The Anatomy Lesson (29 page)

By the time the limousine drew up in front of Bobby
’
s town house, Zuckerman had emptied the last drop from his flask and was ready for the cemetery. On the front steps, in fur hat. storm coat, and buckled black galoshes, an old man was trying to sweep away the snow. It was falling heavily now, and as soon as he got to the bottom step, he had to start again at the top. There were four steps and the old man kept going up and down them with his broom.

Zuckerman, watching from the car:
“
It
’
s not called the vale of tears for nothing.
”

Later
“
You don
’
t want to be a doctor, you want to be a magician.
”

Ricky came around to open his door. As he could barely think what he was thinking, he couldn
’
t begin to surmise what she might be thinking. But that was fine—to be dumb to all that was a blessing. Especially as what you thought they were thinking wasn
’
t what they were thinking, but no less your invention than anything else. Oh, ironic paranoia is the worst. Usually when you
’
re busy with your paranoia at least the irony is gone and you really want to win. But
to see your roaring, righteous
hatred as a supremely comical act subdues no one but yourself.
“
Be out in ten minutes,
”
he told her.
“
Just going in to get laid.
”

He started toward the old man still vainly sweeping the stairs.

“
Mr. Freytag?
”

“
Yes? Who are you? What is it?
”

Even in his stupor, Zuckerman understood. Who is dead, where is the body? What savage catastrophe, the old man was asking, had overtaken which of his beloved, irreplaceable kin? They belong to another history, these old Jewish people, a history that is not ours, a way of being and loving that is not ours, that we do not want for ourselves, that would be horrible for us, and yet, because of that history, they cannot leave you unaffected when their faces show such fear.

“
Nathan Zuckerman.
”
Identifying himself required a difficult, concentrated moment of thought.
“
Zuck,
”
Zuckerman said.

“
My God, Zuck! But Bobby
’
s not here. Bobby
’
s at school. Bobby
’
s mother died. I lost my wife.
”

“
I know.
”

“
Of course! My thoughts are everywhere! Except where I am! My thoughts—they
’
re so scattered!
”

“
I
’
m taking you to the cemetery.
”

Mr. Freytag nearly tripped over himself backing into the stairs. Maybe he smelled the drink or maybe it was the sight of the long black car.

“
The car is mine.
”

“
Zuck, what a boat. My God.
”

“
I hit the jackpot, Mr. Freytag.
”

“
Bobby told me. Isn
’
t that wonderful. Isn
’
t that something.
”

“
Let
’
s,
”
said Zuckerman.
“
Go. Now.
”
If he got back into the car he wouldn
’
t collapse.

“
But I
’
m waiting for Gregory.
”
He pushed up his sleeve to check the time.
“
He should be home any minute. I don
’
t want him taking a fall. He runs everywhere. He doesn
’
t
look.
If anything should happen to that boy—! I have to get salt to sprinkle
—
before he gets home. Ice will never form once you get the salt in under the snow. It eats from beneath. Hey, your hat! Zuck, you
’
re standing here without a hat!
”

Inside, Zuckerman made for a chair and sat. Mr. Freytag was speaking to him from the kitchen.
“
The thick crystal salt—the kosher salt—
’
’
A very long disquisition on salt.

Navajo carpet. Teak furniture. Noguchi lamps.

Hyde Park Shakerism.

Yet things were missing. Pale
shadows at eye level of paint
ings that had been removed. Holes in the plaster where hooks had been. The property settlement. The wife got them. Took the records too. In the shelves beneath the phonograph only Four records left, their jackets tom and tattered. The living-room bookshelves looked plundered as well. All that Bobby had got to keep intact seemed to be Gregory.

Zuckerman was working hard to see where he was—to
be
where he was—when he was somewhere else. Gregory
’
s bedroom. Mr. Freytag was holding open the door to the boy
’
s closet.
“
He is not one of those kids you see around today who isn
’
t neat and clean. He
’
s neat as a pin. Beautifully combed. A lovely dresser. Just look at the shirts. The blues all together, the browns all together, the striped shirts at one end, the checked shirts at the other, the solids in between. Everything perfect.
”

“
A good boy.
”

“
In his heart a
wonderful
boy, but Bobby is a busy man and from his mother, unfortunately, the child got no direction. She couldn
’
t give herself any, how could she give him? But I
’
ve been working on him since I
’
m here, and I tell you, it
’
s having some influence. We sat yesterday morning, just the two of us right in this room, and I told him about his father. How Bobby used to study. How he used to work in the store. And you should have seen him listening.
‘
Yes, Grandpa, yes, I understand.
’
I told him how I started out in the handbag business, how with my brother I left school and worked in the tannery to help my father support a family of eight. At fourteen years of age. After the Crash, how I got a pushcart and on weekends and at night went door-to-door, selling imperfect handbags. During the day I twisted challahs in a bakery, and at night I went out with the pushcart, and you know what he said to me, when I finished? He said to me.
‘
You had a rough life. Grandpa.
’
Bobby has got his job and I
’
ve got mine. That
’
s what
I
realized sitting with that boy. I am going to be a father again. Someone has to do it and it
’
s going to be me!
”
He took off his storm coat and looked again at his watch.
“
We
’
ll wait,
”
he said.
“
Fifteen more minutes, till it
’
s ten on the button, and if he
’
s not here, we go. I don
’
t understand it. I called all his friends. He
’
s not there. Where does he go all night? Where does he drive to? How do I know if he
’
s all right? They drive, and where are they going, do
they
even know? That car of his: mistake number fifty-six. I told Robert,
‘
He must not have a car!
’”
Then he burst into tears. He was a strong, heavyset man, dark-complexioned like Bobby, though now sickly gray from grief. He f
ought the tears with his entire
torso: you could see in his shoulders, in his chest, in the meaty hands that had twisted those Depression challahs, how much he despised his weakness: he looked ready to tear things apart. He was wearing a checkered pair of slacks and a new red flannel shirt—the outfit of a man who wasn
’
t submitting to anything if he could help it. But he couldn
’
t help it.

They were sitting on Gregory
’
s bed. beneath a large poster of a tattooed ten-year-old in mirrored glasses. The room was small and warm and Zuckerman wanted only to get into the bed. He was riding the waves, coasting up the crest and into the light, then down into the stupor
’
s swell.

“
We were playing cards. I said,
‘
Honey, watch my discards. You
’
re not paying attention to my discards. You should never have given me that three.
’
A three of diamonds. A three of diamonds—and that
’
s it. There
’
s no way to grasp it. Urine coming out of her, out of this woman so spotless all her life. Onto her living-room rug.
I
saw the urine and I knew it was over. Come in here, come with me, I want to show you something beautiful.
”

Another closet. A woman
’
s fur coat.
“
See this?
”

He saw. but that too was it.

“
Look how she cared for this coat. Still in mint condition. The way she looked after
everything.
You see? Black silk lining with her initials. The best bone buttons. Everything the best. The only thing she let me buy her all her life. I said to her,
‘
We
’
re not poor people anymore, let me get you a diamond pin.
’
‘
I don
’
t need diamonds.
”
‘
Let me get you a beautiful ring then, with your birthstone in it. You worked in the store all those years like a dog. you deserve it.
’
No, her wedding ring is enough. But twelve years ago this last fall, her fifty-fifth birthday, I forced her, literally
forced
her to come with me to buy the coat. During the fitting you should have seen her—white as a ghost, as though it was our last penny we were throwing away. A woman who for herself wanted
nothing.
”

“
Mine too.
”

Mr. Freytag didn
’
t seem to hear him. Could be that Zuckerman hadn
’
t spoken. Possible he wasn
’
t even awake.

“
I didn
’
t want a coat like this sitting in that empty apartment where somebody could break in. She got it out of storage. Zuck, the day … the same day … the
morning
…
”

Back in the living room he stood by the front window and looked out at the street.
“
We
’
ll give him five more minutes. Ten.
”

“
Take your time.
”

“
I see little signs now of how ill she was. She would iron half a shirt and have to sit down for fifteen minutes. I couldn
’
t add two and two.
I
thought the exhaustion was all in her head. Oh, am I angry! Am I furious! Okay, damn it, we go! We
’
re going. I get you a hat and we go. And boots. I
’
ll get you a pair of Bobby
’
s boots. How does a grown man go out in this weather without a hat, without boots, without anything? All you need is to get sick!
”

In the car to the cemetery, what is there to think? On the road to the cemetery, stupefied or wide awake, it
’
s simple: what is coming. No, it stays unseen, out of sight, and you come to it. illness is a message from the grave. Greetings: You and your body are one—it goes, you follow. His parents were gone and he was next. Out to the cemetery in a long black car. No wonder Mr. Freytag had fallen back in alarm: all that was missing was the box.

The old man bent forward, his face in his hands.
“
She was my
memory.
”

“
Mine too.
”

“
Stop!
”
Mr. Freytag was hammering his fist on the glass partition.
“
Pull over! Here!
”
To Zuckerman he cried,
“
That
’
s it, the store, my friend
’
s store!
”

The car edged to the side of a wide bleak boulevard. Low warehouses, vacant shops, auto wreckers on three comers.

“
He used to be our janitor. A Mexican boy. a sweet lovely boy. He bought this place with his cousin. Business is murder. Whenever I come by, I buy something, even if I don
’
t need it. Three beautiful little children and the poor wife is a double mastectomy. A girl of thirty-four. Awful.
”

Ricky kept the motor idling as Mr. Freytag and Zuckerman passed across the pavement arm-in-arm. The snow was covering everything.

“
Where
’
s Manuel?
”
Mr. Freytag asked the girl at the checkout counter. She pointed through the dimness to the rear of the store. Passing the rows of canned goods, Zuckerman became terrified: he would fall and pull everything down.

Manuel, a roundish man with a fleshy dark Indian face, was kneeling on the floor, stamping the price on breakfast cereal boxes. He greeted Mr. Freytag with a hearty laugh.
“
Hey, Big Man! What do you say. Big Man?
”

Mr. Freytag motioned for Manuel to leave what he was doing and come close. Something he had to confide.

“
What is it. Big Man?
’

His tips to Manuel
’
s ear, he whispered,
“
I lost my wife.
”

“
Oh, no.
”

“
Lost my wife of forty-five years. Twenty-three days ago.
’’

“
Oh no. That
’
s no good. That
’
s bad.
”

“
I
’
m on my way to the cemetery. A storm is coming.
’’

“
Oh. that was such a nice lady. Such a good lady.
”

“
I stopped to buy some salt. I need the coarse kosher salt.
’’

Manuel led him to the salt. Mr. Freytag removed two boxes from the rack. At the register Manuel refused his money. After bagging the boxes himself he accompanied them out into the snow in his shirt sleeves.

They shook hands to part. Mr. Freytag, close to tears, said,
“
You
’
ll tell Dolores.
”

“
It
’
s no good.
”
said Manuel.
“
No good.
”

Back in the car, remembering something more to say, Mr. Freytag reached to roll down the window. When he couldn
’
t find a handle anywhere on the door, he began to pound at the glass.
“
Open it! I can
’
t open it!
”

Ricky pushed a bu
t
ton and
,
to the old man
’
s relief, the window slid away.
“
Manuel!
”
he called out, into the snowfall.
“
Hey, Manuel—come here!
”

The young grocer, turning in the doorway, wearily passed a hand back through his dark hair to brush away the snow.
“
Yes, sir.
”

“
You better shovel this, Manuel. All you need on top of everything is for somebody to slip.
”

Mr. Freytag wept the rest of the way. In his lap he held the two boxes of coarse kosher salt, cradling the bag as though it contained Mrs. Freytag
’
s remains. The snow whacking against the car windows, heavy whirling clots of it, caused Zuckerman to wonder if he shouldn
’
t tell Ricky to rum back. The storm was here. But Zuckerman was feeling like a clean table, like an empty table, like a pale scrubbed wooden table, waiting to be set. No force left.

They passed beneath a railway bridge sprayed in six colors with mongoloid hieroglyphs,
“
Hateful bastards,
”
said Mr. Freytag when he saw the public property defaced. The underpass was riddled with potholes, the potholes awash with black water.
“
Criminal,
”
said Mr. Freytag as Ricky took the roadway at a crawl.
“
Funerals drive under here. Hearses, mourners, but Daley lines his pockets and everybody else can go to hell.
”