Rabbi Levy pulled his car up behind Abe’s and cut the ignition. When they were all out, Abe opened the rear door of his own car, and Esther found herself confronted with Florence’s casket. She bit her lip and tasted blood.
“You’ll carry it?” Abe asked the four men. They looked at each other and nodded.
“Not him,” said Esther, pointing to Stuart.
Joseph’s eyes widened.
“What?” she asked in a slightly incredulous tone. “He’s not Jewish.”
“I hardly think it matters now,” Joseph sputtered, but not before Stuart took a large step backward and held up his hands, as if to say,No, of course not.
Neither Joseph nor Rabbi Levy was a young man, and it became obvious to Esther, some minutes later, as she watched them stumble under the weight of Florence’s casket, that Stuart might have been a useful pallbearer. At the graveside, the men lowered the casket onto the pulley system Abe had rigged across the open grave.
Rabbi Levy removed a handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his brow. “With your permission, we’ll begin,” he said to Joseph, who looked at Esther for reassurance. She walked around the casket to the spot where her husband stood, took his hand, and nodded to Rabbi Levy, who began to read a familiar psalm. “He that dwelleth in the secret place of the most high shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.”
Scattered across the cemetery were the grave markers of infants—small squares of stone, the wordCHILDchiseled across their fronts. No names, no dates. More often than not, a small lamb, cut from the same stone, rested atop the tiny monuments. Esther supposed the lamb was a symbol of innocence but it also struck her that he might be good company for children who had never learned to sleep through the night.
She looked across Florence’s casket at the spot where Isaac stood. Did he notice the small markers? Wish for one for the baby he had lost? Fannie had pleaded for a burial for the child, had wanted a place to mourn, but Esther and Joseph told her, over and over again, that there was nothing to be done. The boy had lived just three weeks, and the rule was thirty days. At thirty days old, he would have been considered a human being under Jewish law and entitled to most, if not all, of their mourning rituals, including a burial in a Jewish cemetery and a small grave marker.
As things stood, Esther didn’t know where the baby was buried, or if he had been buried at all. Fannie had begged her to find out the infant’s whereabouts but Esther knew that Fannie didn’t need a place to go and wallow. What she needed was to have another baby, to forget the whole sad business as quickly as possible. Surely Isaac agreed?
When theEl Malei Rachamimhad also been said, Rabbi Levy turned to Joseph once more, “Have you prepared ahesped?”
Joseph started to speak but no words came out. He tried again.
This time, he got as far as “My daughter was—” before his voice died. Esther could feel his hand shaking under hers. She grabbed hold of it with both her hands and squeezed it tight.
“You can try again,” she whispered.
He choked. “I can’t.”
Rabbi Levy prompted her to continue in her husband’s stead. “Esther, is there anything you’d like to say?”
“I’m not prepared…” she said, her voice trailing off. What was there to say? What could ever be enough?
“I could say something,” Stuart said, stepping forward. “If it would be”—he eyed Esther cautiously—“proper.”
Stunned by his chutzpah, Esther said nothing, which both Rabbi Levy and Stuart interpreted as acquiescence.
Stuart coughed, then cleared his throat. “I, um, thought Florence was a terrific girl. Er, we all did.” His hands shook and Esther cringed as she watched him cover one with the other, then shove them both into his pockets instead.
“She was beautiful and smart and so funny she’d make you split your side. But the thing that always got me was—”
“Enough,” Esther interrupted. All five men turned to look at her, shock registered on each of their faces. “I can’t listen to this.”
Joseph let go of her hand.
“Would you prefer I take over?” asked the rabbi.
“There is absolutelynothingto say.” Esther looked Stuart in the eyes. His face had turned scarlet. “I’m sorry. Everything you said was, of course, true.” Then she began to sob.
Shortly, Abe and his son cranked the winches, lowering the casket haltingly into the ground. Rabbi Levy picked up a nearby shovel, walked around to the foot of the grave where a pile of loose dirt sat waiting, and began theK’vurah. A shovelful of dirt landed on top of Florence’s casket with a terrifying thud. He passed the shovel to Isaac, who in deference to Joseph, refused to replace any earth until Joseph had done so. In Joseph’s hands, the shovel looked heavy enough totopple him. When Esther had not been looking, her husband, too, had grown old. Tears poured from his eyes as he heaved a shovelful of dirt into the abyss and then returned for another and another. Finally, when his brow was damp, he handed the shovel to her. Esther wiped her eyes and rubbed the wooden handle, warmed under Joseph’s hands and worn smooth over years of use. The metal blade made a satisfying sound as she plunged it into the mound of dirt. Esther had always wondered how mothers buried children, and now she knew. One shovelful of dirt at a time.
Fannie
Fannie didn’t even realize she’ddozed off until she felt a warm kiss on her forehead and opened her eyes to find her mother sitting on the edge of her hospital bed.
“How long have you been here?” Fannie asked, shaking the fog from her head.
