Here I Am (58 page)

The moment of normality suggested a normal life.

“What's Skee-Ball?” Benjy asked.

“It's kind of a combination of bowling and darts,” Sam said.

“That's hard for me to imagine.”

“Like at Chuck E. Cheese's.”

“Ah, right.”

A normal life? Was all this upheaval justified by that ambition?

“How about Arcade House?” Max suggested.

“Too much like Arcade Fire,” Sam said.

“It's very dusty,” Benjy said.

“The dust won't be here.”

“How about Davenport House?”

“Why?”

“Because it's on Davenport Street.”

“That sounds like an old-age home.”

“I don't see what's wrong about calling it Dad's House,” Sam said. “We can pretend it's something else, but that's what it is.”

“Paper House,” Benjy said, a bit to himself, a bit to no one.

“What?”

“Because there's so much paper everywhere.”

“But the paper will be gone by the time you move in,” Jacob said.

“And paper is what you write on, and you're a writer.”

“He writes on a computer,” Sam said.

“And paper rips and burns easily.”

“Why would you want to name a house after something that rips and burns easily?”

“Give him a break, Max.”

“What did I say?”

“Forget it,” Jacob said. “We can just call it 2328, after the address.”

“No,” Julia said, “don't forget it. It's a nice idea, and we're five intelligent people. We can do it.”

The five intelligent people thought. They applied their intelligence to what was ultimately not a question of intelligence, like applying a Phillipshead screwdriver to a crossword puzzle.

Some religions emphasize inner peace, some the avoidance of sin,
some praise. Judaism emphasizes intelligence—textually, ritualistically, and culturally. Everything is learning, everything preparation, perpetually filling the mental toolbox until we are prepared for any situation (and it is too heavy to carry). Jews make up 0.2 percent of the world's population, but have been awarded 22 percent of all Nobel Prizes—24 percent if you don't include the Peace Prize. And with no Nobel for Being Exterminated, there was a decade when Jews wouldn't have had much of a chance, so the practical percentage is yet higher. Why? It's not because Jews are any smarter than anyone else; it's because Jews put their emphasis on the kinds of things Stockholm rewards. Jews have been training for Nobel Prizes for thousands of years. But if there were Nobel Prizes for Contentment, for Feeling Safe, or for the Ability to Let Go, that 22 percent—24 percent without Peace—would need a parachute.

“I still think we should call it Dad's House,” Sam said.

“But it's not just my house. It's our house.”

“We can't call it Our House,” Sam said, “because the other house is our house, too.”

“Clock House?”

“Why?”

“I don't know.”

“Pompelmo House?”

“Anonymous House?”

“Dusty House?”

“To be continued,” Julia said as she checked her phone for the time. “I've got to get these guys to haircuts.”

“Right,” Jacob said, knowing the inevitable, and wanting to defer it, if only for another few minutes. “Does anyone want a snack or drink first?”

“We're going to be late,” Julia said. And then: “Everybody say 'bye to Argus.”

“Later, Argus.”

“Ciao, Argo.”

“A
good
goodbye,” she said.

“Why?”

“It's his first night in the new house,” Jacob said.

“New House?” Sam suggested.

“Maybe,” Jacob said. “Although it won't be new for long.”

“We can change the name at that point,” Sam said.

“Like the Old-New Synagogue in Prague,” Julia said.

“Or move,” Benjy said.

“No more moving,” Jacob said.

“Gotta go,” Julia said to the kids.

The kids said good goodbyes to Argus, and then Julia knelt down to be face-to-face with him. “Take care, hairy man.”

She showed nothing, nothing that anyone but Jacob could see. But he could see. He couldn't describe the giveaway—her face revealed nothing, her body revealed nothing, and there was nothing in her voice—but she gave it all away. He could only ever manage repression. She was capable of composure. And he was in awe of it. She did it for the kids. She did it for Argus. But how did she do it?

“OK,” Jacob said.

“OK,” Julia said.

“I know what we should do,” Benjy said.

“We should go,” Julia said.

“No. We should walk around the house with our eyes closed. Like we used to do on Shabbat.”

“How about next time you're here?” Jacob said.

Sam stepped forward, into the space of his adulthood: “Dad, we can do this for him.”

And with that, Julia put down her bag. And Jacob took his hands from his pockets. No one watched anyone close their eyes, because that would have betrayed the spirit of the ritual. And no one peeked, because there was an instinct stronger than that instinct.

It was fun at first; it was funny. The nostalgia was sweet and untinged. The kids bumped into things on purpose, and made boy noises, and laughed a lot. But then, without anyone intending it, or noticing the shift, a silence bloomed. No one stopped talking, but there was no more talking. No one suppressed a laugh, but there was no more laughing. It went on for a long time—it felt like a different amount of time to each—the five of them like ghosts, or explorers, or newborns. No one knew if anyone's arms were extended for protection. No one knew if anyone crawled, or did leg sweeps for obstacles, or ran a finger against a wall that he kept to his right at all times. Julia's foot touched the leg of a folding chair. Sam found a light switch, pinched it between his thumb and forefinger, searched for the place between off and on. Max felt a thrill as his hands explored the stovetop. Julia opened her eyes; they were greeted by Jacob's open eyes.

“I figured it out,” Benjy said, old enough to know that the world doesn't disappear when you aren't looking at it.

“What did you figure out?” Julia asked from across the room, not betraying him by looking at him.

“Wailing House.”

Jacob didn't need anything when he made his final visit to IKEA. He'd just become so accustomed to IKEA satisfying his needs—hand towels for the top bathroom, a pot of lamb's ears, freestanding acrylic picture frames—that he came to believe IKEA knew his needs better than he did, in the same way that he scheduled physicals because the doctor knew better than Jacob if Jacob was sick.

He picked up a bright red step stool, a garlic press, three toilet brushes, a drying rack for laundry, a drying rack for dishes, half a dozen felt storage boxes that would be perfect for some still-unknown purpose, a level (despite never once, in the previous forty-two years, having had need of a level), a doormat, two letter trays, oven mitts, several glass jars with airtight seals for the storage (and attractive display) of things like beans and lentils and split peas and popcorn and quinoa and rice, more hangers, LED light strings to connect the corners of Benjy's room, pedal bins for each bathroom, a crappy umbrella that wouldn't survive two storms but would survive one. He was among the textiles, spreading his fingers in a faux sheepskin, when he heard his name.

“Jacob?”

He turned to face a quite beautiful woman: warm brown eyes like old leather; a gold locket that drew his gaze to the top of her tight, unmottled cleavage; bracelets halfway down her hands as if she'd once been bigger. What was in that locket? He knew her, or had known her.

“Maggie,” she said. “Silliman.”

“Hi, Maggie.”

She smiled a smile to bring a thousand ships to harbor.

“Dylan and Sam went to nursery school together. Leah and Melissa's class.”

“Right. Of course.”

“It's been a decade,” she said kindly.

“No, I remember.”

“I thought I saw you. Way back in living rooms. But I lost you in the shuffle. And I wasn't sure. But when I saw you here, I knew.”

“Ah.”

“I'm so relieved you're home.”

“Oh, I don't live here,” Jacob said, his reflexive flirtatiousness stimulating the thought that maybe she was the one whose husband had an aneurysm in the middle of the school year. “Just purchasing a few things for my actual home.”

She didn't laugh. She was visibly moved. Was she the one for whom Julia brought over all those dinners?

“There was a list of everyone who went.”

“Went?”

“To Israel. They hung it outside the sanctuary.”

“I didn't know that,” he said.

“I never used to pray. Never. But I started going. A lot of people did. Most mornings the sanctuary was full. Anyway, I looked at it every day.”

He thought,
I can still tell the truth, but only now. After this, an awkward misunderstanding will be a lie that is worse than what it is concealing
.

“I had no idea,” he said.

And there are smaller lies available (that I was turned back at the airport), and even half-truths (that there was a crisis at home that needed me even more than the crisis abroad)
.

“There were two lists, actually: one with the names of those who went to fight, and one with the names of those who died. Everyone on the second list was on the first list, obviously.”

“Well, it's really nice to see you again,” Jacob said, hating the truth, hating the lie, and knowing nothing between.

“They never took them down. Maybe they're supposed to be some kind of memorial? Or maybe even though the war is over, it somehow isn't?”

“Hard to say.”

“What did you do?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“In Israel. Were you in logistics? Infantry? I don't know the terminology.”

“I was in a tank unit.”

Her eyes widened.

“Being in a tank must have been terrifying.”

“Not as terrifying as being outside of one.”

She didn't laugh. She brought her fingers to her mouth and said, “You didn't drive it, did you?”

“No. That requires a lot of training and experience. I reloaded the ammunition.”

“Sounds grueling.”

“I guess it was.”

“And did you see battle? Is that the right way to put it?
See battle?”

“I don't know how to put things, either. I was just a body. But yes, I saw battle. I imagine everyone did.”

The sentence advanced, but his mind stayed back with
I was just a body
.

“Did you ever feel that you were in grave danger?”

“I don't know that I was feeling much of anything. It might sound clichéd, but there wasn't time to be afraid.”

Without looking down, she took the locket between her thumb and forefinger. Her hand knew exactly where it would be.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “I'm asking too much.”

“No, that's not it,” he said, seizing her offer of regret as an escape route. “I just have to get out of here in time to pick up Sam.”

“Is he well?”

“He's doing great. Thank you for asking. And—?”

“Dylan.”

“Of course.”

“Dylan is having a hard time.”

“Oh no. I'm sorry to hear that.”

“Maybe,” she began, but then shook the thought away.

“What?”

“I was just going to say, maybe if it's not too much to ask, you could come by sometime.”

“I'm sure Sam would like that.”

“No,” she said, a vein in her neck suddenly visible, or suddenly noticed. “You. I meant you.”

Jacob no longer understood. Could she be as brazen as she sounded? Or was she mistaking him for a parent who was a child psychologist, as he'd mistaken her for the wife of an aneurysm victim? He was attracted to her, he wanted her, but this couldn't go any further.

“Sure,” he said. “I could come by.”

“Maybe if you shared some of your experiences, it would make things less abstract for him. Less scary. I think part of what's so hard right now is not having any details.”

“That makes sense.”

Although it didn't.

“It wouldn't have to take a lot of your time. I'm not asking you to take him on or anything.”

“It doesn't sound like it.”

“You're a good man,” she said.

“I'm not,” he said.

And then, finally, she laughed. “Well, I suppose only you know for sure. But you seem good.”

Once, Benjy called Jacob back into his room after tuck-in and asked, “Are there things that don't have names?”

“Sure,” Jacob said, “lots of things.”

“Like what?”

“Like this headboard.”

“It's called headboard.”

“Headboard is what it is. But it doesn't have its own name.”

“True.”

“Good night, love.”

“Let's give them names.”

“That was the first man's first job, you know.”

“Huh?”

“Adam. From Adam and Eve. God told him to name the animals.”

“We named Argus.”

“That's right.”

“But the first man was a monkey, right? So did he name himself?”

“Could be.”

“I want to name everything.”

“That would be a lot of work.”

“So?”

“OK. But starting tomorrow.”

“OK.”

Jacob went to the threshold and waited, as he always did, and Benjy called him back, as he always did.

“Yes?”

“Are there names that don't have things?”

Names like the names on the gravestones in the suicide ghetto. Names like the names on the memorial wall, which Jacob had rearranged into words. Names like the names in his never-to-be-shared show. Jacob had written thousands and thousands of pages about his life, but it wasn't until that moment, her pulse visible in her neck, his choice finally visible, that he questioned if he was worthy of a word.