An Orphan's Tale (7 page)

“Hey!” Charlie said, squeezing Murray's arm above the elbow. “Shut up and listen to somebody else for a change. The kid told you he's from the Home—from
our
Home.”

“They're going to close it,” Danny said.

Murray looked toward the house, gesturing to his children to come forward and join him. “I'm very sorry,” he said. “We'll have to talk about that, won't we?”

Danny stepped back and he thought:
Murray can call Mr. Gitelman and they'll make me go back!

Three children ran up the walkway yelling Charlie's name—calling him “Uncle Charlie”—and asking if he were going to stay for dinner. Charlie lifted the three of them at once, in a bear hug. Then he swung the youngest girl around and asked for a kiss. “Okay,” he said, setting her down. “Here's the question of the day—are you ready?” They nodded, all eyes. “What's the difference between a duck?”

“It's a problem,” Murray was saying. “I keep in touch, you know. A Mr. Gitelman—I've had correspondence with him. I know things have been going downhill.”

“His left hind foot is both the same!” the children squealed. “His left hind foot is both the same!”

A woman emerged from the house, wiping her hands on an apron. Two older children, a boy and a girl, were with her. Danny wished he could laugh with the children. Why had they found Charlie's riddle so funny? Why did he feel so incapable of laughing at silliness? It was something he had always been afraid of at the Home—his inability to enjoy nonsense or horsing around—and yet he did not want to change, he knew, not even for Charlie.

He watched Murray's wife kiss Charlie, and this made him feel better—less fearful somehow that Charlie would want to return him. Danny took the woman's hand when she offered it to him. “I'm Anita,” she said. “And these are our children.”

They were lined up in front of him, and when they each stepped forward and shook his hand, they gave him their names and ages: Ephraim—fifteen, Hannah—fourteen, Dov—eight, Rivka—six, and Eli—four.

Anita took Charlie's arm and led him toward the house. “I'm sorry you didn't get in touch with Sol in time,” she said. “Murray told me about your plan falling through.”

“Good lord,” Murray said. “Are you going to encourage him—?”

“Have you heard from him at all?” she asked.

Charlie said he hadn't, but that it was probably just as well. Dov and Rivka grabbed Murray's sleeves and yanked, asking him when Uncle Sol was coming to stay with them. “When your Uncle Charlie finally grows up,” Murray answered, and he walked into the house.

Charlie laughed. Danny followed him inside, into an enormous kitchen. In the center of the room a large oval table was already set for supper. White cloth napkins, beside each plate, were rolled inside silver rings. The table was made of oak, and Danny saw that its pedestal was carved in the shape of lions' paws. The room reminded him of rooms he'd seen at the Brooklyn Museum, next to the library—of one of the reproductions of a genuine colonial home. There were wood beams in the ceiling, copper pots and saucepans hanging above the stove, and painted plates—with flowers and butterflies in swirling colors—hung on the walls. The floor was made of wide, smooth pine boards. Danny remembered how he had, at the museum, imagined that he was the guard, and how he saw himself, at night, when the museum was empty, taking out his lunch bag and entering one of the old dining rooms and eating there, at a table set with silver.

He wanted to tell Anita how beautiful her kitchen was, but when he spoke he said something else: “All your children have Hebrew names.”

“That's right,” Murray said. “It's interesting that you should have noticed that, isn't it?”

“He's a sharp kid,” Charlie said. “Dr. Fogel's been teaching him things.”

“He's from the Home,” Murray explained to Anita, “and he told Charlie that they're going to close it.”

Anita looked up from the oven, where she was basting a roast with a syringe. “But you knew that already, didn't you?”

“Not officially,” Murray said.

Charlie put his arm around Danny's shoulders, and Danny found himself stiffening. The children moved quietly around the room, getting things ready, as if, Danny thought, by prearranged signals. He watched Ephraim set two new places and rearrange the place mats around the table. He didn‘t want Charlie to tell Murray anything else, but he had no way of saying so. “Danny's the reason I can wait to get in touch with Sol,” Charlie said. “Danny's going to be living with me for a while.”

Murray started to say something, but checked himself and sighed: “And what am I supposed to say to that?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Charlie said. “I didn't go out and find the kid—he came to me.”

“Did I ask you for an explanation?”

“You said you had good news,” Charlie said, sharply, and he walked away from Danny. Danny saw Anita smiling, her cheeks flushed. “I've heard so much about Dr. Fogel,” she commented. “Except for Sol, I think you talk more about him than anyone else.”

Murray removed three glasses from a small three-shelf oak cabinet next to the pantry. On the top shelf, behind the glass door, Danny saw a silver spice box—a
tsumin
box-that was used for making
Havdalah
when
Shabbos
was over. There was a blue and white braided candle next to the box. Danny stepped toward the cabinet. He had never seen a real
tsumin
box before, except in photos. The box, about eight inches high, looked like a tiny minaret, and Danny wanted to touch it, to tinkle its bells, to open the door on the side and sniff the spices. He felt Charlie's eyes on him, and he stopped. Why would a man like Charlie—the thought was in his head for the first time—want to let him stay?

Murray poured sherry into three glasses. “He's an interesting man. I'll admit that.” He held his pipe by its bowl, pointing the stem toward Charlie. “What I mean is—I've said it before—he's the kind of man you remember. Like Sol. He stands out. Even now—and I haven't seen him for at least ten years—I can hear his voice, his sayings.”

At the peak of the minaret was a silver flag. Danny forced himself to look away from the
tsumin
box, and he now noticed other things—a brass
menorah
, with lions of Judah on either side of a Star of David, above the fireplace; a
mezuzah
on the doorpost; a silver
Kiddush
cup and a stack of
yamulkas
on a table by the door; a United Jewish Appeal poster tacked up inside the pantry. These things should have made him more comfortable, he thought, yet they didn't. They seemed out of place to him in the large house, and because he felt that they did, he also felt, to his surprise, ashamed somehow.

Ephraim spoke: “Was he the one who gave out the nipples?”

Murray laughed. “That's right.” He handed Charlie a glass. “He knew what things make impressions on children. I think about him a lot at school, you know. Children remember people who say things that are different—and who keep repeating them.”

“It must be why they cling to you,” Anita said to Charlie. She filled a tray with pale yellow buns and put it in the oven.

“We really can't stay for dinner,” Charlie said. “I want to get us set up at home.” He smiled at Anita, and spoke for Murray's benefit: “And I want to start looking for another place, right?” He counted on his fingers. “If Danny stays there and then Sol comes too, that's two deductions right off. Then you could set up an alumni room in the basement, we could have one room for an office—maybe Danny could bring in some more friends and before you knew it, with all the write-offs, I'd wind up with a profit.”

“I know when you're teasing me,” Murray said, without smiling. “But I also know that in part of you you're serious about a scheme like that, aren't you?”

Charlie laughed easily. “Could be,” he said.

Danny felt faint. He backed to the door. The fragrance of the spices, he knew, was supposed to represent the sweetness of the Sabbath—a sweetness intended to linger all week long. “Please,” Anita said. “Murray needs to relax, to unwind—if you go away he'll spend the evening in his study, finding work. When he finishes mowing, that is.” She sipped her sherry. “My husband mows by moonlight.”

“Mower power to him,” Charlie said, and Anita frowned, though her eyes smiled.

“Do you remember the saying Fogel had that used to get us all upset?” Murray asked. “That money can buy everything in life but a mother, father, and brains?”

“It never upset me,” Charlie said. “It's true.”

Anita pretended to shiver. “I don't like that saying,” she said.

The fragrance of the roast and the buns filled Danny's nostrils. He wanted to touch the
tsumin
box, to press its cold silver against his cheek. Hannah poured water into glasses. The three younger children were gone. “Ephraim,” Anita said, “why don't you show Danny your room?”

“No,” Charlie said. “Just give us your news and we'll head out. Your husband's workday may be over, but mine is just starting.” He smiled at Ephraim. “You know what Charlie always says—for everyone who drinks the wine, there's one who stomps the grapes, right?”

“See what I mean?” Murray said. “I've heard countless students repeat those very words.”

Charlie shrugged, uninterested. “What's your news?” he asked. Anita removed the buns from the oven and painted their tops with a brush. Charlie saw her look away, briefly, and then Danny saw the happiness appear in Charlie's eyes. “Again?” Charlie asked.

Murray nodded and Charlie embraced him, then hugged and kissed Anita also. “How far along?”

“Third month,” Anita said. “At least that's what Dr. Shapiro says—for all doctors ever know about these things.”

Danny heard somebody practicing scales on a piano. Then he heard the sound of a flute. Murray took Hannah to him and smoothed her blond hair as she leaned against him. Danny watched her breasts move underneath her white blouse. “Hannah has been studying ecology at school,” Murray stated, “and did a report on the world population explosion, so we had to have quite a discussion, didn't we?”

Hannah nodded.

“I explained to her that, as Jews, while we do not of course have any special dispensation, we do have certain unique obligations, to our people and to our past. I put it this way—and only for people who already feel the way we do—” he paused for effect, “I say this: we're not overpopulating, we're replacing.”

Danny felt gooseflesh rise on his arms, and, at the same time, he realized that he was wishing Murray had not given Charlie the news. He didn't want Charlie to be distracted.

“You breed good news,” Charlie said.

Murray sighed, as if relaxing, and, putting his arm around Charlie's shoulders, he walked with him from the house. “Anita's right, you know. We need more time together—we see each other at school, on weekends, but when do we sit and do nothing? How often do we drink things in and appreciate what's become of our lives—our children, our friends, our careers, our home….”

Outside, in the darkness, Danny felt as if he could breathe again.

“You know what I'd like to see?” Charlie asked. “Most of all?”

“What?” Murray asked.

“I'd like to see you out here some beautiful spring day, mowing your lawn, with your kids grown up and a bunch of grandchildren all around. I'd be sitting under a tree with Anita and she'd be knitting, and there'd be a great big shit-eating grin on your face as you drove by, your grandchildren waving at you—and then suddenly Anita would jump up and yell, and—pipe and all—you'd ride right over the edge and into your pool—!”

Murray laughed and swung at Charlie's shoulder with his fist, but Charlie caught his fist and squeezed until Murray cried out in pain.

“I've warned him,” Anita said. “I've told him not to mow at night. The pool is still full.”

“But he's Murray the Mower,” Charlie said.

From the doorway the children chanted in singsong:
“Mur-ray the Mow-er… Mur-ray the Mow-er…”

“There's no point in draining it yet,” Murray argued. “Why did we pay to get a heated pool if we don't use it at this time of year?”

Charlie sat in the car. Anita held Danny back slightly, by the arm, and whispered to him to take care of Charlie, to promise to see that he didn't work so hard.

Charlie looked past Danny, out the car window, into the blackness, and, in his head, he saw the tables in the main dining room, set with white linen cloths and the Home's special Passover plates and silverware. It was black outside the dining room windows also, and most of the boys were swaying from side to side and flopping into each other, to prove how much wine they'd had to drink.

Dr. Fogel sat at the head table, on two huge white pillows. Murray sat next to him on a single pillow, helping him run the Seder. The director, the counselors, and several guests-former orphans who had become successful doctors or lawyers or businessmen but who, like Sol, had no families of their own, sat with them.

Charlie wondered: am I still the simplest son? He remembered the story they had read, about the four sons—the wise son, the wicked son, the simple son, and the son-who-doesn't-know-how-to-ask. The wise son asked for the meaning of the Passover laws. The wicked son asked, “What do you mean by this Seder?” and by using the word “you” he did not include himself. The simple son asked what it was all about. But the simplest son said nothing—and Charlie could see Murray calling upon him to read the part from the Passover Haggadah. Even now, more than twenty years later, Charlie felt, all over again, slightly nauseated with helplessness. He heard the silence as the three hundred boys waited for him to read and then, realizing that they made the connection—Murray had chosen him because everyone knew he had trouble reading—he heard their raucous laughter fill the room and he saw Murray smile at him triumphantly.