Kaaterskill Falls (38 page)

E
VA
is home from the hospital. In early March, the trees stripped bare, she comes home with Saul and all her flowers, an orchid plant, a small blooming gardenia, and roses from Andras and Nina. Her favorite color, yellow. She is still sick, but she is home, frail but grateful. She and Saul sit together in the living room of their brownstone with Maja and Andras. They talk about the children, Renée and Alex, who are home with Nina.

“Listen, the truth is she plays badly,” Andras says of Renée.

“Not so badly,” says Eva.

“Oh, she does. Very badly.”

“She is a young girl, a child,” says Saul. “Admittedly, she is no Mozart.”

Andras says, “But Nina is determined she should play the piano. She sits with her, and she works with her—”

“Did Nina play once?” asks Maja.

Andras shakes his head. “Now Renée has to play in a recital.”

“Oy veyismere,”
says Eva.

“It’s the old expression,” says Maja. “It will end in tears.”

“What do you mean? It’s already beginning in tears,” says Andras. “She has to practice. She has to practice
right
, or she’ll only be practicing her mistakes. She should memorize. She should do it with the metronome. Nina spends hours on this. She worries about it
constantly—that Renée isn’t exerting herself. She isn’t living up to her potential. I think the only solution is for Nina to play the recital herself.”

Maja laughs at this, and Saul says he’s sure Nina would do a good job, even if she doesn’t play, and then Maja and Andras laugh some more. But Eva says sharply, “No.” She looks at Andras and says, “No, Andras. Stop. She is your wife. You must never say this kind of thing. You mustn’t laugh. You must defend her.”

They look at her, confused. The laughter is gone.

“It’s all right,” Andras tells Eva. “Please. Don’t upset yourself.”

“It isn’t all right,” Eva says.

“No, of course not,” Maja reassures her. “It was only in fun.”

“But don’t.” Eva looks at Andras. “Don’t do it anymore.”

“No. We won’t,” he tells her, not even sure what he is promising.

“Do you want something to drink?” Saul asks Eva. “Are you hungry?”

“I want to talk to Andras,” she says to Saul and Maja.

“Of course,” Maja says. “Let’s take the flowers in the kitchen. Let’s get the roses into some water.”

“You know,” Eva tells Andras when the others have gone, “I feel the way everyone does coming out of the hospital.”

“And how is that?” Andras asks her.

“I feel how … the time is short,” she says. But this isn’t really what she wants to say. She doesn’t know how to put it. She has realized something about Andras. Suddenly she saw it when they were talking about Nina. Her mind keeps whispering it. He doesn’t love his wife.

“Oh, don’t worry about me,” Andras is telling her.

“But I do worry,” she says.

“Just get better,” he tells her. “The rest doesn’t matter.”

“The rest is all that matters,” she says.

Then it seems to Andras that the whole day, the relief to see her home, the giddy silliness, is gone. He can’t keep the front up any longer, and he sinks down next to Eva and takes her hand.

“If you are happy …” Eva begins. She is trying to find the words. “You just have to decide. If you … mind about her, about
everything. If you allow yourself to be happy, then I wouldn’t worry anymore. You mustn’t still hold on to me. Not me.”

“We don’t need to talk about this now,” Andras says. “It’s not important now.”

“It’s the most important thing. There is nothing else.”

Andras lets go of Eva’s hand, but she grips his tightly.

“You were like my child,” Eva says. “Maja and I loved you like our own child. We were selfish of you, and we didn’t want to part with you. And after the war when you were just a boy—a young man coming to us, we thought we would be to you two mothers because you had none. But, Andras, you don’t need two mothers; you need your wife. Are you listening?” she asks him.

“Yes,” Andras whispers. His sister’s voice is so many things to him, experienced, and sweet; both playful and commanding.

“It was wrong of us to laugh at her and talk about her. And it was wrong of you to let us, Andras,” Eva adds sharply. “You should never let anyone speak against Nina.”

“Not even you?” Andras says.

“Especially not me. You should—you should live as you deserve. You should be in love with your wife. And think of her and hold her in your mind so that you have no room for thinking your sad thoughts.”

Andras looks away for a moment. He sees Maja and Saul coming in from the kitchen.

“This is what you must promise me,” Eva tells him. “That you will be happy.”

“Eva, that’s not something to promise.”

“And why not?” she asks.

He looks at her. Being happy is not something anyone can decide. It’s not as simple as that.

Why isn’t it simple? she is asking with her eyes. She expects it of him.

A
LL
that week in the evenings Nina cooks for Eva and she sends Andras over to Eva’s house with food. Of course, Maja is there every day to help, but Nina insists on doing all the shopping and the cooking for her sister-in-law.

Andras sees that Eva is trying to be gracious as she accepts the help. Eva feels overwhelmed by Nina’s groceries and kugels; her kitchen is invaded; her pantry rearranged. But Eva does not say anything. Eva does not argue with the facts. She can no longer take care of the house and the meals herself. She cannot dress herself. Her husband must do that for her. Nor can she laugh out loud as she used to. The illness and her constant knowledge of it have not crushed Eva’s spirit completely, but they have snuffed her laughter out.

In the weeks to come Andras sees these changes in Eva, but he does not speak of them. He goes to work, and he takes the children to visit their aunt. He delivers Nina’s meals. And when he sees Eva he tries to encourage her and speak to her. He always tries, although Eva is less interested than she used to be in Andras’s life. This is the hardest change of all. Eva no longer has the strength to be Andras’s advisor and confidante; his wry and indulgent listener. Andras had not realized before how much he had depended on her. But he feels the loss when he visits Eva alone. The day Eva came home from the hospital was the last time Eva spoke to Andras in the old direct way. Now she neither questions nor encourages him. Just as she no longer bakes for Andras, she has no chiding advice to buoy him up.

One raw March day as Andras leaves Eva’s house, his throat catches. As the door closes behind him, he stands on the brick steps and almost cries. And a kind of prayer rises up in him, although he knows no prayer he makes will do Eva any good. The ideas are confused in his mind but they rush out of him. The words are on his lips, although incoherent; partly a prayer to God and partly a resolve to himself. If he could be like Eva. If he could see what Eva sees in the world. If he could become more like her, then maybe she would live.

T
HE
spring is late, and the days cold. The ice has not melted when Andras drives gingerly through Brooklyn to Cecil’s house. He and Nina and the children glide past buildings in worse and worse repair, the front steps chipped and cracked, the brick town houses desolate in the gray weather. There are kids drinking and vaulting over fences,
houses with sheets strung up in the windows instead of curtains. He parks as close to Cecil’s house as he can, and Nina hurries Renée and Alex out of the car. She is holding a gift for the Birnbaums’ new baby. Cecil and Beatrix have a baby girl.

“We’re having a shalom bat,” Beatrix told Nina on the phone.

“What is that?” Nina asked uncertainly.

“A welcoming party. Instead of a shalom zachar,” Beatrix said. “I thought it was absolutely barbaric that there are welcoming parties for boys but not for girls. We’re having a naming too. I suppose you didn’t have them in Argentina.”

“Is it an English custom?” Nina asked. Girls are always named in shul. Never at home.

“No, I think it’s American. Apparently they’re quite common now,” Beatrix said in her breezy way.

Despite what Beatrix has heard, it is clear that most of the guests at Cecil’s place on Brooklyn Avenue have never been to a shalom bat. The brick house is crowded with Kaaterskill families. The Landauer and the Shulman children are there, dressed up and looking around curiously, wondering what will be done to the baby. The Sobels are there, and Beatrix’s mathematician friends from Queens College and Courant. There are colleagues of Cecil’s in rumpled jackets and the occasional tie, as if unsure exactly what the occasion requires. In chairs Cecil’s elderly aunts sit with paper plates at a slant on their short laps. They are buttoned up in dark dresses, their pocketbooks standing like small ottomans at their feet. Cecil’s parents have long since passed away, and they peer down at their house from black-and-white photographs on the bookcases. The furniture is all the same as it was thirty years ago, if shabbier. The piano is there as it was.

In his freshly pressed suit and tie, Jeremy Kirshner stands a little apart, watching with his sharp brown eyes. Cecil’s sister, Regina, is organizing the food and drinks. The glass doors between the living room and dining room are open, and the dining-room table is laden with Cecil’s favorite food, a Scandinavian smorgasbord of the most exotic kinds of herring, smoked and cured fish. It is all tangy and salt encrusted, and there is a great need for crackers, cheese, and seltzer.

Cecil stands up. He is holding his sleeping week-old baby, small and curled up into herself. Beatrix stands next to him wearing a lime
green mohair sweater and a necklace of amber crystals that hang like rock candy from a string.

“Thank you for coming,” Cecil says to the assembled.

Then Beatrix announces, “We are naming our child Attalia Ada Kahan Birnbaum. Attalia is for Cecil’s grandmother Ottalie, Ada for the great English mathematician, Kahan is my surname, Birnbaum, Cecil’s. No hyphen,” she adds.

There is some confusion among Cecil’s Kaaterskill friends. What a strange compound name; what an odd assortment. And the first name, Attalia—its connotations are not good. Everyone looks at the sleeping baby. The name is just short of Jezebel.

“And there is something else we wanted to tell you,” says Cecil. “As some of you know, Beatrix has been offered a post at her old college in Oxford, Somerville. We have thought about it and discussed the question exhaustively—”

“Exhaustingly,” says Beatrix.

“It is a fine position for Beatrix,” Cecil says, “and an excellent research opportunity for me. As you know, my work focuses on manuscripts in Oxford itself. But I have lived in this house all my life—and, of course, in Kaaterskill. And I am a New Yorker. I promised myself long ago that I would never be driven out of this neighborhood or participate in any sort of white flight. But the state of academia in this country is another story. The condition of the arts, the stagnation at the Met, the complete decay of legitimate theater. These are conditions that are becoming intolerable. The decline of the great scholarly institutions in particular. Deteriorating academic standards, grade inflation, and corruption at all levels. I have decided to go back with Beatrix to England. I am going to leave the city.”

Having made this pronouncement, Cecil gives Beatrix the baby and begins pouring schnapps for his startled friends and colleagues.

“Slivovitz?” he offers Jeremy Kirshner.

“A little,” says Jeremy.

He is still holding his baby gift, a copy of
Mots d’Hemes: Gousses, Rames
, with its bilingual puns: “Un
petit d’un petit / S’
é
tonne aux Halles / Un petit d’un petit / Ah! degr
é
s te fallent.
…” He sees how pleased Cecil is to have caused such a stir.

“What about the house?” Nina Melish is asking Cecil. “What about the house in Kaaterskill?”

“Well, of course I’ll have to sell it,” Cecil says.

“Are you going to give it to Regina?” Nina asks.

“This I can promise,” says Cecil. “I will never sell the place to Michael King. Never. If I stood to lose all the money I’ve put into it over the years, I would never sell to him.”

“I think we’ll have to rent it at first,” says Beatrix.

“Preferably to a large family.” Cecil is still thinking of avenging himself on King. “With noisy children so they can run around in back. Boys with peyyes, screaming and playing baseball with their tallit katan hanging out.”

As Cecil is speaking, Jeremy catches a glimpse of Cecil’s sister, Regina, bringing out some cake, and he sees her face, half averted but soft with disappointment. Ah, he thinks, but the parents didn’t give the house to Regina, and Cecil won’t give it to her either. The house will never be hers. Jeremy is an expert on such matters, and he knows. Regina will never live in that house again. That is the truth about inheritances. That they have nothing to do with continuity, the maintenance of property. The power of legacies is all in separation, in the conflict between the older and the younger, the alienation of the living from the dead. What a marvelous fiction, he thinks, that places and things, or even ideas, can be transmitted over time, that property can be kept in families, or that the families themselves will remain intact. That Cecil would continue to come up to Kaaterskill every summer, and Regina with him, brother and sister in their old rooms with their storybooks and toys. Why not? their parents wonder from their black-and-white photographs on the bookcases. Why shouldn’t everything continue as it was, in perpetuity? Why should Regina be married and living in Los Angeles? Why should the house be sold, when it is Cecil’s? The white porch is there waiting for him, the tulip and iris bulbs in the cellar. Cecil’s bicycle and Regina’s, waiting in the garden shed.