Edna and Fan crying. Fan smashes vase.’ Thursday: ‘Bad headache. Pain in side. Jacob groaning in his sleep. Edna and Fan tore at each other’s hearts. Fire and pain.’” She’d paused. “What shall I write tonight?”
It had done no good: Fan was jealous of me, and I was of her; and each of us watched for a signal to rush to battle.
When my father attempted a few words about Houdini’s surprise visit, my mother snapped, “And didn’t you ask him to supper, Jacob? Did you leave your manners behind?” Fannie and I muttered at each other. My mother, alarmed by the loss of Kathe Schmidt, blamed me. “Perhaps if you apologize to her, Edna.”
“For what?”
“Ed, you were always a bit cruel to her.”
“I
My mother’s voice was matter-of-fact. “Sometimes you don’t hear the acid in your tongue.”
“You talk like I’m a witch.” I placed a piece of dark rye bread I’d just buttered onto a dish and announced, “Kathe wouldn’t accept an apology from me because I don’t believe she can recognize decency if she toppled onto it.”
Fannie grumbled, “See, Mother, she…”
“Ed.” My mother cleared her throat. “Today I learned a disturbing bit of news.” She glanced at Fannie, who nodded. “Some townspeople mentioned that you actually paid a visit to Jake Smuddie’s home to see him. His father told people.”
“I’m a reporter.”
“A young lady does not make such a visit, unannounced, unescorted. Or, I suppose, even invited. Ed, think of your reputation in this town. People
“He wasn’t home.”
“And had he been?”
“I knew he wasn’t home.”
“Then why did you go there?”
“I’m a reporter.”
Fannie was frustrated. “If you use that sentence one more time…”
My mother pushed some dishes around, bit her lip. “You were also seen talking with him at the gazebo in the park, the two of you, at twilight, talking, alone.”
I waited. “Yes?”
Fannie raised her voice. “She doesn’t understand, Mother.”
“Oh, I understand. Of course I do. You’re assuming my conduct is…improper.”
“Well, it is,” Fannie insisted.
“And yours isn’t?” I shot back.
Fannie mock laughed. “Mine? How is that possible?”
“I’m talking about your baseless accusations-that’s the real questionable conduct here.”
“Your name keeps coming up,” my mother said. “I don’t know what to say to folks anymore. I’m out of excuses.” Again the deadpan voice, weary, broken.
“You don’t realize, Edna, how people are gossiping about you,” Fannie added.
My mother sighed. “You’re my daughter and…”
A fist crashed down on the table. Dishes shook. A plate slid to the floor, smashed. Water sloshed out of a glass onto the crisp white linen cloth. My father half-rose from his chair. “Have you all lost your minds?” He sat down, folded his arms, and looked as though he were in prayer.
Silence in the room, but not peace: the Ferber women glowered like tempestuous Macbeth witches on an Appleton heath.
My mother turned on him, her eyes cold. “Jacob, I’m trying to guard the reputation of our daughter. People are talking. What they’re saying is not
My father spoke in a reedy voice. “I understand.”
“Do you? Do you really? What do you understand? A silence so loud I can’t hear myself think.”
“I don’t bother anyone.”
“And yet you bother everyone. This is a house without walls. Tissue paper. The sound of the bank at our backs, hands out. The empty change purse.”
“I worked…”
She shook her head, bitterness lacing her words. “You worked at failing a family. And it wasn’t the blindness”- holding onto the word as if it held an awful power-“it’s the death of something inside.”
“Julia, not now. Don’t accuse…”
“Yes, I accuse you.”
“Julia, stop.”
Her laugh was sardonic. “I sit here and listen to Ed and Fan ripping their love to pieces, night after night, and I hear you say ‘Stop!’ And then again, ‘Stop!’ As though you can use that word as a hammer. Or ‘Peace’-that utterly unreal word.” She started to shake. “I have no peace in my life.”
Silence. The ticking of the hall clock.
“I’ve failed you,” he said, quietly.
I waited for my mother to soften her words, to soothe, as she often-usually-did when they had their altercations, my mother relaxing, apologetic. Her hand would reach out to touch her husband’s hand or face. Instead, she said something I’d never heard her say before.
“Yes, I’m afraid you have.”
Later, everyone hiding in the far corners of the house, I approached my father’s chair. “It’s chilly out here.”
“It’s warmer than inside.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry. You and Fan should not be here to witness one more sad skirmish of a marriage.”
“It’s all right, Father.”
“Well”-a pause-“no, it isn’t.”
“But…”
“Pete, let’s take a walk.”
Finally, something to enjoy. I wrapped a woolen scarf around his neck. “Night chills,” I warned, “and wind from the river.”
We left the yard. I glanced back at the upstairs window to see my mother there, a shadow looking down on us. While I watched, she disappeared into the room. We strolled on North, down Morrison, over to College, past the Masonic Temple, one of our familiar rambles. On summer nights we’d walk as far as the river and sit on a bench under the leafy sycamores; in winter, we ambled on ice-slicked roads through the Lawrence University grounds. Tonight we turned at the
My father broke the silence. “Don’t judge your mother by her anger.”
I was anxious to talk. “She accuses you of…of letting down the family.”
“Well, I have.”
I wanted to cry out, You’re ill. You’re blind. You’re…you’re a poet, a gentle man in a lion’s den of fiercely demanding women, myself included. But I didn’t. Instead, I snuggled closer to him, reassuring. I could smell the sweet talcum of the soap he bathed in daily, an aroma I recalled from childhood. For a moment I shut my eyes, dizzy.
