Heart of Stone (24 page)

“God, no,” she said, and I thought I had an ally. But then she clarified. “I want someone to do those things for me. I'm looking for a rich husband.” And she smiled a naughty smile.

“You would be a rich man's whore?” demanded Simon.

“Easy,” said David. “That's my cousin you're talking to.”

“Audrey, the ruling classes and the idle rich are oppressors, don't you see?” said Simon a touch more delicately. “If you don't struggle against them, you might as well join them.”

“I voted for Kennedy,” she said in her defense, then clarified again. “At least I would have, but I'm Canadian and can't vote here.”

“Who did you vote for in the last federal elections in Canada?” asked Simon in challenge.

“I didn't vote,” she said, and Simon harrumphed in victory. “I was only seventeen at the time,” she added, taking back the high ground.

Simon threw his hands up in surrender.

“Why don't you young people play some music?” suggested Jakob Eisenstadt. “At least you won't argue about that.”

“I hate folk music,” announced Miriam from the piano. “And Simon can't stand Liszt or anything that's not Russian.”

“I positively despise Strauss,” offered Isaac.

“Which one?” asked David.

“Do you really need to ask?”

“I enjoy those waltzes,” said David, sounding hurt. “Not the pinnacle of musical achievement, but they're sweet.”

“Dance music,” said Isaac. “Of course I can't quite get over Richard Strauss's chumminess with the Nazis either, but the music is damn compelling. Especially the tone poems.”

“I like Paul Anka,” said Audrey in a burst of élan. “He's Canadian, you know. Can you guys play any of his songs?”

“His daughter-in-law was Jewish,” I said, ignoring Audrey, looping the subject back to Richard Strauss. “He protected her from the Nazis.”

“True enough,” said Simon. “He moved heaven and earth to help her every time they arrested her. But he didn't do anything for the millions of other Jews.”

“I have to agree with you there,” said Miriam.

“Besides, as a composer, he was regressive,” concluded Simon. “Why not just play Wagner?”

“You all are incorrigible,” said Jakob with a chuckle. “Arguing over a beautiful thing like music. All music is beautiful unless it carries a message of hatred.”

“
All
music?” asked Isaac. “Even country and western music?”

“Even Paul Anka?” That was me. A little catty, but Audrey had annoyed me.

“All of it,” repeated the old man. “Provided it is authentic and true to itself. When I was a young man, I had the pleasure of hearing a concert of Mongolian shepherds plucking some kind of stringed instrument. They call it a horse fiddle. It was glorious.”

“You've been harping on that Mongolian concert for decades,” said Isaac, chiding his father.

Jakob smiled so broadly that I envied him his simple, genuine joy at the memory.

“The same is true of art,” he pronounced. “And you young people shouldn't fight like this.”

“But, Papa, we
love
arguing about things,” said Isaac. “It's not mean-spirited at all. Isn't that right, Simon?”

“Speak for yourself,” he answered, but there was the hint of a grin on his lips.

I cleared my throat and said I knew one thing we could all agree on.

“Excellent, Ellie dear,” said Jakob. “What is it?”

“We're all firmly and irrevocably in favor of booze.”

“Hear, hear!” cheered the whole group.

“Of course, Simon only drinks kosher wine,” I added, trying to fit in with the ribbing. Everyone except Miriam laughed. Even Simon managed a chuckle.

“It's not quite so funny if you have to live with him,” she said.

“Did anyone hear the latest report on that escaped murderer?” asked Ruth, changing the subject.

“The radio said he might be in Mexico,” said Isaac.

“No,” said David. “Mrs. Edmonds at the market in the village said someone in an Airstream trailer saw him at the campground outside of Tennyson this morning.”

Ruth gasped. “My God, Tennyson is on the eastern shore of the lake.”

“He's nowhere near here,” said Simon. “It's just another case of a gullible public falling in step with what the government wants them to think.”

“Why would the government want the public to believe there was danger from an escaped convict if there weren't?” asked Ruth.

“As usual you're looking at this too simplistically, Ruth. The government doesn't care about Donald Yarrow particularly. I'm sure they don't want him out there murdering people, but that's not why they sow this fear. It's part of the larger plan to control thought and make people accept the lies they manufacture. It's so obvious.”

“Explain it to the rest of us idiots,” said Isaac, laughing. “We're not as smart as you.”

“If you repeat a lie enough times, people believe it. Or at least lazy, ignorant sheep will believe it. The capitalist system is designed to tell us what we need, when to buy it, and how to be happy about it. Junk that no one wants or needs. And the United States government is one of the most powerful tools in the conspiracy.”

Isaac laughed harder. The others frowned their disbelief and annoyance. Simon bristled.

“Don't believe me then. Clearly you've been brainwashed by television and radio and the myth of American democracy.” Simon's face was turning red, his voice was rising, and he spat and stuttered as he continued. “You've been convinced that your dreary middle-class lives and the American Way are heaven on earth.” He was practically yelling now. “You've got a washing machine. Congratulations! Now how about a soulless, cookie-cutter tract home in a white, Christian neighborhood? No Negroes, no Jews, no Spanish. Hell, no Italians, while we're at it! You should all change your names like Karl did. Become white and nondescript. Forsake your forebears and marry a blonde, blue-eyed
shiksa
. You're all just stooges of the capitalist oligarchy, doing the handiwork for your masters!”

He'd finally worked his way up to full-throated shouting by the end of his tirade. His eyes were wild, bulging and filled with blood. He was nearly apoplectic.

“Take it easy, Si,” said David. “We're just having some fun.”

Isaac took no offense at the insults and, in fact, continued to laugh in Simon's face. I sat on my hands, equally horrified by the vitriol Simon had spewed at his friends and the taunting ridicule dished out by Isaac to throw gasoline on the fire, seemingly for his own amusement. I felt sorry for Simon, who was sitting in his chair, fuming, sweating, and nearly out of breath. And I was disgusted by Isaac's cruel mockery of his old friend. Miriam finally lifted herself off the piano bench and made her way over to her husband. She whispered something in his ear, and he nodded and seemed to calm down in a matter of seconds. Isaac's laughter finally fizzled out. We stood by quietly for a full minute before Simon chuckled and said he had only been kidding.

“Don't you guys know me by now?”

I didn't know him, and I didn't believe him.

“So you don't believe there's systemic brainwashing of Americans?” asked Isaac.

“Let's just forget it, okay?” said Miriam quite forcefully, silencing everyone. Except one.

“Wait,” said Audrey. “Paul Anka is a Nazi?”

Contrary to what Simon had told me that afternoon, the Arcadians seemed perfectly happy to have me. I was pouring myself and Isaac a drink when Miriam appeared out of nowhere, like a chimera, frightening the wits out of me.

“Hello,” she said.

“Hello,” I replied. “Would you like a drink?”

“Nothing for me. I came over to tell you something.”

“What's that?”

Miriam looked back over her shoulder. She focused on Isaac, who was chatting again with Audrey.

“They're awfully friendly, don't you think?” she asked.

“I hadn't given it much thought.”

Miriam stared hard at them, and I fancied she might burn a hole right through their chests. I waited for her to say something, but she just kept on glaring at them. Not that her expression betrayed any malice. She was wearing her usual anesthetized expression, as if someone had clamped a chloroformed cloth over her mouth.

“I know they've been together,” she said finally.

That hurt, but I tried not to let it show. “They're together right now,” I said in an attempt at wit. “Occupying those chairs over there.”

“Sometimes you're funny, Ellie,” she said. “But this time you're burying your head in the sand.”

“How so?”

“They spend afternoons together,” she whispered.

I bit the inside of my lip. “Why are you telling me this?”

Miriam shrugged. “You should know. Isaac is an immature boy, Ellie. He's very charming and witty, but deep down he's a boy. He craves attention and love.”

“You talk as if you know from experience.”

Miriam touched my wrist, compelling me to look her in the eye. “I do.”

I studied her, trying to gauge her intentions and honesty. And I asked myself why I even cared. Isaac was free to pursue other conquests. We barely knew each other, after all. We had no understanding.

“You slept with him, didn't you?” I asked.

She looked at me as if I'd asked whether the sun had set the day before. “Years ago. But that's unimportant. What you need to worry about is Audrey Silber.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I'm ancient history for Isaac, but that girl is what's on the menu tonight.”

“Or tomorrow afternoon,” I said. “Look, Miriam, I don't really care what Isaac does in his spare time.”

“Even if things are developing quickly between you two?”

“I'm happy with the speed,” I said.

“Suit yourself, Ellie. But it's more than just little Audrey. Isaac likes girls, if you hadn't noticed. He collects them.”

“And I like boys.”

“As I said, Ellie. Suit yourself. I'm not in love with him.”

Our conversation was interrupted by a banging at the door. We all turned to see who was calling at almost midnight. Isaac excused himself from Audrey, rose from his seat, and, taking his drink with him, crossed the room.

“Don't answer it,” said Simon. “It's probably Donald Yarrow.”

“Not funny,” said Ruth.

Isaac threw open the door, and Chief Terwilliger stepped inside. Behind him stood three men. I couldn't make out who they were in the dark.

“Come on in, boys,” said Isaac, smiling and waving his free hand. “You look like you could all use a drink of something.”

Terwilliger stepped aside, and the men entered. Dressed in dungarees, T-shirts, and working boots, the men shuffled in looking shy and uncomfortable. I recognized the first two as the John Birchers from Palmer Square, and the one bringing up the rear was Waldo Coons. He hung back, half-hidden by the two men in front of him, scanning the room with his hollow eyes.

“I'll have a beer,” said Terwilliger. “The boys will have the same.”

Isaac waltzed them over to the bar and retrieved a quart bottle from the icebox. I had to admire the ease with which he handled people, even as I wondered if I was being handled as well. Ever the genial host, he did his best to make the men feel at home. I knew, of course, that he didn't want anything to do with them; he was defusing a situation.

“Is Schaefer okay?” asked Isaac, pouring. They all nodded. Terwilliger licked his lips. “So, what can we do for you?”

“It's that same business from the village. Mr. Abramowitz hasn't paid these men for the brochures he destroyed. And they say their card table's busted too. They didn't realize it at the time.”

“And they'd like Simon to pay for the table as well,” said Isaac, handing the new arrivals their beers. Then he pulled out his wallet. “Perfectly understandable. How much was the total again?”

The men exchanged glances but couldn't dislodge the number from their throats.

“They said the total comes to twenty-one fifty,” said Terwilliger, swigging from his glass of beer.

“Pretty steep,” said Isaac, retrieving several bills from his wallet. He counted them then asked David for a five. Finally armed with enough, Isaac presented the wad of cash to Terwilliger.

“What are you doing?” called Simon from the other side of the room. “Don't pay them. I'd rather go to jail.”

“Twenty-two dollars,” said Isaac, ignoring Simon. “We appreciate how you've handled this, Chief. We'll make sure he doesn't bother these men again.”

Simon jumped out of his chair and tried to rush the men at the bar. David and I managed to head him off halfway across the room, colliding with him in a jumble of limbs and torsos. David's crooked leg never stood a chance of holding Simon back, but with me clamping my arms around his waist, we dragged him to the floor, where we lay sprawled as everyone watched. Simon roared for us to let go of him, but we both held him fast. Miriam swooped in. She pressed her cheek to his, holding his head in her hands, and again began whispering in his ear. This time, she struggled to soothe him. She rubbed his red face and whispered furiously, but he seemed unaware of her presence. Isaac arrived and helped us restrain Simon, who was now in convulsions. His face twisted as he shouted incoherent threats and denials and gibberish. He was rambling, thrashing, wailing like a banshee. Then he started sobbing. A violent, raw sobbing from deep inside, from his diaphragm and through his hoarse throat. Ruth looked on from a few feet away, weeping as the scene dragged on for what seemed an eternity.