The Houseguest by Kim Brooks Read Free Book Online Page B

“I’m sorry I wasn’t here to get this tree hauled away sooner,” he said, just to say something, to acknowledge her.
    She looked up at him. Her eyes were gray, her cheeks still flushed. Why was it when he was out in public, at the temple, at events around town, he felt so afraid of women, cornered by them in every conversation, hopeless and nervous. But at moments like this one, alone with them, in the presence of some kind of sadness, he felt instantly at ease, and there was a certain relaxation in his demeanor, a natural—was intimacy too strong a word? It was. Call it closeness, then. They sensed it, too. They talked to him in a way they didn’t even talk to their husbands or brothers or sons. They let him into their private worries and concerns, just as his sister had always done. He could be close to them because of his isolation. Because he couldn’t get himself enmeshed, he could be empathic. They sensed this. They used him for it.
    â€œI sort of like it, actually. I think the porch will seem empty after it’s gone.”
    â€œWe’ll keep it, then.”
    â€œYou’re so accommodating, Mr. Hoffman. Do you have a light, by any chance?”
    â€œIn the kitchen.”
    â€œCould I bother you?”
    He walked inside, found some matches beside the stove, returned to the porch. Mrs. Epstein was weeping. She put a cigarette betweenher lips and turned her head toward him. He sat down beside her, struck the match, held it out.
    â€œPlease excuse me,” she said. “I’m so embarrassed.”
    â€œDon’t be. They’re only tears. Of all the things to be embarrassed of.”
    â€œDamn it,” she said, pressing her fingers to her eyes.
    â€œIs there anything I can do to help?”
    â€œCould you keep a U-boat from sinking his ship? That would be nice. All the men I love end up dead.” The tears fell as the smoke rose. She spoke through them. “It’s only, I’d gotten rather good at being alone. It takes effort, you know, practice, endurance. And now it’s all blown to hell and I’ll have to start over again. That’s the hard part.” Max reached over and placed a hand on her shoulder as she wept, left it there until the tears stopped. It was a small gesture, but it felt like the only useful thing he’d done in weeks.
    He lit another match for no reason, let it burn down to his fingertips, then shook it out. Inside, the phone was ringing. He rushed back to his office to answer.

4.
    A BE ARRIVED AT the train station late in the afternoon, straining to remember the name. Ana Beidler. She was thirty-six. Polish. A refugee. No family. No home. Aboard the 12:17 from Grand Central. These were the things he knew about her—the facts. He repeated the name to himself, clung to the words as he left the yard early, took the No. 7 bus across town and climbed the stairs to the train station.
    The train was late, and so he waited outside for the better part of an hour while the sky churned above him, threatening and then delivering rain. He took shelter under the awning of a newsstand as the rain sputtered down, dug out a nickel and picked up the Forward. Then for another fifteen minutes he stood, trying to make himself small beneath the shelter, not reading but watching the afternoon go gray as rain dampened the platform.
    This, thought Abe, is how the world thanks you for doing good, for doing a friend a favor. By making you cold and wet and at the mercy of the railroads. Here’s your appreciation. The compensation for goodness is as likely to be soggy shoes and a wasted afternoon as gratitude or sunshine. If you got away with soggy shoes and a wasted afternoon, you were lucky. His eyes needed only to go in the general direction of his newspaper to have that notion affirmed.
    But here he was anyway. No sign of the train. No indication of when it might arrive. But he was here and he was trying to do good,just as