The Puzzle King (18 page)

E
ARLY ON
W
EDNESDAY
morning, Simon and Flora set out in their car from Yonkers to Pier 60 in New York City. Their conversation was full of optimism. Simon tried to name all the colors that made up the new greens of spring. “The blues and yellows and oranges,” he said. “This is God’s palette … when He’s in a good mood.” Flora tried to prepare Simon for having a twelve-year-old around. “She’s somewhere between a girl and a young woman. Talk to her as an equal until she bursts into tears or runs to her room. That’s when you have to go back to being the adult. Be as kind and encouraging as you can.”

“You don’t have to tell me how to act around children,” he
said. “You remember I grew up with plenty of them.” It was a painful memory and he quickly changed the subject. “Do you think we have enough food in the house?”

Their shelves were stocked with canned peaches, jars of peanut butter, and tins of sardines and tuna fish. They’d pick up some milk and some fresh whipping cream at the dairy to go with the cake Flora had baked. “Children that age eat an awful lot,” said Flora. “Do you think we should have something for her for when she gets off the boat?”

“No, I’m sure they gave her plenty of food on the boat.”

“Yes, but it can take a long while for a ship to pull into a port.”

Simon took Flora’s hand. “Miss Chatterbug,” he said, “you’re nervous, aren’t you? It will be all right. Edith will be fine. Do you forget how famously the two of you got along when we were in Kaiserslautern?”

Flora nodded. “I love her like a daughter, but she’s not my daughter. There is a difference between your own and someone else’s. That you and I never had children—it’s the disappointment of my life.”

“You would be a great mother,” said Simon.

“And you, a model father. It’s my fault.”

“It’s nobody’s fault.”

“There’s something about my blood,” she said, running her hand over the scimitar-shaped scar on her leg. “It’s what killed my father.”

The first time she told Simon the story of her father and the tainted blood, Simon tried to comfort her by explaining how it was impossible that her blood could have infected her father in that way. “It’s enough that you miss him. To blame yourself only adds to the sadness,” he had said.

He hadn’t realized that Flora thought her blood had something to do with their inability to conceive. He swallowed hard. “Flora, I won’t listen to this nonsense about your blood.” He pulled the car over to the side of the road and turned off the engine. “There are so many reasons people can’t have children. I’m seven years older than you. For all we know, it’s my fault.”

Flora’s voice got small. “You’re yelling,” she said. “I’ve never heard you raise your voice like that.”

“I find the word
fault
awful. We’re not doing anything wrong. It’s nobody’s
fault
that we don’t have children. God knows we’ve tried every damn trick in the book. If I were a more religious man, I’d say it’s God’s will and that He has other children in mind for us to care for. We make our families where we can. In the end, whether they are our blood or someone else’s, what does it matter? Our families—whoever and wherever they are—live in our hearts. If I didn’t believe that …”

She leaned her head on his shoulder. “I believe in you. I believe in you and me.”

“Sweetheart,” he said, his voice softening, “I love you so much. We have a wonderful life together. Let’s not dwell on what we don’t have and let’s enjoy what we do have.”

“All right then,” she said, placing her hand on his knee and looking up at his taut face. “Why don’t you take off your glasses?”

“Okay, my gorgeous one,” he said, ripping his glasses from behind his ears. “I’m all yours.”

Flora shot him a look of mock astonishment then checked her wristwatch. “Ach, if only we had a little more time. But we should probably get this car back on the road and pick up our niece.”

F
LORA WAS THE FIRST
to spot Edith on the deck. She was tall and stringy, and her hair was flying in many different directions. There were dark shadows under her eyes, and it seemed to Flora that Edith had grown at least a foot since she’d last seen her. She looked older than her twelve years—a different person from the little girl Flora had met a few years before.

Simon took out his handkerchief and started waving. Flora stood on her tiptoes and shouted, “Yoo-hoo, Edith.” When she finally spotted them, Edith smiled tentatively, lowering her head until her chin nearly touched her collarbone. She was carrying a duffel and wearing a white jacket over a periwinkle dress that looked as if it had been slept in for days.
I know this isn’t what I should be thinking at a moment like this
, thought Flora,
but I need to buy her some nice clothes. Fix her hair. Get some food in her
.

T
HERE WAS LITTLE
of the child left in Edith. She had the milky eyes of an old person and a slight stoop in her carriage. As they drove back to Yonkers, Flora tried to talk with her in German.
“Wie geht es deine Familie?”
she asked. Edith nodded, said
“Gut,”
and kept staring out the back window. “What news of my sister,
meine Schwester
.” Again Edith nodded and mumbled,
“Gut.”
Edith had picked up English quickly when they’d visited her in Kaiserslautern, so Flora wasn’t sure how much she understood.
Oh my God, what have we gotten ourselves into
, she thought and shot Simon a look that said the same thing. For the next forty-five minutes, they traveled in silence.

When they arrived at the house, Simon carried Edith’s bag into Flora’s sewing room. She had moved her sewing machine into the other bedroom and had bought a bedspread covered
with peonies and a lamp whose wooden base was carved in the shape of a cat. She’d framed some of Simon’s drawings and emptied the closet for all of Edith’s clothes. If Edith noticed the girly flourishes in her room, she didn’t say. Flora said, “You must be starving,” and made her a bologna sandwich and poured a glass of milk. Edith took one bite of the sandwich, then put it on the plate and pushed it away. It went like that at dinnertime, too, when Flora tried to feed Edith a breaded veal cutlet with mashed potatoes and canned peas. For the next few days, every time Flora would set down food—fruit, cheese, chocolate cake, apple pie—in front of her, Edith would take a bite or two and then turn it away. Sometimes she said,
“Nein, danke.”
Other times she said nothing. Mostly, all she did was sleep.

On Saturday morning, after Flora had made scrambled eggs with fresh chives from the garden and fried potatoes, Edith covered her mouth with her hands and refused to take a bite. “I give up,” cried Flora. “I’m not trying to poison you.” Edith froze. Her eyes widened. Simon turned abruptly toward Flora, who put her head in her hands and shook it. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I lost my temper, but really, I’m at my wit’s end. You’re going to starve to death if you keep on like this.”

Something about Edith’s wild eyes was familiar to him. He remembered the little girl Rita from the boat, and the way she would scream, particularly late at night. “She’s scared,” said Simon, gently squeezing Edith’s shoulder. “This is probably more food than she’s had in six months. She’ll come around. Make what she’s used to.”

That afternoon, Flora baked a chocolate walnut cake—an old recipe of her mother’s. She went to the butcher and bought kosher salami, the closest thing to wurst she could find. She also
bought a loaf of black pumpernickel bread, some vegetable soup, and a jar of orange marmalade. At dinner, as Edith ate the soup with the bread, Flora unconsciously imitated Edith each time she opened and closed her mouth to chew. Simon smiled, feeling the same pride as she did. From then on, they did what all families do: talked while they ate and now and then sampled things from one another’s plate.

On Sunday, Simon drove them to the part of Nyack that looked over the Hudson River. He explained to Edith that in this river, unlike in most rivers, the current flowed both ways. They stood at the river’s edge long enough to watch a barge go by. Flora thought she saw a giant bluefish, and Edith threw rocks into the water—overhand, not like a girl—each time trying to out-distance herself.

On the way back to Yonkers, they went past a horse farm. Flora and Simon had stopped here often to watch the horses, sometimes to feed them, and now there were new foals. Simon pulled over and got out of the car. He walked up to the fence, propped his elbows on it, and leaned in. Then he turned and beckoned for Edith and Flora. They tiptoed toward him and listened as he clicked his tongue against the back of his palate making a
clock-clock
sound. The mare, silky chestnut with a coal-black mane, flicked her ears as if shushing away a fly. Simon kept on until the mare put her head down and walked slowly toward him, her shaky-legged colt trotting close behind. When they reached the fence, Simon stuck out his hand and patted the mare on the bridge of her nose. He looked at Edith and raised his eyebrows, as if to ask,
Want to try this?

Because of the work her father did, Edith’s only experience with animals was with dead ones. She hesitated at first and then
let Simon take her hand and place it on the horse’s nose. It was cold and wet, with a bridge that was hard and bristly. Edith rubbed it again, this time on her own. The horse tucked its head and butted Edith’s arm as if trying to snuggle underneath it. “She likes you,” said Simon. Edith smiled and Simon winked at Flora as the two of them headed toward the car. Edith lingered behind and tried to copy the
clock-clock
sound, but the mare and her colt wandered to the farthest side of the meadow.

On Monday morning, Simon left for work before Edith was awake. It would be the first time Edith and Flora would be alone, and still, Edith had barely spoken a word. “What if she doesn’t talk to me?” Flora asked Simon.

“You’ll think of something,” he said.

When Edith woke up, well after ten, Flora was ready to make her some hot farina. “No please,” said Edith, holding her hands up as if to say,
Stop
. They were the first words of English she’d uttered since she arrived.

“Toast then?” said Flora, holding up a piece of bread and pointing to the toaster.

“Toast then,” said Edith.

The toast popped out of the toaster blackened on both sides. “Oops, burned it,” said Flora.

“Oops, burned it,” repeated Edith.

The two of them looked at each other in surprise. Flora started to laugh. Edith smiled, not sure if Flora was laughing with her or teasing her. Flora pointed to the butter and then to the toast. “Butter for the toast?”

“Butter for the toast?”

“Good,” said Flora. “We’ll speak English.”

“English,” said Edith.

Flora nodded. She understood that Edith wanted to be American while she was here, not a foreigner. She remembered that when she had come to America over twenty years earlier, she’d felt the same way. So for the next few days, Flora concentrated on making Edith an American girl. She bought her two frocks, a pair of white linen trousers, and a new cloche. She took her to the beauty salon, where she got her hair cut in a short, fashionable bob. All the while, she spoke to her in English, and Edith would either repeat Flora’s words or answer back with her own.

At home, Flora played songs like “Swanee” and “I’ll Build a Stairway to Paradise” on the phonograph. When she put on a record of the latest hit, “Yes! We Have No Bananas,” Flora started dancing. Her hands flew in the air. She turned her knees and toes inward, kicked her legs up in the air, shifting from side to side to the music. Edith laughed at the crazy sight of her aunt. Flora laughed, too, but she kept dancing. “It’s called the Charleston,” she said, breathless. “It’s a popular dance.”

Edith began tapping her feet and swaying in place without even realizing it. Flora extended her hands and Edith took them, falling into her own knock-kneed version of the dance. When the record was finished, Flora lifted the phonograph arm. “One more time.” Again, they danced to the banana song, and when it ended, Flora flopped onto the couch while Edith ran to the phonograph and cried, “One more time.”

Over the next days, Edith still had trouble digesting the peaches, French toast, and farina that Flora put before her, but her appetite for any American experience was insatiable. She spent a day walking with Flora, looking at the skyscrapers and running her fingers over the limestone bases of the buildings. When they rode the subway, Flora had to nudge her so that she’d stop staring at the Negro men who often sat across from them.
She loved the smell of the exhaust fumes from the buses and how, when they stood at Thirty-fourth Street and Fifth Avenue, they could look uptown and see nothing but a ribbon of people moving up and down. She gobbled up the language and spat it back as fast as Flora could feed it to her.

Flora talked to her in the overly pleasant way that people with no children talk to other people’s children. “How’s your mother’s health?” she’d ask.

“She is good. She comes to America,” Edith would answer, knowing how unlikely that was.