Imaginary Men by Enid Shomer Page A
Authors: Enid Shomer
Tags: Fiction, General, Literary Criticism, Anthologies (Multiple Authors), Literary Collections, test
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number.
"First, tell me what's been happening. At work. With the family."
Harry told him about visiting the Village with Bella. "Bella's eighty-two, and she's not worried about dying."
"Everybody's dying," Toland said.
"It's like a job," Harry said.
"What is?"
"Dying. You're born, and then you spend the rest of your life dying. Breathing in and out. Looking at trees."
"Close your eyes," Toland said. "Let your mind drift. You're very relaxed."
But Harry couldn't relax. What about Bella? What about the Village? No, not the Village. Screw the Village. Good God, why had he ever considered the place? Mel's stupid idea. What did Mel know? Gornisht . Bella would be miserable with a social life. Better to hire a companion, someone bossy with a sense of humor. An older Jewish woman, maybe, a pensioned widow
"You're not relaxing." Toland got up and put on a tape recording of masted ships in the wind. "Try again."
"All right," Harry said. Behind his eyes he saw nothing but a deep orange color. He listened to the peaceful creaking of canvas and rigging. The ocean yawned gently. The ships rocked in the white-toothed waves.
"Go wherever you like," Toland said.
Page 44
Harry drove to Florida in a dove gray Cadillac. The car had a sail, like a boat, and sped down U.S. 1 and then I-95 on gusts of wind. The trees changed from hardwoods to pine and then cabbage palms and magnolias. Farther south, swaying royal palms bowed down before him. He could smell the cold steam of the ocean. When he reached Coconut Grove, he parked his car on the beach, aimed at Africa, where the surf would be crashing over it by morning. He got out and walked toward a dense thicket of mangroves. Weeks passed, months. "I've gone into the tropics. Into the wilderness," he told Toland dreamily. He was going to live off his own fat, ha ha, instead of the fat of the land. Much much later, he surfaced on Collins Avenue in Miami Beach, a thin figure in a white suit that caught the neon glow of the hotel signs. "No one recognizes me," Harry said. He opened his eyes and grinned.
"Give them a little time," Toland said.
Page 45
Her Michelangelo
Riva Stern was going to save Paul Auerbach. She was going to save him for college and law school and a house in the suburbs and three or four children. She would save him for the world, like bolstering Albert Schweitzer at a crucial point early in his career.
Paul was the poorest person Riva knew. He was poorer than the maid who had taken care of the Sterns for more than fifteen years. He was poorer, even, than Tante and Uncle, her old Russian relatives who still had a party line and lived in a black neighborhood. They spoke hatchet English, and their dingy little apartment always smelled of candle wax and boiled beef with carrots. Riva had never seen Tante in anything but a housecoat. Because of their age and piety, no one
Page 46
in the family took note of their poverty in a critical way. No one pointed to it as a sign of failure. They did not drive a car. They couldn't afford to go anywhere but the synagogue, and they received the hand-me-downs and charity of at least twenty-five family members with utter dignity. And Paul Auerbach was poorer even than that, though his poverty had the same sort of grace, a kind of storybook quality.
Paul had been working for his uncle at the wholesale produce market in downtown Washington since he was nine years old. He hawked fruits and vegetables from 4 A.M. to noon on Saturdays and on Wednesday mornings until it was time to go to school. Once, right after she got her license, Riva had driven there and from her car had watched the customers surge along the narrow streets and alleys lined with pushcarts and trucks. Haggard men in knit caps and shabby coats weighed and bagged tomatoes, celery, endive, calling out their bargains to passersby. Torn vegetables slicked the pavements, and the gutters ran with the juices of the discards, the overripe, the accidentally dropped. Paul, wearing big
"First, tell me what's been happening. At work. With the family."
Harry told him about visiting the Village with Bella. "Bella's eighty-two, and she's not worried about dying."
"Everybody's dying," Toland said.
"It's like a job," Harry said.
"What is?"
"Dying. You're born, and then you spend the rest of your life dying. Breathing in and out. Looking at trees."
"Close your eyes," Toland said. "Let your mind drift. You're very relaxed."
But Harry couldn't relax. What about Bella? What about the Village? No, not the Village. Screw the Village. Good God, why had he ever considered the place? Mel's stupid idea. What did Mel know? Gornisht . Bella would be miserable with a social life. Better to hire a companion, someone bossy with a sense of humor. An older Jewish woman, maybe, a pensioned widow
"You're not relaxing." Toland got up and put on a tape recording of masted ships in the wind. "Try again."
"All right," Harry said. Behind his eyes he saw nothing but a deep orange color. He listened to the peaceful creaking of canvas and rigging. The ocean yawned gently. The ships rocked in the white-toothed waves.
"Go wherever you like," Toland said.
Page 44
Harry drove to Florida in a dove gray Cadillac. The car had a sail, like a boat, and sped down U.S. 1 and then I-95 on gusts of wind. The trees changed from hardwoods to pine and then cabbage palms and magnolias. Farther south, swaying royal palms bowed down before him. He could smell the cold steam of the ocean. When he reached Coconut Grove, he parked his car on the beach, aimed at Africa, where the surf would be crashing over it by morning. He got out and walked toward a dense thicket of mangroves. Weeks passed, months. "I've gone into the tropics. Into the wilderness," he told Toland dreamily. He was going to live off his own fat, ha ha, instead of the fat of the land. Much much later, he surfaced on Collins Avenue in Miami Beach, a thin figure in a white suit that caught the neon glow of the hotel signs. "No one recognizes me," Harry said. He opened his eyes and grinned.
"Give them a little time," Toland said.
Page 45
Her Michelangelo
Riva Stern was going to save Paul Auerbach. She was going to save him for college and law school and a house in the suburbs and three or four children. She would save him for the world, like bolstering Albert Schweitzer at a crucial point early in his career.
Paul was the poorest person Riva knew. He was poorer than the maid who had taken care of the Sterns for more than fifteen years. He was poorer, even, than Tante and Uncle, her old Russian relatives who still had a party line and lived in a black neighborhood. They spoke hatchet English, and their dingy little apartment always smelled of candle wax and boiled beef with carrots. Riva had never seen Tante in anything but a housecoat. Because of their age and piety, no one
Page 46
in the family took note of their poverty in a critical way. No one pointed to it as a sign of failure. They did not drive a car. They couldn't afford to go anywhere but the synagogue, and they received the hand-me-downs and charity of at least twenty-five family members with utter dignity. And Paul Auerbach was poorer even than that, though his poverty had the same sort of grace, a kind of storybook quality.
Paul had been working for his uncle at the wholesale produce market in downtown Washington since he was nine years old. He hawked fruits and vegetables from 4 A.M. to noon on Saturdays and on Wednesday mornings until it was time to go to school. Once, right after she got her license, Riva had driven there and from her car had watched the customers surge along the narrow streets and alleys lined with pushcarts and trucks. Haggard men in knit caps and shabby coats weighed and bagged tomatoes, celery, endive, calling out their bargains to passersby. Torn vegetables slicked the pavements, and the gutters ran with the juices of the discards, the overripe, the accidentally dropped. Paul, wearing big
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