The History of Love (28 page)

For a long time he stood with his head against the window, thinking about everything. Then he took off his clothes. Feeling in the dark, he washed out his underwear and hung them to dry on the radiator. He turned the dial on the radio, which glowed and came to life, but a minute later turned it off again and a tango broke off into silence. He sat naked in his chair. A fly landed on his shriveled penis. He mumbled some words. And because it felt good to mumble, he mumbled some more. They were words he knew by heart because he’d been carrying them on a piece of paper folded in his breast pocket since that night, all those years ago, when he’d watched over his friend, praying for him not to die. He’d said them so many times, even when he didn’t know he was saying them, that sometimes he actually forgot that the words weren’t his.

That night, Litvinoff went to the closet and brought down his suitcase. Reaching a hand into the pocket, he felt around for a thick paper envelope. He pulled it out, sat back down in his chair, and placed it on his lap. Although he’d never opened it, of course he knew what was in it. Closing his eyes to shield them from the brightness, he reached up and turned on the lamp.

To be held for Leopold Gursky until you see him again
.

Later, no matter how many times he tried to bury that sentence in the trash under orange peels and coffee filters, it always seemed to rise again to the surface. So one morning Litvinoff fished out the empty envelope, whose contents now sat safely on his desk. Then, choking back tears, he lit a match and watched his friend’s handwriting burn.

DIE LAUGHING

W
hat does it say?

We stood under the stars at Grand Central, or so I have to assume, since I could sooner hook my ankles over my ears than tilt back my head for an unobstructed view of what lies above.

What does it say?
Bruno repeated, jabbing his elbow into my ribs as I raised my chin another notch toward the departures board. My upper lip parted from the lower, to be liberated from the weight of the jaw.
Hurry up,
Bruno said.
Hold your horses,
I told him, except that with my mouth open it came out as,
Old yer arses.
I could just make out the numbers.
9:45
, I said, or rather,
Nine-orty-I.
What time is it now?
Bruno demanded. I worked my gaze back down to my watch.
9:43,
I said.

We started to run. Not run, but move in such a way that two people who’ve worn away all manner of balls and sockets move if they want to catch a train. I had the lead, but Bruno was hot on my heels. Then Bruno, who’d hit upon a way to pump his arms for speed that defies all description, edged me out, and for a moment I coasted while he quote unquote broke the wind. I was concentrating on the back of his neck when, without warning, it plummeted from view. I looked behind. He was in a pile on the floor, one shoe on, one off.
Go!
he shouted at me. I floundered, not knowing what to do.
GO!
he shouted again, so I went, and next thing I knew he’d cut a corner and pulled out ahead again, shoe in hand, pumping rapidly.

All aboard track 22
.

Bruno headed down the stairs toward the platform. I was right behind. There was every reason to believe we’d make it. And yet. In an unexpected change of plans, he skidded to a halt just as he reached the train. Unable to break my speed, I barreled past him into the car. The doors closed behind me. He smiled at me through the glass. I banged the window with my fist.
Damn you, Bruno
. He waved. He knew I wouldn’t have gone alone. And yet. He knew I needed to go. Alone. The train started to pull away. His lips moved. I tried to read them.
Good
, they said. His lips paused. What is good? I wanted to shout. Tell me what is good? And they said:
Luck.
The train lurched out of the station and into the dark.

Five days after the brown envelope had arrived with the pages of the book I’d written half a century ago, I was on my way to get back the book I’d written half a century later.
Or, to say it differently: a week after my son died, I was on my way to his house. Either way, I was on my own.

I found a seat by the window and tried to catch my breath. We sped through the tunnel. I leaned my head against the glass. Someone had scratched “nice boobs” into the surface. Impossible not to wonder: Whose? The train broke into the dirty light and rain. It was the first time in my life I’d gotten on a train without a ticket.

A man got on at Yonkers and sat down next to me. He took out a paperback. My stomach growled. I hadn’t put anything in it yet, if you didn’t count the coffee I drank with Bruno that morning at Dunkin’ Donuts. It was early. We’d been the first customers.
Give me a jelly and a powdered,
Bruno said.
Give him a jelly and a powdered,
I said.
And I’ll have a small coffee
. The man in the paper hat paused.
It’s cheaper if you get a medium.
America, God bless it.
All right,
I said.
Make it a medium
. The man went off and came back with the coffee.
Give me a Bavarian Kreme and a glazed,
Bruno said. I shot him a look.
What?
he said, shrugging.
Give him a Bavarian Kreme
—I said.
And a vanilla
, said Bruno. I turned to glare at him.
Mea culpa,
he said.
Vanilla.
Go sit down
, I told him. He stood there. SIT, I said.
Make it a cruller
, he said. The Bavarian Kreme was gone in four bites. He licked his fingers, then held the cruller up to the light.
It’s a donut, not a diamond
, I said.
It’s stale
, said Bruno.
Eat it anyway,
I told him.
Change it for an Apple Spice
, he said.

The train left the city behind. Green fields fell away to either side. It had been raining for days, and it kept raining.

Many times I’d imagined where Isaac lived. I’d found it on a map. Once I even called up Information:
If I want to get from Manhattan to my son,
I asked,
how do I go
? I’d pictured it all, down to the last detail. Happy days! I’d come bearing a gift. A pot of jam, perhaps. We wouldn’t stand on ceremony. Too late for all that. Maybe we’d toss a ball around on the lawn. I can’t catch. Nor, frankly, can I throw. And yet. We’d talk baseball. I’ve followed the game since Isaac was a boy. When he rooted for the Dodgers, I, too, was rooting. I wanted to see what he saw, and hear what he heard. I kept abreast, as much as possible, of popular music. The Beatles, the Rolling Stones, Bob Dylan—“Lay, Lady, Lay,” you don’t need a brass bed to understand it. Each night, I’d come home from work and order from Mr. Tong’s. Then I’d pull a record from its sleeve, lift the needle, and listen.

Every time Isaac moved, I mapped out the route between my place and his. The first time he was eleven. I used to stand across the street from his school in Brooklyn and wait for him, just to catch a glimpse; maybe, if I was lucky, hear the sound of his voice. One day I waited as usual, but he didn’t come out. I thought maybe he’d gotten in trouble and had to stay late. It got dark, they turned off the lights, and still he didn’t come. I went back the next day, and again I waited, and again he didn’t come. That night I imagined the worst. I couldn’t sleep, imagining all the awful things that might have happened to my child. Even though I’d promised myself I never would, the next morning I got up early and went by where he lived. Not went by. Stood across the street. I watched for him, or for Alma, or even that
shlemiel,
her husband. And yet. No one came. Finally I stopped a kid who came out of the building.
You know the Moritz family?
He stared at me.
Yeah. So what?
he said.
They still live here?
I asked.
What’s it to you?
he said, and started to go off down the street bouncing a rubber ball. I grabbed him by the collar. There was a look of fear in his eyes.
They moved to Long Island
, he blurted out, and took off running.

A week later a letter arrived from Alma. She had my address, because once a year, on her birthday, I sent her a card.
Happy Birthday,
I’d write,
From Leo
. I tore open her letter.
I know you watch him,
she wrote.
Don’t ask me how, but I know. I keep waiting for the day when he’ll ask for the truth. Sometimes when I look in his eyes I see you. And I think you’re the only one who could answer his questions. I hear your voice like you were next to me.

I read the letter I don’t know how many times. But that’s not the point. What mattered was that in the upper left corner of the envelope she’d written the return address:
121 Atlantic Avenue, Long Beach, NY.

I got out my map and memorized the details of the journey. I used to fantasize about disasters, floods, earthquakes, the world thrown into chaos so that I’d have a reason to go to him and sweep him up under my coat. When I’d given up the hope of extenuating circumstances I started to dream about our being thrown together by chance. I calculated all the ways our lives might casually intersect—finding myself sitting beside him on a train, or in the waiting room of the doctor’s office. But in the end, I knew that it was up to me. When Alma was gone, and, two years later, Mordecai, there had been nothing anymore to stop me. And yet.

Two hours later, the train pulled into the station. I asked the person in the ticket booth how I could get a taxi. It had been a long time since I’d been out of the city. I stood in wonder of the greenness of everything.

We drove for some time. We turned off the main road onto a smaller road, then a smaller one yet. At last, up a bumpy wooded drive in the middle of nowhere. It was hard to imagine a son of mine living in such a place. Say he got a craving for a pizza, where would he go? Say he wanted to sit alone in a dark movie theater, or watch some kids kissing in Union Square?

A white house came into view. A little wind was chasing the clouds. Between the branches, I saw a lake. I’d imagined his place many times. But never with a lake. The oversight pained me.

You can drop me here
, I said, before we reached the clearing. I half expected someone to be home. As far as I knew, Isaac had lived by himself. But you never know. The taxi came to a halt. I paid and got out, and it backed away down the drive. I made up a story about my car breaking down and needing a phone, took a deep breath, and pulled my collar up against the rain.