Being Esther Read Online Free PDF

hours. It’s always the same, a haunting melody that stirs forgotten feelings of longing. This she won’t tell a soul, not even Lorraine, but last night the music started when she was in bed reading. She set down her book, closed her eyes, and listened. When the music stopped, she opened her eyes and he was there, standing at the foot of her bed. “So it’s you,” she said, smiling up at him. Marty’s hair appeared as thick and wiry as the first time they’d met. He needed to lose the same ten pounds he’d carried before his illness. And he wore the same fat, sloppy grin. Eventhe gap between his front teeth, the one she’d loved exploring with her tongue, was still there.
    â€œYes,” he said, jingling the change in his pockets. “It’s me.”
    â€œThe music,” she said. “It touched me.”
    â€œWhere?” He drew closer. “Show me.”
    She placed her hand on her breast, and he placed his hand over hers, and then he began moving it slowly up and down the front of her body, playing her with the assurance of a virtuoso. She closed her eyes again and tried guessing what song he was playing.
    When she opened her eyes he was gone and she wept at the loss, which felt as strong as the first time. Then, her hand touching the spot where his hand had been, she whispered, “If that’s what you get to do after, if you get to learn to play such music, then maybe it’s not such a bad place after all. Better than that joint Ceely’s been pushing.”
    Now Lorraine is saying, “It wasn’t the music. I just couldn’t stop thinking about poor Mrs. Singh.” She pauses. “Or maybe it was the cake I ate at dinner. Maybe that’s all it was.”
    â€œNo,” Esther says. “What happened to that woman is enough to keep anybody up.”
    Esther has never had a neighbor like Mrs. Singh, who lands, unbidden, at Esther’s door, a bird-of-paradise in her brilliant saris bearing samosas, lentils with curry, chapatis, and dal.
    Esther knows that cooking is her refuge from the loneliness of being shut in with a sick husband. Yet lonely as she is, Mrs. Singh has never accepted Esther’s invitations for tea. “Kumar,” she’ll say, looking over her shoulder at the door she always leaves slightly ajar. “Well, next time,” Esther will say. Graciously, she accepts her neighbor’s offerings, always returning the empty plates with something of her own creation: poppyseed cookies;chicken soup; a wedge of her famous kugel, the fat, buttery egg noodles studded with plump golden raisins.
    Now she confesses to Lorraine that until the other day, her biggest fear for her neighbor was that she would trip on the hem of her sari and fall down the stairs. “There must be some way to hike it up,” she tells Lorraine. “Even in winter, she lets those beautiful silk skirts drag through the snow.”
    â€œThe Singhs owned a shop on Kedzie,” Lorraine offers. “Before Mr. Singh got sick. It was one of those shops that sell saris and gold.”
    â€œThat’s no excuse,” insists Esther, who knows that about the Singhs. “Dresses aren’t like tissues, no matter how many you have.”
    Over lunch at Wing Yee’s, Esther tells Lorraine that the other day she’d gone down for the mail and found Ceely in the lobby with Milo. “They stopped talking when I showed up, and gave each other a look. I was sure he’d been telling her about Mrs. Singh. That’s the last thing I want Ceely to know. I felt like chasing her out the door with Milo’s broom. Then Milo started whistling and sweeping the stairs, and Ceely asked if I was ready. I didn’t know what she was talking about.” Esther pauses. “Remember Gaslight ?” She searches Lorraine’s face for some sign of comprehension. Amazingly, Lorraine’s looks haven’t deviated since high school.