About the accident. I could probably concoct an exciting story about icy conditions or describe an angry, frustrated driver who forced me off the road, but that's not the way it happened. What happened was this: It was dark and it began to snow, then snow even harder, and all at once, the road simply vanished. I assume I entered a curve--I say assume, because I obviously didn't see a curve--and the next thing I knew, I crashed through the guardrail and began to careen down the steep embankment. I sit here, alone in the dark, wondering if the Weather Channel will eventually do a show about me.
I can no longer see through the windshield. Though it sends up flares of agony, I try the windshield wipers, expecting nothing, but a moment later they push at the snow, leaving a thin layer of ice in their wake. It strikes me as amazing, this momentary burst of normalcy, but I reluctantly turn the wipers off, along with the headlights, though I'd forgotten they were even on. I tell myself that I should conserve whatever is left of the battery, in case I have to use the horn.
I shift, feeling a lightning bolt shoot from my arm up to my collarbone. The world goes black. Agony. I breathe in and out, waiting for the white-hot agony to pass. Dear God, please. It is all I can do not to scream, but then, miraculously, it begins to fade. I breathe evenly, trying to keep the tears at bay, and when it finally recedes, I feel exhausted. I could sleep forever and never wake up. I close my eyes. I'm tired, so tired.
Strangely, I find myself thinking of Daniel McCallum and the afternoon of the visit. I picture the gift he left behind, and as I slip away, I wonder idly how long it will be until someone finds me.
*
"Ira."
I hear it first in my dream, slurry and unformed, an underwater sound. It takes a moment before I realize someone is saying my name. But that is not possible.
"You must wake up, Ira."
My eyes flutter open. In the seat beside me, I see Ruth, my wife.
"I'm awake," I say, my head still against the steering wheel. Without my glasses, which were lost in the crash, her image lacks definition, like a ghost.
"You drove off the highway."
I blink. "A maniac forced me off the road. I hit a patch of ice. Without my catlike reflexes, it would have been worse."
"You drove off the road because you are blind as a bat and too old to be driving. How many times have I told you that you are a menace behind the wheel?"
"You've never said that to me."
"I should have. You didn't even notice the curve." She pauses. "You are bleeding."
Lifting my head, I wipe my forehead with my good hand and it comes back red. There is blood on the steering wheel and the dash, smears of red everywhere. I wonder how much blood I've lost. "I know."
"Your arm is broken. And your collarbone, too. And there is something wrong with your shoulder."
"I know," I say again. As I blink, Ruth fades in and out.
"You need to get to the hospital."
"No argument there," I say.
"I am worried about you."
I breathe in and out before I respond. Long breaths. "I'm worried about me, too," I finally say.
My wife, Ruth, is not really in the car. I realize this. She died nine years ago, the day I felt my life come to a full stop. I had called to her from the living room, and when she didn't answer, I rose from my chair. I could move without a walker back then, though it was still slow going, and after reaching the bedroom, I saw her on the floor, near the bed, lying on her right side. I called for an ambulance and knelt beside her. I rolled her onto her back and felt her neck, detecting nothing at all. I put my mouth to hers, breathing in and out, the way I had seen on television. Her chest went up and down and I breathed until the world went black at the edges, but there was no response. I kissed her lips and her cheeks, and I held her close against me until the ambulance arrived. Ruth, my wife of more than fifty-five years, had died, and in the blink of an eye, all that I'd loved was gone as well.
"Why are you here?" I ask her.
"What kind of question is that? I am here because of you."
Of course. "How long was I asleep?"
"I do not know," she answers. "It is dark, though. I think you are cold."
"I'm always cold."
"Not like this."
"No," I agree, "not like this."
"Why were you driving on this road? Where were you going?"
I think about trying to move, but the memory of the lightning bolt stops me. "You know."
"Yes," she says. "You were driving to Black Mountain. Where we spent our honeymoon."
"I wanted to go one last time. It's our anniversary tomorrow."
She takes a moment to respond. "I think you are going soft in your head. We were married in August, not February."
"Not that anniversary," I say. I don't tell her that according to the doctor, I will not last until August. "Our other anniversary," I say instead.
"What are you talking about? There is no other anniversary. There is only one."
"The day my life changed forever," I say. "The day I first saw you."
For a moment, Ruth says nothing. She knows I mean it, but unlike me, she has a hard time saying such things. She loved me with a passion, but I felt it in her expressions, in her touch, in the tender brush of her lips. And, when I needed it most, she loved me with the written word as well.
"It was February sixth, 1939," I say. "You were shopping downtown with your mother, Elisabeth, when the two of you came into the shop. Your mother wanted to buy a hat for your father."
She leans back in the seat, her eyes still on me. "You came out of the back room," she says. "And a moment later, your mother followed you."
Yes, I suddenly recall, my mother did follow. Ruth has always had an extraordinary memory.
Like my mother's family, Ruth's family was from Vienna, but they'd immigrated to North Carolina only two months earlier. They'd fled Vienna after the Anschluss of Austria, when Hitler and the Nazis absorbed Austria into the Reich. Ruth's father, Jakob Pfeffer, a professor of art history, knew what the rise of Hitler meant for the Jews, and he sold everything they owned to come up with the necessary bribes to secure his family's freedom. After crossing the border into Switzerland, they traveled to London and then on to New York, before finally reaching Greensboro. One of Jakob's uncles manufactured furniture a few blocks from my father's shop, and for months Ruth and her family lived in two cramped rooms above the plant floor. Later, I would learn that the endless fumes from the lacquer made Ruth so sick at night, she could barely sleep.
"We came to the store because we knew your mother spoke German. We had been told that she could help us." She shakes her head. "We were so homesick, so hungry to meet someone from home."
I nod. At least I think I do. "My mother explained everything after you left. She had to. I couldn't understand a word that any of you were saying."
"You should have learned German from your mother."
"What did it matter? Before you'd even left the store, I knew that we would one day be married. We had all the time in the world to talk."
"You always say this, but it is not true. You barely looked at me."
"I couldn't. You were the most beautiful girl I'd ever seen. It was like trying to stare into the sun."
"Ach, Quatsch...," she snorts. "I was not beautiful. I was a child. I was only sixteen."
"And I had just turned nineteen. And I ended up being right."
She sighs. "Yes," she says, "you were right."
I'd seen Ruth and her parents before, of course. They attended our synagogue and sat near the front, foreigners in a strange land. My mother had pointed them out to me after services, eyeing them discreetly as they hurried home.
I always loved our Saturday morning walks home from the synagogue, when I had my mother all to myself. Our conversation drifted easily from one subject to the next, and I reveled in her undivided attention. I could tell her about any problems I was having or ask any question that crossed my mind, even those that my
father would have found pointless. While my father offered advice, my mother offered comfort and love. My father never joined us; he preferred to open the shop early on Saturdays, hoping for weekend business. My mother understood. By then, even I knew that it was a struggle to keep the shop open at all. The Depression hit Greensboro hard, as it did everywhere, and the shop sometimes went days without a single customer. Many people were unemployed, and even more were hungry. People stood in lines for soup or bread. Many of the local banks had failed, taking people's savings with them. My father was the type to set money aside in good times, but by 1939 times were difficult even for him.
My mother had always worked with my father, though seldom out front with the customers. Back then, men--and our clientele was almost exclusively men--expected another man to help them, in both the selection and the fitting of suits. My mother, however, kept the storeroom door propped open, which allowed her a perfect view of the customer. My mother, I must say, was a genius at her craft. My father would tug and pull and mark the fabric in the appropriate places, but my mother in a single glance would know immediately whether or not to adjust the marks my father had made. In her mind's eye, she could see the customer in the completed suit, knowing the exact line of every crease and seam. My father understood this--it was the reason he positioned the mirror where she could see it. Though some men might have felt threatened, it made my father proud. One of my father's Rules for Life was to marry a woman who was smarter than you. "I did this," he would say to me, "and you should do it, too. I say, why do all the thinking?"
My mother, I must admit, really was smarter than my father. Though she never mastered the art of cooking--my mother should have been banned from the kitchen--she spoke four languages and could quote Dostoyevsky in Russian; she was an accomplished classical pianist and had attended the University of Vienna at a time when female students were rare. My father, on the other hand, had never gone to college. Like me, he'd worked in his father's haberdashery since he was a boy, and he was good with numbers and customers. And like me, he'd first seen his wife-to-be at the synagogue, soon after she'd arrived in Greensboro.
There, however, is where the similarity ends, because I often wondered whether my parents were happy as a couple. It would be easy to point out that times were different back then, that people married less for love than for practical reasons. And I'm not saying they weren't right for each other in many ways. They made good partners, my parents, and I never once heard them argue. Yet I often wondered whether they were ever in love. In all the years I lived with them, I never saw them kiss, nor were they the kind of couple who felt comfortable holding hands. In the evenings, my father would do his bookkeeping at the kitchen table while my mother sat in the sitting room, a book open in her lap. Later, after my parents retired and I took over the business, I hoped they might grow closer. I thought they might travel together, taking cruises or going sightseeing, but after the first visit to Jerusalem, my father always traveled alone. They settled into separate lives, continuing to drift apart, becoming strangers again. By the time they were in their eighties, it seemed as though they'd run out of anything at all to say to each other. They could spend hours in the same room without uttering a single word. When Ruth and I visited, we tended to spend time first with one and then the other, and in the car afterward, Ruth would squeeze my hand, as if promising herself that we would never end up the same way.
Ruth was always more bothered by their relationship than either of them seemed to be. My parents seemed to have little desire to bridge the gap between them. They were comfortable in their own worlds. As they aged, while my father grew closer to his heritage, my mother developed a passion for gardening, and she spent hours pruning flowers in the backyard. My father loved to watch old westerns and the evening news, while my mother had her books. And, of course, they were always interested in the artwork Ruth and I collected, the art that eventually made us rich.
2
Four Months Earlier
2. Sophia
You've got to come," Marcia pleaded. "I want you to come. There's like thirteen or fourteen of us going. And it's not that far. McLeansville is less than an hour away, and you know we'll have a blast in the car."
Sophia made a skeptical face from her bed, where she was halfheartedly reviewing some Renaissance history notes. "I don't know... the rodeo?"
"Don't say it like that," Marcia said, adjusting a black cowboy hat in the mirror, tilting it this way and that. Sophia's roommate since sophomore year, Marcia Peak was easily her best friend on campus. "A, it's not the rodeo--it's only bull riding. And B, it's not even about that. It's about getting off campus for a quick road trip, and hanging out with me and the girls. There's a party afterwards, where they set up bars in this big, old-fashioned barn near the arena... there's going to be a band, and dancing, and I swear to God you'll never find so many cute guys in one place again."
Sophia looked up over the top of her notebook. "Finding a cute guy is the last thing I want right now."
Marcia rolled her eyes. "The point is, you need to get out of the house. It's already October. We're two months into school and you need to stop moping."
"I'm not moping," Sophia said. "I'm just... tired of it."
"You mean you're tired of seeing Brian, right?" She spun around to face Sophia. "Okay, I get that. But it's a small campus. And Chi Omega and Sigma Chi are paired this year. No matter what, it's going to be inevitable."
"You know what I mean. He's been following me. On Thursday, he was in the atrium of Scales Center after my class. That never happened while we were together."
"Did you talk to him? Or did he try to talk to you?"
"No." Sophia shook her head. "I headed straight for the door and pretended I didn't notice him."
"So no harm, no foul."
"It's still creepy--"
"So what?" Marcia gave an impatient shrug. "Don't let it get to you. It's not like he's psycho or anything. He'll figure it out eventually."
Sophia glanced away, thinking, I hope so, but when she didn't answer, Marcia crossed the room and took a seat on the bed beside her. She patted Sophia's leg. "Let's think about this logically, okay? You said he stopped calling and texting you, right?"
Sophia nodded, albeit with a feeling of reluctance.
"So okay, then," she concluded. "It's time to move on with your life."
"That's what I've been trying to do. But everywhere I go, he's there. I just don't understand why he won't leave me alone."
Marcia pulled her knees up, resting her chin on them. "Simple--Brian thinks that if he can talk to you, if he says the right things and pours on the charm, he'll convince you to change your mind. He honestly believes that." Marcia fixed her with an earnest expression. "Sophia, you have to realize that all guys think like this. Guys think they can talk their way out of anything, and they always want what they can't have. It's in their DNA. You dumped him, so now he wants you back. It's Guy 101." She winked at her friend. "He'll eventually accept that it's over. As long as you don't give in, of course."
"I'm not giving in," Sophia said.
"Good for you," Marcia said. "You were always too good for him."
"I thought you liked Brian."
"I do like him. He's funny and good-looking and rich--what's not to like? We've been friends since freshman year, and I still talk to him. But I also get that he's been a crappy boyfriend who cheated on my roommate. Not just once or twice, either, but three times."
Sophia felt her shoulders sag. "Thanks for reminding me."
"Listen, it's my job as your friend to help you move past this. So what do I do? I come up with this amazing solution to all your problems, a night out with the girls away from campus, and you're thinking of staying here?"
When Sophia still said nothing, Marcia leaned closer. "Please? Come with us. I need my wingman."
Sophia sighed, knowing how persistent Marcia could be. "Okay," she relented, "I'll go." And though she didn't know it then, whenever her tho
ughts drifted back toward the past, she would always remember that this was how it all began.
*
As midnight gradually approached, Sophia had to concede that her friend had been right. She'd needed a night out... she realized that for the first time in weeks, she was actually having fun. After all, it wasn't every night that she got to enjoy the aromas of dirt, sweat, and manure, while watching crazy men ride even crazier animals. Marcia, she learned, thought bull riders oozed sex appeal, and more than once, her roommate had nudged her to point out a particularly handsome specimen, including the guy who'd won it all. "Now that is definitely eye candy," she'd said, and Sophia had laughed in agreement despite herself.
The after-party was a pleasant surprise. The decaying barn, featuring dirt floors, wood plank walls, exposed beams, and gaping holes in the roof, was jammed. People stood three deep at the makeshift bars and clustered around a haphazard collection of tables and stools scattered throughout the cavernous interior. Even though she didn't generally listen to country-western music, the band was lively and the improvised wooden dance floor was thronged. Every now and then a line dance would start, which everyone except her seemed to know how to do. It was like some secret code; a song would end and another would begin, dancers streaming off the floor while others replaced them, choosing their places in line, leaving her with the impression that the whole thing had been choreographed in advance. Marcia and the other sorority girls would also join in, executing all the dance moves perfectly and leaving Sophia to wonder where they'd all learned how to do it. In more than two years of living together, neither Marcia nor any of the others had ever once mentioned they knew how to line dance.
Though she wasn't about to embarrass herself on the dance floor, Sophia was glad she'd come. Unlike most of the college bars near campus--or any bar she'd been to, for that matter--here the people were genuinely nice. Ridiculously nice. She'd never heard so many strangers call out, "Excuse me," or, "Sorry 'bout that," accompanied by friendly grins as they moved out of her path. And Marcia had been right about another thing: Cute guys were everywhere, and Marcia--along with most of the other girls from the house--was taking full advantage of the situation. Since they'd arrived, none of them had had to buy a single drink.