Frank and Cora had just rid themselves of her husband when Martha heard the key in the door. She felt a little lightheaded.
—Mrs. Jakobsen, your lunch.
—Thank you, she replied. Be a dear and set it on the table.
—Where are you?
Martha stood and moved to the top of the stairs.
—Here.
—Let me give you a hand.
John placed the aluminum tray on her bureau. Before she could protest, he was on his way up the stairs. He was a rather large, ruddy man, and Martha felt a little uncomfortable in his presence. He followed her down the stairs all the way to the dining table in the living room, and then he retrieved her meal. With a smile and an almost tender “Goodbye, Mrs. Jakobsen,” he left. Martha shook her head. She stood and went into the kitchen to get a plate and silverware.
After lunch, Martha climbed the stairs again, this time with a longer rest on the way. She picked up the book and thumbed through it from the back to the front. The edges were nearly yellow, dog-eared, with a few brown spots she couldn’t identify. On the title page something caught her attention. It appeared there’d been a dedication at one time. The paper was a little more delicate, in some places almost transparent. She held the page up toward the light; she could just read a few words: “My beloved,” “Soon,” “Karen.” It was her sister’s handwriting. Martha examined the other side. The book was published in 1934, two years after she and Isak were married. She sat down.
She remembered her sister’s red-eyed, almost aggressive condolences following Isak’s death. And before: how she became nervous whenever he stepped into the room. She remembered the softness in Isak’s voice when he said: “Karen, so nice to see you.” And first and foremost, she remembered the summer Thorkild was born, how Karen kept her house while she was at the hospital. Martha squeezed the book between her hands. On the dust jacket, she read how this was a story about “impossible love, burning desire, and unavoidable destruction.” Was there a reason she’d never felt the urge to read it? She’d outlived both of them, but their secret had almost survived her.
After a while, she stood, closed the rattling glass door of the bookcase, and began her backwards descent down the stairs with one hand on the banister, the other on the book. She rested at the landing. That’s the way it is, growing old, she thought: one moves from chair to chair.
She sat at her writing desk with her back to the window, and there she spent most of the afternoon. The darkness drained through the window on the opposite wall and turned the sofa, dining table, bookshelf, and bed into nothing but points and lines around her. Finally, she switched on the table lamp.
She opened the book and began reading. She read about the court case and how Frank and Cora were acquitted; about Kennedy, who tried to blackmail them; and then about the accident in which Cora was killed. When she read the ending, where Frank was found guilty of Cora’s murder, she had no doubts: it was unjust. Frank would never do such a thing.
Then she closed the book and looked around the room. Outside it was completely dark, and the curtains needed to be drawn. No, she thought as she rose from the chair, I’m not jealous. Then she turned and drew the curtains closed. She headed for the window on the other side of the room.
Milk
Ihad just lit a cigarette. The flame didn’t really take, so I pursed my lips and puffed. As I puffed, I happened to emit a small whistle. Wanting to hide that it was by accident, I added a few notes. It was the beginning of a theme, I repeated the notes a few times, and suddenly the rest came by itself. I couldn’t quite remember which piece it was. The melody grooved back and forth across my lips. There was pizzazz in it, the kind that could put you in a good mood. I let the cigarette smoke itself and whistled away.