Rachel Cantor - Good on Paper

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.

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.

Hmm, Benny said, enjoying his bourbon. He was sitting on a loveseat, wearing gym shorts, tzitzit , and a shirt that read, I climbed Mount Parnassus ; he’d stretched his long, bare legs out on top of the coffee table. He was waiting.

The bourbon warmed the back of my throat, my stomach.

You knew Romei and you kept it from me, I said.

Benny said nothing. He was still waiting.

I wasn’t going through your stuff. There was a kitten in your annex.

I still hadn’t said what I needed to say.

Look, I said, putting down my glass, you took the photo off the wall and you hid it under your desk, I’m guessing so I wouldn’t see it. It wasn’t dusty; it hadn’t fallen there.

Ah, Benny said.

You wanna tell me what’s going on?

I can’t, he said, and removed his legs from the coffee table.

I beg your pardon?

I hid the photo. I wish I hadn’t. I didn’t mean to hurt you.

You’re not going to explain? I was flabbergasted.

I can’t, he said, leaning forward and swirling his drink in his glass. Secrets of the confessional, as it were.

You’re Romei’s rabbi? I asked, stunned. I thought he was Catholic.

Not exactly.

I stared at him.

Not exactly, he’s not a Catholic, or not exactly, you’re not his rabbi?

Would you be prepared to trust me, just as I trusted you weren’t going through my stuff?

You’re Esther’s rabbi?

It shocked me to think of Romei’s muse as a real person, someone who looked to Benny for spiritual direction.

This is exactly the position I didn’t want to be in, he said, standing. Once standing, he didn’t know where to go.

Why on earth would Esther have a rabbi in New York if she lives in Rome?

She doesn’t speak Italian. Also, she buys books from me; it’s a two-bird, one-stone thing.

All these years, she doesn’t speak Italian?

Benny shrugged.

What’s she like?

Shira, this is exactly what I can’t do. I can’t talk about her, I can’t talk about either of them — please don’t ask me.

But you couldn’t have referred Romei to me. You didn’t know about Vita Nuova .

True. Can I get you more bourbon?

I recognized the strategy — I often changed the subject when I wanted to distract my daughter. It didn’t work with her either.

Wait! I said, as Benny started toward the kitchen. Wait!

Benny turned.

I don’t believe this, I said. I looked around: Was it the bourbon? The unfamiliarity of my surroundings? It can’t be, I said. Romei referred you to me, didn’t he?

Benny looked miserable, he didn’t want to answer.

You solicited my first story all those years ago, you said you heard me read it at Trixie’s. “Confessions.”

I did.

Why did you go to the reading?

I often went to readings. I edited a literary magazine, remember?

Was Romei there?

Benny didn’t reply.

I need to know, Benny! It’s possible to lie by omission.

He was there. He told me about the reading. I went because he invited me.

I tried to remember who else had read that night. It was nearly ten years ago! Paula, the tired language poet? Franky, the funky fabulist?

Can we leave it at that? Benny asked.

It’s weird that Romei saw me read and didn’t mention it. Did I talk to him? I asked.

Could he have been part of the crowd swarming the tahini millet balls? I wondered. A lurker in the macrobiotic reading nook?

He couldn’t have! I said. I’d have recognized him, right?

I’m going to get more bourbon, Benny said. When I get back, we’re going to change the subject, okay?