For the first time, I found myself feeling something for Esther and Romei — I wanted to read on. Yes, the husband was the injured party, yes, he had a right to be angry. But his revenge was complete and irrevocable. It didn’t allow for the possibility of change! Esther couldn’t explain herself, or consider what she might lose. The coldness of it curled my toenails.
When my telephone rang, I answered it, unguarded.
They say we’re obligated to ask three times for forgiveness, Benny said. Then the sin is on the head of the obdurate one.
Come over, I said. I’ll make us some tea.
PART FOUR. MUSE
31. WATCH THE DING DONG, DEAR
Benny and Andi arrived at the front door together.
You’re Andrea, right? I could hear him asking from the hallway.
I’m not saying, Andi said. I looked out the peephole. She was squatting in her Paddington raincoat and rain boots, rooting through her backpack with her good hand, I assumed for her keys. Raindrops hung from the tips of Benny’s beard.
Good girl, Benny said. Your mama must be proud of you.
She is, Andi said, pulling out a mashed Ding Dong. Do you know her?
I do if you’re Andrea.
You’re trying to trick me, she said. I’m not stupid.
Benny was still laughing when I opened the door.
•
I introduced him as Uncle Benny, which Andi didn’t appreciate. She’d put her Ding Dong on a piece of Ahmad’s china, and was eating it on the couch with a knife and fork.
I know him already from the store. Why does everyone want to be my uncle?
Because you’re such a great kid, I said.
If you say so.
Then we heard about her new teacher, Mrs. Chao, who was very nice. Look! she added, and extended her cast so I could see additional names written in grape and apricot.
Are you going to have Ovidio sign?
Mo-omm! she protested, making at least three syllables of the word.
Watch the Ding Dong, dear — we don’t want it on the sofa.
For some reason, this cracked Benny up.
Is he okay? Andi asked when Benny couldn’t stop laughing. His beard jiggled, his long legs stretched out around the legs of the coffee table. Whaaat? she asked, smiling. What’s the joke, Mom, tell me!
I was giggling too.
Mo-omm, tell me! Then Andi was laughing, Benny was howling and holding his stomach.
Watch the Ding Dong, dear! was all he could say.
•
That was great, he said, when Andi went to wash her plate. Laughing is better than sex, had you noticed?
Well, it’s less complicated, I said, thinking that was the strangest thing I’d ever heard.
Then from the kitchen, a shattering: china smashing on an Italian tile floor.
Oops, I heard my daughter say. Oh, no.
Shit, I said.
Ahmad’s antique Russian porcelain. Andi shouldn’t have been using it. I should have stopped her. I was so happy to see Benny, I hadn’t registered what she was doing.
You okay? I said as I went to her.
She looked up, unable to move. Her feet were bare — on her toes, sparkly blue nail polish. She looked scared, crouching, as if ready to leap. Her lower lip trembled.
Don’t move, I said. I’ll get something to sweep that up, but before I could turn, Benny had swooped Andi into his arms. She began to waiclass="underline" Put me down! Put me down from here! pounding him with her good fist till he placed her a safe distance from the broken plate.
Put me down, she continued screaming, even though she was down. I ran to her, china crunching under my Birkenstocks, and wrapped my arms around her.
Sweetie! What is it? She was sobbing, great huge sobs, and pounding me. Sweetie! I said, holding her tight, making a confused face to Benny over her shoulder.
Maybe I should go, Benny mouthed to me. I shook my head. Andi was still sobbing.
Sweetie, it’s okay. Benny was just moving you so you wouldn’t hurt yourself.
I don’t need another father! she wailed. Tell him to take his hands off of me!
Benny’s over there, I said, mystified. You’re okay. Benny’s my friend. He’d never hurt you.
I’m going, Benny mouthed again. I nodded.
Ahmad’s going to hate me! Please don’t tell him I did this! Please don’t tell him!
•
That evening, a tear-streaked Andi, coached by her mother, apologized. Tell him what you did, tell him you’re sorry, you’ll find another plate, you’ll never play with his porcelain again. Confession, contrition, reparation, change. It worked for Dante, it can work for you.
Ahmad loves you, I told her. If you say these things and mean it, he’ll forgive you.
Can’t I just write him a note?
No, my love, you can’t.
What about a poem?
I blinked.
You can write him a poem, but you still have to say these things.
Are you sure this works? she asked, her good hand on her hip. Have you ever done it?
Have I ever apologized? Of course.
No! she said, exasperated. Has anyone ever apologized to you? Has it worked?
Of course, I said, though I wasn’t sure that was true. But it did work. Ahmad sat Andi down on his knee, and together they sang “Tomorrow” in crooked harmony.
My family.
Ahmad tucked Andi in. I thought maybe it would be a good time to talk about Connecticut, but I had unfinished business with Benny.
Sorry, I said to him over the phone. I don’t know what came over her.
No, I’m sorry.
You did the right thing. You did what I should have done, instead of going off to find a broom. I don’t know what I was thinking.
She doesn’t know me — I shouldn’t have touched her.
We’ve been under some stress.
You handled her well.
I did? I asked. It was crazy how grateful I felt. You think so?
Sure. You let her know she was safe and loved. And forgiven.
Ah, I said, remembering.
Listen, can you come over?
To the store? I asked. I could see it out my window, its lighted display, Benny’s apartment above.
No, my place. We’ll drink, we’ll talk, we’ll drink.
It had been a long day, the pans from my tagine were still in the sink. It was raining cats and dogs — only a fool would go out.
I’ll be there in five, I said.
32. SECRETS OF THE CONFESSIONAL
It was my first time in Benny’s six-room, third-floor walk-up. Cheap metal bookshelves lined the walls, holding poetry, Judaica, how-to manuals (how to fix a VW Bug, how to build a yurt). In the kitchen, shelves of vegan cookbooks, jars of grains, lentils, pastas in various shapes, a three-tiered spice rack containing ingredients I’d never heard of — asafetida, galangal. A mezuzah in every doorway. His furniture had been purchased from the Salvation Army or found on the street, but it all had a certain interest: a chipped, gold-brocade loveseat; a table fashioned out of a butter churn. Between bookshelves, artwork from early issues of Gilgul—artists I didn’t know then but certainly knew now; also, totemic pictures of patterned Hebrew letters. On the floor, a Chinese carpet of inestimable value. The effect was one of both rootedness and chaos.
I felt immediately at home, plopped down on a royal blue couch. Benny put on Meredith Monk, got us some Maker’s Mark. In mismatched shot glasses, cut crystal.
Must be a busy time for you, I said, with the holidays and all.