Here you got tense. You asked whether I'd seen the car that had picked up the material. I said it had been a large, ungainly one, a new-model Ford or Oldsmobile. You claimed there were lots of cars like that in the State of New York, and that any one of them could have passed down our street.
I remembered Mom's efforts, after the incident in the Lincoln Tunnel, to prove to me that there were tens of cars just like hers in the area. This time I had a more convincing rebuttal.
"... But not all of them would stop so close to a specific tree that just happens to have a hollow notch in it, and that just happens to be a few houses away from the trash can where I found slides of diagrams of secret missiles...” I just had to convince you. You were my last remaining hope. I was so frustrated I even started going back over what I'd already told you. This time, for some reason, I started with the night that Mom had gotten out of a car at the end of the street.
"Did you see who was driving it?" you broke in.
"No," I said with some embarrassment.
You didn't say anything more than a slight, "Ahem," which expressed all your doubts.
"... I don't know much about him," I assented.
"Perhaps there was something she said about him?" you coached me.
"Just...” I tried to remember, "just the bit about wisdom."
Our dinner was getting cold on our plates. You impaled peas on the tines of your fork, then mashed them in the gravy.
"I doubt she meant wisdom like yours," I added, "from knowledge or experience; I think she meant something else, something I can't quite understand...”
You asked to know what exactly she had said.
"She called him her `wise lover' actually...” I paused, embarrassed, "the last of the wise lovers...”
You nodded slightly, as if this information fitted with something you'd guessed.
"Can you explain it to me?"
You thought a while longer and then said, "When you grow up, you'll understand."
I wonder if you knew at that moment just what an awful response that was, after all the explicit, honest explanations I'd gotten from you over the years.
"You've never answered me like that before," I protested, hurt, "you've never evaded answering."
"I'm not evading your question. That's my answer. Apparently she meant something emotional, not intellectual. I can list the characteristics that make up the man who would fit that description: sensitivity, experience, willingness to give of himself - but that's just a list of characteristics, nothing more. What's truly important is invisible to the eye...” (I recognized that sentence. It was from The Little Prince; we read it together years ago, in your study.) "Maybe it's a matter of need, the need to love any woman, to nurture a relationship, to give... not in order to get something in return, but from the knowledge that only when you love do you exist, can you overcome the obstacles the world places in your path: competition, defeat, death... so that what is interpreted on the other side as wisdom is merely the fulfillment of longing and need - and how can you possibly explain need to someone who hasn't felt it?"
Your calm, expository tone barely concealed a flush of emotion that silenced me, made me think. You didn't speak, either, and even Dorothy stopped making her kitchen noises from beyond the other side of the closed serving window.
In that silence I felt such warmth and comprehension between us that I couldn't abide the fact that there was still one thing I had kept from you.
"I have a hunch," I said, "a suspicion, actually."
You arched an eyebrow, as you do whenever something piques your curiosity.
I told you about Dad, and about the chain of associations and analogies that had brought me to that conclusion. You pursed your lips and immediately shook your head.
"That's not like him," you said. "I've known him since he was a boy and it simply doesn't fit his personality."
You didn't sound convincing, and I probably would have said so if Dorothy hadn't entered the room. Something in her step was different, and I could tell from the look on your face that it would be wise of me to keep silent. She cleared away the still-full plates, placed a great bowl of fruit on the table, and left. You followed her with your eyes, your brow furrowed. It seemed you'd suddenly become aware how secret the matter was, because as soon as she had closed the door you said in a low voice, "You mentioned a man, someone you turned to for advice...”
"K. He was my boss at the library," I said, intending to go back to the subject of Dad.
But you wanted to know about K.
"An intelligent man, an intellectual, about 50 years old."
"How did he know how to identify that... that missile?"
"He told me he once worked in a related field...”
"Where does he live?"
"I... I don't know." Suddenly I felt negligent and even a bit stupid for knowing so little about someone to whom I had revealed so much.
"What do you know about him?"
I told you everything. "I think he's all right," I said in conclusion.
You could have tortured me with the barest twinge of doubt, or with a reproving glance, but, as usual, you were fair.
You said, "There are a few strange things about him: that woman, the one who was poking around in his office; or his expertise in the area of missiles. But life generally proves that the things that seem the strangest are often the most innocent; actually, one must be wary of what seems most simple and ordinary."
Dorothy brought in the coffee and left quickly. You poured each of us a cup and added, "Of course, that also goes for what's happening at home."
At first I didn't understand. You explained again.
"You can't assume that there's a simple explanation for everything that's happened surrounding K., and not give the same benefit of the doubt to the other events you've described."
"I don't really know anything about K., so any explanation is plausible. But I know my house and my family's habits...”
"That's why you're prejudging," you smiled as you sliced a pear. "Let's assume that your aunt - who never suffered from excessive intelligence - really did polish off a bottle of vitamins and get sick. You determined that those vitamins were really pain killers, because the pills were similar to the ones you'd seen in K.'s possession. Let's say someone did break into your house. Because of the proximity to other events, you interpreted it as a search for something which, to this day, is unknown to us. Your mother writes things that might be a kind of personal diary or might be letters that never get sent, but which help her deal with a very difficult life as the wife of an Israeli government official who spends most of his time on the road; but you decide she's got a lover just because she said goodbye to someone - and it's not clear if this is a man or a woman - on a dark night, at some distance from the house. Then you find a slide that your father lost, and with the help of this K. you conclude that your mother is passing state secrets, something which would seem - at least on the face of things - quite remote from her. Finally, you find some cash that she hid in the hamper and connect this to a sentence you found in a letter that may not ever have been sent to anyone... I'm not saying you've been wrong all along; your explanation is certainly plausible, but it's only one of several possible explanations - and not necessarily the brightest or most innovative of them."
I attacked you using the tactics that you had taught me during our chess games: I quickly surveyed the facts and I tried to isolate the one thing that would topple the structure of your argument.
"The tree...” I stated, "what about the notch in the tree?"
"What did you find there, besides a notch in a tree? The rest is just another speculation, and you can't base one speculation on another...”
Common sense told me I had to admit you were right. But deep down I wasn't convinced. I've already told you how influenced I am by people I respect. Something of your confidence rubbed off on me, and the bad feeling began to fade, replaced by an overwhelming sense of gratitude. I remember looki
ng at you, at your smile, which grew broader by the minute, at the white curl that dipped over your tanned forehead, at your sharp blue gaze - and I remember thinking how glad I was that you were my uncle. I recalled all the stories I'd heard about the women you'd had, and I was sorry I'd inherited rather less impressive features than yours.
"Now," you said, "let's see what we should do."
I was ready to make any effort or sacrifice, but you actually requested the opposite.
"Don't talk to anyone, don't do anything," you said. "I'll take care of the rest."
I gladly agreed.
You looked at me quizzically. "Are you sure you can stand it?"
Just then, I couldn't foresee any problems. I asked what you intended to do.
"I'm not sure yet," you said. "Perhaps I'll speak to your mother."
I imagine you must have seen the trepidation on my face, for you added, "Don't worry, I won't give you away...” You scratched your head, thinking out loud. "If I'm convinced it's necessary, I might find someplace else for you and your mother to stay during the next few days, maybe I'll turn to other sources for help...”
From the little I'd heard Dad say that night on the other side of the wall and the following day during our ride to Kennedy, I knew you were talking about the C.I.A. Naturally I didn't let on. You repeated your instructions.
"You're not to talk to anyone and not to do any of the things you've done up till now: no following your mother, no riffling through papers, no listening in on telephone conversations, no wondering who's going to die at the end of the month. Just get yourself ready for school." For a moment you seemed lost in thought, but then you quickly added, "... and another thing: I'd like you to let me know if anything happens, any change, any problem. Here," you got up and went to the buffet, took a small card off a stack that was set there and, turning it over, wrote something down and handed it to me. "Call this number, and only this number. You can tell them anything you want."
I recognized the number: your answering service. The paper was stiff and shiny. I turned it over. "Temple Beth Hashem will usher Mr./Mrs. _________________________ into its gates for Rosh Hashanah services."
"I imagine that doesn't interest you...” you said.
I smiled apologetically, folded the card, and stuck it in my pocket. I felt as if a great weight had been taken off my shoulders, now that the responsibility had passed to you. Shouldn't it have been that way from the beginning? I thought, and I told you how sorry I was that I hadn't come to talk to you immediately after the incident in the Lincoln Tunnel. You chuckled and walked me to the door.
"Go on home," you said again. "Calm your mother down, take care of her...”
"How can I possibly take care of her when she won't let me?"
"I trust you'll find a way. I'll take care of things here, but you'll be my man there, and don't forget...”
"To let you know if anything out of the ordinary happens," I promised obediently.
Once back on the street, I had a strange sensation of betrayal. Betrayal of whom? I didn't know. On the bus home I thought it might be the suspicion I'd cast on K., which ate away at me incessantly. Later I wondered if I hadn't betrayed myself, or at least that part of myself that believed what it had seen and collected until the very last minute when you had offered your simpler, neater, alternate explanation.
By the time I got off the bus I was almost as worried as I had been before. With one difference: now I didn't know why, or what I was worried about, with you handling everything.
*
As I entered the house (through the garage, as usual), I heard the telephone ringing. Not the usual ring, but those light little `brrings' that are caused when someone dials on the extension. I stood opposite the telephone, an old, black model, and I thought how easy it would be to listen in. Then I wondered: why had you asked me to stop following and listening in? How could I tell you if something strange or unusual was going on if I blocked my ears and shut my eyes? As I walked toward the tool board, I was certain you had done it to protect me from the tension and worry that resulted from such activities; but then you couldn't have understood the tension and worry of not knowing.
I took a screwdriver off the tool board and shoved it gently between the receiver and the cradle. The receiver rose a little. I brought my ear up close to it. I heard a voice, loud and clear.
Some woman, maybe an operator, said, "The Society for Proper Nutrition and Care of the Body, good evening. Would you care to place an order?"
Mom said: "I'd like to speak to administration, please."
The operator answered, "Yes, ma'am."
Immediately afterward a different voice came on.
"Administration, Miss Fletcher speaking."
Mom said, "I want to talk to him."
Miss Fletcher was silent a moment, then said, "That's impossible."
Mom persisted. "I just spoke to him a minute ago. I know he's there now."
But Miss Fletcher wasn't made of butter, either. "He's not here."
"Is he at home?"
"I have my orders concerning phone calls."
Mom softened a bit. "All right." She thought for a moment, then said, "I won't force you to defy the orders you've been given, but I'd like you to call him, wherever he is, and tell him that I'm waiting at home." She hung up.
I slid the screwdriver out and let the receiver drop back into place. Then I leaned against the wall and waited. Mom was also waiting. I could hear her pacing back and forth overhead. A few minutes later I started to get bored, so I went upstairs. When I was in the middle of the stairs Mom said, "At last I've found you."
I jumped. It sounded so close, and it was such a homey, intimate voice, that I was sure she was talking to me. But she was talking on the phone. I went up another stair and peered around the corner. She was sitting on the top step with the telephone next to her, its long cord leading to the kitchen. Ironically, the next thing she said was, "Don't worry, I'm alone in the house."
The man on the other end of the line wanted to keep it short. That was clear from the way she pleaded, "Just a few words."
He said something else.
She responded, "I already told you I don't believe it. It's completely crazy...”
Again he spoke. She listened in silence, then said, "Nothing's going to happen. It's not possible. They wouldn't dare, in broad daylight, in the United States of America. I'm sure everything's going to be just fine." Again she listened in silence and then added, "You'll see me there. We won't be able to talk to one another, but you'll see me. I'll be wearing your favorite shirt, the pink one with the black stripe, and I'll be sending you my love...”
That's when I realized she was talking to the man who was going to die. Now I knew two more things about him: he worked for that company for nutrition and care and all that; and he knew what was going to happen, and was worried. I tried vainly to remember everything you'd told me, all the reassuring things you'd said. They were all worthless at that moment, with you sitting in your apartment in Manhattan (perhaps vainly trying to get us on the phone, to talk to Mom, as you'd promised), and her here beside me, talking to him, for real.
For a minute I wondered why he'd agreed with Mom's optimistic assessment, her making light of the threat, instead of getting out of town or locking himself up in his house. Then I remembered how your interpretation of the situation had calmed me down, and I was able to understand his hunger for anything that showed the vaguest glimpse of hope. I felt an urge to end their conversation, to free the guy from Mom's influence.
I was planning to clear my throat or make some kind of noise when she said, "I want one more night with you."
Now as I write this it seems like a line from a bad poem, or from some lousy movie, like the ones that play up in Spanish Harlem. But then it sounded full of pain, and supplication, and even despair. The guy on the other end must have felt it too, because he assented immediately, and Mom asked, "Tomorrow?"
The guy asked something, appar
ently about Dad. Mom said, "He's not coming back for another three days, not till the middle of Rosh Hashanah." The betrayal in those words made me blush. At the same time I realized something else about her lover: he was Jewish. Note: she didn't say our New Year, or the Jewish New Year; just "Rosh Hashanah", in Hebrew.
"Good," I heard her say. "Let's say 7:00, at the usual place?"
He answered something in her ear. Mom hung up.
I waited, frozen, until she walked away. Then I pounded up the stairs, calling out "Hi!" as loudly as I could. Mom was already sitting on the sofa, her shoes off. I felt I couldn't speak. I went to my room. On my bed was the letter I had left for Debbie that morning, torn into a million pieces. I remembered everything I'd promised we'd do that evening. I looked at the clock. Almost 11:00. Too late.
I went to the kitchen and opened my fist above the waste basket. The pieces of paper fluttered out of it. Mom saw me through the open door and said, "I thought you, at least, would be different."
She spoke slowly, heavily. I didn't answer. I went to my room. As I passed down the hall she saw me again, through the other doorway.
"You shouldn't have done that to Debbie," she said. "Even if you have met someone else, you could have hinted at it, without hurting her."
She still had the nerve to preach to me? I came back at her, enraged.
"I haven't got anyone else. Debbie bores me, and maybe it's time I called her and made myself clear."
"Don't you dare," her head lolled against the back of the couch. "She loves you so very much." There was a bottle of brandy on the table in front of her; a quarter of it had been drained.
"I don't love her."
"What hasn't she got?"
What could I say? Could I tell her about my fantasies? About my hope that someday we'd do something really crazy? Once I would have told her such things, but I couldn't any longer, not with all the lies and deception between us.
"She's insipid and dull."
"Not so long ago that didn't stop you from racing to be with her every afternoon...”
"Meanwhile, things have changed. I think I've matured. I used to be sure that her squareness and her straightness and her good family and all that "all rightness" she exudes signified the constraints of normality into which I had to fit myself. But lately I've begun to realize that my defiance is also all right: my curiosity and my sensitivity, my restlessness and my wanting to try new things - they're not exactly deviant."