And while Miriam continued to prepare a full cup of coffee—black, no sugar—in the morning, and wrap her arms around him as the two got under the covers at night, all with the smile, the same smile, brightening her porcelain face, Zalman knew she was worried. At first, Miriam sympathized with his preoccupation, his sadness when he received word of Jacob’s passing. Many years ago, even before they had married, he had confided in her about how Jacob had saved his life during the darkest of days and had become more than a brother to him. He told her, too, of how he had helped Jacob build the home he had always dreamed of having, of how he had moved in with the couple as they battled infertility when the home seemed as barren, as empty, as his wife’s womb. And how Zalman decided to go back to the farm, back to the work of his hands, the work he loved to do, back to Miriam. She knew that his heart ached for the loss, for deserting both Jacob and Esther. But Zalman had not told her all. He could never confess how he really felt about Esther, the wife that was not his own.
Jacob had cried upon hearing the news that Zalman was leaving, he told her. They had both cried the hazy summer day he took the train to Minnesota. Still, it could not be helped. Didn’t Zalman deserve a life of his own, his chance at happiness?
Zalman understood that when Miriam saw him collapse as if he were drowning in his own tears once he received the phone call about Jacob, she was frightened. She began to cry, too, as Zalman, placing the receiver down, turned to her, water seeming to gush suddenly from his eyes, a helpless stare on his face, the same look that was on his two-year-old daughter’s face, a mixture of shock and sadness, the morning Miriam had accidentally slammed the car door on her thumb. Miriam tried to comfort her husband just as she had her child, with soft words and gentle smiles, but his sorrow was not to be appeased. When she heard, finally, of the child they had lost, Miriam cried even more. It was unimaginable. He had wiped his tears, not wanting his wife and child to see him weep, and left the house.
That was when Zalman took to long walks by himself, not returning for hours at a time, and the silences had become equally long, so bad that it seemed he had lost his zest for living. He had even stopped helping Debbie with her mathematics workbook, stopped applauding when she would stand and read one of her nature poems to him, stopped insisting she resume piano lessons with a tutor. The only thing, it seemed, that had remained consistent in Zalman’s life was work. The daily routine of going to the shop each day, picking up the paint cans, the brushes, the daily routine of painting. Miriam had given up arguing about his hours as she realized that the business was the one thing, the only thing, that gave him solace.
More than once she had suggested he return to the home to visit with Jacob’s wife, Esther, who would surely be delighted to see Jacob’s old friend again. She offered to go with him, for Miriam had never met Esther, and she was curious. She was even curious about the home. But Zalman would not hear of it. It would be too painful for the wife, for them both, feeling the emptiness of Jacob’s passing. He was so adamant in his refusals that Miriam relented. And still, Zalman remained anxious, sad, and each day he disappeared a little bit more.
And so she was overwhelmed with joy when Zalman came home one evening and informed Miriam that he had changed his mind. He would visit Jacob’s widow in a week’s time, and maybe he would feel better too. Surely, he would.
The night before he left for the home in Brooklyn, he asked Miriam to accompany him on his evening walk. She grabbed her orange wool sweater, as the night would be a chilly one, and, telling Debbie to make sure to finish her homework, the couple slipped out the door. Miriam said nothing but could not help beaming as Zalman took her hand and the two headed down Raritan Avenue toward River Road.
“I shouldn’t be too long, Miriam,” he said, breaking the evening’s serenity. “No more than five hours at most.”
She watched as a robin swooped down from a hanging branch, landed on the sidewalk in front of them, and, just as their footsteps approached, soared up in a straight line toward the evening clouds.
“Please, Zalman, don’t worry,” she responded, still staring ahead as they crossed the busy street. “Take as much time as you need. I’m sure your friend, Mrs. Stein, will be so happy to see you. She’ll probably want to know why you haven’t come by before, especially because you and Jacob were so close.”
“Yes,” he answered, the sound of his voice dropping an octave. But as they walked past the dimly lit shops, the narrow delicatessen, the photography studio, the Judaica store where owners were hurriedly closing for the night, Zalman wasn’t quite so sure. Would Esther be happy to see him after all these years? And surely if she missed him even a tenth of how much he missed her, wouldn’t she have made an attempt to find him? Wouldn’t she have reached out to him before this? He felt certain that because he was the one who had cut off communication, who couldn’t bear to hear any more of Jacob’s recriminations, who could no longer witness the tears of a childless woman roll down her face, that Esther was ignorant of the family he now had—his wife, the farmer’s daughter, his child. He could only imagine the shock on her face when he told her that for the past two years he had been living right here, in a different state, yes, but one that was only a couple of hours away from the old Brooklyn home. And then she would laugh at the absurdity of it all and look at him with watery blue eyes, and say, “Oh, Zalman,” as he took her hand.