‘I never expected him to change. But I did think he might grow up, one day. I had to,’ Esther said bitterly. ‘You grew up, Israel. All our friends did. But Jim ... well, he never stopped being a child. A spoilt, selfish child. Couldn’t give up his youth, not for me, not for himself.’ She paused, her eyes dark. ‘Not even for his own son.’
‘What about Stella?’ Israel’s voice was quiet, his hand against Esther’s steady. ‘Did he grow up for her? Are they still ...?’
Cohen didn’t move. He pretended not to pay attention, keeping his eyes on the table. But his heart picked up tempo within his chest, his curiosity piqued. He’d never dared to ask his mother about Stella, about the woman who waltzed into Jim’s life one winter’s morning, before they danced away together the next spring.
‘I don’t know,’ Esther replied. ‘I don’t ask.’
‘You should divorce him.’
‘And give him half of everything? Oy gevalt! I’d rather cut my own nose off with a rusty knife. Besides, with his lifestyle, he can’t live forever ...’
Cohen sat quietly sipping his soda, while Esther made her way through a five-minute verbal bashing of his father. When she finally quietened, her malevolence spewed, her hurt temporarily appeased, there was an awkward silence. Israel was looking down, a frown on his face, while Esther sat stiffly, her hands clenched, her breathing tight.
Cohen couldn’t bear to see her like this. Couldn’t bear to see his mother, who he loved as much as he resented, hurting so terribly.
So, he reached out and ate one of the damn cookies, forcing himself to chew and swallow every dry, tasteless morsel. Esther’s face instantly brightened, and Cohen earned himself a fond smile from her. Even Israel, his cantankerous uncle extraordinaire, reached over to ruffle his hair, his prosthetic hand running cool and unmoving over his scalp.
Later, they all walked together to airport security. Esther turned to Cohen awkwardly, reaching out for him. She pulled him into her arms, and even though he was already as tall as she was – maybe even taller – she manoeuvred him so that his head was pressed against her shoulder. She ran a hand through his hair, and he had to resist the urge to cling to her, to beg her to stay. To never leave him, like the rest of the world seemed to.
But she disengaged from his arms, pressing a kiss to his forehead. ‘You be good for your uncle,’ she told him sternly.
Israel put a confident arm around Cohen, pulling him from Esther’s embrace.
‘We’ll be fine,’ he said easily. ‘A couple of days in Philadelphia, and then I’m taking this boy up to the ranch. Going to teach him a thing or two about life. Wait and see. I’ll make a man out of this boy, Esther.’
They watched as Esther walked through airport security, her petite frame suddenly so much smaller next to the hulking security guards with their sinister metal detectors and loaded guns. Cohen swallowed as she disappeared from view, abruptly feeling both bereft and abandoned. Israel gave a resigned sigh, before turning to Cohen and nodding.
‘Alright then kid, let’s go.’
Cohen nodded, but his stomach was in knots. He’d always dreaded any time that had to be spent with his uncle. Israel, with his shaggy beard, wild eyes and missing hand, was a prime example of what his father once described as ‘war doing messed up things to people’.
After Korea, Israel spent some time working with Esther at Sedler Enterprises. He was the son and heir, after all, and expected to take over the company when their father eventually walked away. But his heart was never really in it and he didn’t have a head for corporate business. So, after Cohen’s grandfather died, Esther transformed part of Sedler Enterprises into The Sedler Foundation, a non-profit organisation to help eliminate debt in the third world, hoping to keep her brother working by her side. But Israel simply walked away. Esther couldn’t fault him for that; she knew her brother, knew that Sedler was her project and her passion and not his. But then Esther would never fault Israel for anything. Of everyone in her life, Israel was her one constant, the only man who never let her down. Her father, Jim, even Cohen ... one by one, they all failed her. But not Israel. Never Israel. Esther called, and Israel came. That was the way it was; the way it would always be.
For years, Israel took on a nomad-like existence. Postcards from far-flung corners of the world adorned their kitchen, as well of photographs of Israel in various examples of native garb or, even worse, a state of undress he did little to conceal. It was on some drug-addled beach in Thailand, while celebrating the rebirth of the moon, that Israel met and married a bedraggled hippy named Merari-Sage. The highlight of Cohen’s early teens was seeing Esther take in her brother’s new wife. He wished he had a photograph of the moment Esther and Merari met, Esther’s smile growing ever more false as she encountered Merari’s homespun tie-dyed kaftan, her floral headdress and her henna-covered hands, which she shook with a wince while saying ‘It’s so lovely to meet you, Merari-Sage. What a pretty name you have.’ Merari had dreamily replied ‘Why, thank you, Esther. In any language, both my names mean bitter.’ As Esther drove home, oddly pensive, the only thing she would say, over and over again, was ‘at least she’s Jewish’.
Merari and Israel ended up settling on what they called their ‘ranch’, although that was a big stretch of the imagination. In reality, their ‘ranch’ was a ramshackle farm, cold and draughty, where the couple grew herbs, baked cakes, milked cows, pressed their own homemade soaps and, more terrifyingly, communed with nature. It always sent a shiver down Cohen’s spine when he overheard Esther on the phone with her brother, organising a visit between them, inevitably ending her call with ‘love to you both, see you soon, but don’t forget to wear clothes this time, okay?’
So, Cohen didn’t know what to expect when the prospect of four months with his half-baked uncle and loopy aunt loomed before him. However, Israel surprised Cohen by taking him straight from the airport to the Philadelphia Museum of Art.
‘Sorry kid, work before pleasure,’ Israel explained with a sigh as he parked his van. ‘The Sedler Foundation made a donation to the museum a few months back, and I promised your mother I’d go in and sign a few documents, have a photo or two taken in her stead, before we head off. I’ll be an hour or two. Take yourself for a walk around the museum, and here,’ Israel pressed a fifty dollar note into Cohen’s hand, ‘buy yourself some lunch. I’ll meet you back here later.’
Cohen knew nothing about art; he was a fifteen-year-old boy who couldn’t give a damn about paintings of people and by people long since dead. But he did as he was told, wandered around the museum and looked at nothing in particular, before stopping to eat a pretentious, overpriced sandwich. Quite frankly, he was bored witless and was about to head back to the van when he saw a crowd of people gathered around one particular image. They were standing reverently, clearly in awe and oddly silent. His interest caught, Cohen stopped, looking to see what the gathered masses were so excited by.
And it was ... nothing. Only a canvas image of a vase of flowers. The brush strokes were messy, the paint layered on thick. It was yellow and blue, startling in its intensity, but also almost too much to look at all at once.