Two of a Kind (31 page)

Gavin, Mark, and Joey exchanged looks, but it was Gavin who spoke. “Who's pregnant?”

“That woman I was dating all winter.”

“What woman?” Gavin said. “How come none of us have ever met her?”

“Well, you won't get to either. We broke up.”

“I'm not following this,” said Mark. “You've split with her, but she's knocked up? How do you even know it's yours?”

“Trust me, it's mine,” Andy said.

“What's going to happen?” asked Joey.

“Damned if I know.”

“Have you talked to her?” Gavin asked. When Andy shook his head no, Gavin said, “You've
got
to talk to her. Now.” Still Mr. Fix-It.

Andy took out his phone and stood. “Go on—start eating,” he said. He went into his room and shut the door. There was no answer when he tried Christina, but instead of going back to report to his friends, he made another call. Then he returned to the table. “I'm going to have to cut this trip short,” he said. “I just changed my ticket; I'm flying back to New York first thing tomorrow.”

“Good move,” said Gavin. “I'll drive you to the airport in the morning.”

“We'll all go,” said Joey. “Won't we, guys?”

•   •   •

Andy's
flight was not very crowded and he was able to stretch out a bit; since he'd barely slept the night before, he sank into a deep sleep almost immediately. He dreamed of small, helpless creatures: mice, kittens, a litter of piglets. When he woke, he felt clearer than he had since he'd gotten the news about the pregnancy. It
was
a sign. An unequivocal sign. Christina was pregnant and he did not want her to end the pregnancy. No, he wanted her to have the baby, and he wanted to be there when she did. It would mean a huge change in his well-ordered life, but he—no,
they
—would handle it. They belonged together.

The flight attendant appeared with a small container of juice; how had she known how thirsty he was? Although it was warm, overly sweet, and essentially flavorless, it went down like it was nectar from the gods.
A baby,
he thought.
Our baby.
He just had to hope she would see it the same way. As soon as he touched down at LaGuardia, he tried her again. Still no answer, but this time he left a message.
I need to see you as soon as possible,
he said.
Please.

K
neeling in the dirt, Christina carefully dug around the roots of her rosebushes and patted the dark, coarse coffee grounds into the soil. The grounds lightened the soil around the bushes, making it easier for the roots to grow. And they attracted worms, which aerated and loosened the soil still more, so that the roses were able to get additional oxygen and water. Although the roses themselves were fairly ordinary—a common shade of pink, rambling, blossoms of no particular rarity or beauty—their smell was unusually strong, dizzying at moments, and she cultivated them tenderly for that and the fact that her mother had planted them; Aunt Barb had told her so.

Finally, she straightened up. It was early—not even seven—but she'd been waking before six these days, unable to stay asleep or in bed once the morning light had broken. She had taken to coming out here to putter in the garden, engaging in the small, satisfying chores that distracted her from the decision that was looming: she'd rescheduled the abortion for this coming Tuesday though she honestly did not know whether she'd be able to go through with it. Believing that a woman had the right to choose whether to abort her fetus was a different matter from undergoing it herself. She and Will had dreamed of having at least two if not three more babies—both had been somewhat isolated only children and wanted their own children to have a very different sort of life. Will's early death had derailed those plans.

Now life was handing her a surprise gift: a baby when she had least expected one. It would be an enormous undertaking, having a child alone. How would it affect her work, her life, and her daughter? She could not predict. But she did have an ace up her sleeve, one that she had not told anyone about—yet. She had fished out Pratyush Singh's card and left it in the center of her desk. The sum he offered—for
Mira's whim
—was life changing. If she took it, her financial troubles would be over. She could find an apartment in the neighborhood and rent a storefront for her business. The beloved house in which she had grown up would be sold, but she would still have her daughter—and her baby.

She went back into the kitchen, where she made herself a cup of herbal tea—her usual latte felt too scouring right now—and then took a quick shower. Andy would be here at nine o'clock; she wanted to be ready when he arrived. She would tell him today, of course. No more procrastinating. Even if she did decide to have the abortion, he deserved to know.

Finding something to wear was not a simple matter. Most of her summer clothes were now too tight, but deep in the recesses of her closet, Christina was able to locate a loose-fitting caftan that she usually wore as a cover-up at the beach. When she added her silver bracelet and a pair of leather sandals, she decided she looked presentable enough. Though presentable enough for
what
, she was not sure. Andy had not said where they were going, only that he would be there with his car and that he wanted to take a short drive. That was another mystery. No one else was home. Why did they need to go somewhere?

Before she went back downstairs, she stopped in Jordan's room. As usual, the bed was neatly made and the room was immaculate. The only place where order did not reign was the rabbit cage; the two animals had strewn straw through the wire mesh and onto the floor, and Christina saw that they had upset the food bowl as well. She peered in to have a closer look. The mother rabbit eyed her suspiciously, though the daughter—the pure soft gray of a chinchilla and the same size as her parent—seemed more receptive. Although she had never told Jordan, she didn't like the rabbits. But she slipped a finger in to touch the gray rabbit's head anyway. Under the fur, the bones of the skull felt alarmingly fragile.

The bell downstairs sounded. Andy was here. Turning from the rabbits, she left the room and took the stairs slowly and carefully; she did not want to trip. There was a moment of hesitation as she stood before the door and then, in a single decisive motion, she pulled it open. He looked good, all tan and even more muscled than she remembered. His eyes scanned her face—anxiously, she thought—and he did not say anything right away.

“So,” she said, breaking the silence. “You wanted to see me.”

“I did,” he said. “And I hope you wanted to see me.”

She didn't reply. “I'd invite you in, but you seemed so insistent on taking a drive.”

“It's such a nice day,” he said. “And I thought the car would be a good place to talk. No distractions.”

“All right,” she said. Though how many distractions would there have been in her empty house? “Give me a minute.” She left him standing there while she went to collect her purse. Everything seemed so stilted and wrong between them; maybe whatever there had been was not meant to last.

“I like your dress,” he said when she returned. “It makes you look . . . exotic.”

Was this a compliment? She wasn't sure, but followed him to the car and slid in the seat beside him. She had not a clue as to where they were headed, and was puzzled when he got onto the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway.

“How have you been?” she asked. Oh, this was so awkward. The unmentioned pregnancy obliterated every other conversational gambit; she was reduced to the most inane sort of small talk.

“Pretty well. Busy as usual, though I was in Florida for a few days.”

“Florida?”

“Every year I spend some time with my old gang from college. This year we picked South Beach.”

So he had not been with that singer. She was surprised at how relieved this made her.

“How about you?” He turned to look at her.

“Fine,” she lied. She could not meet his gaze.

Another silence settled over them; Christina was so uncomfortable she wanted to leap from the car at the next light. She knew what she needed to tell him; why was it so hard? He seemed like a stranger: impervious and remote. Now they were on the Long Island Expressway. Maybe he was planning to take her out to the Hamptons for the day. “Andy, aren't you going to tell me where we're going?” she said finally.

“Does it matter?”

“Well, I guess not, but I was just wondering, that's all.”

He said nothing and she stared at his profile as he kept his gaze on the road ahead. They were in Long Island now and she began to pay attention to the road signs.

“Are we going to Great Neck?” she asked.

“I thought we would,” he said.

“Oh.” She was puzzled. “Is there a particular reason why?”

“Because that's where we met,” he said. “At Angelica's wedding. Remember?”

As if she could have forgotten.
But all she said was, “I haven't been in touch with Angelica in a while. I wonder how she is.”

“She's doing really well. Terrific, in fact.” He waited a beat. “I just spoke to her last week. She's pregnant.”

“So am I,” Christina said. There! She had done it. Now it was Andy's turn to say something. Surely he would stop the car, turn to look at her, and—what? Take her in his arms? Ask if it was his? Either scenario seemed possible.

Instead he said simply, “I know.”

“What?”
she cried. “Since when? Who told you? Why didn't you
say
anything?”

“I've known for a couple of days. Jordan found out and told Oliver, who told my mother. And then my mother told me.”

“Did she also tell you that I've scheduled an abortion for this coming Tuesday?”

Andy glided the car to a stop in front of a sign that read
VILLAGE GREEN AND ROSE GARDEN
.

“Yes,” he said. “She did. And she told me to get home right away so I could stop you. Which is exactly what I'm trying to do.”

“Your
mother
said this?” She knew how much Ida disapproved of her.

“She did. She wants you to have the baby and for us to get back together. The baby is a sign, don't you see?”

“A sign?” She was wary. “Of what?”

“A sign that we really are meant to be.” He took her in his arms, but when he tried to kiss her, she turned away. Even without looking at him, she could imagine the confusion on his face. The hurt too.

“I'm not so sure,” she said.

“
You're
not so sure?” he said. “That's not what you said when we broke up.”

“
We
didn't break up; you broke up with me.”

“I was an idiot. A jerk. Also, impulsive, hasty, and a jackass. As usual.”

“I know,” she said. “Which is why I decided you were right about us. That we really don't belong together. I don't think I could stand a life with your . . . moods, Andy. I've had enough of that in my life.” When he didn't answer, she continued. “And what about you and that . . . singer? I haven't even
mentioned
that.”

“You saw that ridiculous picture.”

“It looked pretty convincing to me.”

“Xiomara is my patient. That's all.”

“Is that how you act with all your patients? Especially the ones that can call you any time of the day or night.”

“
She
kissed
me
,” he said. “It was a bad time for her and she thought that was the answer. But it wasn't.”

Christina said nothing. Could she allow herself to believe that he'd changed his mind about the two of them, and that he actually wanted her to have this baby? “So why did you bring me here?” Looking out the window, she saw cluster upon cluster of roses, some just coming into bloom, others open and at their fragrant, ephemeral peak.

“Because this is where we met and this is where I thought I should propose.” From his pocket he withdrew a small, velvet-covered box. “Will you marry me, Christina?” She looked down at the box but didn't answer. “Aren't you going to look inside?”

She opened the box. There was a gold ring with a ruby at its center; the ruby was surrounded by a circle of tiny seed pearls. The ring was clearly an antique; the stone and workmanship were exquisite. She let herself admire it before she closed the box again.

“Don't you like it?” He sounded so miserable. “I knew you wouldn't want a diamond, so she steered me toward this.”

“She?”

“Jordan. I asked her to help me pick it out.”

“Jordan helped
you
to choose a ring for
me
? In what alternate universe did this happen?”

He smiled. “She said she thought you would love it.”

“It's very beautiful.”

“Then you're saying—”

“No, Andy. I'm saying no.” She handed him the box and, unable to look at him, kept her eyes on the riot of roses outside. Through the scrim of her tears, they began to melt and blur. “I'd like you to drive me home, please,” she added. “Unless you'd rather I took the train.”

The ride back to Brooklyn was silent and miserable. She did not look at Andy once, and kept her eyes trained on the view out the window, though she did not register one thing that they passed. When they reached her house, she got out without a word. And without a word, Andy started the car and drove away. She did not cry, because she would not let herself. Instead, she went into her office where Singh's card waited patiently on her desk.

“Ms. Connelly,” he fairly purred when he answered. “I had a feeling I'd be hearing from you.”

I
da had not been on the subway in a very long time and marveled at how different everything was. No more tokens—just flimsy blue and yellow things called MetroCards. No token booths either, but plenty of ATM-like machines at which to buy the cards. The train she boarded was new, shiny, and it was so cold she wished she'd brought along a warmer jacket. But it was also very fast and soon she was in Brooklyn, emerging from the station at Grand Army Plaza and consulting the directions she'd gotten from Oliver. She could have taken a car service of course; Andy paid for all her trips by car. But this was a trip Andy did not authorize and she didn't feel right about taking his money for it. No one could ever accuse Ida Stern of being a
schnorrer
.

The streets of this unfamiliar neighborhood in late spring were lovely: brownstone and limestone houses side by side, mature trees, flowers in urns, window boxes, and planters. In another mood, she would have stopped to linger, but today she had a mission. An urgent mission. It was the unborn baby. The baby that belonged to her son and that this Christina person might actually abort. To Ida, the loss of this baby would be a fresh sorrow heaped upon so many past sorrows. She didn't think her old heart could stand it.

There had been another lost baby, decades ago, fathered by Jurgi, the boy who lived across the road. He'd been her best friend for years, like a brother, until they'd been hurriedly married and practically shoved into a room alone together after the wedding. “Do you know what we're supposed to do?” he had whispered, suspecting, correctly as it turned out, that their parents were listening anxiously at the door.

“Not really,” she had answered, knowing she should be more nervous than she was, but this was Jurgi and how could she be nervous with Jurgi? They did not figure out what they were supposed to do that night, or the night after that. But on the third night, he came into the room at Ida's house that they were now told was theirs looking very serious. “I understand now,” he said to her. “My father explained it all to me.”

“Why do you look so sad?” she said.

“Because you're not going to like it.”

“No?” she asked.

“No.” He turned out the light and began to unbutton his pajama top. When he saw her sitting there without moving, he said, “You too.”

“Do I have to?” She and Jurgi had swum and played naked at the pond just outside their town, but that had been years ago. Her body had changed since then. So had his.

“Yes.” The sound of his voice, so sad and grown-up, had made Ida afraid for the first time. But she took off the white, embroidered nightgown she wore and did as he asked. She did not cry out loud because she did not want to hurt his feelings. He knew anyway, and used his hand to rub at the tears that leaked from the corners of her eyes. “I'm sorry,” he said into her hair. “So sorry.”

Nine months later, she delivered a fat, beautiful baby boy with butter blond ringlets and blue stars for eyes. They called him Petras, and they all doted on him. “He'll be the one to save you,” Ida's mother had predicted. “You'll see. He'll save us all.” But she was wrong. Jurgi and his parents were deported first, sent away on a train belching smoke and crammed with anxious, fearful people. Ida and her family went next. Handing little Petras over to the guard had been the worst moment in Ida's life; she would have collapsed had it not been for her mother's firm grip just under her elbow. “Give him the cap and the socks,” her mother said in an unfamiliar, steely voice. Ida did as she was told. Petras looked startled; then he smiled, his chubby little hand reaching for a brass button on the guard's coat.

For years afterward, Ida allowed herself to think that her boy had been saved, shielded by his gold hair and blue eyes. Some barren German woman, longing for a child, would claim him, and call him her own. She'd rename him—Franz or Albrecht or even Adolf. Ida didn't care as long as he was alive, somewhere. Every year on his birthday, she'd open the grayed, tattered birth certificate she'd folded and tucked in her shoe and kept against all odds at the camp, even though she'd been so hungry at times she'd been tempted to eat it. She would trace the letters of his name, and hers and Jurgi's too. Jurgi was dead, along with the rest of his family and hers. She was the only one to survive the war.

Afterward, she'd been sent to a DP camp in Belgium where she'd met a man who, like her, had lost everyone. They had married ten days later, and gone first to Cuba and eventually New York. He'd been a bitter, haunted soul, though who in those years was not? Ida thought that a baby would change things. But year after year went by and no baby came. It was because she gave the other one away, she told herself. She was being punished. Then, when she had all but given up, it happened. She was not young anymore; she was almost forty, with gray-threaded hair and little creases pinching her mouth. When the baby came, she felt like she got it all back—her youth, her hope, her belief in a future that did not include the past. Her husband—he didn't see it that way. He resented the baby. Resented the crying, the diapers, the broken sleep, but more than that too. He resented that Ida loved the baby so much. More than she loved him; she could admit it now. Much more. They fought, and then they didn't even care enough to fight. When he left, she was almost glad. Now she would have her boy all to herself.

Ida looked at the slip of paper she carried. Here was the house. It was made of brick, and very handsome, though she could see that the steps leading to the double doors were not in good repair. But the window boxes, like miniature gardens, were the prettiest on the block and the Japanese maple in front was as graceful as a girl.
This is it.
She had to compose herself before she rang the bell; so much depended on this meeting. A door opened and she froze: she did not want to be caught on the street this way. But the lithe young person that skittered down the stairs and up the street did not even notice her. Her hair was pulled into a tight bun and she carried a big, bulging bag over her shoulder. She climbed the hill that Ida had just descended in what seemed like seconds. That must have been the daughter Andy had mentioned. A
shayne maidele
too. But here she was procrastinating when she had important work to do. The house, she saw, had two entrances. One was the pair of doors from which the girl had just emerged. The other was below the steps.
Up or down
? she asked herself. The girl had come from above, so she decided she would try there first. Grasping the black iron railing, Ida mounted the stairs.

•   •   •

Christina
was on the parlor floor, in her showroom—though not for much longer—when the bell sounded. She rarely had visitors at this entrance; her clients and friends, along with UPS, FedEx, and the mailmen, knew to ring the downstairs bell. “Excuse me,” she said to the two men whose loft in Red Hook she was redoing. “I'll be right back.” She left the couple to inspect the pair of Eames chairs they were considering to answer the door.

“Can I help you?” Christina was sure that the small, older woman, dressed in a China blue linen suit, had the wrong house.

“I'm Ida Stern,” the woman said. In her hand she clutched a taupe leather handbag made in a style that had been popular at least forty years ago. “Andy's mother.”

“Oh!” Christina had not recognized her at first. “Please come in.” She stepped back to allow Ida to enter. “I'm with some clients right now, but will you wait for me? I won't be long.” Ida followed her down the stairs and allowed herself to be seated at the kitchen table. She refused offers of iced tea, coffee, juice, or lemonade, though she finally did accept the glass of club soda—she called it seltzer—that Christina put in front of her.

“You go back upstairs,” she said, taking a small, demure sip. “I'm perfectly fine right here.”

Christina was rattled when she returned to her clients. Rob, the more effusive half of the couple, was enthusiastic about the chairs; his partner, Greg, less so. “It's the color,” he said, rubbing the leather as if the pressure of his fingers could somehow change it. Ordinarily, Christina would have done a little pitch for the chairs, explaining their significance in terms of midcentury design, their relatively reasonable price, and their undeniably excellent condition.

Today, she only nodded and said, “Why don't you two talk it over and get back to me in a few days? Maybe I'll have some other options to show you by then.”

“That's a good idea,” Greg said. Rob looked disappointed, but he followed his partner out. Christina abstained from expelling the huge sigh she had been holding in her lungs until the door closed behind them.

Now she had to deal with Andy's mother. For a change, she wasn't nauseated, but her face felt sticky and she was sure her hair was a mess, so she ducked into the bathroom to freshen up. What she would say to the older woman was an utter mystery to her. After the weeks of pining for Andy in the wake of their breakup, Christina's refusal of his proposal was as surprising to her as it was to Stephen when she'd told him. “But, girl, this is the answer to all your troubles. Marriage, baby, new life with the doctor hubby.” He ticked them all off on his fingers. “Looks good from where I sit.”

“We'll make each other miserable,” she had said. “We'll fight all the time. Or, if not, I'll be walking on eggshells, always anticipating the next explosion. Like my father.”

“So that's what's behind this,” Stephen said. “Well, I think you're wrong. Andy Stern is not your dad. And you're not your mother. When he gets out of line, you'll tell him. That's what couples—strong couples anyway—do for each other.”

“I don't want to have to police him,” she said.

“Think of it as being a guide and a partner. You'll be his better half and all that.”

“Stephen, who knew you were so old-fashioned?” She had not told him about her secret plan, her safety net; she just couldn't bear to yet and she fervently hoped he would not feel betrayed when she did.

The zoning board had given her a little grace period to wrap up her business in the house and she was taking it. Today's two clients might be the last ones she would see here. The money from the sale would pay the fine, the relocation, the apartment—everything wrapped up in one tidy, neat package. Now all she had to do was tell everyone in her life about it.

•   •   •

While
she waited, Ida looked around. With its blue and white plates hung on the walls and sizable collection of yellow mixing bowls, the kitchen was an orderly, welcoming place. Through the window she saw a sliver of the garden; Andy had told her Christina liked to grow things. She would make a good wife for him, this
shiksa
with her bowls and her flowers. A good wife and a good stepmother for Oliver. And as for the baby she carried . . . Ida had to tamp down the elation she felt about that; it would not help her case if she appeared too emotional or desperate. She finished her seltzer and got up to put her glass in the sink. She noticed a collection of tarnished candlesticks sitting alongside it. Next to them sat a pile of rags and various kinds of polish. The candlesticks were mostly brass, but a lone silver example caught her attention and she picked it up to examine it more closely. It was fairly short, and had two rounded sections, so that it looked like the body of a woman. A pattern of incised lines, some like semicircles, covered much of it. Ida's mother had owned a similar pair of candlesticks; Ida remembered them from her girlhood. They had been a wedding gift to her parents, and unlike the brass candlesticks that her mother used every Shabbas, the silver ones were only brought out on the most special occasions. “They'll be for you one day,
tochter
,” her mother used to say, one hand gripping the candlestick and the other busily polishing until the surface gleamed, moon-bright. “When you get married.” Well, her mother had not given them to her when she married Jurgi, but Ida had understood, even without being told, why. That wedding was not the joyful union of two souls, sanctioned by their community and their faith. Her marriage to Jurgi was a desperate act; survival, not happiness, had been its goal.

Funny how familiar the weight and shape of this candlestick felt in her hands; she could have been back in her parents' house, setting the table for a holiday dinner, her mother's cross-stitched tablecloth starched as crisp as paper laid on the table. Look, here was a little nick at the base. One of her mother's candlesticks had had such a nick; it happened when her mother had dropped it on the stone floor in the kitchen. She'd never forgiven herself for that and always said she was going to take it to a silversmith in the city to have it fixed. Ida turned the candlestick over. There was something engraved on the bottom, but she could not make it out because of the tarnish. Curious, she took one of the rags, soaked it with a bit of the silver polish, and began to rub.

When she'd rubbed the spot clean, she peered down to read the engraving: too small—she would need her glasses. She brought the candlestick back to the table and fished them from her pocketbook. Now she could see. The words were in Lithuanian, a language she had not read in decades. But that did not matter: she knew them by heart.

For Chana and Yossel on the occasion of their wedding

25 September 1926

The candlestick, her mother's candlestick, dropped with a clatter and rolled across the floor. Christina came hurrying into the room and picked it up. “Is everything all right?” she asked.

“That candlestick,” Ida croaked. “Where did you get it?”

•   •   •

Christina
looked down at the candlestick in her hand, and then back at Ida's face. Under the two spots of blush on her cheeks, she had gone alarmingly pale. “Let me get you some water,” Christina said, setting the candlestick down.