Why did he do it? Why did he remain as a guest whom, despite his contributions of time and money, he knew he would forever be? Why did he stay? The question troubled him as he lay in his bed awake at night, the bed that should be occupied by a fair-skinned child, not a Polish immigrant with rapidly thinning hair and all his worldly possessions in a brown attaché case. As the first hazy rays of sun appeared over the rooftops and the shadows deepened below his eyes, Zalman in bed would turn again toward the wall. He had always been a good child who had followed the rules when he was a student at the gymnasium, an obedient son who listened to the advice of his parents, and eventually a practical man who always tried to adhere to what was rational, what was right. And he knew for a certainty after six months, after twelve, and now, that he needed to leave this house that was not his.
He stood each evening leaning against the metal pole, looking down at the scuffed shoes of the passengers as the D train rumbled through the echoing tunnel, feeling the prickle of anticipation spread beneath his skin, the realization that something was holding him back. He did not mind the long ride, the hours spent poring over drawings, the petty annoyances and frustrations, the delays and contracts rescinded, deals gone bad. He did not mind any of it because he knew that at 5:00 p.m., he would be putting his arms into the sleeves of his green cotton jacket, placing a gray hat on his head, picking up the full attaché case, and going home.
In truth, Zalman felt that he was a brother to Jacob, a member of the family. His childhood had been tainted each day by fear, the time spent on the farm, though happy, marked by the knowledge that, though appreciated, he was nothing more than another worker. But here in his home, sleeping in the bedroom next to Jacob and Esther, he felt more secure than ever. After all, didn’t they both ask him, implore him, not to leave?
Now as he listened once more to “Clair de Lune,” he closed his eyes, forgetting about his day, his aching feet, wishing only to make the moment last.
The last note played, but Esther hesitated before getting up off the bench.
“I think it was beautiful, just beautiful,” he said.
“Oh, you silly! You always say that.” She laughed, walking over and giving his shoulder a playful slap. “You are no help at all!”
He looked up at her, seeing his image reflected in her pale-blue eyes.
“I mean it,” he answered. “You play that song better than anyone I know.”
She raised an eyebrow quizzically. “Or perhaps I’m the only one you know who plays this song?”
Zalman got to his feet reluctantly.
“Is it a beef stew that I smell? Ah, the aroma! May I help you plate it?”
“Oh, no, please,” she said. “Best change your clothes first. I need to just give it another stir, and it will be ready in minutes by the time Jacob gets home.”
After running a spoon through the pot and lowering the flame, something outside the window caught her eye. She opened the latch and took a deep breath.
“I think I just saw a cardinal! Spring must really be here. Do you think we should start planting the rosebushes soon, Zalman? What do you think?”
But Zalman didn’t answer. He hadn’t heard the question, because he had been staring at the gentle waves of her auburn hair and the view of her leaning toward the window.
Something stirred in him, and he ran upstairs before he could think what it was.
TWELVE
Jacob
His house was not a home. Not yet. A home required the patter of small bare feet against the floorboards, the excited shouts of play in the backyard, the soft tinkle of a lullaby spinning slowly above the crib. A home required children.
When Jacob was very young, he wanted superpowers, to fly high above the clouds in command of a world he did not yet fully understand. As he grew older, as he observed his uncertain parents and all that was around them begin to collapse, he had longed for stability, a place from which he was not forced to escape, a place he could call his own. And now that he had found that thing, a home he had helped build with his own hands, a wife who welcomed him at the end of each day with hot soup and sweet kisses, things were still not quite right.
Jacob woke up each morning with a gnawing in his belly, and the gnawing grew each month as Esther emerged from the bathroom, her sad eyes traced with resignation. After years of working and striving and loving the woman he never dreamed could be his, Jacob had to admit one thing to himself. The things he had dreamed of and now had were as intangible as air without someone to pass them down to. Jacob had one last dream, the same dream his parents had, and their parents before them.