“Jacob, I need to talk with you about something,” she said, swirling a sponge through the soapy water as she stared out the open blinds into the night sky, as if she could actually see something there.
“What is it? Is something wrong with Gary? Did he come down with a cold or the flu? We need to dress him in warmer clothes. It might be spring, but that doesn’t mean there’s good weather every day.”
Esther shook her head, still staring out into the blackness.
“No, dear, it’s not that. Gary is perfectly fine. And he has a closet filled with woolens. It’s not that,” she repeated. “It’s just that you need to know about something. I see things that you don’t even notice since you are not home that much.”
Jacob scowled.
“Wait! What are you saying?” he asked, raising his voice. “Are you blaming me for not spending enough time with you and Gary?” He stopped, choking on a piece of the meat. Esther turned to face her husband.
Before she could go to him or utter a word, he cleared his throat and resumed, his voice an octave lower.
“Look, Esther, I’m trying my best. It’s not an easy job, and I only wish I could be with you both more than just on weekends. I’m not complaining. Not at all, you know I’ve always said I’m the luckiest man on earth, after what I’ve been through, God knows!”
Esther stood quietly, the soaked sponge still in her hands.
“Yes, Jacob, I know. And you say it all the time.”
“The luckiest man on earth,” he repeated as if she hadn’t heard. “I have a castle, I have you, I have Gary. And Zalman, of course, my right-hand man.”
Esther looked down at the linoleum, which showed a few streaks of dried ketchup.
“Jacob, it’s Zalman I want to talk to you about.”
He picked up a napkin and wiped his mouth slowly.
“What do you mean to say about Zalman? Is there a problem? Is he sick? I see him always, and I don’t see any problems.”
“That’s just it. You can’t see the problem. But I feel it—call it woman’s intuition. Yes, I feel it more than see it. The matter is, he needs to leave this house.”
“Narishkeit,” said Jacob, using an old Yiddish expression for “nonsense,” giving her a dismissive wave of the hand. “Zalman loves it here. He’s a happy man with a fine job where he doesn’t have to put in long hours at work, and has you to cook for him, even iron his pants. Besides, you know how much he adores our son, just like he was his own.”
Jacob rose from the table, removed his navy-blue jacket and, placing it in the crook of his arm, began walking toward the living room. But before he could get there, Esther appeared before him, blocking his way.
“Jacob, I know you’re tired, and I so appreciate how tirelessly you work for our family, but I must speak with you about this matter.”
Her voice rose stridently on the last word. Jacob faced his wife and, noticing the worry lines that zigzagged across her forehead, the set of her jaw, the determination that hid behind the pupils in her blue eyes, he lay the jacket neatly across the banister, took Esther’s hand in his own, and the two walked back to the sofa.
“Okay, then, Esther,” he said, as he placed his arm around her and she nuzzled against his chest, “tell me what your woman’s intuition says is wrong with Zalman.”
“You know how much I love Zalman,” she began, eyes still downcast as she breathed in her husband’s sweat, “and how he is a brother to me as he is to you. And for Gary, well, he has become an uncle, and closer to our child than my own two brothers, who never have the time to visit. As you know, he’s teaching Gary how to play the piano, helps him with his homework. And when you are not around, if Gary insists, he will even play catch with him, though he’s not nearly as good a player as you.”
She began to feel Jacob’s body shift impatiently. She continued, “And while he loves us, perhaps you most of all, I’ve become convinced he’s not happy here. Zalman, the old Zalman, used to laugh when I told him stories of how the old biddies in the supermarket would argue over pennies for the price of a can of peas or a half pound of Muenster cheese. And for his part, he never could stop talking about Rabbi Rozenstein, the nice farmer, the stubborn chicken who refused to lay eggs, or the color of the sky just as the sun rose on a Monday morning. But lately Zalman has stopped laughing, and he seldom tells those stories. He’ll help me with a heavy package or two, sometimes drying when I’m washing the dishes, but he quickly goes up to his bedroom as soon as he’s done. He seems to listen patiently when I talk about the news or ask his opinion on the color of drapes for the living room, or even how it might be a lovely day for the three of us to take a walk around the block before dinner. He listens, but his mind is very far away.”