Like
Queens, or even Brooklyn. This, too, had been one of Mom's
achievements. She had always dreamed of living in a house, and we were
the only ones of all the hundreds of families of Israeli bureaucrats in New York
who didn't live in an easily-defensible high-rise. How had Dad managed
it? I haven't a clue, but it was part of the tradition: whatever Mom
wanted badly enough, she got.
A car came from beyond the corner and
crossed the intersection without stopping. It didn't drive down our
street, but stopped at the corner and turned its lights off. I stood and
watched. It was hard to make out the details from such a distance.
The wind suddenly turned cold and a light rain began to fall. I shivered.
The windshield wipers of the car moved once, as if to signal something.
The engine came to life. The driver's door opened. In the dim
light that came on inside the car I could see two heads touching, moving apart,
and then coming together again. A woman got out and closed the door after
her. The car took off immediately. The woman walked quickly on the
cement sidewalk. The car passed her and its lights shone on her for an
instant. The woman blew a kiss off the tips of her fingers, then increased her
pace, searching her purse for her keys as she walked.
You've undoubtedly guessed who she was.
I ran into a nearby yard and took the short cut home. When she came
in I was already in bed, pretending to be asleep. But she didn't come in
to check and didn't even go to her room; she stayed in the kitchen. After
what seemed like an hour I snuck there. I found her sitting with her back
to the door, shoes off, writing furtively in her yellow recipe notebook.
*
When I woke the next day, she was still asleep.
I quickly got through the whole morning ritual, left the house quietly at
7:20, and strode briskly to the bus stop. My knees hurt, but it helped me
work out the anger and concern that were pent up inside.
It was business as usual at the
library, except for the fact that Mr. K. didn't show up. In the afternoon
someone said that he'd called in sick and Ms. Yardley hissed something under
her breath. Nevertheless, I made a few trips to the corridor of the
administrative wing, obsessed with a powerful and unexplained need to get the
slide back. Once I cautiously jiggled the doorknob to his office.
The door was locked.
When I got back to my post, Ms.
Yardley was there, too, poking around in the papers and registration forms.
That woman - I'd forgotten her name just then - was standing opposite her.
This time, instead of patched jeans she was wearing a khaki dress with a
plunging neckline. Her hair was gathered in a honey-colored ponytail.
She looked much younger and so different that for a moment I was somewhat
embarrassed.
But she immediately broke the ice.
"Hi," she said as if she were an
old friend. "I probably caused you a lot of trouble."
"...
and where are her papers, if I may ask?" Ms. Yardley asked me sourly.
"Underneath," I reached down
to the shelf. She bent over and reached it before me. The bones of
her spine stuck out ludicrously through the thin fabric of her shirt. The
woman and I exchanged a bemused glance that Ms. Yardley caught the end of when
she stood up.
"Here you go, Ms. Doherty."
She placed the list on the counter with a flourish that illustrated
exactly what she thought of us. "The books will be brought to you in the
other room, window number five."
"Thank you." She took
the list, nodded her head to me, and walked off with soft, self-contained
steps. I stared after her until she disappeared, and I immediately paid
the price.
Ms. Yardley said, "If you would be so
kind as to give some of your precious time to your work, Mr. Levin, there are a
few things that need to be done...” and off she sent me to the storage room to
send invitations to "Music at the Library - The Final
Queens, or even Brooklyn. This, too, had been one of Mom's
achievements. She had always dreamed of living in a house, and we were
the only ones of all the hundreds of families of Israeli bureaucrats in New York
who didn't live in an easily-defensible high-rise. How had Dad managed
it? I haven't a clue, but it was part of the tradition: whatever Mom
wanted badly enough, she got.
A car came from beyond the corner and
crossed the intersection without stopping. It didn't drive down our
street, but stopped at the corner and turned its lights off. I stood and
watched. It was hard to make out the details from such a distance.
The wind suddenly turned cold and a light rain began to fall. I shivered.
The windshield wipers of the car moved once, as if to signal something.
The engine came to life. The driver's door opened. In the dim
light that came on inside the car I could see two heads touching, moving apart,
and then coming together again. A woman got out and closed the door after
her. The car took off immediately. The woman walked quickly on the
cement sidewalk. The car passed her and its lights shone on her for an
instant. The woman blew a kiss off the tips of her fingers, then increased her
pace, searching her purse for her keys as she walked.
You've undoubtedly guessed who she was.
I ran into a nearby yard and took the short cut home. When she came
in I was already in bed, pretending to be asleep. But she didn't come in
to check and didn't even go to her room; she stayed in the kitchen. After
what seemed like an hour I snuck there. I found her sitting with her back
to the door, shoes off, writing furtively in her yellow recipe notebook.
*
When I woke the next day, she was still asleep.
I quickly got through the whole morning ritual, left the house quietly at
7:20, and strode briskly to the bus stop. My knees hurt, but it helped me
work out the anger and concern that were pent up inside.
It was business as usual at the
library, except for the fact that Mr. K. didn't show up. In the afternoon
someone said that he'd called in sick and Ms. Yardley hissed something under
her breath. Nevertheless, I made a few trips to the corridor of the
administrative wing, obsessed with a powerful and unexplained need to get the
slide back. Once I cautiously jiggled the doorknob to his office.
The door was locked.
When I got back to my post, Ms.
Yardley was there, too, poking around in the papers and registration forms.
That woman - I'd forgotten her name just then - was standing opposite her.
This time, instead of patched jeans she was wearing a khaki dress with a
plunging neckline. Her hair was gathered in a honey-colored ponytail.
She looked much younger and so different that for a moment I was somewhat
embarrassed.
But she immediately broke the ice.
"Hi," she said as if she were an
old friend. "I probably caused you a lot of trouble."
"...
and where are her papers, if I may ask?" Ms. Yardley asked me sourly.
"Underneath," I reached down
to the shelf. She bent over and reached it before me. The bones of
her spine stuck out ludicrously through the thin fabric of her shirt. The
woman and I exchanged a bemused glance that Ms. Yardley caught the end of when
she stood up.
"Here you go, Ms. Doherty."
She placed the list on the counter with a flourish that illustrated
exactly what she thought of us. "The books will be brought to you in the
other room, window number five."
"Thank you." She took
the list, nodded her head to me, and walked off with soft, self-contained
steps. I stared after her until she disappeared, and I immediately paid
the price.
Ms. Yardley said, "If you would be so
kind as to give some of your precious time to your work, Mr. Levin, there are a
few things that need to be done...” and off she sent me to the storage room to
send invitations to "Music at the Library - The Final
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