PART THREE
Seven
The apartment Abigail and Oscar Feldman had shared until he died had been a wedding present from Abigail’s father, a furrier who’d died a multimillionaire and left everything equally divided among his three daughters, like a rational, nondemented Lear. He’d bought this place on Eighty-fourth and Riverside in 1958 as an investment, and then, when Abigail, his youngest and favorite daughter, had gotten married, he’d given it to her and her new husband. Oscar Feldman had been a choice Abigail’s father had approved grudgingly and only because of Isaac Feldman’s business acumen. Back then, everyone, meaning Oscar’s parents and Abigail’s and even Abigail herself, had assumed Oscar would give up his notions of being a painter and go into the meat business with his father. The fact that Abigail could have known her husband so little amazed her now. The idea of Oscar getting up before dawn to trundle down to the Meatpacking District was ridiculous. He had never shown any interest in business. He’d wisely married a rich Jewish girl, and had lived off her father’s money until his work started to sell, but even then, it was her father’s money that had sustained their daily lives. Oscar’s father hadn’t been rich, although he’d been successful, but he left his wholesale meat business to an enterprising nephew and not much to either of his children.
The apartment was big, hushed, and dim, so well-insulated that no noise filtered in, either from the city or from any of the neighboring apartments. It took up the rear half of the second floor of a nineteenth-century building; there was no view, but Riverside Park was just across the street, and Abigail’s synagogue was only a few blocks away. The apartment smelled clean but dense and shut-in, as if the windows were never opened. It was either an oasis or an entombment, depending on Abigail’s mood. Since Oscar and her maid, Maribelle, had died, she had been feeling a little restless. Whole days went by now of almost unbroken silence, Ethan rocking, his right hand holding his left ear, while Abigail read. She had reread most of Henry James recently, and was taking a break now from Great Literature with a few light, earnest, simple contemporary novels by women. Whenever she ran out of books, she went on-line and ordered more from Amazon.com. Because of the Internet, which she used to order not only books but also groceries and clothes and just about whatever else she and Ethan needed, she almost never had any real reason these days to leave the apartment; she took Ethan to Shabbat services most Friday nights but no longer bothered on Saturday mornings, and once or twice during the week she took him down to the park for some fresh air. Except for these excursions and an occasional visit with Maxine or her one surviving older sister, Rachel, who lived on Long Island, Abigail spent her days in the apartment with Ethan, completely alone except for the girl who came to clean the apartment and run small errands on Mondays and Ethan’s nurse, a soft-spoken young man named Marcus, who came every other day to bathe him and give him physical therapy.
She was therefore nervous and excited about Henry’s visit today. The first time he had come, about two weeks before, she hadn’t realized how oddly satisfying it would be to talk to him.
This morning, she’d made up her face and despaired at how fleshy and drooping it had become. She had never been much of a beauty, but she’d always had what Oscar had called “a beguiling softness” about her. He had always made her feel attractive — it was one of the many things she had dearly loved about him — but it had been a long time since she’d thought much about how she looked. The last time Henry had come, she had worn her usual comfortable elastic-waist pants and a white button-down shirt that had been Oscar’s. Today, she had put on a pale turquoise silk pantsuit, which by some miracle was a little loose on her now, her pearl necklace, and low-heeled pumps; yesterday, she had had her short faded red hair colored its original auburn and styled in a new way, springier, curlier.
She’d ordered in Oscar’s favorite delicatessen food from Zabar’s so Henry could experience firsthand the sort of lunch that Oscar had liked: smoked whitefish salad, potato salad, sliced chicken breast, and smoked Gouda, along with grainy mustard, sour dill pickles, and rye bread that was crusty outside and soft inside. It was easier than trying to make something from scratch. Abigail had never been much of a cook, but she knew good food when she ate it. Early in her and Oscar’s marriage, she had hired a West Indian woman, Maribelle, who had lived in the little maid’s room off the kitchen for more than forty years. She had been a great cook, which, naturally, had caused Abigail to get increasingly fatter as the years went on. Five years ago, Maribelle had died, very shortly after Oscar. Abigail had to admit, but only privately, to herself, that she missed her housekeeper more than she missed her husband. Maribelle had been her faithful and constant companion, and he had not.
One day, Oscar had asked Maribelle out of the blue to take all her clothes off and pose for him right then, in the living room, and she’d done it. He had never before painted at home; he worked in his studio on the Bowery and often stayed there several nights in a row, or so he said — of course, he was probably at Teddy’s. He’d covered all the furniture in drop cloths for a couple of days. Standing there unselfconsciously, Maribelle had started to sing while he painted, old torch songs, so he’d painted her as a nightclub singer, with her head thrown back, eyes half closed, mouth open in song. It had been festive, but Abigail couldn’t remember now why she had found it so exciting and entertaining to have her maid standing there singing naked in her living room while her husband wielded his paintbrush with his usual predatory jabs. What an odd life it had turned out to be, living in a cloister with a son who was totally imprisoned in his own mind and body, a husband who went wherever and fucked whomever he wanted, and a black maid as her best friend. Abigail had planned as a girl to get a graduate degree in literature, become a professor, never get married or have children. Anyway…
Should she have bought some wine? She would have bet anything Teddy had served him wine. She felt a flare-up of jealousy like a tongue of flame in a defunct oil field. Henry and Teddy had probably gotten tipsy together while they talked about Abigail’s husband. They had probably liked each other. Teddy had always been beautiful. Was she warm? Abigail had never had an impression of warmth from Teddy, but why would she have?
It was so odd, looking back at it all. This woman knew Abigail’s husband as well as Abigail did, but very differently; had given birth to Oscar’s twin daughters. Abigail and Oscar had never once talked directly about any of this, but of course Abigail knew everything. She wasn’t stupid. And of course she minded, but she and Oscar had always been more friends than lovers; she couldn’t meet his needs that way. She had always preferred to sleep alone. She was taken up with Ethan’s needs, because she refused to send him away to an institution, although everyone assured her it would be the best thing for everyone. He was her only child. Yes, she had always been horribly jealous of her husband’s mistress, but it was unfair of her to mind. Abigail’s main feeling about Teddy, besides this natural and uncontrollable jealousy, had been curiosity. She remembered seeing Teddy at Oscar’s openings, knowing who she was and knowing Teddy knew who she was, but both of them, naturally, pretending ignorance. At least they hadn’t had to stare at each other on gallery walls, because Oscar hadn’t painted any portraits of either of them, but they’d had to look together at other women he’d painted and, more often than not, slept with.
Whatever and whoever she was besides, Teddy had been the antithesis of Abigail for Oscar. That had been the whole point of her role in his life, as far as Abigail was concerned: an overflow valve to catch all of Oscar’s excess appetite and energy their marriage failed to absorb and feed. She could see no other reason for his dual life than the fundamental but entirely natural incompatibility with his wife that underlay their otherwise-good union; and so egotistically, and admitted only to Maribelle, Abigail had always viewed her husband’s need for his mistress as the waste product of their marriage. She hoped that nothing she might learn, either inadvertently or directly, in the course of this biography Henry was writing would contradict this necessary belief.