Heart of Stone (6 page)

“While you were out looking for Max, that Chief Terwilliger stopped in to ask about the photographs you took,” said Lena once we were alone. “He stood here in the kitchen staring at me open-mouthed until I offered him a cup of coffee. He told me he'd never really met a Jewess before. I told him that was nice, but he wasn't my first bigot.”

“I trust you threw out the cup he used,” I said.

“Smashed it into a million pieces. By the way, that Isaac fellow came by about a half hour ago, asking what had happened to you. He looked disappointed.”

I checked my watch. Twenty past ten. I wondered if the Arcadians had turned in for the night. They were on vacation, after all. I was still keyed up from the events of the day: two dead bodies, a wayward Cousin Max, and a terrifying close call with God-knows-what in the woods. And I hadn't forgotten the news report about the escapee, Donald Yarrow, either. But the rain had stopped, and, though I dreaded the woods in the dark, I figured I might be up for a quick gallop over to Arcadia Lodge. It was no more than four or five hundred yards, after all.

I yawned and rose to take my leave.

“Good night, Aunt Lena,” I said, the hint of a smile curling my lips.

August is hot in the Adirondacks, with temperatures regularly reaching the upper eighties. But the nights can be cool, especially when a thunderstorm has just passed. After a quick change into a fresh dress, I reestablished dominion over my bird's nest of hair with a little water, a brush, and a couple of bobby pins. I dabbed some Touch and Glow onto my cheek to conceal the scratch I'd suffered during my escape earlier that evening. Then I rolled just a hint of pink onto my lips and slipped out the door.

The night was still. No crickets after the rain. At the end of our short lane, I stepped onto Jordan Street and considered my options. I could turn left and follow the street for a quarter mile and circle around on Lake Road to reach Arcadia Lodge. I could avoid the woods completely with that route, but it would take me twenty minutes unless I ran. And that would put my hair back in the seaweed category. I didn't want to take my car in case I got cold feet or the Arcadians had turned in. The headlights would be noticed. And, of course, Aunt Lena would surely hear. Cutting straight through the trees on the opposite side of Jordan Street would get me to Arcadia in four or five minutes on foot. I weighed the pros and cons of each route. Then, shaming myself for my timidity, I marched across the road and ducked into the woods.

A soupy mist rose from the forest floor, testing my resolve from the very outset. The pine needles, sodden and sticky, caked my shoes as I snaked my way through the trees, but at least I heard no snapping twigs and encountered no marauders. My skin tingled nevertheless as I rushed through the last of the trees. Finally, having saved at least fifteen minutes with my shortcut, I emerged onto Lake Road. By all appearances, I was alone. The moon shone above, partially obscured by banks of clouds racing across its face. I smoothed my dress, brushed a rebellious strand of hair out of my eyes, and made my way up the path that led to Arcadia Lodge.

I could hear music coming from the Great Lodge where the Arcadians shared meals and social events. A violin and piano. Bartók. Romanian folk dances, I was sure of it. I have this uncanny and rather useless talent for remembering music. My father used to show me off at dinner parties to his friends. A parlor trick. Bartók wasn't exactly what I would have chosen for a sing-along, but the duo—especially the piano—was acquitting itself remarkably well.

The doors and windows were all thrown open wide, and a warm light spilled out into the night. I paused at the entrance to listen and to watch and wait until they'd reached the end. The hall was a large building with high rafters and a pitched roof at least three stories high. Built completely of pine, it achieved the appropriate rustic look without compromising on fine workmanship and intricate touches. Exquisitely carved flourishes adorned the lintels and stanchions. A mezzanine of sorts, accessible by a wooden stairway and its magnificent balustrade, dominated the room on the north side. At the southern end of the room, an immense stone fireplace rose six feet high. Mounted above the hearth, a proud buck's head, eighteen points, as I later counted, surveyed the room as if it were his realm. Poor thing. Someone had shot, stuffed, and posed him, then hung him on the wall for the pleasure of whosoever enjoyed gazing upon the severed heads of regal beasts. He was indeed a handsome specimen. I only wished I could have caught the fleetingest glimpse of him bounding through the forest—an instant and no more—instead of admiring him forever in his frozen beauty.

Isaac was seated with his back to me, playing the violin. Simon was to his right, a cello resting in its case by his side, as he listened with his eyes closed to the duo. A young, raven-haired woman played the spinet piano a few feet away. She looked familiar. It had to be Miriam, I thought. David was also present, as was Isaac's sister, Rachel, and a few older folks.

A hand touched my shoulder, and I loosed a scream, just about jumping out of my shoes. The music stopped. I reeled around to defend myself against my aggressor and nearly knocked over a small old man wearing a Greek fisherman's cap. The musicians and others rushed to investigate. I apologized repeatedly; the man who'd touched my shoulder was Isaac's sixty-five-year-old father, the painter Jakob Eisenstadt.

Once it had been determined that no one was hurt, I was escorted into the hall, smiles all around, just as if I hadn't almost bashed in the head of the oldest and most famous man in the room. Isaac introduced me to everyone. I knew David and Simon, of course, but I hadn't seen Miriam Abramowitz née Berg (the pianist and Simon's wife) since I was ten years old. That was a year after the war ended, the last time I'd visited Aunt Lena and Uncle Mel on Prospector Lake.

Two or three years older than I, Miriam had never been chummy with me. As a young girl she had been inscrutable, always staring but saying little. She had grown up to be a striking creature in an unusual way. Her mane of jet-black hair and beguiling figure inspired envy in women and lust in men. Her face, however, was closer to plain than beautiful. In no way unattractive, her features struck me as somehow ordinary. My brother, Elijah, once said that it would help if she smiled more often. Or knocked off the creepy stare. But her intellectual and physical intensity attracted people of both sexes and of all ages. She was standing before me now in a faded summer dress that, for all its plainness, couldn't hide her abundant bosom, flat stomach, and curvaceous hips. A head of beautiful hair and a statuesque physique more than compensated for her did-not-place beauty and cheerless personality.

Isaac's sister, Rachel, was about my age, unmarried and unlikely to follow the path of matrimony. She was the dutiful daughter, dedicating her life to taking care of her aged widowed father. Rachel and I had played together as children on the lake. My father was fond of telling the story of how Rachel and I had formed a club with three other girls, Ruth and Sarah Hirsch, and Shelly Leonard. At the first meeting, I convinced the girls to elect me president of the club. That settled, the first order of business, I proclaimed, was that there would be no more elections. The other girls went along without protest. Despite his aversion to fascistic governance, especially given that this had all taken place at the height of the war, my father still chuckled over my moxie.

Once I'd been welcomed by all, some of the older folks retired for the evening. I explained to the remaining Arcadians why I'd nearly KO'd Isaac's father, that I'd been quite frightened earlier in the woods. But by then few were listening. Isaac took my elbow and showed me to an armchair. He pulled up one of the chairs the chamber group had been using and sat down with me.

“Sorry I interrupted the music,” I said.

“Don't worry about that. We were almost finished anyway.” He paused to reflect. “Not that anyone could tell.” I laughed. “I was afraid you wouldn't come,” he said and grazed my hand with his so no one else would see.

“I was otherwise detained. My cousin Max went missing this morning, and I only located him this evening.”

Isaac showed what looked like true concern. “I remember him from so many evenings here at Arcadia. He used to drink port, I think, and have long discussions with my dad and Herbie Schwartz. Is he all right?”

“Max is fine. Resting comfortably at Cedar Haven. And he still enjoys his port. He was well enough to enjoy a couple of quick glasses when he got home. But I'm so sorry about your father. I'm afraid I gave him a shock just now.”

Isaac smiled at me. Such an infectious smile. My eyes surely sparkled, and my skin tingled again, this time without the terror I'd felt in the woods earlier that evening. His gaze held mine for several beats until I blinked and looked away. He asked if I wanted a drink.

The evening's musical program had ended with my awkward arrival, but the assembled seemed happy to continue the revelry. Isaac managed to scare up a glass of whiskey. Not my usual Dewar's, but a reasonable substitute in the circumstances. (I had an unopened bottle in my suitcase back at Cedar Haven.) The others were well into a third bottle of Mateus, and soon Miriam sat down at the piano against the wall and started playing the “Brindisi” from
La Traviata
. The assembled joined in in full voice, clinking glasses and making merry. I was drinking too fast and, since I'd missed dinner, felt a rush to my head and a rumble in my stomach. The singing continued with a stream of popular arias chosen seemingly at random. From Puccini (“Parigi o cara”) to Verdi (“La donna è mobile”), ending with Mozart. With no mandolin in the house, Isaac plucked his violin on bended knee as he serenaded me with “Deh vieni alla finestra” from
Don Giovanni
, thrilling and embarrassing me at the same time. He had a lovely voice and did justice to the “Serenade.” He segued into “Là ci darem la mano” but butchered it, inadvertently creating an obscene result by changing
le pene
(“pains”) to
il pene
(“penis”). I suspected I was the only one who noticed.

“That's enough,” said Isaac, coughing and laughing in highest spirits. He packed his violin into its case and suggested the group show some consideration and play something Ellie could enjoy. My heart sank.

“Play ‘The Twist' for her,” said Simon, giggling like an idiot. “That won't go over her head.”

The others laughed as well, and Miriam rose to switch on the radio. I struggled to maintain a smile for public consumption. How I wanted to fit in with these remarkable people, but they clearly considered me a dilettante. Their laughter stung me hard, humiliated me, and I felt the blood drain from my cheeks. Half of me wanted to slip away and dissolve into the night, run fast and far from the chair where I'd received Isaac's irresistible romantic serenade. I wanted to disappear, especially since I'd demurred like a coward and—like a good girl—said nothing to contradict or correct their impressions. But the other half of me wanted to prove my worth. To be fair, they had no reason to suspect I knew the first thing about modern orchestral music, the operatic canon, or even Italian. But the fact that I could recite chapter and verse on Bartók and correct Isaac's Italian meant nothing as long as I kept my mouth shut.

Isaac flashed his white teeth and sparkling eyes at me. From the radio, Nat King Cole sang “Don't Try,” accompanied by what sounded like three squares in checkered jackets. I swallowed my whiskey in one go, trying to pass my frown off as the result of the strong drink.

After the opera singing, everyone collapsed on wicker chairs and lumpy sofas and refilled glasses with various libations. I continued sipping whiskey. I knew if I let myself go, I could drink the men under the table, but that's not a good impression for a girl to make. I wanted to be accepted. I'd missed that feeling of belonging since losing my own family, and I longed to find it again. I craved Isaac's approval most of all.