Ernest nodded. Still he was grateful that Mr. Blackstone had taken Miriam in, fed her, and let her borrow his Webster dictionary. “Safe travels. I hope our paths will cross again.”
“Ernest.” Miriam stared at her feet. “I meant to tell you that Mr. Blackstone and his wife wish to adopt me and take me with them. They have a farmhouse with horses in America.”
“What? Adopt you?” He must have heard it wrong.
“So we’ll make it legal, and she can leave with us,” Mr. Blackstone said.
Miriam was staring at her feet, but Ernest could see it in her eyes: some fear and a sliver of excitement.
This couldn’t be happening. He had just realized the fate of his parents, and now Miriam wanted to leave him. “You can’t be serious, Miriam. We’re going to Hong Kong. I’ve told you. Adoption? That’s crazy. You don’t need to be adopted. Besides, the processes must be very complicated.”
“No need to worry, Mr. Reismann. My wife and I already have the paperwork prepared. All we need is your consent.”
He wished the man would leave them alone. “Miriam?” He held her shoulders. She was so young; she was confused. She didn’t understand the consequences of being adopted. “Look, can we talk at home? I’m . . . I’m very surprised. This is rather unexpected. It’s a serious decision, can’t you see? Can you talk to me?”
Miriam looked away. Ernest trembled. It was true. She didn’t want him, her brother, her blood; she wanted Mr. Blackstone, a passerby in her life.
“Mr. Reismann, regrettably, we won’t have much time. I promise you, my wife and I will treat her well. My wife loves her. She helped her pack. You like the suitcase, don’t you, Miriam? The canvas bag was too small.”
Never in his life had Ernest hated a baritone voice more. He should never have sent her to live with the Americans. Who was this Mr. Blackstone anyway? Did he play that silly football game? Did he go to church every day like a fanatic? Did he even like jazz? The school had said he was engaged in an import and export business of stockings and garments. But for all he could tell, Mr. Blackstone might be a drunkard, or even a criminal—ordinary, decent Americans wouldn’t travel overseas to Shanghai.
“Ernest?”
Miriam’s pleading eyes. His thoughts scattered. What had he done wrong? How could he have lost her love, her trust, when he did his best to support her and protect her? “You want to leave with him, Miriam? Is this what you’ll choose?”
She looked down at her feet again. “I don’t like Shanghai. I don’t want to stay here. I don’t want to swat flies all day.”
“We’re going to Hong Kong, Miriam. You won’t swat flies. Things will get better.”
“Mr. Reismann, if we adopt her, she’d be an American citizen,” Mr. Blackstone said.
And she would have a Webster dictionary to read and peas and meat loaf to eat every Sunday. This was a good life, the best life he could dream of for her, but he was unwilling to let her go. He had promised his parents to look after her, and he loved her.
“If you leave, Miriam, I’ll never see you again . . .”
Tears welled in her eyes. She loved him after all. Maybe she remembered how he protected her, how much he cared for her. But she wiped off her tears. “You don’t care about me, Ernest. You never did. You didn’t remember my birthday, and you forgot my bat mitzvah.”
He felt a pang in his stomach. She was right—he had not done enough. “Well, if this is what you want, I’ll let you go. I wish you all the best. I wish you a bright and happy future in America.”
Miriam gazed at him with happiness, relief, and what he thought might be an apology. “I want to go to Vassar College, Ernest.”
He could barely nod when Mr. Blackstone gave him a form from a manila folder; he signed at the bottom and gave it back. He stood straight as Miriam picked up her suitcase, stood straight as Mr. Blackstone steered her out of the courtyard. His back grew stiff, his hands chilled, his face numb. He couldn’t protect her anymore. She was on her own. She would become a professor like his father or grow up like a cowgirl, learn to ride horses, and meet eccentric people, but he would never know.
Miriam paused at the courtyard’s door and turned to him. She looked . . . like his mother at their last Passover. Then Miriam turned around and disappeared through the door. He covered his face. He had lost his other sister, his parents, his lover. If he lost Miriam, too, he would be utterly alone.
He picked up his canvas bag, stumbled out of the courtyard, and grabbed Miriam’s hand just as Mr. Blackstone opened the car’s door. “I changed my mind. You can’t go. Please, Miriam. Please stay with me. I love you. I love you very much.”