Jacob placed the key in the lock. He had planned on taking some time off from work in two weeks. That was when he would call Zalman. Jacob was sure his old friend would be glad to hear from him.
TWENTY-ONE
Esther
It was one late afternoon on the first of April when Esther, her arms filled with books and packages, pushed open the front door with her knee and set the items on the kitchen counter. A sigh escaped her lips as she removed a glass from a bottom shelf and filled it with a stream of cold tap water. An aggressive sun was boring its way through the half-opened blinds she had recently purchased when she heard a car door slam shut just outside. Perhaps it was Florrie rushing home to make her husband dinner. Their friendship as the years flew past had grown more distant, reduced to sporadic waves or hurried greetings in passing. Esther noticed at the last such sighting that her neighbor’s hair had gone from a lustrous black to nearly completely gray. While Esther, who was already past fifty herself, would never consider such a drastic change, she had to admit that the color, at least on Florrie, was rather attractive, giving her the air of a sophisticated, mature woman. Perhaps she would tell her that the next time she ran into her, maybe even invite her in for a cup of tea if they had the time.
Esther looked at the stairs and decided she was too tired to change her clothes just yet, or even grade the five classes’ worth of exam papers, and the groceries—the milk, apples, rye bread, even the Breyers coffee ice cream, Jacob’s favorite—could wait. Taking her glass into the living room, she kicked off her pumps and settled into the sofa. And as she took another long sip of the water and patted down the wrinkles in the royal-blue satin pillow, she decided that yes, this was her favorite time of day. Just as her eyelids began to flutter in sleep, though, she was startled by the click of the lock in the front door. She looked up to see him emerging, leather case in hand, shoulders slumped as he dropped the briefcase on the carpet and removed his jacket. When he turned toward her, she could see deep dark circles under his eyes and that his face had assumed an ashen-gray pallor.
“Jacob! Why are you home from work so early?”
He barely met her eyes but bent down to brush her cheek with a kiss.
“I don’t know, Esther. I just didn’t feel like working. Maybe it’s my stomach again. I’m just not right.”
“Jacob, you work too hard. Good thing you planned to take the next few days off from work. You need to relax. Maybe we’ll go up to the country, no? It would be nice to get away. Go upstairs. I’ll bring you some tea, or maybe you want some of the chicken soup I made last Friday?” But she didn’t receive an answer, and Jacob was already up the stairs.
An hour later, Esther was shutting the blinds in the kitchen and clicked on the lamp on the end table in the living room. She had refrained from going upstairs to change her clothes or even turn on the TV so as not to disturb her husband, as the house assumed a peaceful silence. When she heard the whistle of the red kettle, she removed a Lipton tea bag from the pantry and, using the earthenware mug they had purchased on a recent trip to Miami, she poured a cup of tea. Delicately ascending the stairs, she walked into the bedroom.
The room was mute except for the regular ticking of the alarm clock on Jacob’s side of the bed. His head was turned from her, sunken deep into the pillow.
“Jacob!” she called in her best singsong voice. “Time to get up. Otherwise you’ll be awake and keep me up all night!”
But then something changed. It was a feeling, a deep silence that she had sensed only once before on a sunny day in April when she looked out the kitchen window. She hesitated before coming closer. Esther placed the mug on the dresser and walked toward him. But even before she touched his hand, still the hand of a boy of twenty, she knew. She knew that she had lost him. That he was gone.
TWENTY-TWO
Riku, 1994
The first thing that caught Riku’s eye was the cylindrical object tacked onto the molding outside the door of the Brooklyn home. He had a vague memory of the object placed at all the entrances of a home owned by one of his earliest acquaintances when he had first arrived in San Francisco. The object was simple, wooden, and it had the image of a star painted a royal blue on its face. Not quite certain of its purpose, he was certain of one thing—the occupants inside were Jewish. If he found the house suitable, it could easily be removed.
Standing on the expansive though wobbly porch, he rang the bell, and after a few minutes was warmly greeted by two older women. Riku lowered his head.
“Are you Mr. Matsuda?” asked the shorter one, smiling and offering her hand as the other, some inches taller, with her gray hair tied severely in a bun, stood by. Without thinking, Riku kept his hands at his sides and took a quick bow.