Read Online The Houseguest by Kim Brooks - Free Book Online Page B

upstairs. Judith was slumped over, her head resting on the table. She pushed herself up as though it required great effort, then set to finishing another drink.
    â€œI’m cold,” she said. “I’m freezing!” This was an unbearable habit she’d developed, announcing her own minor physical discomforts as though they were events of great importance.
    â€œSo put on a sweater,” Irene said.
    â€œIt’s an icebox in here. Am I the only one who’s freezing?”
    â€œYou’re the only one,” Abe said. “We’re not running the heat in June.”
    â€œMaybe I’m not really cold. Maybe I’m just so hungry that it’s beginning to affect my circulation.”
    â€œHush,” Irene said. “Who says such a thing with a refugee at the table, a person who probably hasn’t had a meal in months?”
    â€œTechnically, she’s not at the table. She’s been bathing for an hour.”
    â€œAnd who knows how long it’s been since the woman’s had a real bath?” said Abe.
    â€œReal bath, real cold dinner.”
    â€œI’m sure she’ll be down soon,” said Max. “Any minute now.”
    Abe leaned back in his chair and sighed. This, he thought, was the problem with good intentions. People expected things for their generosity: a future favor, a pat on the back, a grateful refugee who knows how to take a quick shower. He was about to get up and pour himself a scotch when footsteps sounded overhead, slow at first, and then faster as the sound moved down the stairs.
    The woman who stood before them then only mildly resembled the one he’d met at the station. Her mess of hair had been washed, combed out, and dried, then tied on top of her head in elaborate plaits secured with gold pins. Gone, of course, was the damp overcoat, but also the plain, dark dress, in place of it now, an impeccably tailored blouse, Adriatic green satin silk, gathered just so to show off her collarbone. An egg-sized brooch rested against her throat. Her lips were painted red, her fingernails lacquered, her fingers banded in gemstones and gold.
    â€œSo sorry to keep you waiting,” she said with that accent, the one that sounded nothing like the country speech of Abe’s youth, nothing like the guttural Yiddish of his parents.
    â€œShall we eat?” he asked.
    Ana Beidler took her seat at the table between his daughter and his wife. The dishes were passed. The wine was poured. She smiled and pushed forward her glass, drank half of what he gave her in a single draw.
    â€œWhat a lovely brooch you’re wearing,” said Irene. “Is that mother-of-pearl?”
    Ana raised her fingers to her neck. “This? A man gave it to me. A director of the Bucharest production of A Wounded Star .”
    â€œYou’re an actress?” Judith asked.
    â€œWas an actress. The theaters in Europe have been shut down for years now. The Jewish theaters.”
    â€œAre you . . . were you . . .”
    â€œWas I famous? Is that what you’d like to know?” She smiled then, and though Abe could not read the precise meaning behind it, he saw in her expression something that stopped him, that made him put down his fork and sit back in his chair. That ever-present fog in his head cleared for a moment. A rush of joy, almost like pain. His skin tingled. The blood pulsed against his veins as he realized . . . there was something familiar about her. Oh, he felt a part of himself saying, I remember. And yet he didn’t. It was something else, a sense she exuded that was unique to that other world, that other place. Everyone at the table was watching her, but she was looking only at Judith. “My dear,” she said. “I’d like you, sometime, to sneak away from here, back to the station where your father fetched me, and go back the way I came, just the last part, back to New York, and once you’re there, board the Third Avenue