If you ask me, the Seward Park Library is as grand as any synagogue and I cannot believe my ears when Nettie says she’s never been.
“Papa commands no. He says women can’t read Torah, so why bother?”
I hatch a plot. We wait ’til Saturday. Once this monster of a father has disappeared into his shul, I proudly escort Nettie through the door. High arched windows, paneled walls, rows of cherrywood shelving with books beyond measure—all commissioned by the great Mr. Andrew Carnegie himself. Like all temples, it has a priestess—the spectacled librarian who stands at the door, ensuring all hands are clean enough to touch the sacred texts.
Inside, I become a tour guide. Would Nettie like to study the latest fashions? Here are the magazines. Not of interest? How about science? I walk backwards to watch her face and assess what appeals. Does she read Yiddish? The collection is upstairs. No? Perhaps more stories? A-ha, there’s the smile.
I lead her to American Fiction. On this account, I must apologize—these volumes are often used, so the bindings have become threadbare and the pages ragged. She runs her hand across the covers. Washington Irving. Harriet Beecher Stowe. Henry James. She kneels.
“The House of Seven Gables—what’s a gable?”
God curses me. She’s picked a book I haven’t read. Reluctantly, I’m forced to acknowledge my ignorance. She pulls it from the shelf.
“So, if I read, maybe I can tell it to you for a change.”
I make a face. This is not going as planned. “Wait…follow me.”
A wide set of stairs leads to the roof. The sign says, “Closed.” Nettie holds back.
“It’s okay, I promise.”
She glances around for the librarian but lets me lead. Outside, the sun has heated the black tar surface and the brick ramparts keep the wind at bay.
I open my arms wide. “Marvelous, no? In summer, they put a garden up here.”
Nettie looks over a parapet, knitting her brow.
“An awning…do they have a big awning?” Her hands wave above her head. “And yellow lights?” She waits for my nod. “Irving, I was here with my mother. There was a table.” She runs to the middle. “Right here. Mama had some pieces from the shop. It was hot so she came to work outside. We had books with pictures.” Her eyes fill with tears. “Mama wanted me to read.”
She is so beautiful. I move toward her, but get shy, and I only take her hand.
“I told you this was a palace of marvels.”
She leans against the wall. Wisps of hair escape their pins and catch in the sunlight. She’s small, like Miriam, but so different. Her waist is narrow, her breasts tight. Miriam is the trunk of a tree. Nettie is a blade of grass. When our arms touch, electricity flows to my groin. For shame I flash on the French postcards the boys sell on the street.
“How did you ever find this place, Irving? Was it Miriam?”
Jolt. My daydream disappears like smoke. Such a natural question. Anyone would ask that question, no big deal, but I am speechless. I twist away so she won’t see my confusion. Our family’s unspoken pact. From that day to this, I haven’t said a word. Tell Nettie the truth, it is a betrayal. But lying to her is also a betrayal. I study the snowy rooftops as if they have an answer, and there is Arthur, floating in the air, tall and skinny with his scrawny beard and his worn black coat, his hand on my shoulder as he walks me through the door. “Come, bubeleh, we’ve been given a gift of great value.”
“No, not Miriam. My brother, Arthur.”
She catches my tone. Her voice drops. “Is he dead?”
Good question. What is dead?
“He’s…away…He has fits.”
“Fits?”
“On the floor, jerking, twitching…fits.”
“You mean your brother has the epilepsy?”
I go red. Papa whacked me when I used that word.
“My father always complained how, in the shtetl, they banished those who ate but didn’t work. One day Artie had a terrible attack, the worst. Papa shook him, Get up, you bum, but nothing, so Papa went for his belt. Miriam…Miriam held him back. He almost hit her. Instead, he kicked the bed and barked Artie had to go.”
A gust of wind blows some old newspaper against my leg and I flick it away, looking north, over the traffic, to the spot where the ambulance had parked.
“Where is he now?”
I shake my head. “Miri said we couldn’t live there anymore, see? So, she and I left. After that Papa wouldn’t give us the time of day and Mama would never say a word against him.”
We go to the empty park next to the library, shoving a pile of snow off a bench in order to huddle. I lean forward, rubbing my hands together, figuring how to tell about my brother.
“There was the time…Papa came in ready to bash something, anything. I was playing on the floor. One swipe and I hung in the air, screaming. But the whack never came. Instead, ‘Grr, grr, grr.’ Arthur had the Hoffman’s mongrel, Goliath, lunging on its leash. When Papa dropped me, his snarl was darker than the dog’s.” I lower my head into my hands. “That was my big brother Arthur. Until the fits.”
She slaps her knee. “You gotta find him.”
“How am I supposed to do that?”
Nettie bats my shoulder. “You’re the smart one. Figure it out.” Her voice is firm. “Wherever he is, Irving, you got a right to know.”