Oscar and Manny, along with their families—Oscar had two young sons, Manny, a baby daughter—lived in apartments on separate floors in a building a few blocks down in Highland Park. Moshe was a tenant in the same building, having left the old apartment years earlier, seeking escape from the suffocating and newly gentrified streets of Brooklyn. And when Zalman made the trip back east, it was only natural that he follow his cousin, where he quickly rented an apartment only blocks away on North Third Street. It all made sense, since he no longer knew anyone in Brooklyn. Not really.
It was luck, too, that Moshe was the kind of neighbor who liked to talk, liked to know everyone’s name, what made them tick. So, when Zalman just happened to mention only a couple of months after starting the business that he was overcome by the labor of being a painter and that the old shoulder injury had begun to bother him once more, Moshe immediately thought of the brothers, both adept with a hammer and nails, who would be only too glad to finally have some steady employment. Moshe was gone now, having moved—made aliyah—to Israel only a year after Zalman had resettled back in the Northeast. But thanks to his cousin, Zalman was finally home; even better, he had Oscar and Manny too.
Reluctant at first, but after losing one day’s work nursing his aching shoulder, Zalman finally acquiesced. Almost instantly after meeting them, he knew they were the kind of men who would make good employees, both possessing a quiet, serious nature. He could tell by their manner, their eyes that never wavered from his face, that they were honest. Best of all, neither minded making the trip from climbing ladders and hauling paint, not if it was for a job that paid well. Plus, they would be open to learning the business that Zalman himself had gotten the hang of only a couple of years earlier. But there was another reason for his affection. They reminded him of himself. Although they had come from Cuba as young boys on a boat secured by their father, and were about twenty years younger than he, there was something about their spirit, a stubborn drive to do whatever was demanded of them. And, like Zalman, they were loyal—yes, there was that too. He had hired them on the spot.
As soon as they pulled up at the curb in front of the neat but aging facade of the Cape Cod home, the skies opened up and the rain began to fall—large droplets splattering against the windows, the kind that would soak them to the bone. A young, very pregnant woman greeted them at the door, opening it wide so that they could sidestep in, each with fingers curled around the handle of a can of paint. As Zalman settled up, reviewing directions with the woman, Oscar and Manny ran out again, their heads still uncovered, and retrieved the ladder, tarps, rollers, and brushes, and, in a few minutes’ time, they were standing in the front hall, dripping onto the dull wooden floor. Good thing the carpets weren’t installed yet, thought Zalman, looking around the small living room. It was a good thing, too, in fact, that the rooms were bare, not a stick of furniture to be seen. The owner thanked them, and advising the workers to let themselves out by 5:00 p.m., she wrapped a broad sheet over her head and around her expansive belly and left.
The men started the preparations immediately, reaching up from the ladder to set tape against the moldings that stretched across the ceiling, then resting on their haunches to fit the blue tape close to the edge of the floor, making sure radiators and ceiling fans were securely covered, and fastidiously spackling each yawning gap. With the rain ominously swirling against the house, the windows would have to remain shut, at least for now. Almost an hour later, they had opened the cans to reveal the paint, a silky off-white with the consistency of putty. After slowly stirring the paint to radiance, Oscar began painting the downstairs bathroom while Manny attacked the kitchen, which left Zalman with the living room, where the least strenuous effort was needed. He could no longer take the risk of reinjuring his shoulder, maneuvering the brush to avoid wall ovens and sinks, even though Miriam had begged him to stay behind and run the business from the office shortly after he had hired the brothers.
“You are a boss now, not a laborer. You have enough paperwork to keep you busy without having to get down on your hands and knees to paint and scrape,” she pleaded one evening as Zalman eased himself slowly into the kitchen chair and picked up his fork. His wife meant well, he knew, and hadn’t she already followed him all those miles to a new home in a state where they had never lived, where she had neither family nor friends, and all because he had woken up one morning and decided he could no longer work for her ailing father, who was begging him each day to take over the now-expansive farm? Isaac would ask not a penny of his son-in-law, his only compensation having the security of knowing that the farm remained in good hands, in the hands of family, now that neither of his sons had an inclination to continue on as farmers. Looking down now at the pale strands of meat on his plate, Zalman considered lessening the load for once, his thoughts churning in his head. Couldn’t he at least do Miriam this one favor? Spare her yet another day of worry?