Alison Lurie - The War Between the Tates - A Novel

“Yes, why not? At least a more private one. Wouldn’t you?”

“I’ve never proposed to anyone,” Zed says, taking Erica’s coat and laying it carefully over the cartons for the second time. “But yes; I suppose I’d probably wait for more auspicious circumstances. Of course that way you might miss your chance. Would you like more tea?”

“Yes, thank you.” Erica pulls her shawl around her shoulders. It is growing chilly, for Zed’s landlord, economically, only provides heat during business hours. “The whole idea is impossible, really,” she continues. “How could anyone want to marry a man named Bernie Kotelchuk?”

“Or Sanford Finkelstein.” Zed is stooped over the sink, rinsing out their cups; his voice is flat. “Maybe that’s why I—”

“It’s not the same thing at all,” Erica lies gaily, inwardly reproaching herself. “Not at all.”

He shakes his head. “It’s a ludicrous name.” His voice mixes with the wet uneven sound of water running. “I’ve always disliked it.”

“So you changed it.”

“Yes.” He turns off the tap.

“Why did you choose the name Zed? What does it mean?”

“Nothing. It’s the last letter of the alphabet.” He opens a tin and spoons tea into the pot.

“I understand why you might not like Finkelstein,” she says. “But what is wrong with Sanford, by itself?”

“I don’t know.” Zed looks round, shrugging his bony shoulders. “Perhaps it had become too familiar—too closely associated with a famous character in literature.”

“I don’t remember any Sanford in literature,” Erica says, puzzled. “Whose books is he in—Henry James’s?”

“Yours.”

“Mine? Oh. But that wasn’t—I didn’t mean—” She hears her voice rise falsely, falter. “It was just a name.”

“You turned me into an ostrich.”

“I’m sorry,” Erica says, alternately meeting and dodging his half-smile. “It just seemed the right sort of name—He was a nice ostrich, you know.” She looks guiltily at Zed, who is taking a box of wheat-germ crackers from the top of a bookcase. In her mind she sees superimposed the colored drawing in which she had depicted Sanford with one long, knobby leg up, helpfully reaching down some chocolate cake which the mother of Mark and Spencer had concealed on a high shelf.

“I didn’t think you’d ever see those silly books,” she says. “Nobody does usually, unless they have children; and I didn’t think you’d ever have children.”

“No,” he agrees in a strained chirp.

A short silence. Erica reproaches herself again, more severely. Zed, his back turned, does something with a plate. “I’m sorry,” she repeats. “I didn’t mean—Do you mind that very much, not having children?”

“I used to.” He turns around. “That’s not true; even now sometimes, when I see little kids—But I realize it doesn’t matter ...God’s will.” He shrugs again. “Creating beings who resemble you physically—that’s the lowest form of immortality. It’s a joke—a pretty bad joke, sometimes.”

“Yes.” Erica thinks of Jeffrey and Matilda, both of whom have been said to resemble her.

“It’s better to have “spiritual children. Like Sanford.”

“Maybe so ...You didn’t mind really, did you? About the books, I mean.”

“No. I was glad to know you still thought of me sometimes.”

“But I did, you know,” she protests. “Not just because of the books.”

“Really.” Zed raises his eyebrows. “I thought of you too, sometimes,” he adds mockingly, leaning back against the bookshelves.

Erica smiles with relief, and the beginnings of a flirtatious manner. “That reminds me, Sandy. There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask: Did you know Brian and I were living here when you moved to Corinth?”

“No, I—” He hesitates. “Yes, I knew. That’s why I chose it.” From his expression it is impossible to tell if this is a joke.

“I thought you came back because you’d been to college here.”

“It was a sort of double feature.” He grins.

“But then you were in town for months, and you never called us or anything,” she complains coquettishly. “And Brian said he came down here once, last fall, and you didn’t want to tell him who you were.” Erica smiles; she is enjoying herself. “Anybody would think you were trying to hide from me.”

“Not at all, I—” Again he falters. “That’s not true either. I don’t know what’s the matter with me; I haven’t told any lies for quite a while, but I seem to be lying to you. What happened was, I knew Brian when he came into the store, but he didn’t recognize me—he only saw me a couple of times years ago, when I had more hair. I didn’t want to give him my name because I thought he’d remember it and tell you, and I didn’t want that. I wanted it to happen the right way. Like you said about Dr. Kotelchuk proposing in the liquor store.” Zed smiles.

“I don’t think you wanted it to happen at all,” Erica protests. She hugs her rose-colored stole around her shoulders, delighted to have rediscovered this old, charming, light-hearted self. “When you’d been here absolutely for months without calling. I don’t think you have any idea what you want.”

The kettle is boiling; he turns to fill the pot. “No,” he says over his shoulder. “I know what I want.”

“And what’s that?” She is almost laughing.

“You.” Zed turns his head, giving her, for the first time, the pale intense stare with which Brian and the habitués of the Krishna Bookshop are already familiar.

“I—” Erica’s laugh is extinguished, leaving her mouth empty. “Sandy, that’s absurd,” she says in the tone of one gently rebuking a child. At the same time, almost unconsciously, she gets up off the day bed and puts a chair between herself and Zed. “I mean, heavens, you’ve known me for twenty years.”

“I’ve wanted you for twenty years,” he says stubbornly.

An involuntary satisfaction rises in Erica. She stamps it down, hard, realizing that she has brought this declaration on herself. Because there is nobody now she can safely flirt with, she has been flirting with poor old Sandy; provoking him to console her for having had an awful time at a party and for feeling creased and plain.

“You can’t mean that literally,” she insists, smiling, holding on to the back of the chair. “You must have had affairs.”

“Yes,” Zed admits after a slight pause. “But not very many lately. And not very successfully.”

“I thought you gave all that up along with meat and telephones,” she says, attempting a light manner.

“No ...But none of them were ever quite real to me, you know. You’re the only woman in the world, as far as I’m concerned. The others always seem to me like imitations—bad copies.”

There is no doubt now that he is serious. But Erica forbids herself to be pleased or flattered. “Oh, Sandy. That’s just silly,” she announces sharply to both of them.

Zed says nothing to this, and makes no move. He leans back against the bookshelves in his old white shirt, with his bony shoulders raised. Most of the light has gone out of his eyes. He is not going to make any move, she thinks with some surprise; she is quite safe. She sighs with something like relief.

But this relief is followed by shame. Sandy is one of her oldest friends; he has provided her with countless cups of coffee and tea, listened to her worries about final examinations and faulty plumbing, lent her books, carried her groceries, loved her for twenty years. And how has she repaid him? She has used his name as a joke in some silly children’s stories, made him go to a large bad party, and first provoked and then insulted him. No wonder he looks at her now with mute pain and reproach, like a large scrawny wounded bird, shot out of season.