Among the Living by Jonathan Rabb Page A

aggressive prose, and with a sophistication that seemed well beyond the scope of the provinces. Goldah liked him at once. It was only in an article, written for an Atlanta paper, that he finally saw her father’s byline.
    “Weiss?” Goldah said. “Arthur Weiss? I don’t think I understand.”
    “Yes,” she said. “My maiden name is Weiss. De la Parra is my married name.”
    And with that the air in his chest became a dry heat. He thought: I’ve missed it, haven’t I, missed it entirely — the pity and the unwanted kindness. She had gone to such lengths, offered so much of herself, that to call this malice would have been a mark of his own callousness. It was inadvertent, nothing more. Or perhaps in her eyes he was someone not to merit such ideas, not to be capable of those things beyond the most basic needs of a life. He had seen himself as a man. She hadn’t. It was as simple as that. He reminded himself that the fault had been his.
    “Yes,” he managed, his eyes focused on the black and white of the printed page now in his hands. “Of course.”
    She said, “I’ve kept his name, my husband. He was killed in March of 1945 in Germany.”
    The shock of this second blow struck Goldah with equal force. He looked up and saw the unimaginable stillness in her face. There was nothing halting in her voice, nothing to match his own self-pity, which, by comparison, seemed all the more pathetic.
    “We received the telegram in May after V-E Day,” she said. “That was very hard. We thought he’d been celebrating but, of course, he hadn’t.”
    Goldah nodded as if to console and felt shamed by this intimacy. “I’m sorry,” he said.
    “I only mention it because you asked.”
    He noticed he was still clutching the clippings in his hand and all he wanted was to stand and to run.
    She said, “Are you all right?”
    “Yes.”
    “Perhaps you need to get back?”
    He nodded. She started to get up and he said, “I haven’t spent much time with women — young women — not for a very long time. I apologize if I seem unfeeling.”
    She looked genuinely touched by this. “You don’t at all, but perhaps that’s something else we’ll work on.” She stood. “Would you walk me back to Broughton? I have my car there.”
    He walked at her side, feeling relief and a strange sensation that he took for safety. He hadn’t felt it in years and only much later would he recall it as happiness.

    Pearl was sitting on the porch swing when Goldah got home. Her short legs reached just to the ground and her toes were on point as she pushed herself back and forth. Goldah wondered if perhaps she was in one of her moods: She hadn’t taken the slightest notice of him as he walked up the path.
    “Hello,” he said cheerily, surprising himself with his tone. “Did you enjoy the service this morning?” He moved up the steps and she looked over, her stare empty, peaceful, unnerving all the same.
    “Yes. Yes, I did. That’s very kind of you to ask. All about endings. The old year done, the new one about to begin. I think Abe liked it as well.”
    “I didn’t see him down at the store this afternoon.”
    “Oh, so you’ve been down to the store?”
    “Yes, since this morning.”
    “Good. Good for you. Did you get some lunch?”
    “I did.” He was doing what he could to maintain the artifice of this. “Jacob introduced me to Gottlieb’s.”
    “Oh, Gottlieb’s. What a treat. I love Gottlieb’s. Did you try a chocolate chewie for dessert?”
    “I did. Yes. Delicious.”
    “They call them the come-back cookies because you just keep coming back for more. Isn’t that funny? Abe’s been on the telephone since after lunch. He’s in a bit of a mood. Not before lunch but ever since.”
    Goldah said, “Is he inside?”
    “He is. I was wondering, Ike” — there was just the smallest hitch in her tone — “while you were down at the store, if you happened to spend some time with a Mrs. De la Parra? I’ve had a telephone