“No?”
The doctor shook his head.
Sometimes Isaac wondered whether things would have been different if Hyram had in fact died that night, as the doctor warned he would. If Fannie had never seen him or held him or begun to hope that he might live. Surely, they both would have had an easier time coping with the loss, might have avoided retreating to the furthest corners of their marriage.
No, Isaac wasn’t keen to spend the weekend at either the hospital or his in-laws’ apartment. He placed the letter in the top drawer of his desk, and was about to push the drawer shut when Joseph knocked on the frame of his door, leaning against it for support.
“I’m going to head home a little early today,” he said to Isaac.
“I was wondering if I might borrow your car on Saturday,” Isaac asked.
Joseph looked confused. It was Shabbos, and he had no doubt assumed Isaac would spend Saturday at the apartment, squeezing a week’s worth of mourning into a single day.
“My father took a fall.”
“Oh—I’m sorry, Isaac.”
“He’ll be fine. But I thought I’d take Gussie to see him. Maybe stay in Alliance overnight.”
Joseph didn’t say anything. Isaac sensed that his daughter was acting as a salve in the apartment, and that at least for Esther, Gussie’s presence—and the care she required—was providing a welcome distraction from grief.
“We’ll be back early on Sunday. With enough time to end Shiva.”
Joseph nodded his head slowly. “I’m sure it will be good for Gussie to get out of the house.”
Isaac and Gussie could have taken the train from Atlantic City to Norma and walked the half mile between the railway station and Alliance. But arriving by car was much more fun.
Joseph’s Oakland was a practical automobile, not at all flashy but also not without pep. Isaac followed Atlantic Avenue out of the city until, at Mays Landing, it became Highway 40 and he could pick up speed. He glanced over at Gussie to gauge her reaction. With the windows down, his daughter’s hair whipped wildly across her face. Occasionally, she peeled a strand out of her mouth and tucked it behind her ear. He should have thought to tell her to bring a scarf. No matter. She seemed happy.
When he had arrived at Joseph and Esther’s apartment at half-past nine that morning, Gussie had met him at the front door.
“She’s been watching for you since a quarter past eight,” Esther had told him, and Isaac wondered if she meant to insinuate that he was late, or that his daughter didn’t see enough of him. Gussie wore a yellow-and-white gingham dress, which looked freshly pressed, and carried a rucksack and a bag from the bakery.
“I’m sending some rugelach to your father,” Esther had said, “for his recovery. Will you give him our best?” and Isaac had immediately regretted his own duplicitousness.
Gussie didn’t say much as the car sped down the four-lane road, and Isaac wondered if she’d gotten enough sleep.
“You all right?” he asked.
Gussie turned to look at him, seemed confused by the question. It was one, he realized, that no one ever asked her.
“You’re sleeping okay?”
She nodded, returned her eyes to the road. Isaac wondered if it might be wise to address Florence’s death directly, to let Gussie know that she could talk to him about it if she wanted. He considered what he might say to her. That death comes for us all? That Florence was with God? That they’d carry her memory with them, always? It all sounded ridiculous, so in the end, he kept his mouth shut. There was absolutely nothing to say to a seven-year-old about any of this sad business.
The little communities of Mizpah and Buena Vista rushed by, and it wasn’t until Isaac coasted into Vineland that he was forced to slow down. The highway turned into a broad avenue, with rows of flowers and shrub trees bordering the houses that lined the street. While he was growing up in Alliance, Vineland had felt like a big city, though compared to Atlantic City, it was still a small town. Isaac’s family had walked the half mile between Alliance and Vineland to purchase items they couldn’t grow or make on the farm—things like winter jackets and shoes. As a boy, Isaac had assumed that Alliance would one day catch up with Vineland, that when his father and mother and their neighbors had worked hard enough, Alliance would also have a picture house and a pharmacy and a five-and-ten store.
On the other side of Vineland, the city lots gave way to countryside—big patches of fields between groves of birch trees. Isaac looked at his watch. It was a quarter past ten. He was sure he’d find his father at shul, particularly since he hadn’t told him he was coming. Isaac turned onto Gershal Avenue and after a few more minutes pulled the car into the grass in front of Congregation Emanu-El. The Oakland was the only car on the property. Some of the men in the community, although certainly not Isaac’s father, were doing well enough to own a car but no one would have dared to drive one on Shabbos. Isaac rather enjoyedthe idea of the men saying their last Aleinu, closing their prayer books, and coming out onto the steps of the congregation to be confronted by Isaac and his automobile. He imagined them all returning to their farmhouses, telling their wives that Isaac Feldman looked like he was doing well for himself.
“Are we going in?” Gussie asked when Isaac threw on the parking brake but didn’t cut the ignition.
“I think we’ll wait for Grandpa out here.”
Gussie asked if she could get out of the car to play, and Isaac agreed, watching as she skipped off in the direction of the tree line that bordered Saul Green’s property. Twice she stopped to scavenge for sticks in the grass, finding first a twig and then a three-foot-long branch to wield. Gussie loved going to Alliance, though it was a fact that Isaac didn’t bring her to visit nearly often enough. Just as Isaac had once thought Atlantic City exotic, his daughter now thought Alliance so.
“Hey, Gus-Gus!” he called, beckoning her back over to the car.
She ran toward him, cutting through the air with her stick. “I’m King Arthur!” she yelled.
