Daybreak (25 page)

A minute or two passed. Then Arthur spoke. “He was thirteen. That was his bar mitzvah. Do you know what that is?”

“I’ve read that it’s something like a confirmation.”

“Yes, something like. The words mean ‘son of the commandment’ The boy now takes his place in the community as a responsible man, no longer a child. He knows the difference between right and wrong. He understands his heritage, handed down from the time of Moses on Mt. Sinai, father to son, to the son’s son—”

Arthur stopped, turning away toward the window, hiding his face as he resumed. “He gave the most wonderful sermon that morning. People talked about it long afterward. He was an ecologist, you know, the founder of the ecology club at school, and that’s what he talked about, how the Israelites came to the land of milk and honey, how they cherished the land that God had given, how we here today must care for this planet so that our children will have—” Again, unable to go on, Arthur stopped.

And Laura knew that he mourned for two, for the boy whom he had reared with love to do the family so proud, and for the other one as well, the stranger, flesh of his flesh, who now sat downstairs.

Margaret explained softly. “Those are the scrolls of the law in the background, the first five books of the Bible, of what you call the Old Testament. The ornaments are called crowns, to honor the scrolls, you might say.”

“I see.”

The familiar face, Timmy’s face, juxtaposed with these curious objects, swam before Laura’s eyes. It was all exotic, a colossal accident. The silence tingled.

“Tell me about the beginning,” she said, “and then I will tell you about Tom. It’s what we need to know.”

Margaret sat down and began with a sigh. “He gave us problems from the start. He was a demanding infant, making fists when he cried, and he cried most of the time. But our first doctor said it was nothing, a lot of babies are like that.”

Laura nodded. “They said the same about Timmy. You do know about Timmy, of course?”

“Yes. Ralph Mackenzie told us.”

“And then?” Laura prompted.

“Then we moved here. Arthur’s father had a stroke, and he needed Arthur to take over the business. He’d been working on a Ph.D. in literature, but he gave it up, although he still knows more than most professors do.”

Arthur interrupted. “Laura wants to hear about Peter, not me.”

“We went to another pediatrician, and another, while Peter lost weight, got pneumonia, recovered, improved, got sick again—” Margaret made a wide, hopeless
gesture. “Then finally came the blow when we learned what was wrong. And then we went all over, to the famous places from Minnesota to Boston; up to the very last month, we were still asking, hoping to help our sweet boy. We went to a great teacher in New York, we—”

“No more, please,” Laura said.

It was as if Margaret had not heard, or if she had, was unable to stop herself.

“I remember my first thought, the day we learned that he was not our biological child. The doctor, such a compassionate young man, was looking out the window while he talked to us; he was looking at the dogwood. And all I could think of was that somewhere there was another child of mine, and I wondered what he was, for surely he would be something like the people who had reared him, as Peter was like us. And I thought that probably he was vigorous and healthy.”

“Yes,” said Laura, “as you see.” It was her turn now. “Our baby had been crying too much while we were in the hospital, or so I thought. But I knew nothing, after all. And when we got home, he was wonderful. I suppose we never appreciated what an easy baby he was until Timmy came.” And she said almost wistfully, “What you’ve told me about Peter is the same as what I can tell you about Timmy.”

What shall I say about Tom? she asked herself. They are waiting. She began. “Tom is a good son. It’s impossible to sum up a life. A good son. A student. An athlete. He and his father—and Bud—are companions. Timmy goes everywhere with them. Tom takes care of him, he’s wonderful with Timmy.” The phrases came jerking out of her head in no particular order. “Naturally, after a year away at college, he’s changed, grown
more independent. He’s always had friends. I’m telling this very badly.”

The other two had been intent on each syllable. Margaret spoke first, almost tenderly.

“We, at least, never had to tell Peter. He died not knowing the truth about his birth. What would have been the use? But you have had to tell Tom.” And Margaret shuddered.

“Of course this is unspeakably awful for Tom, anyway,” Arthur said, “and added to it is the fact that we’re Jewish.”

Laura looked into the shrewd gray eyes. Obviously, Mackenzie had told them. But here, she recognized, was a steady, reasonable, grown-up man, not given to stubborn resistance or childish tempers. Now the eyes were waiting for an answer, so she gave it directly.

“Yes. It is so.”

There was a collective sigh. Margaret’s mascara had streaked her cheek, and she wiped it. Arthur blew his nose.

“Where do we go from here?” asked Laura.

“Sufficient unto the moment,” Arthur said, “or something like that. Right now, we’ll go back downstairs.”

On the other side of the glass door sat Tom and Holly, far apart, both reading. They came in, when called, with sullen faces.

“You must all be hungry,” Margaret said, making a brisk effort to lighten the atmosphere. “I’ve made a little lunch. You are hungry, I hope, Laura?”

“Not very.” And almost shyly, Laura inquired, “Is Peter buried very far from here?”

“No. Just three or four miles. You want to see his grave.”

“If I may. If it won’t be too much.”

“Of course not. We can go right now.”

Oh, my God, Tom thought, a cemetery. Still it was better than being left behind with that girl, who had not wanted to go.

This day was a disaster, worse even than his imagining of it had been. And yet, in spite of jealousy and anger, he was sore with pity for Mom’s flushed face and brittle speech; she was having trouble with words. He wished he could say, Come, let’s get the hell out of here. He wished Robbie would hurry back. He needed her. To her, at least, he could talk sense.

The two women were talking, talking like crazy in the front seat. Laura was driving her own car, the two-and-a-half-seater, they always called it. From where he sat cramped in the back beside the man, he had a clear view of the women. He was curious and he was quick at sizing people up. This woman, this Margaret, was educated; you could tell by her speech. She was refined; her dress was simple, like Mom’s, although more fashionable; he knew enough about women’s clothes, Robbie having taught him, to recognize that. Well, why not, since they owned a department store? Her arm, which she had rested for a few minutes on the back of the seat, wore a narrow gold bracelet, and on her finger there was a green ring, a gleaming, dark stone, no doubt an emerald. He compared the faces, Mom’s and the other’s. The Other—for he had in these few minutes already begun in his mind to name her—had hair like his own and a nose that was slightly arched, like his own, and like the statues, too, of ancient Romans, Cicero and Caesar. There was no question that he resembled the Other more than he did Mom.

Mom, he cried silently, what have you done to me? And in rage, what are you doing, bringing me here?

And yet, it was not her fault. There was nothing she could have done to prevent it. He had to struggle against tears.

The car drove through a gate beneath an ironwork arch with the Star of David in the center. Oh my God, look where I am, he thought.

“It’s a very small cemetery,” remarked Laura.

“There aren’t very many of us in the city,” Margaret answered.

They got out of the car, walked on gravel paths, and stopped at a grave so recently dug that the ivy blanket was not yet grown over it.

“The stone will be set before the year is up,” Margaret said.

The grave lay under a giant oak, and they stood quietly in its shade, each with his private thoughts.
Timmy’s brother
, was Tom’s thought, and it was a bitter one.

“He loved music,” Arthur said suddenly to Laura. “Ralph told us you are a pianist, so you must know that whenever we traveled to a big city where there was a great orchestra, he wanted to hear it. He knew the histories of the composers, he could distinguish among the styles of the conductors.”

Soon they will be making a saint out of the fellow! A guy my own age, one day apart. The Other and her husband are holding hands. When they look over at me as if they expect me to smile, or maybe to cry, I look away. Mom, for heaven’s sake, get me out of here …

The Other urged, “You people have come a long way. Let’s go home if you’re ready and have lunch.”

“We should be getting back,” Laura said.

“It’s only a quarter past one. You have time to eat a little something first. Besides, my parents will be there, and they want to see—see everyone.”

   Back at the house there were
three more lined up to inspect me
, thought Tom as they faced him. There was Frieda, the grandmother with dyed hair and brown, wrinkled hands, an elderly version of her daughter. There was Albert, the grandfather, with a mustache and a thick foreign accent. And there was Cousin Melvin, nondescript except for a large nose.
That figures
, he thought, observing the man’s nose.

Now came the repeat of the earlier encounter, the eyes, the old woman’s tears, and the halting, uncertain speech of people dumbfounded by an unimaginable situation. Fortunately, Margaret rushed them all immediately to lunch.

“Holly and I finished a game of chess while you were gone,” said Cousin Melvin to no one in particular. “Then she put the food out. Timed it just right.”

The dining room was serene and spare. Everything in the room, from the oiled teakwood table, the ample matching sideboard, and the Chinese-style chairs, to the Japanese lantern sconces, was new. And over all the afternoon light poured in from a wall of windows.

Platters of chicken salad, potato salad, green salad, bowls of fruit, vegetables in aspic, plates of hot rolls and cake, stood on the sideboard. Laura was astonished. The woman must have worked hours to prepare such an array.

“Just help yourselves and sit wherever you want,” Margaret said.

Laura sat down next to Tom, who had Cousin Melvin on his other side. She had no appetite; nevertheless,
she filled her plate to make up for Tom, who was ostentatiously not eating.

“Tom,” said Margaret, “won’t you have anything at all to eat?”

“Thank you, no.”

They were looking at him and trying not to, he knew. Did they think he didn’t catch their quick, sly glances, peeking and peering? He ignored them, refusing to look up until they turned back to their plates and their manufactured conversation, after which it was his turn to investigate them.

He despised these people, the old man with the thick accent, the smartass girl with the bracelets, and the teary old woman, mourning.

“How we loved him! He was so patient with his illness. He never complained.”

“Don’t, Mama,” said Margaret.

“He was such a kind boy, so happy here. I can’t stand to look at that piano, his piano—”

“Don’t, Mama, please.”

The old lady blew her nose. “You’re right. Forgive me, I shouldn’t.”

So
emotional
, Tom thought, with their sainted Peter, dragging Mom upstairs to look, and out to the cemetery … Fallen from outer space, these people are, to destroy my life. And I’m expected to sit here nicely, talk nicely, and eat their food. I will not talk to them. Will not.

And he looked at Arthur with contempt. He was a shrimp compared with Bud. I love my father! Tom cried inwardly, and was stricken with an actual pain in his chest. The outrage was unbearable.

In her very bones Margaret was sure she felt Tom’s distress. His poor head must be spinning. Laura, this
lovely woman, has been his mother, so what can I mean to him? Can he ever want to know us? He’s been well cared for, well brought up. He pulled out her chair when she sat down, I noticed that. There is a tiny space between his two front teeth, the same as Holly has. Will we ever know him? Poor Tom. My own head is spinning.

This lunch was a mistake, Laura thought, we are all ill at ease. Tom was right. But they had meant well. They were good people; you saw that at once. The parents were gentle. The girl was bright and clear-eyed, a pretty little thing, so feminine in the ruffled collar, with her jingly charm bracelet. And the grandparents had great refinement; the old man, regardless of his German accent, spoke a remarkably eloquent English.

This is where my baby grew up, she thought. He sat in one of these chairs.

And she said as if musing, “When I saw that first photo of Peter I thought, He’s Timmy’s twin.”

Tom was furious. He had to curb his tongue, on which the words lay ready to leap: No! Timmy is
my
brother, mine, do you hear? It’s me he loves, it’s I who taught him to pitch and to swim, I who take care of him, who know about medicines and the oxygen. I, do you hear?

And he gave Laura an anguished, furious look, which she did not see.

But Arthur saw it. She would walk a hard road over this, he knew, before it came to an end. And he watched her. A lovely Nordic type, she was. In old Europe she could have been a countess, delicate and elegant. The husband was different, a narrow-minded “good old boy,” according to Ralph. In that case, Arthur reflected, there must be deeply conflicting influences
over Tom. A handsome boy, but sullen. Of course this was unspeakable for him. Think of the bewilderment, the terror! Yet it seemed to Arthur that he saw real hatred in Tom, too. Pray God he was mistaken. He wanted to love this son.

Abruptly, there came a lull in the talk, as if nobody knew what else to manufacture. It was Albert who rushed to fill the deadly void, saying heartily, “Only a couple of months till November. They’re running neck and neck, Ralph says.”

“Ralph’s got a real fight ahead,” came from Melvin.

Albert responded, “He can manage. There’s a lot of steel under the velvet. Ralph’s tough.”

Arthur explained to Laura, “Father means toughness in the right sense. Ralph’s our longtime friend, we have reason to know him well, and I can tell you he’s one of the finest human beings you’d want to meet.”