The Memories of Ana Calderón (29 page)

Ezra was happy during that time, but it ended eleven months after Shelly left. One day, Ana was called to the main office. When she knocked on the door there was no response, but she went in anyway. She found him sitting at his desk, his back to the door, staring vacantly out the window. She stood by the desk for a while, but when Ezra still didn't turn around, she cleared her voice, hoping that it would alert him to her presence. When she saw that even that did not stir him, she decided to say something.

“Mr. Fuermann. You asked me to come by?”

When he didn't acknowledge her, Ana moved around the desk to have a better look at him. She saw that tears were coursing down his cheeks, and that he held a crumpled telegram in his right hand. She knew instantly what it was, and she closed her eyes for a few moments, hoping to get courage from somewhere within her. She leaned against the edge of the desk for balance, but she still couldn't speak.

Impulsively, Ana reached over and took the message from Ezra's hand. She read that Shelly was dead. He was killed during an assault on a machine-gun nest.

No one as close to her had been killed in war. She remembered Reyes Junior, but he had been distant, not as close to her as Shelly had been. She recalled how she had wished that Octavio would have been killed, and was not. Then she
thought of César, and that he, too, had died in a war waged in the streets of their barrio.

The factories closed for three days in memory of Shelly Fuermann. His body was flown to Los Angeles from Korea, and from the airport a long cortege of cars filled with friends and fellow workers accompanied Ezra and his son to the Veterans Cemetery in Westwood. There was a large gathering of people at the grave site, but Ana was singled out by Ezra to sit at his right hand while the Rabbi spoke of Shelly's bravery and worthiness as a son.

As she listened, she was transported to César's death. That time she had been forced to stand at the rear of the church and had been forbidden by her father to take part in his funeral and burial. Now, as Shelly Fuermann was being lowered into his grave, she felt the rage against her family more than ever. She was struck by the irony of having been blocked from her brother's presence, whereas now she was in a place of honor, sitting next to someone who had been a stranger three years before. Ana felt affection for the man seated next to her, as if Ezra Fuermann had been the father she had longed for, someone who respected her and found in her something valuable.

When the service ended, Ana turned to Ezra and realized with a shock that he was struggling, fumbling with his vest. She saw that he was trying to stand, but that his feet were instead tracing tiny, jiggling steps that failed to give him balance. His head swiveled grotesquely toward her and his eyes, which were bulging, seemed to implore her to do something. Saliva was dribbling from the corners of his lips and his face was turning dark purple. As she reached out to take his hands, Ana realized that his body was stiffening, becoming rigid with each second.

By then others had noticed what was happening, and several men rushed to help her. They took hold of his shoulders and waist, but he wobbled out of their hands and collapsed on the damp grass. By the time the ambulance arrived and Ezra had been taken to the emergency care of the hospital, he had suffered a stroke that left him in danger of dying.

Ezra didn't die, but the stroke left his left side paralyzed. The doctors affirmed that his mind was unaffected and that in time he would be able to regain most of his speaking ability. But even when he recovered consciousness and he could speak again, I saw that he was a changed man. It seemed that his soul was paralyzed with the grief of having lost Shelly. I tried to distract him with my visits, first at the hospital and then when he was taken home, but he was silent and withdrawn most of the time, and it wasn't until weeks later that he began to notice me.

I visited Ezra every evening, taking time to tell him details about the business of the day that I thought would be of interest to him and sometimes might even make him laugh. I wanted to bring only good news. In the beginning, he hardly responded to my attempts to cheer him up. In time, he was normal again, and I thought I noticed that he was beginning to care more for me each day.

It was nearly Christmas by the time Ezra was able to overcome most of the slurring of his speech, and he and I talked as we used to before the stroke. Gradually, our conversations became more personal, like those of a father and a daughter. What I mean is that before his illness our words had been filled mostly with the details of business or wise cracks or sometimes even sarcasm. But now our conversations were simple, unaffected. I think that when we spoke to one another now, we were not afraid to say what we were feeling.

On one of those evenings, Ezra was seated in a wheel chair next to the fireplace; his lap was wrapped in a colorful afghan. “Ana, do you have a family?” The brief silence that followed his question was filled with the crackling of twigs underneath a larger piece of wood. “I mean, like brothers or sisters?”

Ana looked at Ezra and felt a deep fondness as she gazed at his face, its left side inert. The thought crossed her mind that the same question would have been offensive to her had it come from anyone else. Instead, she smiled.

“Yes. I come from a big family. I'm the oldest of seven
girls, and we had a brother, too. He and one of my sisters died a long time ago.”

“You never mention any of them. Anyway, not in front of me.”

Ana was quiet as she stared at the fire because she was remembering her sisters. The thought of them made the pit of her stomach contract. She knew that it was resentment that was yanking at her guts.

“I'm sorry. If you don't want to speak about them, tell me. I don't want to intrude. Oh, hell, what a liar I am!” He interrupted himself abruptly; his voice was hoarse and he spoke slowly, trying to control the muscles in his tongue. “First, I start poking around your insides, then I pull the old ‘I'm-so-sorry' song and dance. It's just that you've never said anything about them.”

“Yes, I know. It's something I never speak about to anyone.” Ana stared at the log in the grate and saw that it was beginning to smolder. “I even had a son, once.”

Ezra's small eyes locked on her face. He didn't speak, but his expression was filled with surprise mixed with curiosity. When Ana returned his stare he looked away, embarrassed that she had been able to see his emotions.

“The boy's father was scared to tell the truth, and I had the baby by myself. That is, with the help of two friends, Amy and Franklin Bast. My son was with me for a few years, then…”

Ana had not felt the knot forming in her throat. So, when her voice cracked, she stopped speaking. She was surprised and afraid that she would cry. Ezra, not knowing what to say, squirmed in the chair as he awkwardly slipped his right hand under the afghan along with the other one. She suddenly sprang to her feet, making him think that she was going to leave. But instead she went to the fireplace and threw a log into the fire. After that, she returned to her place and began to speak again.

“My son's father stole him from me. It happened just after the war. He was able to do it with the help of my sisters.”

She was speaking tersely because her voice had grown husky and it was hard for her to talk without croaking. Her heart was beating so fast that she was sure that Ezra could hear it pounding from where he sat. She was amazed to think
that she had not told anyone about Ismael, except for Franklin and Amy. Ana didn't realize it at the moment, but she was clasping her hands around the wooden arms of the chair where she sat so hard that her fingers and knuckles had turned a brownish white.

When she stopped speaking, Ezra swallowed hard and said, “Kid, I'm sorry. I had no idea. You've always looked so... so...”

“What, Ezra, what do I look like? Dumb? Stupid?” Her voice took on a sharp edge that cut at the old man, making him recoil in the chair.

“No, Ana! No!” He seemed hurt that she should think that he would see her that way.

Ana released her grip on the chair, grinding her elbows into the armrests and putting her hands under her chin, palm against palm as if she were praying. Her voice was calming down. “I'm sorry, Ezra. I guess I'll never get over it.”

They were quiet until he spoke. “Well? What did you do about it? I can't even begin to imagine a woman like you letting that happen to her without doing something.”

“I got a gun and shot him!”

“You shot!… Who did you shoot?”

“The bastard! The guy who kidnapped my son!”

“Christ!… Ana!”

“I didn't kill him, though. That's my only regret, because I had to pay for it anyway. I did time on Terminal Island along with hundreds of other women who had done just about the same thing as I did. When I went to work for you and Shelly, I had just got out.” She paused, then said, “That's why I never speak about my family. I hate them all!”

The crackling sounds in the fireplace bounced off the high ceiling, accentuating the prolonged silence between Ezra and Ana. Neither of the two spoke until he sucked in his breath as he shook his head. “You'll have to forgive them one day, you know…”

“Why?” Ana cut off his sentence as resentment flooded her.

“Because your insides will freeze up on you if you don't, that's why. I had a brother that I never forgave. He went to his grave that way.”

Ana was staring at him because she had never heard Ezra mention anyone except his wife, who had died years
before. She was listening intently, still smarting from the idea of forgiving Alejandra and her other sisters.

Ana said, “Some things are unforgivable. I don't think I'll ever be able to forget that my own sisters helped to hurt me so…” She abruptly stopped speaking, as if thinking of something else. A few moments later she spoke again. “But then, my father hated me. Maybe that's why it was so easy for the others to do the same.”

Ezra was staring out the window. Evening had set in, and the garden was wrapped in darkness. The right side of his face twitched slightly, as if trying to carry the weight of its inert side.

“Your father hated you?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“For years I thought it was because I wasn't a boy. I was his first child, and I was convinced that his disappointment at my being a girl was too much for him. But later I saw how much he loved my other sisters, and I knew it couldn't have been just because I turned out a girl.”

She was quiet. Then, moistening her lips with her tongue, she said, “Others told me that I had ruined my mother's womb because all the boys she had after me died. Except for the last one.”

Shaking his head, Ezra said, “Oh, come on, Ana! You're too smart to swallow that one. Besides, how sure can you be that your old man really hated you? Sometimes a kid can misunderstand her father, you know.”

Her head snapped towards Ezra. Her face had reddened. “How do I know? When he discovered that I was pregnant, he tried to kill me. He nearly beat my brains out, and he would have gotten what he wanted, except some neighbors stopped him. He cursed me and my baby, too.”

Again shaking his head, Ezra said, “I'm sorry, Kid, I really am. Rotten things happen in a lifetime, but you know…” He interrupted himself as he looked at her, his gaze was intense. “…I still think that forgiving them for all the crap they've handed you is the only way.”

Ana let out a snort through her nose; its sound was charged with sarcasm and mockery. Then she shook her head so hard that the dangling earrings she wore made a tinkling noise. She muttered one word—“Never!”

Ezra didn't speak up right away, instead he nibbled at his right upper lip. “You and I have something in common, Ana, despite our differences: age, and who knows what else. But there's something in each of us that I'm afraid will one day bring us right down to our knees. I think Shelly's death has already done that for me.”