Bloodline by Alan Gold Read Free Book Online

trouble with Miriam,” he said, grinning and holding his granddaughter’s hand as they walked into his huge office. They sat on opposite couches, the coffee table separating them.
    â€œIt’s been far too long, Yael. Why have you stayed away so long?”
    â€œI had lunch with you three weeks ago,” she said defensively.
    â€œIn three weeks, I could have died and gone to heaven. I’m an old man, bubbeleh . Three weeks is a lifetime.”
    She smiled. Her beloved grandfather Shalman was laying on a guilt trip. Why did Jews always play the guilt card? she wondered. Her mother had always laid on the guilt when Yael didn’t call her regularly. Her excuses that she was busy or out of town never cut any ice. “What?” her mother always used to say. “There aren’t any phones where you live? And why don’t you phone your mother more often? Sure you’re busy. We’re all busy. But who’s too busy to pick up the phone and say, ‘Hello, Mom’? She’s all alone in that big apartment with nothing to do except have tea with the girls. What are you, the secretary-general of the United Nations, you’re so busy?”
    Yael didn’t let the guilt trip bother her, but she suddenly felt sad, sitting in Shalman’s office, conjuring images of her grandmother, Shalman’s wife, all based on photographs taken with an ancient Kodak. But she had died before Yael was born, when Yael’s own mother was a baby, so all she really had of her were a couple of indistinct photographs and the narratives from other people. Yael’s sadness was because her grandfather had been so devoted that he’d spent the rest of his life in almost perpetual mourning.
    Shalman was looking at her, waiting for a response. “I’m just so busy,” said Yael apologetically. “The hospital, my work. What can I say?”
    Shalman looked at her sternly. “You can say that you’ll have lunch with me every two weeks. Is that too much? You’re all I have left in the world, darling, and—”
    â€œBullshit, Zaida!” she said in exasperation. “You think nobody knows about you and Miriam? Or five years ago, you and Beckie? Or before her, that research assistant—”
    He put his finger to his lips, and motioned to the roof. “Shush! You want your blessed grandmother aleha ha-shalom to hear what I’ve been up to since she died? God rest her beloved soul.”
    Yael looked at the old man with a depth of affection, part granddaughterly, part maternal; she loved him so much, but his loneliness was of his own choosing.
    â€œWhy didn’t you marry again after Judit was killed? You were a young man. You had a young daughter. Yet you never married.”
    He looked at her mischievously. “I had lots of good times with ladies. Why should I upset so many by choosing just one?”
    â€œC’mon, Zaida. We all know about your affairs. But why didn’t you marry? Seriously!”
    The old man shrugged. “After your grandmother . . .”
    He shook his head sadly. There was no need for him to finish the thought. It was eloquent testimony to Judit’s extraordinary qualities. Yael only wished she could have known her as she knew Shalman.
    Then the twinkle came back into his eye, and he said, “Yael, darling, love is blind, but marriage is an eye-opener. Why get married again when I was looking after your mother and dozens of women felt sorry for me?”
    Yael burst out laughing. She loved his irreverence with all her heart. But there was always something in his eyes when he made such jokes, and Yael had often found herself wondering if it wasn’t a façade hiding some deeper, long-forgotten event. From the time she’d first begun inquiring about her family’s history, her mother’s mother, Judit, had always been spoken of with reverence—too much reverence—and to her young and