Israel put a confident arm around Cohen, pulling him from Esther’s embrace.
‘We’ll be fine,’ he said easily. ‘A couple of days in Philadelphia, and then I’m taking this boy up to the ranch. Going to teach him a thing or two about life. Wait and see. I’ll make a man out of this boy, Esther.’
They watched as Esther walked through airport security, her petite frame suddenly so much smaller next to the hulking security guards with their sinister metal detectors and loaded guns. Cohen swallowed as she disappeared from view, abruptly feeling both bereft and abandoned. Israel gave a resigned sigh, before turning to Cohen and nodding.
‘Alright then kid, let’s go.’
Cohen nodded, but his stomach was in knots. He’d always dreaded any time that had to be spent with his uncle. Israel, with his shaggy beard, wild eyes and missing hand, was a prime example of what his father once described as ‘war doing messed up things to people’.
After Korea, Israel spent some time working with Esther at Sedler Enterprises.He was the son and heir, after all, and expected to take over the company when their father eventually walked away. But his heart was never really in it and he didn’t have a head for corporate business. So, after Cohen’s grandfather died, Esther transformed part of Sedler Enterprises into The Sedler Foundation, a non-profit organisation to help eliminate debt in the third world, hoping to keep her brother working by her side. But Israel simply walked away. Esther couldn’t fault him for that; she knew her brother, knew that Sedler was her project and her passion and not his. But then Esther would never fault Israel for anything. Of everyone in her life, Israel was her one constant, the only man who never let her down. Her father, Jim, even Cohen ... one by one, they all failed her. But not Israel. Never Israel. Esther called, and Israel came. That was the way it was; the way it would always be.
For years, Israel took on a nomad-like existence. Postcards from far-flung corners of the world adorned their kitchen, as well of photographs of Israel in various examples of native garb or, even worse, a state of undress he did little to conceal. It was on some drug-addled beach in Thailand, while celebrating the rebirth of the moon, that Israel met and married a bedraggled hippy named Merari-Sage. The highlight of Cohen’s early teens was seeing Esther take in her brother’s new wife. He wished he had a photograph of the moment Esther and Merari met, Esther’s smile growing ever more false as she encountered Merari’s homespun tie-dyed kaftan, her floral headdress and her henna-covered hands, which she shook with a wince while saying ‘It’s so lovely to meet you, Merari-Sage. What a pretty name you have.’ Merari had dreamily replied ‘Why, thank you, Esther. In any language, both my names meanbitter.’As Esther drove home, oddly pensive, the only thing she would say, over and over again, was ‘at least she’s Jewish’.
Merari and Israel ended up settling on what they called their ‘ranch’, although that was a big stretch of the imagination. In reality, their ‘ranch’ was a ramshackle farm, cold and draughty, where the couple grew herbs, baked cakes, milked cows, pressed their own homemade soaps and, more terrifyingly,communed with nature.It always sent a shiver down Cohen’s spine when he overheard Esther on the phone with her brother, organising a visit between them, inevitably ending her call with ‘love to you both, see you soon, but don’t forget to wear clothes this time, okay?’
So, Cohen didn’t know what to expect when the prospect of four months with his half-baked uncle and loopy aunt loomed before him. However, Israel surprised Cohen by taking him straight from the airport to the Philadelphia Museum of Art.
‘Sorry kid, work before pleasure,’ Israel explained with a sigh as he parked his van. ‘The Sedler Foundation made a donation to the museum a few months back, and I promised your mother I’d go in and sign a few documents, have a photo or two taken in her stead, before we head off. I’ll be an hour or two. Take yourself for a walk around the museum, and here,’ Israel pressed a fifty dollar note into Cohen’s hand, ‘buy yourself some lunch. I’ll meet you back here later.’
Cohen knew nothing about art; he was a fifteen-year-old boy who couldn’t give a damn about paintings of people and by people long since dead. But he did as he was told, wandered around the museum and looked at nothing in particular, before stopping to eat a pretentious, overpriced sandwich. Quite frankly, he was bored witless and was about to head back to the van when he saw a crowd of people gathered around one particular image. They were standing reverently, clearly in awe and oddly silent. His interest caught, Cohen stopped, looking to see what the gathered masses were so excited by.
And it was ... nothing. Only a canvas image of a vase of flowers. The brush strokes were messy, the paint layered on thick. It was yellow and blue, startling in its intensity, but also almost too much to look at all at once.
But stare he did, because there was something in the lines of the painting that caught him, something in the bright colours that appealed. The pigments were rich, the yellow so warm that he could almost feel the sun on his skin and the softness of a petal under his fingertips. In fact, he became so caught up in a moment of art appreciation that he jumped when he felt Uncle Israel’s false hand on his shoulder.
‘Van Gogh,’ Israel mused, looking at the painting. ‘A repetition from theSunflowersseries.’
‘A repetition?’ Cohen queried.
‘A copy by the artist. The original of this one is in Munich.’
‘Oh.’
‘I never would have taken you for an art fan.’ Israel considered him, his eyes searching. ‘Your father certainly never was.’
‘Well, I’m not my father,’ Cohen returned hotly.
‘No. No you’re not,’ Israel agreed. ‘And good thing too, because all that man ever did was let your mother down.’ He sighed, looking at the painting one more time. ‘Well kid, give me five more minutes, and we can get out of here.’
Cohen nodded as Israel walked away. But then, as he stood – alone again – staring at the vase of warm sunflowers, a bitter taste rose in his throat.
Because while his mother and uncle may have thought about how Jim let Esther down, neither of them considered Cohen for a moment. And that rankled in his mind.
Standing in a cold gallery in a strange city, his mother in another country, with the prospect of four months with his uncle and aunt before him, Cohen felt a stirring of rage.
Because Jim didn’t just let Esther down. No. He let Cohen down too.
And Cohen decided, then and there, that he would nevereverforgive him for that.
Not now.
Not ever.
Not for as long as he, or his father, lived.
River’s letter was succinct and to the point, which Cohen appreciated. The night air was cold, whipping over them with a chilling intensity, while snow started to lazily settle on the ground beneath their feet.
Cohen,
