Among the Living (21 page)

Jesler sensed Pearl was coming to the end of things and he turned to her.

“… and maybe get her some new dresses, I don’t know,” she said.

“Yes,” Jesler said easily. “That’s a good idea.”

He heard the yawn and the slurred words. He took the glass from her hand, helped her under the covers, and turned out the lamp. Standing there — watching his wife slip quickly into sleep — Jesler thought how much easier life would be not having to work too hard for someone else’s happiness.

Bill Thomas was sitting at his desk, his feet up, tossing balled-up candy wrappers at the trash can, when Goldah poked his head around the swinging door. It was late; the other desks were empty.

Thomas stepped over, retrieved three of the wrappers that littered the floor, and settled himself back in for another go-round.

“Can I help you?” he asked.

“I don’t mean to interrupt.”

“Well, as you can see, the office is extremely busy. I myself am waiting for a telephone call I can guarantee will never come. If you’re looking for Simmons he’s down at copyediting.”

“I believe I’m looking for you, Mr. Thomas.”

Thomas sunk his first wrapper. “Hah. There you go.” He stepped over and threw out the rest. “Best to quit while you’re ahead — Mr.…?”

“Goldah. Ike Goldah. I think Mr. Weiss might have sent down a short piece of mine. He thought you could take a look at it.”

Thomas was momentarily more serious. “Art Weiss?”

“Yes.”

“Art Weiss wants my opinion on a piece you’ve written.”

“Yes.”

“Art Weiss knows my name.”

“I believe he does, yes.”

Thomas mulled this over, stepped back to his desk, and sat. “Then have a seat, Mr. Goldah.”

The desk was piled high with stacks of papers. To the uninitiated, it would have seemed haphazard but Goldah recognized the pattern in the notes, the photos, the quotes, the contacts — all laid out to follow Thomas’s particular style of writing. The better newsmen always had their own patterns, indecipherable to the rest yet perfectly logical. Goldah imagined Thomas could have found anything he wanted on that desk in less than five seconds.

Thomas began sifting through the papers. Goldah sat.

“Are you on staff, Mr. Goldah?”

“Not yet, no.”

“ ‘Not yet,’ ” Thomas echoed. “That’s the attitude. So what am I going to be reading about?”

“I think it might be better if you go in cold.”

Thomas stopped and looked across the desk. For the first time he sized up Goldah. “You’re not giving me the hard sell. Which means you’ve done this before. Where?”

Goldah’s instincts had been right: Thomas was an excellent newsman. “It was a long time ago.”

“Can’t be that long.”

“Maybe it just feels that way.”

Thomas leaned back, reached into his jacket pocket, and pulled out his cigarettes. “It’s Europe, isn’t it? The accent. Before the war.” He took one then tossed the pack onto the desk.

“Yes. Prague. The
Herald Tribune.
”

Thomas’s eyes widened as he lit up. “The
Herald Tribune.
My, oh, my. Maybe I should be showing you some of
my
pieces?”

“I’ve seen them. They’re good, clean.”

“Well isn’t that swell — the
Herald Tribune
thinks my writing is clean.” Thomas exhaled a narrow stream of smoke. “So … you’re now here in charming old Savannah, writing for Art Weiss. What’s this really about?”

Goldah knew a truth, such as it was, stood the best chance of getting by.

“I’m seeing Weiss’s daughter,” he said. “He might not be as objective as he should.”

Thomas laughed to himself. “Playing the noble card in the newspaper business. What exactly were they teaching you over in Prague? Hell, I’d ask for a daily column if I was dating the girl.”

“I’ll see what I can do — about the column, not the girl.”

Thomas kept his smile. “You look familiar to me, Mr. Goldah. Why is that?”

Goldah recalled having seen Thomas at the store. He had come by some weeks back to speak with Calvin. Goldah had been with another customer and Calvin had told Thomas to leave. The entire episode had lasted all of two minutes.

“There was an article in the paper a few months ago,” Goldah said. “It had my picture.”

“No, I don’t read this paper.”

“And which papers do you read?”

Another quiet laugh. “You’re very good. Question, feint, question, parry. I take it back. They knew
exactly
what they were doing in Prague.” He tapped out his ash. “I read the papers I want to write for. Right now it’s the Atlanta
Constitution.
After that I suspect it’ll be the
Times-Picayune,
then the
Chicago Trib,
and, one day, when the fates smile brightest on me, the
San Francisco Chronicle.
”

“Not the
New York Times
?”

“I’m a sentimental fellow, Mr. Goldah. My one character flaw. Hometown boy. Hometown paper.”

“And is Mr. Weiss aware of the larger plan?”

“He’d be a fool not to be, wouldn’t he?”

Goldah was liking Thomas more and more. “Good to have high ambition.”

“Only thing
to
have.” Thomas went back to the piles, and Goldah said, “I work at Jesler Shoes. You might have come in. I’ve been there since I arrived in July. Perhaps that’s where you recognize me from?”

Goldah knew Thomas was too good at his job not to piece things together soon enough. Goldah would have done the same. Throwing it out there now made it seem almost innocuous.

Just in case Goldah added, “I lost most of my family in the war. The only ones left — the Jeslers — were here in Savannah.”

Thomas did everything he could not to show a reaction. In fact, if Goldah hadn’t been looking for it, he might have missed the slight narrowing of the eyes.

Thomas said, “I’m sorry.”

“Thank you.”

Thomas was juggling all his newfound information when the telephone rang. “Maybe that was it,” he said, “the store. You’ll excuse me. I need to take this.”

Goldah stood. “Of course. You haven’t read the piece yet. We can talk about it another time. Very nice meeting you.”

Thomas picked up the phone, nodded, and raised a hand goodbye. “Bill Thomas here.”

Goldah bobbed his head and headed for the door. He was pushing through when Thomas called after him: “Mr. Goldah — the call’s for you. It’s Mr. Weiss.”

Goldah stood for a moment; Weiss hadn’t known he was coming down. Goldah stepped over and took the receiver.

“Hello?”

The words that followed were quick, unemotional: a simple relaying of information. For years to come, Goldah would recall them with a slight buzzing in his ears. Now, standing there, all he felt was his hand squeezing tightly onto the chair, and the sound of Thomas’s voice humming something about a glass of water.

Goldah sat quietly on the settee. The last half hour sat with him — the cab ride, Jesler’s solemn handshake, the offer of a drink — all of it like shards of a reality he couldn’t quite place. He had refused the whiskey and now watched as Jesler finished his own. The Lubecks’ letter lay open at Goldah’s side.

Goldah asked, “She’ll sleep through the night?”

Jesler was lapping at the last few drops in his glass and set it on the table. “That’s what the doctor said. I don’t want to pry, Ike, but Miss Posner — this is why we were in Atlanta, isn’t it?”

Goldah thought a moment, then nodded.

“Does Mrs. De la Parra know?”

Again Goldah waited. He shook his head.

For some reason, Jesler turned and listened at the door. They both sat in silence until Jesler said, “I thought maybe I heard Pearl. She’s had a sedative as well but she’s been a little restless.” He leaned forward, his hands on his thighs. “Look, Ike, I called … I called because I thought you’d want to know as soon as possible. That’s all. I didn’t mean to get involved with whatever you’re doing now.”

Goldah was having trouble understanding: The words came at him the way they had all those years ago when he’d first tried his hand at English — foreign and unwieldy. He remembered sitting with his father, a book placed open on a table, a single lamp to focus the eyes. His father’s finger had moved so easily along the letters — “the cat is on the hat, the rat is with the cat, the rat sits on the hat” — or was it something else? Goldah thought he might be translating in his head but knew it was only memory.

“It’s fine,” he said. “No, of course, it was smart to get in touch with Weiss.”

Jesler tried to be consoling. “I told him there was no reason for you to come by tonight. I specifically told him that. I didn’t tell him … I didn’t mention the circumstances, if that’s what you’re concerned about. Just that the girl was here. You’re sure you don’t want to go up and see her? The doctor said she’ll sleep soundly. You could just go and take a look.”

Why, Goldah wondered? Why take a look? He knew what he would find. He had spent so many years admiring her, challenged by her, but never thrilled, never that ache to touch her. Wasn’t he meant to panic out of need — for just a moment — each time before he saw her, as he did now with Eva? How had he convinced himself otherwise? Yes, Malke
had been beautiful — they all told him how beautiful she was, how clever, how perfect, just for him. Even Malke told him over and over when he couldn’t see it for himself. And maybe he let himself believe that was love.

Goldah said, “I think I’ll have that whiskey.”

“What? Oh, fine — sure.” Jesler was quick to his feet.

Goldah said, “He thought it might not be her, the man in Atlanta. Hilliard. He said she’d suffered from memory loss, derangement. The Lubecks seem to have the same concerns.”

Jesler poured one out and handed it to Goldah. “She seemed pretty certain to me.”

“You say she screamed she didn’t know me?”

“I’m not sure her English is all that good.”

“But she said she didn’t know me?”

Jesler took a fresh glass and poured himself another. “I guess that’s what it sounded like. Anyway, Pearl’s offered to have her stay with us.”

Goldah had the sudden and overwhelming image of Malke here — in this place, always — the little room with the grinding fan and the too-thick drapes, the heat and the exhaustion, and he pitied her as he had pitied himself but only for a moment. Unlike him, she had come with purpose, to regain something she believed she was owed, and he knew these people would give it to her. All they would ask was for her forgiveness. No, it’s unnecessary, she would say. There are no victims, only resolution and joy and gratitude for the dead come back to life.

“That’s very decent of you,” Goldah said.

“You know, Ike, you’ve made no commitments elsewhere. No one would fault you. You don’t owe anyone anything.”

Goldah had yet to take a drink. Ancient conversations churned through his head, and he said vaguely, “I met Mr. Thomas tonight. Excellent newsman.”

Jesler was bringing his glass to his lips. He stopped. “Did he say anything? Anything about me, the store?”

It was everything Goldah could do to focus on what Jesler was saying. “Yes …? He said he’d been to the store. Why?”

“Nothing,” Jesler said. “Never mind. Good, you met him. Good.”

Goldah set his glass on the table and stood. “I should go. I’ll come back in the morning.”

“How about I set up a cot in the study? That way you could be here when she gets up.”

“I think I’ll walk.”

“It’s still raining. I can give you a lift.”

“I’m fine.”

Goldah recalled his first moments with Jesler: The train station and the wariness at the chance of an embrace; even a handshake had seemed too much. Now they were connected by things no less uncertain, debilitating things that made them both incapable of anything more than silence. Each carried his own weight, each stood alone, and neither pretended he might know how to find comfort in the other.