Mitzvah Man

5

At the Apthorp, the great apartment building between 78th and 79th, they get announced by the doorman and cross the court to one of the lobbies with its twin elevators. Upstairs, Ben Licht is alone. They sit in the ponderous, high-ceilinged living room and Ben fixes ginger ale for daughter—and for father, too, because, with the antidepressant he’s taking, Adam shouldn’t drink alcohol. In his pudgy body, Ben looks to Adam like Elmer Fudd—but Fudd in a fine, dove-gray cashmere sweater and corduroy slacks; he’s wearing the fine pale blue cotton shirt he must have worked in today, but his tie is gone. Rimless glasses sit at the end of his nose; from time to time he pushes them up into place. Ben’s not a small man; he’s shorter than Adam, but only because of Adam’s long legs; sitting down together in the living room, they’re almost the same height. Ben’s face is round and so pleasant that Adam at once feels sweet tenderness for the guy, and a kind of sadness, as if Ben is somehow to be pitied, though right away it’s Ben who tells Adam again how sorry he is about Shira—sorry about your Mom, he says to Lisa, who’s sitting beside her father. “I wish I’d known her.” Adam can see him looking at the beard, but Ben doesn’t mention it. He has this comforting voice, voice like an old tweed jacket. After a minute, Ben’s face transmutes into the face of the child he was. Oh, more lines, more character, but the same face. Only the voice has changed. “I’m sad,” Ben says, “we didn’t see|5| each other until that terrible night.” Adam says, “God is leading us through this. I know it.” “That’s good,” Ben says out of politeness. “Good. We can use the help.” He sighs. In sympathy? The sigh sounds real. Before Adam can ask what help Ben needs, a key turns in a lock. “Wonderful,” Ben says. “Jennifer is home. I want you to meet Jennifer,” he says to Lisa. Jennifer is sixteen. If Lisa’s blossoming, Jennifer has bloomed: a beautiful girl with a thick, long tumble of black hair over her blouse. She puts her tennis racket and sports bag in a corner and comes in to say hello. “Jennifer,” says her dad, standing, putting a hand on Adam’s collar, patting his shoulder rhythmically, “this is my old friend, my dear friend, Adam. You know about him, about his wife and the terrible accident. And this is Lisa.” Jennifer crinkles up her face as if Adam were some alien creature to examine; then, having examined, she grins at him, shakes hands, says, “Oh. Sure. Hi,” and nods to Lisa. “Sorry about your mom.” She’s on stage, Adam sees. And she doesn’t know what to do with herself. But he’s sure she’s sure of her beauty, sure that if she just smiles, she’ll be all right. She’s a child, but it’s hard for him not to look at the sweet space between the bottom of her tee shirt and the silver belt of her jeans. Jennifer becomes vivid for him—her long hair, her intense physical presence, as if capital “L”-Life, pulsing like the Northern Lights and not knowing what to do with itself, not knowing how to handle the energy, were standing in an elegant living room. Leaning down, Jennifer kisses her father on the forehead, messes his neatly combed hair, waves again and, wiggling her fingers in the air as she goes, retreats to her room. Ben waits till she’s out of earshot. “Since that night at Chase, things have changed a lot for me, too. Nothing so bad as for you. My wife is leaving me. Margaret, she’s leaving me.” “Oh, Ben. Oh, I’m sorry. What happened? You don’t have to say if you don’t want.” “It’s complicated.” Ben glances at Lisa. “I shouldn’t be saying this in front of you, but I need to. But please—it’s better not to speak about this, John J. Clayton 50 | Lisa. I mean to Jennifer. I’m sure Jennifer has some vague idea, but probably unformulated. Unformulated for us, too. Margaret has decided to leave me. It won...