Kaaterskill Falls (26 page)

“She keeps busy with that house,” says Eva from the sink.

“Well, she’s busy with a lot of projects,” Andras says. He wants to be fair. “She’s been working very hard with HIAS.”

“That’s a wonderful thing,” Maja says. “The Soviet Jews.”

“She’s very good at it, coordinating them,” says Eva, and she laughs so heartily that tears come to her eyes. You wouldn’t know from her laugh that she has been ill. At Andras and Maja’s urging she is finally going down to the city for some tests.

“Well, it’s true,” Maja says, “she finds them schools, apartments. It’s hard work.”

“And she is always scandalized by one thing or another,” says Eva, wiping her eyes.

This is what Andras’s sisters laugh at. The edge to Nina’s character, the catch to her generosity, the sharp words motivated by motherly concern, the problem that the children might be spoiled or assimilated. The worry that the children should be practicing their music, and that the refugees—some of them take advantage! One family from the Soviet Union was practically
given
an apartment, a luxury apartment. And then it turned out they weren’t Jewish at all! Russian Orthodox on both sides!

Nina spent most of the winter organizing the family’s annual trip to Argentina. Andras didn’t come with them this time—he had work at the warehouse. And so over the Christmas holidays Nina took the children to visit their grandparents. She and the children left for three weeks, and they returned with the sun in their faces and their hair. Then, of course, Nina had to get Renée and Alex back on schedule, back to school.

They are watching him, his sisters. They serve Andras ice coffee at the cluttered table, their husbands’ newspapers neatly folded to the side. It’s warm in the kitchen. The oven is on, and Eva and Maja are baking rugelach, rolling out the dough, cutting it into crescents with a knife, then spooning in the filling and rolling up the cookies.

“This is very difficult dough,” says Maja, “very difficult to work with.”

“I think only the two of you can really make rugelach,” says Andras.

“And Cecil’s mother,” Eva amends. “Esther Birnbaum, of blessed memory. Don’t sit like that, Andras, with your hand over your mouth. It makes you look old.”

“I am old,” Andras says. “I’m fifty-eight years old.”

His sisters look at each other in mock horror. “No,” says Maja, “we can’t allow that. What would that make us?”

“You’ve been spending too much time on the business,” Eva says. “You don’t take time to enjoy. You should be interested in other things.”

Maja nods vigorously as she cuts the crescents from the thin rugelach dough. “Wait, wait, don’t rush,” she warns Eva, who is ready to spoon the filling in. The dough is sticky, and it makes Maja nervous.

Eva sits back with her bowl and loaded spoon. “You know that Philip’s cousin died at only fifty-three!” she tells Andras. “He overworked. He was thinking about the shop even on vacations. He only turned on the radio to hear the news. No music. He never went to see the movies. You should go see what’s playing at the Orpheum.” Eva brandishes her spoon at Andras—the rugelach filling of raspberry jam mixed with crushed walnuts. “This you have to taste. Taste,” she orders. Her eyes are full of light.

A
T THE
Kendall Falls Library Renée is getting ready to go home. Her mother hadn’t wanted her to work a second summer at the library. She’d wanted her to try the Lamkin camp again, but Renée refused to consider that, and her father said she could keep working for Mrs. Schermerhorn.

“Renée,” Mrs. Schermerhorn says now, “did you finish reshelving on the adult side?”

“Yes,” says Renée.

“All right, you may go.”

Renée runs out to where Stephanie is waiting.

“Let’s go to Coon Lake,” says Stephanie.

“I can’t. I have to get home,” says Renée.

“Be late,” says Stephanie.

Renée looks at her watch. “My father is probably home already.”

“Let’s go fast,” says Stephanie, and she hops on her bike and takes off down the street.

Renée pedals after Stephanie up Mohican Road, past Mohican Lake, and all the way to the smaller Coon Lake. Huffing, she and Stephanie walk their bikes along the overgrown trail to the water’s edge.

They take off their shoes and wiggle their toes in the soft, wet sand. They watch the tiny flicks of fish.

“Maybe I’ll be an ichthyologist,” Stephanie tells Renée. Renée says nothing.

Stephanie asks her, “How come you never say what you want to be?”

“Because I don’t know yet,” says Renée.

“You don’t have ambition,” says Stephanie.

“I don’t know what I want to be ambitious
about”
Renée protests.

“Well,” says Stephanie, “you’d better be careful or you’ll end up like all those other women in Rabbitville.”

“What do you mean?”

“Housewives, of course. You’ve got to open your eyes, Renée. We’ve got to do some consciousness raising here.”

Renée opens her eyes and looks at her friend. She can never tell whether or not Stephanie is joking.

“You can’t just spend your life taking the path of least resistance,” says Stephanie. “You’ve got to get out there and do something. And if you don’t know what you want to do, you’ve got to figure something out.”

“Okay,” says Renée.

“You’re hopeless!” Stephanie throws herself down on the sand.

Renée is hurt. “I have to go home.”

“You’re going to spend your whole life doing what people tell you to,” Stephanie says. “It’s like you’re cursed. You’re like a goose or something. Whoever you’re with is going to imprint you. Whoever you see first, you’ll follow wherever he goes. Your father, your boyfriend, your husband—”

“Boyfriend! Husband!”

“I’m talking about the future. Because this is what’s going to happen. It’s your trajectory,” Stephanie says darkly.

“You’re the one who’s always telling me what to do!” says Renée.

“I’m deprogramming you.”

“No,” says Renée. “You’re just bossy.”

Stephanie gets up and shakes the sand off of her. She grins. “Oh, yeah, well, that’s true,” she says. “I am.”

Renée pedals home, and the wind tangles up her thick hair. She is half offended by and half in love with Stephanie’s talk about the future. Offended that Stephanie thinks she’s such a follower, bound to do what other people say. Fascinated, and somehow flattered, to hear Stephanie say that she has a trajectory.

T
HEY
are forcing the Rav to stay inside. They will not leave him unattended, even for a moment. He is angry, furious at Isaiah and Rachel, but too weak to get up by himself. He has only his voice left to make his displeasure known. He calls to them loudly like a wounded bird, and chastises them from his bed or chair. The Rav is almost immobile. For two months he has been sleeping in a rented hospital bed. Two male nurses carry him up and down the stairs. Rachel tried to convince him to stay in the city during the summer, but he rejected the idea so violently that she did not dare to press the issue further. The Rav insisted on coming to Kaaterskill as he always has. Now, in July, the house is congested with the minyan every morning, doctors coming in and out, the nurses coming and going on their shifts, lifting and carrying him as if he were a bale of hay. And, of course, Isaiah and Rachel, always present, always strained. It exhausts him, all of it—not merely the medication and its side effects, the nausea, the hallucinations—but the tedium and banality of his days, the flow of people, the effort to eat, to sit and stay awake, the grinding, slow mechanics of his life.

Late now, on Friday afternoon, they have moved the Rav downstairs for the evening service. The table is set, the food prepared. Today, at last, Jeremy is to come up for the weekend. He has just returned from his two weeks abroad. When Jeremy left for Italy, the Rav was stronger. He was in better spirits. But in the brief time
Jeremy has been gone, the Rav’s medication has become less effective. Even high doses do not loosen his legs and arms or help him to swallow.

The Rav has been waiting for Jeremy. For days he has spoken about the coming visit to Isaiah and Rachel, told them how impatient he is to see his older son and talk to him. But why is Jeremy late? The long afternoon is ending, and Rachel must light the candles. She is putting away books and shuffling papers in her fussy way, moving piles from one place to another. Did Jeremy’s car break down on the road? The men have already begun arriving for the Kabbalat Shabbat service. They fill the living room and crowd the Rav in his chair. He must sit, but they stand for him, while Isaiah paces nervously around the perimeter of the room, glancing at his watch.

Why is he late? Was there an accident? The sun is still setting in pinks and golds and flaming orange, but the colors make no difference. The time of sunset determined for this latitude is seven fifty-nine. To be late would be unconscionable. Isaiah is davening with his mouth set. The Rav knows what Isaiah fears—that Jeremy will come in after Shabbes with all these people in the room watching. The Rav himself cares nothing about that. He cares about the time. The start of Shabbes is not a thing to be put off. Not a thing to be delayed. The moment comes, and either one is ready or one is not, either one observes the time or one does not. The moment comes once, and it is gone. Candle lighting is not delayed because someone is late. Shabbes is not an event like the theater or the train, for which it is simply rude or impractical to be late. There will be another show, or another train. There will be other times to meet one’s friends, but for candle lighting there is no other occasion. The time of candle lighting is a matter of readiness for God. And to be unready, to put candle lighting off, to delay, or simply to let other concerns govern the clock—that is an offense, that is truly a desecration. And as he sits downstairs in his straight-backed chair, the Rav must imagine there was something on the road, some emergency, a matter of life and death, because there is no other excuse.

The short service over, the men pay their respects to the Rav and to Isaiah, and begin walking down the hill, joining the other men emerging from the synagogue. Jeremy has still not come. The family
sits down at the table, the Rav, Rachel and Isaiah, and the Rav’s grandson, Nachum. They make kiddush and drink the wine. They wash their hands and say the blessing. Silently, Nachum brings in a pitcher and bowl from the kitchen and pours the water over the Rav’s hands. They make motzi and eat the challah. Rachel brings out the soup from the kitchen and they begin eating, but no one speaks. What is there to say? They can only sit expecting Jeremy, dreading his arrival after candle lighting. He will walk in the door late, and it will be like having some filthy thing in the house. They sit in anticipation. Rachel clears away the soup bowls quickly but carefully, as if afraid of breaking them.

A
T
nine-twenty the sky is inky blue. The stars have begun to gather, tiny, pure, and white. Jeremy takes his overnight bag out and closes the door of his car. He breathes deeply in the fresh air, and tries to steel himself. He had not allowed enough time and got caught in traffic. There had been a terrible truck accident, the truck upended on the road and two cars smashed. The Thruway was backed up for miles. Jeremy had inched along in the traffic, looked at his watch, and even thought about turning back to the city. Now, just outside his father’s door, he wishes that he had. He was not ready to come up so quickly after his conference and vacation in Milan. He was jet lagged, his internal clock was off, and he had miscalculated the shift between his professional world and his father’s timetable. None of this will matter to the Rav. Jeremy puts his hand on the doorknob. His heart is pounding.

He stands in the doorway, his suit bag on his shoulder. He stands on the threshold of the house, warm and fragrant with Shabbes dinner. And from the dining room the family sees him at the door. For a long moment they look at him, standing in the entryway. They do not speak; they sit frozen at the table, their hands paralyzed, forks in midair. And in the lamplight Jeremy burns with shame. He feels his brother and his sister-in-law, and especially his father, looking deep into him. They see what is obvious, but what nobody has ever stated. That Jeremy, with all his learning, has become someone else, a stranger to them. That he, their own flesh and blood, is alien. The anger is not only because of what he is, but because he has made them look.

Slowly, the strap of Jeremy’s bag slides down to the floor. Cautiously, he approaches them and takes his seat at the table where his bowl and plate stand empty. Rachel gets up and serves him, and they eat in silence, without appetite.

The family does not sing the grace after meals. Each of them at the table says the blessings silently. Then the nurses come and carry the Rav up to bed.

“Maybe I should go,” Jeremy says after his father has gone.

Rachel darts a look at him as she clears the table. But Isaiah shakes his head. “No,” Isaiah says, “don’t go.”

Of course they don’t want him to go because that would mean more traveling on Shabbat.

J
EREMY
lies awake in the bed that had been his as a boy. As a child he had loved the feel of the cotton sheets against his skin. They were cool and smooth, worn smooth with washings. Now he lies awake, and the sheets are cool against him and soft. But the softness against his skin is a reproach to him. He blames himself for being cavalier about the time and coming late. He blames himself for angering his father. He should have turned back on the road and returned to the city. His father would have been far less disappointed to hear that the traffic was too heavy and that Jeremy would have to come up the next weekend. Why did he keep driving up? Why did he do it? In the past year the Rav approached him and tried to talk to him on his own terms. They had begun to speak again, and now Jeremy has ruined those conversations.