Chains Around the Grass (15 page)

She needed to tell him this, and that she forgave him. And that she loved him and didn’t want him to be here anymore. But the words wouldn’t come. Already, she felt her mother pulling her gently away.

They had to go! He had to go—back to them!—before they were caught.

She clung on desperately, all words dammed in her throat, unable to dislodge a single one. “Daddy!” she finally called out, foolishly, knowing it would not tell him a single thing.

But she was wrong.

He understood her perfectly, pulling her toward him with some of his old stubborn strength, giving her one last hug as willful, as desperate and as terrified as her own.

Then, slowly, as if in a dream, she felt his arms slipping away.

And then, he was gone.

Chapter thirteen

Ruth didn’t like leaving Sara and Louis the next day, imposing on the neighbors. Yes, and seeing Louis cry. He had been left with strangers so few times in his life and was so miserable and frightened. But the Cramers had been so kind about it, and Mrs. Cohen had promised to check in on them. A hospital was no place for small children, especially since they wouldn’t even let them come upstairs to see Dave anyway. Dave would be so disappointed, she knew, that she hadn’t brought them. But she didn’t like all that sneaking around up back staircases. He’d be home soon enough anyway.

The screech and sway of the subway car hurled her from side to side. She grabbed on to Jesse, steadying herself. He was already five feet seven inches and growing so fast that his pants were always a little too short, no matter how fast she let them down. Dave had been so worried he’d be a shrimp like himself. She smiled. No danger of that, although with two short parents it was a miracle. A blessing, she thought, from God.

They rode in silence. She did not press him, respecting the strangeness that had crept into their relationship in the past few months, the mutual shyness in the way they saw each other. She wished she could tell him now that it was a comfort to her to have him next to her, so quiet and manly. A shoulder to lean on. She knew Dave felt the same.

How happy Dave would be to see him! Of all the children (although he had never betrayed himself in word or deed) Jesse meant the most to him. Maybe even more than she did. It didn’t bother her anymore. You couldn’t compete with a man’s love for his first-born son. Only a fool would resent it, and a maniac try to change it.

Dave had done a good job hiding it. Sara would never suspect and Louis was too little to notice. So good, in fact, that the one person who had the least idea of all was Jesse himself. It was as if Dave was training him to win a race, riding him hard, expecting so much from him. And Jesse was like a young racehorse, full of pride and spirit, believing he was smarter than everybody else—classmates, teachers. Not that his marks helped make his case. Cs, Ds… If he was a kid who didn’t like books, well, you could understand. But a kid who hates school and spends his life reading? His afternoons taking home books from the library? And yet, he had flunked math twice and she had had to talk to his English, history and social studies teachers. In New Jersey, his teachers had had only good things to say about him. But here, they didn’t care, didn’t appreciate… A good teacher could make gold out of him. Why, she mourned again, the old bitter mourning, didn’t he have a good teacher?

It was Dave’s fault too. While he defended the teachers, lecturing his son, berating him for his obstinacy, she could tell (and so could Jesse, she had no doubt) it was simply lip service. He also thought the teachers were idiots and that his son had nothing to learn from them. But he never sided openly with Jesse. He sided with him the way he loved him: behind his back.

She wasn’t worried about the operation, not really. Just the pain. The doctor had made such fun of her, making her feel childish, foolish for even asking if Dave would come out of it all right. “An operation on bleeding ulcers is not, Madame, brain surgery.” He had looked down at her over his reading glasses, which had made his face look severe and amused. Well, he couldn’t help looking down on her. She was so short. She didn’t take it the wrong way, getting insulted or anything. The opposite! The doctor was being very kind to make her feel so dumb for worrying, for encouraging her to stop. And since she wasn’t paying him, she’d felt no right to ask him too many questions, to demand anything, but only to be grateful. She didn’t even know his name.

“Mom, I was thinking…”

She smiled at his quizzical face, his sweet, cracking voice on the verge of turning forever deeper into a man’s voice.

“We should bring something. Flowers or candy.”

She thought of her thin wallet, of buying groceries for the week… But this was no time to be practical. When they got out of the subway, they bought five roses. She counted out the money slowly and tried not to think about tomorrow as she saw her son hold them proudly, carefully. In the elevator up to the ward, she saw his eyes darting, comparing his bouquet with those held by other people.

When the elevator stopped, he hurried out ahead of her, looking for the room number Ruth had remembered from the day before. She was surprised when she saw him hesitate at the threshold. She caught up, slightly breathless, ready to tease him at his sudden shyness, but stopped. In one corner an old man was snoring loudly, while in another several strangers turned around to stare at them. The only other bed in the room was stripped to the dark gray stripes of the mattress and the dull metal frame. It smelled strongly of newly applied disinfectant.

“But where?” Ruth whispered. “Maybe they switched rooms after the operation? There were a lot more people here yesterday.”

“Ma, you just screwed up the room number.” He said it so surely, she almost believed him. It would have been just like her.

Jesse ran down the corridors, stopping nurses, looking into rooms. Finally, a nurse asked them who they were looking for. When Ruth told her, she looked them over queerly, and led them into a waiting room. “Please wait inside for the doctor. He’ll be there in a few minutes.” And as an afterthought, biting her lip: “I think it would be best if the boy waited outside.”

“You stay here, Jesse. I’m just…I’ll be…right inside.” “But…!”

“Please. The nurse said. Please.” He slumped into a chair.

She opened the door and found herself in a wood-paneled study. She looked around, admiring the dustless shine of the polished mahogany desk, the sparkling glass doors on the bookcase. She reached out timidly, picking up a large glass paperweight and turning it over, watching snowflakes fall peacefully on top of the Empire State Building. She remembered finding such a toy once in her father’s generous pockets. And for just a moment, she ached for a father’s hand.

She waited and waited, beginning to be bored and nervous. She tried reading the titles on the spines of the neatly arranged books, but gave up. Then, finally, she heard the door open and voices in the distance: “Glenn, glad I caught you. About the game this Saturday. Lynn has some kind of benefit for the museum.” She heard the other man’s sounds of polite distress and then footsteps coming toward her. The door closed with a loud sigh.

“I’m Dr. Glenn Gleason, head of the Department of Internal Surgery.”

She heard him pause and wondered if she was supposed to say something like “How proud your mother must be!” or “How wonderful for you!” to acknowledge the value of the information. But he wasn’t looking at her, which convinced her not to interrupt. She thought he might hold out his hand and nervously wiped her sweaty palm across her coat sleeve. But he didn’t. He just continued in his firm voice that made her feel he must be smart and right, whatever he said.

“I’m sorry to tell you Mrs. Berkowitz…”

She was startled, then ashamed for him. But she held back her corrections, hoping there would be more mistakes and that the voice would leave more holes, yawning gaps through which she and her children could escape.

“Your husband passed away two hours ago.”

“Dave? Dave Markowitz?”

He looked down, shuffling papers, confused. “Markowitz? Yes. I’m terribly sorry. Markowitz,” he repeated.

“What?” she said harshly, stupidly.

“For the mistake, and of course, for your loss,” he shifted uncomfortably.

She looked at him, appalled. She was so stupid, that’s why she didn’t understand, when he was trying so hard to make it clear. It was all clear now, wasn’t it?

“Why? From what? He didn’t even have his operation yet. Four they told me. In the afternoon, they told me. But now it’s still morning. It wasn’t dangerous, they told me…”

“Mrs. Ber… Markowitz, your husband’s operation was rescheduled by the surgeon in charge. We tried to call you but no one answered. There were serious, unexpected complications. I doubt if the medical terminology would mean much to you. We tried our best. My condolences. You’ll have to speak to the office about arrangements…”

“I want to speak to his doctor,” she felt the hysteria rising and fought to control it.

“Who?” he shuffled the papers some more, searching for details.

She suddenly realized that they had never told her the surgeon’s name. “I don’t know,” she said.

“Yes, here it is. Dr. Wilson. Uhm, I don’t know if he’s here. Would you like me to page him? Can you tell me what it is you wanted to know?”

To know!! Ruth thought. She thought of so many questions she would like to ask that doctor, the one who had been so contemptuous of her fears; who had told her not to worry. And suddenly she forgot what it was she had wanted to know and a great spasm of pain, a feeling of being utterly drained, made her body hollow.

“Perhaps you’d like me to bring in your son now?”

My son! She remembered, glad, then terrified. Nodding yes, she watched the doctor rise like a figure in a dream whose very motion is suspect. Nothing was fixed, real. It all floated like bits of soap masquerading as snow, fake turbulence in a fake world. It was only when the door opened and she saw Jesse step over the threshold with those flowers in his hand that the vagueness congealed into something solid and real. She had never been so proud of him, his height, his handsome face and body; never so glad that she had once given birth and had a son who now stood taller than herself. He went to her awkwardly, shifting the roses, which were already wilting from the tenseness of his grip.

That was what suddenly broke her heart in two.

“Your mother has something to tell you, son,” the doctor said professionally.

Yes, there was something to tell him. She would remember in a minute. Then the spasm, the ache went through her again.

“Jesse, Daddy’s gone.”

His face looked annoyed, then puzzled, then angry. “Gone?” he said. “Gone where?”

How funny, she thought, startled, wanting almost to laugh. “Passed away,” she told him, and then wanted, meant, to hold him. But instead, she found herself being held. She held his hand as if he was a little boy again weeping in the alleyways of Brownsville, waiting to be rescued. She held his hand as if he was her father.

“Come, tateleh.”

Behind them, medicine carts and voices rumbled with indifference, like subway cars careening heedless in the dark.

Chapter fourteen

There would be no place for her here, next to him, she noticed. It was a bargain plot, arranged by Morris through his union, reserved for members of a club to which Dave had never belonged: The Conquerors Club, the sign said. Rosicrucians? Knights of Columbus? She didn’t know, and didn’t want to ask.

All she wanted, as she stood there getting more and more confused, was to wake up; to feel that unconscious comfort that seeps into nightmares, revealing their smoky core. Ah, the relief ! Just a dream, all the hard complications, the razor-edged difficulties at once softened, resolved; life suddenly simple again.

She waited for that moment.

Instead, she saw them lift him. The box rocked gently, like a boat coming into harbor. To her horror, she felt a sudden, deep rage. She wanted to run to him, to pry open the lid, to shake him, to scream: How dare you do this to me? How dare you leave me like this, a widow with three small children!? She closed her eyes, trembling with the effort of sanity, imagining the soft earth with horror and envy and finally, calm acceptance. Rest. He needed that.

Dave!!

Don’t leave me. Don’t leave me here alone. My love. My husband. My children’s father.

My dear friend.

“Kal Malay Rachamim,” her lips moved with the words. “Hatzur Tamim Poalo…” The Rock, His work is perfect, for all His ways are judgment; a God of faithfulness and no iniquity, just and upright is He. The Rock, perfect in all His work; who could say to him what are You working?”

I could say it to Him, thought Ruth, and He would have nothing to say for Himself. She bowed her head, defiant, yet already defeated. Who had the strength to fight God? Besides, He is off somewhere. On vacation. The clods of earth fell over the coffin, thudding, dark. It was the way they covered garbage, she thought. Even old prayer books got placed in attics, protected from the rain.

Her heart, wrung with faith, ached. “He rules on earth and on high; He causes death and restores to life; He brings down to the grave and raises up again. The Rock, perfect in every deed; who could say to Him, ‘what are You doing?’”

Yes, she had to believe this. For what else was there?

She brushed back her hair as it escaped from the fancy hat Rita had hurriedly lent her, appalled that she had thought to cover her head with only a simple scarf. Its unfamiliar weight, its theatrical (she thought) veil made her wince with embarrassment. But she had thought it better to listen to Rita, not trusting her own judgment.

She reached out for Jesse, taking his hand in hers, patting it. But the moment Jesse’s shoulder brushed hers she couldn’t stop herself from resting her full weight against him. She felt him tense but was helpless to straighten herself until she felt his unmistakable stagger. He was still, despite his height, a little boy. She straightened her back, ashamed.