Abe heard the low rumble of thunder, distant in the skies. “It’s too late for that now,” Mort said, his voice heavy with all the venom he could muster.
“Why? You’re only twenty-three years old. Nothing’s too late.”
“I’m not going back to school to make a fool of myself just so you can feel better!” Mort spat the words into the cold, wet air. Lightning flashed overhead, and Abe watched his brother hurry away.
Abe never stopped trying to make it up to Mort. On the surface, their family situations, fortunes and possessions were equally matched: each owned a half interest in the business, each owned a half interest in the two-family house in Brooklyn, each was married and each had several healthy children. As far as Abe was concerned, they were both blessed, with every reason for happiness. But he knew his brother didn’t see it that way.
What Abe suspected, what he pushed to the back of his mind during the day, was that Mort not only blamed him but hated him. Some nights, as he was drifting off to sleep, Abe tried to imagine the reasons why. Was he too cheerful? Too eager to show his love for family and his job? Was he too demonstrative with Mort? Did Mort dislike walking to work together every morning? Did Mort object to all of them living in the same house? Abe always thought it was nice for them, nice for their wives to have each other. But maybe Mort felt smothered.
The day after Harry’s bar mitzvah, Abe gave up this bedtime theorizing. There were too many other things to think about, and Abe was tired of Mort’s sour expression. The guy was a real pill. As a matter of fact, even on the way home from the bar mitzvah Mort had started yammering about one of their shipments, bothering him about orders on a day meant for celebration.
The Monday after the festivities, Abe decided he would walk to work on his own. He would enjoy a quiet stroll for once, unhindered by sales numbers and profit discussions, and think back over the weekend in peace. He whistled on his way, stopping every now and again to smile at a passing acquaintance.
He was almost at the corner when he heard footsteps behind him.
“Abe!” It was Mort, trying to catch up. Abe stopped at the light and waited. As soon as the light turned, he took off again, forcing Mort to match his frantic clip.
“I don’t want to talk about the shipment, Mort.”
“Of course.” Mort was being uncharacteristically agreeable.
“I just wanted to tell you…,” said Mort. He stopped to catch his breath. They were walking much faster than usual. “I just wanted to tell you congratulations on the bar mitzvah.”
Abe stopped walking. The morning sun came out on the other side of a passing cloud overhead, and Abe’s face widened into a happy grin. Forgiveness came easily to him. He grabbed his brother’s shoulder and patted him on the back. “Let’s get to work,” he said.
Chapter 3
HELEN
The day after Harry’s bar mitzvah, Helen woke early. When the clock ticked toward 5:00 a.m., she decided it was reasonable to get out of bed. Abe and the boys wouldn’t be up for hours, and she would have some time to herself. She walked down the hall to the kitchen, treading softly so as not to wake Rose’s family below. Helen often thought she and Abe should live on the bottom floor, especially considering the amount of jumping and stomping that went on in her apartment. She was certain one of her boys was going to end up crashing through the floorboards into Rose’s living room one of these days; she just hoped he would end up on the couch.
Helen turned on the light in the kitchen and cringed. There was still so much to clean up from the party. Rows of glasses, left overnight to dry, had to be boxed. Covered plates of cookies and pastries had to be frozen or given away. If they stayed on the counter, the boys would devour them all before lunchtime and have stomachaches for the rest of the day. Helen measured out the coffee for the pot and sat down at the table, waiting for it to brew.
Thank goodness the day before had been a success. Earlier in the week the rabbi had spoken to her quietly, taking her aside to express his concerns. The rabbi didn’t usually talk to the mothers, so Helen knew it was important. He assured her that Harry was a wonderful boy, but that she shouldn’t expect too much. He tried to tell Helen what she already knew. She just hoped it wouldn’t be too disappointing for Abe.
The night before the service, Abe practiced with Harry at the dining room table. Over and over Harry repeated the prayers, just as he had done for months. Harry never got upset when he made a mistake, but he never really improved either. It was, Helen knew, impossible to get upset with Harry because he never got upset with himself. He never uttered obscenities or threw his books or even frowned. He knew the bar mitzvah was something he had to get through, and he was determined to manage it with as little upset as possible. Harry instinctively avoided anything unpleasant.
Girls were not unpleasant for Harry. Even at thirteen, he knew how to talk to them. It was a puzzling thing, Helen thought, to be the mother of such a boy. She saw how the older girls, girls of fifteen already, looked at Harry. And even more surprising was the way he looked back at them, meeting their gazes, as if he had answers to questions they had not even thought of.
Helen watched Harry as if she were two people. As his mother she was proud of him, proud of his looks, his confidence. But when she watched him as the young girl she once was, she ached for the girls whose hearts he might break one day. Part of her wanted to warn them against his charms, shoo them away for their own sakes and take their side against him. But the mother side of her held this part back, and she was unable to set any obstacle in front of him. That was why she bought him a tie for the bar mitzvah that set off the color of his blue eyes exactly. And why she never let the barber give him buzz cuts in the summertime.
On the morning of the bar mitzvah, all eyes had been on Harry. The congregation was accustomed to awkward, gangly bar-mitzvah boys, boys made self-conscious by their first burst of hormones and newly grown acne. But Harry had stood in front of the congregation that morning with all the confidence of a rabbi, even if he had none of the knowledge of one. There were many mistakes, of course, but Harry never hesitated for a moment. When it was over, everyone agreed it had been a lovely service. And his father, who heard every mistake with his ears but not with his heart, was beaming.
Family and friends came back to their house for a luncheon that turned into dinner. There had been congratulations for all involved, even Harry’s three younger brothers, who didn’t quite know what to make of the half-strangers speaking to them. Harry shook each hand and kissed each cheek, accepting the compliments and gifts of every guest.
Halfway through the party, a small group of girls from Harry’s class came over to him, giggling. One of them, a pretty blonde named Susan, stood closer than was necessary. “You did great today,” Susan said. She whispered something in Harry’s ear that Helen couldn’t hear and Harry smiled. When he whispered something back, the girl blushed.
Helen’s heart, so recently filled with pride, had suddenly deflated. What had Harry said to that girl? She felt disconnected from him in a way she had never experienced and grabbed at the dining room table for support. She found herself breathless, unable to collect enough air in the crowded space.
“Helen? Are you all right?” It was Abe, at her side in an instant.
“I’m fine.”