A Castle in Brooklyn by Shirley Russak Wachtel

Author:Shirley Russak Wachtel [Russak Wachtel, Shirley]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2022-12-31T16:00:00+00:00

Wolfie’s on Bedford Avenue was only steps away from the towering arch leading into the imposing square of buildings and lush greenery of the Brooklyn College campus. Summer classes were in session now, and a handful of students, the young males in their short-sleeve button-down shirts and T-shirts, and the females in flowered sundresses, all with denim knapsacks on their backs, sauntered into the air-conditioned café as escape from the sidewalks, still thick with heat.

Entering the establishment, he noticed her immediately. She was seated in the back, facing him. Looking at her now, he felt as if the air had seeped from the room. Except for the hot-pink woven cape and hair prematurely streaked with gray (had he noticed before?), she could have been mistaken for any one of the handful of students chatting and smoking within the room. She was more beautiful than he remembered.

He approached the table with a barely perceptible nod and sat down. A thirtysomething waitress with stark buck teeth, her blonde hair pulled back in a messy bun, came over immediately. Introducing herself as Jean, she scribbled their order with the nub of a pencil—a Lipton tea with lemon for Esther, and despite the tantalizing smell of juicy burgers and stacks of french fries being served at the surrounding tables, a plain black coffee for Zalman. Neither one had come to eat. Finally, her voice, familiar, light as ripples over a lake, broke the silence.

“How have you been, Zalman?”

He could feel her eyes looking at him intensely, though he was afraid to meet them with his own.

“Fine,” he said, barely above a whisper as he unraveled the table napkin, freeing the utensils.

“You look tired.”

He shrugged. He didn’t want to be here. Still, he had a question.

“How is Jacob?”

“He’s okay. What I mean to say is, he’s holding up. We’re still together if that’s what you mean. He didn’t leave me.”

“No . . . I didn’t think he would. And I didn’t want him to.”

“I know you didn’t. You never meant for those few minutes to happen.” Her voice was low, discreet.

“He was not himself, Zalman. He hasn’t been himself since—you know. We were all changed. He couldn’t be reached, he couldn’t be helped, not in the way you helped me to—as the saying goes—take it one day at a time, one foot in front of the other.” Her voice gained a newfound strength as she continued.

“I thought at first it was best to leave him alone, that he would come to understand that he was not responsible for what happened to Gary”—a catch in her throat—“he only wanted to throw the ball with his son.”

The waitress came over with two mugs of the steaming liquid, set them down along with milk, still bubbling, filled to the brim in a metal tin.

“Anything else I can get ya?”

Both declined, and wiping her hands quickly on the black apron at her waist, Jean went back to the kitchen, leaving them to their beverages, which remained untouched.

Esther began again, quieter this time than even before.

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