Michael King is walking home from his office. This winter is like a fresh white page after his disastrous summer. After his renters’ disappearance King spent days on phone calls and interviews with the police. But despite the best efforts of the police, neither Michael Fawess and his brother and their families, nor any of their money, could be traced. Fawess’s deposit check did not clear at the bank, and King was left with the two huge empty houses built on speculation.
But now, in winter, as the snow comes down, King’s eyes are bright, for he’s found a buyer for the two lake properties. He can already feel that huge mortgage lifting from him, and his cash-flow problems easing up. He’ll have the money now to bid on some new land. He’ll have the money to start again.
As soon as he gets in the door, he sits down in the den and calls his father, Herb Klein. “Great news, Dad,” he tells his father in Miami. “I’ve got a buyer.”
“You’re kidding,” Herb says. Michael can hear how surprised his father is, and how glad.
Herb and Michael are close. There were times when Michael sorely tried Herb’s patience. Not least of these, when Michael changed his last name from Klein to King. Herb tried to talk his only son out of the name change, to no avail, and when Michael went ahead anyway, Herb burst out in aggravation, “I just want to ask you one thing: Tell me, please, just what are you going to be King of? Windsor Castle? What are you going to name my grandchildren? Louis Quatorze? Catherine the Great? Was Klein so bad?” Nevertheless, despite the name change, and Michael’s non-Jewish wife, Jackie—despite everything—even the money burned in the old potbelly stove—Herb is proud of his son. He invests in King’s Real Estate enterprises; about half his savings. He is his son’s confidant and tax advisor and—as he himself admits—his son’s greatest fan.
“A buyer. Wonderful,” Herb says.
“And they paid cash,” says Michael.
His father doesn’t speak for a moment. Then he says, “What kind of money is this cash?”
“What do you mean what kind of money?”
“I mean, where has this money been?”
“No trucking. No drugs,” Michael says. “A Hasidic family. Five kids and the grandparents.”
“A Hasidic family. Veyismere” says Herb. “With the white beards? The black hats?”
“Yeah. Cash on the table.”
“And they approached you like this? In the black coats?”
“The father came, the lawyer came. They’re in diamonds.”
“Michael, you’re going to sell to these people?”
“What are you so worried about, Dad?”
“I don’t trust them.”
“You don’t think their money’s good?”
“I didn’t say that. I’ve never trusted them, the Hasidim. They’re a crazy group of people. They have a crazy way of looking at the world. Michael, this is why I stopped coming to Kaaterskill in the first place. These people started coming up. They were walking up and down the streets. It’s like a funeral, all dressed in black, the black suits. I’ve always been proud of being what I am, a Jew first and last, but—”
“Dad, I thought you swore by cash. Remember?” Playfully, Michael recites his father’s mantra: “‘Cash was my philosophy since dental school. Cash payment before I even looked at them. Before they even opened their mouths.’”
“All right, all right. I’m not going to tell you what to do,” his father says. “I’m just saying that—”
“Listen, listen, I’ve got my eye on a new property,” Michael interrupts.
“What, you’re spending already? You get out of the hole and you want to spend?”
“This is the best property in the three towns.” “You said that last time.”
“Listen, it’s huge. Half a mile on Coon Lake. There’s room for five, six cabins there. Belonged to the old Kirshner rabbi, but he just sat on it. Now the son is selling.”
“Kirshner owned all that? Who would have thought,” Herb muses. “Who’s listing it?”
“Schermerhorn,” says King.
“Victoria Schermerhorn? An anti-Semite.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Do I have to spell it out?”
“She’s like any other listing agent—”
“Michael, be careful—”
“She just wants the best price like anyone else. And I’ve heard the rabbi and his wife are motivated. They want to close out the deal fast.”
“Ha,” says Herb. “Buyer beware.”
“Dad,” says Michael.
“Listen to me,” Herb says. “I’m going to tell you about Schermerhorn. You see those Hasidim coming up, the ones from Borough Park, the ones from Washington Heights? The way they look to you. That’s how you look to her.”
“Oh, come on—”
“Just you listen. Don’t do any business with that woman Schermerhorn.”
“Dad, she’s the listing agent,” Michael protests. He can’t help laughing at his father’s voice.
After dinner Michael and his wife and their little girl, Heather, sit by the fire. The poodle, Duchess, curls up at Michael’s feet. “You see, Jackie,” Michael tells his wife, “I told you it would work out.” For it seems to him that the past few days have erased all of the summer’s difficulties. He is full of hope again; his wife, proud and happy. The future expands before them as generously now as when they married, and Jackie, just graduated Sarah Lawrence, said she couldn’t wait to leave the city, with all the crime and vandalism. They pour champagne and give Heather a sip. They play Monopoly and let Heather win.
As for the conversation with his dad, Michael doesn’t give it a second thought. He isn’t afraid of Victoria Schermerhorn, or even Judge Taylor. And all the dark predictions would be more convincing if his father had enjoyed them less.
Pale, where the winter like a stone has been lifted away, we emerge like yellow grass.
Be for a moment quiet, buffet us not, have pity upon us,
Till the green come back into the vein, till the giddiness pass.
—EDNA ST. VINCENT MILLAY
Northern April
1
EVA is home from the hospital. In early March, the trees stripped bare, she comes home with Saul and all her flowers, an orchid plant, a small blooming gardenia, and roses from Andras and Nina. Her favorite color, yellow. She is still sick, but she is home, frail but grateful. She and Saul sit together in the living room of their brownstone with Maja and Andras. They talk about the children, Renée and Alex, who are home with Nina.
“Listen, the truth is she plays badly,” Andras says of Renée.
“Not so badly,” says Eva.
“Oh, she does. Very badly.”
“She is a young girl, a child,” says Saul. “Admittedly, she is no Mozart.”
Andras says, “But Nina is determined she should play the piano. She sits with her, and she works with her—”
“Did Nina play once?” asks Maja.
Andras shakes his head. “Now Renée has to play in a recital.”
“Oy veyismere,” says Eva.
“It’s the old expression,” says Maja. “It will end in tears.”
“What do you mean? It’s already beginning in tears,” says Andras. “She has to practice. She has to practice right, or she’ll only be practicing her mistakes. She should memorize. She should do it with the metronome. Nina spends hours on this. She worries about it constantly—that Renée isn’t exerting herself. She isn’t living up to her potential. I think the only solution is for Nina to play the recital herself.”
Maja laughs at this, and Saul says he’s sure Nina would do a good job, even if she doesn’t play, and then Maja and Andras laugh some more. But Eva says sharply, “No.” She looks at Andras and says, “No, Andras. Stop. She is your wife. You must never say this kind of thing. You mustn’t laugh. You must defend her.”
They look at her, confused. The laughter is gone.
“It’s all right,” Andras tells Eva. “Please.
Don’t upset yourself.”
“It isn’t all right,” Eva says.
“No, of course not,” Maja reassures her. “It was only in fun.”
“But don’t.” Eva looks at Andras. “Don’t do it anymore.”
“No. We won’t,” he tells her, not even sure what he is promising.
“Do you want something to drink?” Saul asks Eva. “Are you hungry?”
“I want to talk to Andras,” she says to Saul and Maja.
“Of course,” Maja says. “Let’s take the flowers in the kitchen. Let’s get the roses into some water.”
“You know,” Eva tells Andras when the others have gone, “I feel the way everyone does coming out of the hospital.”
“And how is that?” Andras asks her.
“I feel how … the time is short,” she says. But this isn’t really what she wants to say. She doesn’t know how to put it. She has realized something about Andras. Suddenly she saw it when they were talking about Nina. Her mind keeps whispering it. He doesn’t love his wife.
“Oh, don’t worry about me,” Andras is telling her.
“But I do worry,” she says.
“Just get better,” he tells her. “The rest doesn’t matter.”
“The rest is all that matters,” she says.
Then it seems to Andras that the whole day, the relief to see her home, the giddy silliness, is gone. He can’t keep the front up any longer, and he sinks down next to Eva and takes her hand.
“If you are happy …” Eva begins. She is trying to find the words. “You just have to decide. If you … mind about her, about everything. If you allow yourself to be happy, then I wouldn’t worry anymore. You mustn’t still hold on to me. Not me.”
“We don’t need to talk about this now,” Andras says. “It’s not important now.”
“It’s the most important thing. There is nothing else.”
Andras lets go of Eva’s hand, but she grips his tightly.
“You were like my child,” Eva says. “Maja and I loved you like our own child. We were selfish of you, and we didn’t want to part with you. And after the war when you were just a boy—a young man coming to us, we thought we would be to you two mothers because you had none. But, Andras, you don’t need two mothers; you need your wife. Are you listening?” she asks him.
“Yes,” Andras whispers. His sister’s voice is so many things to him, experienced, and sweet; both playful and commanding.
“It was wrong of us to laugh at her and talk about her. And it was wrong of you to let us, Andras,” Eva adds sharply. “You should never let anyone speak against Nina.”
“Not even you?” Andras says.
“Especially not me. You should—you should live as you deserve. You should be in love with your wife. And think of her and hold her in your mind so that you have no room for thinking your sad thoughts.”
Andras looks away for a moment. He sees Maja a