New York - The Novel

was worried about you going into the city,” he had told her. “But the gallery is serious, this I can see. And your client Mr. Master—that is a distinguished man, a fine man.” There was no question, her father had liked Charlie a lot. Perhaps that would count for something.
    Besides, she could remind her father, his grandchildren would still be Jewish. They’d have a Jewish mother. Maybe Daniel Adler could reconcile himself to having secular grandchildren, so long as they came to Seder at his house where he could educate them. “After all,” she could hear herself telling him, “this way, they still have the choice as they grow older. There’s nothing to stop a child of mine becoming a rabbi even, if he wants to.”
    These were the hopes, the calculations, the little scenarios Sarah invented for herself as she sat in her home and thought about the man she loved.
    Maybe it could all work out. She didn’t know. Perhaps by the end of the weekend, she’d have a clearer picture. For the time being, she decided it would be better not to speak to anybody about it.
    She was caught completely off guard, therefore, when her mother suddenly turned to her in the kitchen that evening before they went to bed, and said: “I hear this man, Mr. Master, is falling in love with you.”
    Fortunately, Sarah was so taken by surprise that she just stared at her.
    “What do you mean?” she managed to say.
    “Ach,” Esther Adler threw up her hands, “you know nothing.”
    “Who would think such a thing? And why?”
    “Your sister. She told me two days ago. She noticed it when he was here. She was talking to him when I asked you about Adele Cohen’s grandson, and he overheard. He was listening so hard, Rachel said, that he didn’t even answer her questions.”
    “And this means he’s in love with me?”
    “Why not?”
    “You want everyone to be in love with me, Mother. Besides, he’s not Jewish.”
    “I said he was in love with you, not that he could marry you.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “It means be careful.”
    “I will be careful, Mother. Is this all?”
    “If you need to talk to me, Sarah, you can talk to me. Just don’t talk to your father. Do you understand?”
    “No, I don’t understand. Can I go to bed now?”
    Her mother shrugged. “You can always talk to me.”
    Let’s hope so, thought Sarah. For the moment, though, she was glad to escape upstairs.

    Sunday morning was peaceful. Sarah and her mother made French toast for the boys. Her father went downstairs to practice the piano. After a few scales, he began to play Chopin. He was playing well.
    How happy she felt—how glad that she had a home like this. Charlie would be happy in this setting, she thought. He’d be quite content to read the Sunday paper while her father played the piano below. For him, with his views and his intellect, this wouldn’t be such a terrible transition.
    Should she speak to her mother about it, after all? Should she tell her the truth after breakfast, when they were alone? She wasn’t sure.
    The boys were still eating when they heard a ring at the doorbell. Her mother was at the stove, and there was no chance of the boys stirring from their food, so she went to answer it. For a foolish moment, and though she knew very well he was in the city with his son, she hoped it might be Charlie.
    She opened the door.
    There were two people standing on the top step. The woman was fair, in her fifties, a complete stranger. The man was burly, wearing a black coat and a homburg hat. She stared at them.
    “I’m sorry it’s so early,” said the woman. She looked awkward. Her accent was British.
    “Well,” said the man, “aren’t you going to ask your Uncle Herman in?”

    They were standing in the kitchen. Downstairs, her father was still playing the piano, oblivious to their presence.
    “I told you he plays well,” Uncle Herman said to his wife.
    “You shouldn’t have come,” said Sarah’s mother. “You should have written. You should have telephoned, at least.”
    “I did say to him …” said Uncle Herman’s wife, but nobody paid attention to her.
    “And be told to stay away?” said Uncle Herman. “So I’m here.” He looked at Michael. “You I remember.” He looked at Nathan. “You I don’t know. I’m your Uncle Herman.”
    Esther Adler glanced at Herman’s wife, then addressed her brother-in-law.
    “I don’t want to say what happened.”
    “She knows,” he boomed. “She knows.” He