Good on Paper (19 page)

I can’t, he said, and removed his legs from the coffee table.

I beg your pardon?

I hid the photo. I wish I hadn’t. I didn’t mean to hurt you.

You’re not going to explain? I was flabbergasted.

I can’t, he said, leaning forward and swirling his drink in his glass. Secrets of the confessional, as it were.

You’re Romei’s rabbi? I asked, stunned. I thought he was Catholic.

Not exactly.

I stared at him.

Not exactly, he’s not a Catholic, or not exactly, you’re not his rabbi?

Would you be prepared to trust me, just as I trusted you weren’t going through my stuff?

You’re
Esther’s
rabbi?

It shocked me to think of Romei’s muse as a real person, someone who looked to Benny for spiritual direction.

This is exactly the position I didn’t want to be in, he said, standing. Once standing, he didn’t know where to go.

Why on earth would Esther have a rabbi in New York if she lives in Rome?

She doesn’t speak Italian. Also, she buys books from me; it’s a two-bird, one-stone thing.

All these years, she doesn’t speak Italian?

Benny shrugged.

What’s she like?

Shira, this is exactly what I can’t do. I can’t talk about her, I can’t talk about either of them—please don’t ask me.

But you couldn’t have referred Romei to me. You didn’t know about
Vita Nuova
.

True. Can I get you more bourbon?

I recognized the strategy—I often changed the subject when I wanted to distract my daughter. It didn’t work with her either.

Wait! I said, as Benny started toward the kitchen. Wait!

Benny turned.

I don’t believe this, I said. I looked around: Was it the bourbon? The unfamiliarity of my surroundings? It can’t be, I said. Romei referred you to me, didn’t he?

Benny looked miserable, he didn’t want to answer.

You solicited my first story all those years ago, you said you heard me read it at Trixie’s. “Confessions.”

I did.

Why did you go to the reading?

I often went to readings. I edited a literary magazine, remember?

Was Romei there?

Benny didn’t reply.

I need to know, Benny! It’s possible to lie by omission.

He was there. He told me about the reading. I went because he invited me.

I tried to remember who else had read that night. It was nearly ten years ago! Paula, the tired language poet? Franky, the funky fabulist?

Can we leave it at that? Benny asked.

It’s weird that Romei saw me read and didn’t mention it. Did I talk to him? I asked.

Could he have been part of the crowd swarming the tahini millet balls? I wondered. A lurker in the macrobiotic reading nook?

He couldn’t have! I said. I’d have recognized him, right?

I’m going to get more bourbon, Benny said. When I get back, we’re going to change the subject, okay?

I was distracted when Benny returned.
Romei? At Trixie’s?
But Benny’s face said,
We’re changing the subject, right?

Feeling better about the holidays? I asked gamely.

I guess I deserve that, he said as he settled back into his loveseat.

What?

No, I’m not feeling better. The holidays are difficult. I’m angry; I can’t get over it.

Angry about?

The usual, Benny said, and he began playing with his beard, as if pulling at loose threads. My father, you know. The way he treated us. Me. I can’t get over it.

Ah, right—I remembered. The great Nazi hunter. He made fun of Benny because Benny was skinny and studious. Called him
ghetto Jew
, asked if he would have walked willingly into the gas, gave Benny barbells he knew Benny couldn’t lift. For Christmas, no less. Yes, the family celebrated Christmas. Benny was what you might call a self-made Jew.

His father had been dead a dozen years.

When I was in therapy, we decided I don’t
want
to forgive him. Every year I tell myself I do, but the truth is, if I let go, who would I be? Don’t answer that.

I thought about this, stretched my legs out on the coffee table, where our toes nearly met.

You don’t seem angry, I said.

That’s ’cause you’re not going out with me.

I thought of crazy Marie.

What do you do? I asked. When you get involved, I mean.

Jesus, he said, not looking at me. What don’t I do? Then he stood, walked to the kitchen, returned with a bag of blue corn chips, opened it with a pop, muttered a Hebrew blessing, and passed me the bag. Nothing’s as boring as the blatherings of the self-obsessed, he said finally.

I’ll tell you what I do, if you tell me what you do.

You first. You’re a woman of courage; I am a lowly worm.

Benny!

Inspire me, he said, leaning back.

I do nothing, I said, swirling the bourbon in my glass so I wouldn’t have to look at him.

That’s cheating! You don’t do nothing.

I do nothing. I don’t get involved.

You’re not seeing anyone? I don’t believe it!

Not since my divorce. Not really. Not in any real way.

That was ten years ago! It’s possible to become a virgin again, if you don’t do it enough.

I didn’t want to get into the distinction between
getting involved
and
doing it
. In fact, I’d done it rather a lot.

Your turn, I said.

Benny shook his head, leaned back again.

I get involved. One after the other, he said, sometimes more than one at a time. I take them under my wing, treat them like baby birds. When they try to fly away, I get angry.
Very
angry.

You, angry? I can’t picture it.

I
say
things, he said, looking away. Bad things. I tell them they’re artistic frauds, they suck in bed, whatever it takes. I usually know just how to get them. The joke is, they’re never as vulnerable as I think. They bite back—which I guess is the point. At least, that’s what Sigmund said.

His name was
not
Sigmund!

That’s what I called him. To be hostile.

To his face?

That’s what I paid him for, right? To absorb my displaced Oedipal rage.

I watched my toes for a moment, wiggled them, realized what I was doing and tucked my legs under.

I’d rather be alone than go through that, I said finally.

I’d rather be dead than be alone. You’re not eating your share of chips.

Knowing the pattern doesn’t help?

I can’t get off the bus, Shira. I can’t change who I’m attracted to. I’m on a Circle Line, trying to revisit some primal scene with Pop so I can give it a happy ending. But I can’t change the ending: it’s ordained. Like me, he added, giggling. Then he sighed and looked at his knees. There is no new life. Not for me. Life for yours truly is an endless, cycling loop.

Can’t you short circuit it? I asked, trusting that he’d forgive a mixed metaphor.

Insight hasn’t done the trick, he said. Forgiveness. That’s the answer.

Hmm. What would you say to yourself if you were a member of your, uh, congregation?

Benny laughed.

I’d say, as a Jew—a
professional
Jew—you have to believe in return!
T’shuvah
, the guarantee that, repentant and ready to make amends, you can break the cycle. That’s what new life means for us, our burden and our blessing. If I follow the cycle of weekly Bible readings, monthly new moon celebrations, seasonal festivals, I’ll never find myself trapped in a circle: I’m on an individual and collective spiral, endlessly revisiting the same meaningful lateral coordinates, presumably on ever higher planes. That was quite a sentence, he added, wasn’t it?

When I do that, Ahmad says, “Real people don’t talk like that.”

Here’s to not being real people, Benny said, extending his glass. I clinked and waited for him to continue. He seemed lost.

You think forgiveness is key …, I prompted.

Yes, and we’ve established that this is something of which I am not capable.

You know, I said after another pause, I don’t think everything
can
be forgiven.

What would it take for you to forgive your mother?

Case in point.

Well?

Off the top of my head I’d say nothing. There’s nothing she could do after forty years to make up for forty years of doing nothing.

Nice chiasmus!

Thank you.

Not even if she were on her death bed and asked for forgiveness?

If she wanted absolution, she should talk to the Pope. Billions of people are going to Rome next year to ask for indulgence. I’d say, join ’em. Assuming she’s alive, which I doubt.

You think she’s dead?

Why not?

You think that because she’s absent: you can’t imagine her.

When I was a kid, I imagined she was dead. I found that easier than admitting she’d left us. She’d been assassinated on her way to the airport.

Assassinated?

There was a spy subplot.

Benny laughed.

What did your father say?

I knew if I asked him, he’d crumble like stale bread. He was always so sad.

So you know nothing about her—not even why she left?

I’m pretty sure she joined the circus.

You never tried to contact her?

No interest. No idea where she is. I don’t even know her maiden name.

What was her first name?

I stared at him.

Eleanor. Can we change the subject?

You think she’s Catholic? You said that bit about the Pope …

She went into churches and lit candles. I assumed so.

Your father didn’t talk about it?

Religion didn’t interest him. He cared about archaic Archaic statues, quiet drinking, getting blown by the maid. What else? Scrabble.

I picked up my glass, was disappointed to realize it was empty. I held it anyway, my finger worrying the chip on the bottom.

He never remarried?

He never went out with anyone. Not more than once.

That you know of.

He didn’t, I said, aware of how defensive I sounded. I found myself wishing I had a Marlboro, a whole pack of them, taped under the coffee table.

That hardly seems healthy.

He was taking care of me! What’s wrong with that?

A man’s got to have a life, no?

He seemed content.

You said he was sad.

He was both.

What would it take for you to forgive him?

My father? I asked stupidly. What’s to forgive?

I’ve made mistakes
, he’d said before the nurse wheeled him away.
Please don’t hate me
.

We’ll talk about it later
, I’d said, thinking there would be a later.

Forgive me
, he’d said. Contrition, one-size-fits-all. No confession, no reparation.

You sound angry, Benny said.

I’m angry. What’s your point?

I don’t have a point.

Oh, I said.

I’m just trying to understand.

Oh.

Benny took a moment to sip his drink. You know, he said, if my father had taken just one step in my direction, I’d have jumped over the abyss to meet him.

Well, I said tightly, you’re a better man than I.

That’s not what I meant, Shira.

What did you mean?

What I meant was, all I ever wanted was one stupid gesture, one lousy pat on the back—it could have been anything, it wouldn’t have mattered. I’m such a cliché!

He pulled his legs off the table, leaned forward, put his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands.

He was your father, I said. You loved him.

I leaned over, touched Benny’s shoulder. It was trembling.

Shit, he said, and got up. I need a drink.

•

Sorry, he said when he got back. How’s the work going?

He’d brought the bottle and sat next to me on the couch so he could pour for both of us.

Slowly, I said. You sure you can talk about this?

Are you being sarcastic? Benny asked. His eyes were red.

No! I swear!

Of course I can talk about it.

Okay, I said, and told him how I kept finding what seemed like references to my stories in Romei’s pages: images, the odd phrase.

Benny crinkled his nose.

Odd, he said. Why do you suppose he’s doing that?

I liked that Benny didn’t second-guess me. Did he trust me or did he know what Romei was capable of?

I was hoping you’d tell me, I said.

Me?

Yes, you. Why not you?

What do
you
think?

I haven’t the foggiest.

I’d like to think he read your work and was unconsciously affected by it.

Not likely. He’s way too self-conscious a writer. He put those images there on purpose.

That sounds reasonable, Benny said. How does it make you feel?

You sound like Sigmund! I said, laughing.

Sounds like he’s trying to manipulate you, elicit a reaction of some kind.

Interesting, I said. I hadn’t thought of that.

What’s your reaction?

Well, I said, it confuses me, it makes me angry, like he’s stealing. And mocking me, because who am I? I’m just the translator!

Does it affect how you read the story?

How I read the story? You mean how I feel about his characters?

I guess. Whatever.

They pissed me off from the start …, and I told him how I believed Romei was writing a self-serving piece to justify his adultery, how Esther seemed less a muse than a sloppy projection of his fantasies. Then I thought about the last section, their defeat by the husband, how that twist had defeated my expectations as well as theirs. Maybe I didn’t hate them after all.

I don’t know, I finally said.

So Dante embeds poems from an earlier time into his narrative,
and Romei embeds bits of your work. It’s as if yours were the original work, the proof-text!

The what?

The proof-text. The original authoritative bit of Bible that “proves” a rabbinic argument.

You’re drunk. That makes no sense whatsoever.

Benny shrugged.

Right on both counts, he said, and pulled a handkerchief from his gym shorts, looked at it puzzled for a moment, then blew his nose. In what context does he quote you?