Ben moved away from the wall, his eyes bright in the lamplight. “I remember he stole an apple from the shop once and I gave him a nosebleed, but we mustn’t keep you, Mrs. Merryfeather, your beer will go flat.”
“Aren’t you a caution! But I know you want to get inside and start cheering up your dad-not that he in’t getting plenty of that already.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Ben’s brows came down like iron bars, but Mrs. Merryfeather, with a coy giggle, was already clanking away.
Ben began idly punching the bell. “What was she implying?”
“I don’t know.” I nudged a suitcase with my foot. “But I do know you are wonderfully loyal to your father, who you say won’t speak to you even if we do get to see him.”
“He’s a man of his word. I have to admire that.”
Nothing in the Bible says a woman has to understand her husband. A light flared with sudden and dazzling brilliance against the glass door of the shop. Someone was crossing the floor to open up. I was instantly very uneasy.
A key turned, bolts were thrust back, the shop door swung inward and a deep voice spoke graciously but remotely. “Who comes here at this time of night?”
This man looked nothing like the father-in-law of my imagination. I had pictured Mr. Haskell as short and stocky, certainly elderly, and prone to woolly dressing gowns. This man had to be at least six-foot-four, was broadly built, of similar age to Ben, and wore a flowing purple caftan. He was also indisputably black.
Had we come to the wrong address? Had Ben’s parents sold Haskell’s Fruit & Veg. and his mother not mentioned doing so in her letter?
Ben’s eyes flashed with something I couldn’t read. “Paris, what the hell are you doing here? I thought you were off treading the boards of some Shakespearian theatre.”
“Ben-and your wife-how splendid!” The man stepped backward to let us enter. He was holding a book. “I work for your father. If you remember, it was my parents who dreamt that I would play Othello.” He closed and locked the door. “I tell them that one day my name will be above a door, but not in lights. All I ever desired was to own a shop like this.” His smile gave a glimpse of perfect teeth. “One day.”
“Do your parents still live on the street?” Ben picked an orange out of a bin and tossed it in the air.
“They moved to Reading. I have the back bedroom here.” The purple caftan swished. I had worn one once, but had not looked so magnificent.
“I hope you were not waiting long at the door. Eli and I were wearing earphones and listening to music. Mrs. Haskell has been a little edgy lately and the wireless bothered her.”
The air was sweet and earthy. A hook of bananas moved above our heads. Paris tucked the book under his arm. “Forgive the inquiry, but is this a visit of reconciliation or have the rumours concerning your mother’s disappearance reached you?”
Ben tossed his orange in the bin. He explained about Constable Beaker. “Is my father still listening to his earphones?”
“He was in the bathroom when I came down. He and I have both become rather fond of medieval love ballads. Shall we go up? Mrs. Haskell, I will make you some tea.”
Such a voice-a sun-drenched sea of a voice, in which to drift forever. A gift, surely, from the gods. And those black eyes! In their depths I caught a glimpse of lost civilisations. The purple silk did not so much rustle as breathe softly. I adjusted the belt of my detestably dowdy coat and fingered a strand of loose hair. “Tea would be lovely, and please call me Ellie.”
“Willingly.” The perfectly chiseled lips lifted in a smile, highlighting his marvellous bone structure. A silken arm gestured toward the staircase in the corner. “Ben, please lead the way.”
The stairs were sharply perpendicular, carpeted in a chrysanthemum yellow and burnt orange floral design. The treads were pinned down by gleaming brass rods.
A mezuzah was attached to the door jamb of the entrance facing us across a small, dark landing. My arm brushed a holy water font. Talk about hedging all bets! The room we entered was heated to intense stuffiness by a fake-log electric fire. While Paris went to find Mr. Haskell, Ben moved around, touching things. An enormous maroon sofa and chairs were positioned on a carpet of similar pattern to that on the stairs. The curtains at the wide window were mustard yellow with a green leaf design. Strung from the ceiling in front of them was a row of hollowed-out hen’s eggs, each painted a primary colour and sprouting spikes of vegetation.
I dropped my coat on the sofa and studied the rainbow galaxy. “What interesting planters.”
Ben lifted up my coat, hung it on a stand, and came back to plump up the cushion. “Dad’s handiwork. The crocheting and tapestry work was all done by Mum. See those pictures over the fireplace? The one of the old rabbi won a blue ribbon at some church show.”
“He looks like St. Francis of Assisi.”
Mr. Haskell was clearly taking some persuading to see us. I sat down, then stood up, straightening the crocheted doily on the back of the chair. There were crocheted doilies on tables and cabinets, crocheted cushions on overstuffed chairs. I did covet one thing in the room-Ben’s photo on the sideboard. He was about seven years old, in school cap and wrinkled socks, looking adorably cross.
“What do you think of the furniture, Ellie?”
“Very… solid.”
“Dad made every piece, can you believe that? The man never took carpentry class.”
“My word!” I looked admiringly at the sideboard, with its Victorian body and Queen Anne legs.
Ben was adjusting a bowl of plastic fruit when the door opened. My immediate impression of my father-in-law was that he was the spitting image of Father Christmas. He was stocky and wore a red cardigan. He had a beard and hair (minus bald spot) so white and downy it might have been made of brushed nylon. His dark eyes never moved from Ben as the door closed behind him.
“Hello, Dad,” said my husband.
The silence became as stifling as the heat. I walked around the sofa, hand outstretched.
“Allow me to introduce myself. I am your new daughter-in-law, Ellie. Ben and I took the first train here after a policeman stopped by during our wedding reception to alert us to the fact that your wife-”
“Humph.” Mr. Haskell stroked his white beard, then begrudgingly took my hand. “Better than I expected. You don’t look rich.”
I took my hand back. “And you don’t look like a man who would quarrel with his only son and vow never to speak to him again, all because he wrote a… flagrante novel-which never got into print.”
“It would have”-the dark eyes burned into Ben-“if he’d let me help him write the tricky parts. But he’s stubborn-he was always that way. In the end I washed my hands of the book and him!”
Another silence. The two men assessed each other. I slumped down on the sofa. “What about charity and forgiveness?”
My father-in-law patted his bald spot. “What sort of a man would I be if I raised my son to be a man of his word and then broke mine to him?”
I must rethink having children. I had assumed that Ben’s genes would water down any eccentricities I might pass along.
Ben leaned over the back of the sofa. “Ellie, ask Dad about Mum.”
I felt like a ventriloquist’s dummy. “What about Mum… um… Mrs. Has-”
“Call me Poppa.”
Paris appeared with a loaded tray. Cups and saucers circulated, along with a platter of egg sandwiches. I took one and nibbled around the edges. Pretending to eat avoids a lot of outside pressure. Paris picked up his book and was about to leave again, but Mr. Haskell insisted he stay.
“You’re one of the family.” He turned to me. “Paris is very devout. We read the Torah together.”
Ben put down his cup as though it contained poison.