If I Should Die Before I Die by Peter Israel Page B

to consider it for a minute.
    â€œI don’t think I have an opinion as to right or wrong,” he said, “but the question which comes to mind is: Why? Why do you want that?”
    â€œWhy? Well, I’ll tell you why, Charles. Firstly,” grasping the little finger of her left hand, “I think it would be fun. I’ve never done that before. Secondly,” adding the fourth finger to her grip, “I think definitely I would succeed. And finally,” adding the middle finger, “because of the children. The grandchildren too. But because of the children, there’s no alternative.”
    â€œI don’t think I understand that,” the Counselor said. “Why is there no alternative?”
    â€œWell, the children are hopeless, you see? We all know that,” glancing quickly at Barger, then at me, then back at the Counselor. “It is not their fault, poor darlings. It was Bob’s fault. He never trusted them in the business. I used to tell him that, but of course it was too late by then. For him they were always children. Yes, of course he took them into the business, but they were always …” She paused, then arched her neck and laughed aloud. “Ahhh, New York! How I love New York … the Yiddish language in New York! Schleppers , do you know the word, Charles? That’s all he ever let them be in the business: schleppers . Not Sally so much, she’s too headstrong. But the boys. They’re so weak, they’re not really men yet. Young Bob, do you see him running the business? He never liked me, but I don’t blame him for that. His mother died; I wasn’t his mother; his father loved me; his father married me; I was a threat to him. All natural things. But does that mean he should be running a big business?”
    The Counselor didn’t answer, but Margie didn’t seem to need him to. Her voice, which had softened while she went about burying the Magister children, now took on a sharp edge.
    â€œI know what you think. Everybody thinks the same thing. I’m an opportunist, isn’t that what they say? Worse things. Well, I say to them: What’s so wrong, in the land of opportunity, with being an opportunist? Isn’t that how you’re supposed to be, in New York? In Europe, of course, it would be impossible. Unthinkable for a woman. But in America?
    â€œI’ll tell you the truth, Charles—but off the record, please. When I married Bob, I was an opportunist. I made a calculation. That’s very European. He was old, dying, when I met him. Me? I was nothing, and I was tired of being nothing. It wasn’t so much of a marriage, but I made my … how shall I say? … accommodations. He needed a nurse, not a wife. He was cranky, sometimes nasty. Sometimes he wet his bed at night, so I changed his sheets. But he loved me, and I gave him … what? … two more years of life. Do you know what he used to say to me when he was in the nasty moods? ‘It is better than being dead.’ So. He had two more years of life because of me, is that such a crime?”
    She took her sunglasses off and gazed intently at the Counselor, insistent on his reaction.
    â€œI would have called it admirable,” he said. “But is what you’re trying to tell me that that gave you the right to run Magister?”
    She shrugged, and her lower lip protruded upward in a sort of sulky, pouty expression.
    â€œYou’re so harsh, Charles,” she said. “Roy said you would be harsh. No, not the right . But it’s what Bob would have wanted.”
    â€œDo you have documentation of that?” the Counselor asked.
    â€œOnly up here,” she answered, tapping the side of her forehead with her forefinger.
    By this time we’d gotten through the strawberries, with or without cream, and into the coffee and cognac. She served the coffee in those little demitasse cups I can’t stand. I mean: one swallow and