tossing it in the ashtray.
Ben fell back into his chair. “That's pretty damn good,” he said.
To Eliza, it seemed her chest had grown large with pressure, but now that discomfort began to subside. “This is very good,” she said.
“Everyone's pleased?” the Russian asked.
“Yes,” Ben said.
Eliza released a large breath of air. “Very,” she said.
Ben and Eliza gazed at one another again. What they shared wasn't a look of satisfaction, but one that insisted on an immediate departure. Why, who knew what would happen if they stuck around? Armed men could come busting through the door, take their money, and their lives. Any person who'd lived a day knew the extreme danger of staying even another minute. And so, thanking the Russian, Ben and Eliza stood, grabbed the backpack, and left the office at once, hurrying into the Cadillac, where Jerome waited at the wheel.
“You can drive,” Ben told his assistant.
Jerome pulled out into the street.
Forty-Seventh between Fifth and Sixth Avenue, the Diamond District, was one of the blocks in the borough of Manhattan that had refused to clean up. The buildings were black with dirt. Up and down the potholed street chintzy neon signs advertised gold and diamonds. Jewelers ripped off men ready to spend on engagement rings. But Ben, in the passenger seat, felt he'd been spared the harshest treatment.
Jerome said, “Ark, you look happy.”
Ben's upper lip rose on one side. It wasn't a smile but a snarl. The artist kept caps in the glove compartment, bought them by the dozen at a Salvation Army in Hoboken. The one he pulled over his head promoted an auto body shop in Coxsackie, New York. He handled the brim roughly, bending it in half at the middle. Eliza, in the rear of the car, unzipped the backpack, admiring the stacks of hundred dollar bills. Two hundred and eighty thousand dollars. It was a lot of money. She smiled at her haul, then said to her husband, “You know whatâ¦we'll stop for a box of Melba toast on the way home. I'm in the mood for Melba toast.”