At eleven o’clock, brandishing a box of chocolates, Spitalnic knocked on Christine’s door. Her roommate opened it and invited him in. She inquired about the box of chocolates. Spitalnic told her they were for Christine. She expressed surprise at this. By now Spitalnic and the roommate were standing in the lounge room. From there they heard the sound of a key turning in the front door. They were both silent. Christine’s laugh was followed by the voice of a man insisting that he was not drunk.
Christine walked from the front door through the darkened passage into the lounge room following by the now silent male. She no longer wore overalls but a navy cotton skirt with a white blouse unbuttoned sufficiently to reveal her cleavage. Her face stiffened when she saw Spitalnic. She did not see the box of chocolates that lay on the table beside him. The roommate looked at the floor. Time slowed for Spitalnic; it almost stopped. Even as he lived it, he knew this was one of those scenes you never forget. There was even time for it to trigger other scenes without missing a frame of the present. He remembered the time when, at the age of about three, his parents told him to go into his grandmother’s bedroom to unwrap a present they had left there for him. He emerged triumphantly holding the toy to find his parents gone and his grandmother holding a suitcase that was already too familiar to him.
Christine’s scent argued against everything that Spitalnic saw. He glanced fleetingly at the male behind him and then stared at the wall behind her shoulder. There was a painful silence. Finally, Spitalnic said that he had come to see if she was all right. Christine said that she was, to which Spitalnic replied, “Good” and “Good night, then.” He walked past Christine and her friend through the darkened passage to the front door. The roommate followed him to the door where she said good-bye with vicarious sheepishness.
The night air was cold but Spitalnic’s face was hot. In the rearview mirror of his car he saw that his face was red. His ears felt particularly warm. He started his car and hoped that his mother would be asleep by the time he got home. He did not want to tell her what had happened. He did not want to tell anyone about it, not even Reuben. He tried to see the night in perspective even as he drove home. He had to get home quickly and quietly. Even if it stormed, the next day had to be better than that night. By then whatever he felt would have been caused by something that had happened in the past. He had to go to sleep as soon as he got home. The sooner he ended the day, the better. Spitalnic wanted to cry. Was there anyone who, with full knowledge of everything that had taken place, would be able to explain Christine’s behavior? Spitalnic felt sure that an explanation would significantly diminish the pain he was feeling. For a moment he considered driving to Reuben’s house. Would Reuben be awake? Would he be home? Spitalnic remembered that Reuben was out for the second time with a young woman he had met at an art gallery. It was at her exhibition. Reuben had suddenly developed a keen interest in art. Reuben would not be home. The best thing Spitalnic could do would be to go to bed.
He approached a set of traffic lights as they turned red. He slowed his car to a stop behind the first car in the inside lane. There was a sudden thud accompanied by the tinkle of broken glass. Spitalnic felt his upper body jerk forward and then backwards suddenly as his car was pushed from behind into the car in front. The offending car accelerated past both Spitalnic’s car and the car in front of it almost invisibly as the lights turned green. Once past the two damaged cars, it abruptly turned back to face the direction from where it had come and disappeared down a side street. Spitalnic thought of chasing it but heard his father’s warning against driving in anger. Anyway, there was a stream of traffic going the other way. He drove past the intersection and pulled over to the curb as soon as it was safe. His neck hurt and he wanted to vomit.
He saw the lights of a car parked behind him go out and a man step out of it and walk towards him. It was the driver of the car into which he had been pushed. Spitalnic got out of his car.
“Did you get his number?” the man asked.
Spitalnic told the man that he had not even seen what type of car it was. The man swore. Spitalnic was afraid that the man would find him somehow responsible. He knew that he was not at all responsible, but perhaps that did not matter. He had not been responsible for anything that had happened to him since the day of his exam when Celia had left him. Spitalnic felt he would lose any argument with the man until such a time as the weakness in his knees disappeared and he could stand without leaning against his car.
But the man was not angry with Spitalnic at all. They were comrades, innocent victims. They were citizens with rights that had just been violated. Their rights had been violated together. The man checked the damage to Spitalnic’s car and said sympathetically, “Christ, you got done pretty bad!”
He then suggested that the two of them go over to the nearby service station and report the accident to the police. Spitalnic loved this man who had suffered himself and yet could still be sympathetic. This man would understand everything. While the man was on the phone, Spitalnic even considered telling him what had happened with Christine. This man would know why she had behaved the way she had. He was the type of man you would want beside you in the trenches.
The man got off the telephone and told Spitalnic that the police had said there was nothing they could do without the number plate of the car or a description of it. Spitalnic pretended to be disappointed but really he did not care. They exchanged details and the man drove off. Spitalnic surveyed the damage to his car and then drove home in an uncertain state of consciousness. He crawled into bed and wept silently into his pillow until the day finally ended for him.
Reuben, it seemed, had struck a deal with the artist. Some combination of physical appearance, common interest and previous experience had led each of them to agree to share more time with each other than with anyone else and for one’s concerns to be the other’s concerns. After a certain unspecified period of time, they would tell each other that they were in love. Around this time outside observers would begin to take it for granted. At some stage during all this they would tell themselves. The deal entailed an exclusive and healthy sex life, with options on an increase in their self-esteem.
Reuben was happy and he told the lunchtime circle, including Spitalnic, all about Sara the artist, now the reason for Reuben’s life itself. Everyone was happy for Reuben, even Spitalnic, although he knew Reuben’s relationship would accentuate his own loneliness. He was now the only unattached person in the circle and his best friend’s newfound happiness would be nourished with the hours that they used to share. Reuben was the only person in the circle who Spitalnic had seen outside university, and now even his extracurricular time was taken. But still Spitalnic rejoiced in his friend’s good fortune, along with Greg and Sandy and everyone else. He was ashamed of his silent and secret mourning and managed to hide it from everyone but Sandy, who saw the sadness that gnawed at his insides and occasionally surfaced in his eyes.
With the loss of Reuben as an independent being now firmly entrenched in his irrational state of mind, the lunchtime circle increased in value for Spitalnic. But he was not the only one to bask in the joys of simple friendship. There developed, among those of the circle, a closeness, a caring akin to that in only the most fortunate of families. Many times the discussion would turn to a problem someone was having with their family or with their partner. Advice was given. Questions were asked. Solutions were sought. Someone would comment that one of the others was not looking well and everyone would offer an opinion. Reuben, Greg and some of the others would discuss a film they had seen while Spitalnic would tell Sandy about the Jewish New Year, about the symbolism behind the eating of the apple and honey. She asked whether Jews exchanged New Year cards and how to write Happy New Year in Hebrew.
Spitalnic made his way to the “caf” to eat lunch with his friends. He had developed a stiffness in his neck and a dull ache in his lower back since the car accident. He sighed to himself a deep sigh that he had never been taught. It seemed to him t
hat with every day and every new ache he felt more and more a shtetl Jew.
Reuben and Greg were not there yet when Spitalnic arrived, although he was twenty minutes late. Sandy had no idea where either of them was. She thought that perhaps it was the Jewish New Year and that they were not coming in. She knew it was any day now but thought Spitalnic had said Thursday. Spitalnic told her that she was right, that Rosh Hashanah was on Thursday, but that this would not explain Greg’s absence since he was not Jewish. Sandy said she was glad she had not missed the Jewish New Year because she had something for him. She took an envelope out of her basket and handed it to him. It had his name on it. Spitalnic opened the envelope to find a red card shaped like an apple with drops of honey drawn on it and Happy New Year written on it in Hebrew and then again in English on the inside. Sandy asked if she had written the Hebrew correctly. Spitalnic, still looking at the card with his eyes shining, hugged her and said that she had. She said she had had the idea weeks ago when he told her about the New Year and that she had kept the scrap of paper on which he had written Happy New Year in Hebrew.
Greg appeared, out of breath, and sat down. Spitalnic showed him Sandy’s card but he was uninterested. He had come from the library and had passed Reuben running to the car park to drive home. He had told Greg that his grandmother had died and to get Spitalnic to call him that night.
The funeral was the next day. Spitalnic went to his morning lectures before picking up Sara and driving to the cemetery. The night before when they had been at Reuben’s house, Sara had intimated that she would not be coming to the funeral. Reuben said nothing but clearly wished that she would come. Spitalnic attempted to persuade her to come in a broken conversation that would start whenever Reuben left the room to make coffee or check on his mother, and would stop when he reentered the room. She said she had never come into contact with genuine mourning before and was afraid of it. She never wanted to go to a funeral until it was her own family that was mourning. She would feel out of place. Where would she stand?
In stops and starts Spitalnic tried to convince her that she ought to come. He explained that funerals were always unpleasant but that this was something she would have to endure for Reuben. He would need her there. If he needed her and she loved him, she would come. It was simple.
She did come. She stood with Spitalnic at the back of the crowd that had gathered in the heat at the grave of Reuben’s mother’s mother. Reuben, standing at the mouth of the grave, took over the hugging of his mother while his father recited Kaddish when instructed by the rabbi. Tears formed in the eyes of Reuben and his sister as they saw their grandmother’s coffin lowered into the grave and their mother’s response to it. Spitalnic moved to the edge of the grave to take a shovel with which to cover the coffin with soil. With the first clump of earth that hit the pine box, Reuben’s mother shrieked, but as the mound got higher her cries became muffled sobs. When the service was over, people filed past the grave, stopping to speak with Reuben’s parents before heading to their cars in the cemetery car park. Sara embraced Reuben and they both cried. After she had hugged Reuben’s mother, she stood between her and Reuben as the people filed by.
Spitalnic was the last to leave the cemetery. Reuben and his family had left to make sure they were home when people called to pay their respects. Reuben had driven Sara back to his house. They were both pleased she had come. Spitalnic walked back to the car park, removing the hair clips that had kept his yarmulke in place. His car was now the only one there. As he made his way to the driver’s door he saw dents on the front bumper bar and grille. The right headlight was smashed. Someone had driven into his newly repaired car in the cemetery car park. There was no one else around now. Leaning against the roof of his car, Spitalnic looked out into a sea of graves, the sun’s reflection on the marble slabs blinding him. Spitalnic put his yarmulke in the pocket of his suit.
It was his father’s turn to have the evening meal of Rosh Hashanah with Spitalnic. His mother would eat with her family. Spitalnic was not born an only child. He had had a brother five years older than him. His brother was born with a hole in his heart, and within a year of his birth Spitalnic’s parents had been told that he would require surgery before he turned ten.
If they did not risk the operation he would be confined to a wheelchair and then to a bed until he died before his twenty-first birthday. For the first four years of Spitalnic’s life, he was shunted from relative to relative while his parents took his brother around the country and overseas in search of heart specialists who could offer more optimistic prognoses. When Spitalnic was in his fifth year, his brother died while undergoing surgery. His mother had a nervous breakdown in the same year. There was a history of heart conditions on his mother’s side of the family. Spitalnic himself was born with a slight murmur that was monitored regularly.
The table was set for two when Spitalnic arrived at his father’s place to cook the New Year evening meal. He roasted a chicken, made a salad and put out two pieces of gefilte fish that he had bought on his way home from university. He opened a jar of honey and cut some apples into pieces in order that his father and he would have a sweet year. The two men drank wine with their meal and afterwards broke into song. They sat alone in the kitchen, the philosopher and the student, humming snatches of Hebrew melodies Spitalnic’s grandfather had taught his father. These two atheists always ended their pseudoreligious occasions slightly drunk with teary but silent embraces and two white candles still burning. Spitalnic’s father missed his son desperately. Nonetheless, he never said anything to get Spitalnic to leave his mother and move back with him. The child had become the parent, trying to weigh up the conflicting needs of his two emotional dependents. Who needed him more? This Rosh Hashanah was no different from others they had spent together. By the end of the night the men were hugging and crying while the white candles burned.
The final examinations were approaching and Spitalnic found himself going out less and studying more. He had exhausted his list of potential female companions. Weekends and week nights he studied. When he lost concentration he would read or go to sleep. His lower back and neck still troubled him. The various physiotherapists he had seen had provided him with only temporary relief. His sadness made him quiet almost always except at lunchtime with his group of friends. These hours became the highlight of his days. He looked forward to them now more than the other members of the circle did. Those were the only times he smiled or laughed. At his mother’s house he was bathed in the anxiety she felt for him and his health and in her despair at her own loneliness. With his father he became almost paralyzed with guilt as he saw the longing in his father’s eyes, always belittling whatever troubles faced him or Spitalnic, always clinging to every moment he could get with his son. Lunchtime at university was a temporary respite from his parents, from his studies and from the loneliness that often consumed him like an ulcer eating away at his insides.
At least there was Sandy’s smile. There would be Greg’s jokes, Reuben’s concern, a spontaneous hug from Sandy. It was not long before Spitalnic realized that more than Reuben or Greg or anyone else, it was Sandy’s time he longed for. If she was late his heart would sink. The smell of her hair had registered in his mind. He tried to recall it when he was alone. Her laugh, her optimism, her innocence—he craved them all. One night at his desk he admitted to himself that he had fallen in love with her. Immediately upon the admission he felt sick. It was a love he knew she did not return. It was born out of his misery and suckled on his loneliness. He felt it could not be aborted without losing himself as well. It was hurting him and yet it seemed to be the only thing sustaining him. He was ashamed of himself and yet could not begin the process of talking himself out of it. Was there a chance of her returning his feelings? Alone at his desk he went through the evidence. Look at her, so genuinely warm, warmer to him than to anyone else in the circle. Celia had left him after two years; maybe Sandy would leave her boyfriend? She seemed to enjoy Spitalnic’s company as much as
he enjoyed hers. Maybe she was in love with him but had not yet realized it? After all, Spitalnic himself had only just realized it and he was alone. Would it take such a miracle? Miracles happen.
From this time on, it became difficult, almost impossible, for him to concentrate on his work. He would analyze the day’s conversations with Sandy, compare them with previous conversations. He took heart when she fought with her boyfriend, and then reproached himself for it. In his waking hours he grappled with “the bastard” and tormented himself with contemplation of Sandy. Soon this contemplation extended into his sleeping hours until there were fewer and fewer of them. He realized that this was no way to kill “the bastard,” nor was it helping anything with Sandy. His exams were three weeks away. If he didn’t reach some sort of equilibrium, no matter how low, he was certain to fail. He had to tell Sandy how he felt. Not just for his own sake but for hers. Spitalnic felt he was deceiving her. She had trusted him and invested genuine warmth, all the time thinking it was a platonic exchange. But Spitalnic had idealized what they had, made more of it, and allowed himself to jeopardize what they really did have. But no matter what she would say, he felt he had to end this situation of debilitating uncertainty.
It was the last Monday of the academic year. Most of the lunchtime circle did not come in. Only Reuben, Spitalnic and Sandy were there. Spitalnic was quiet but the other two did not seem to notice. When Reuben left to go to the library, Spitalnic asked Sandy to walk with him outside. They walked through the less populated part of the campus. It was a warm day. He had not yet looked in her eyes. He wondered whether she would detect his nervousness. His palms were moist as he asked her to sit down. They were alone, leaning against a tree facing the same way. Spitalnic wondered now whether he would go through with it.