The Extra

Forty-One

STARTLED BY THE LAST WORDS she blurted out, knowing from experience that he will be hurt and defensive, she looks with suddenly rediscovered compassion for a way to retract them. But Uriah turns abruptly away, quickly puts on his shoes and with a grim expression goes to get his jacket from the kitchen chair, shakes it out and puts it on, takes his necktie and goes to her old, familiar clothes closet and opens it, seeking a mirror.

She follows him.

“No,” she says gently, “you don’t need the tie.”

He looks at her coldly.

“Listen to me, it’s for your own good. Ties never looked right on you. They make you look uptight and bossy, especially now that your hair is turning gray.”

“Tell me,” he says as he fumbles with the knot, “why is that any of your business?”

“Why not?”

“Why not? Why not?” He imitates her mockingly. “Maybe why yes.”

“It’s only natural.”

“How I look? My look is no concern of yours. I don’t need your indulgence or anything else from you.”

He yanks apart the tangled tie and starts over.

“Listen to me. There’s a problem with that tie in particular. I saw it the minute you walked in. Not only does it not suit you in principle, but the color clashes with your shirt.”

“The color is fine.”

“Yes, but not for you, which is why I always had to help you. Can’t be that your wife didn’t also see this tie doesn’t match, unless she was busy with the kids.”

His hands freeze. The tie dangles on his shirt.

“Don’t talk about her, it drives me crazy.”

“Don’t go crazy. You didn’t come here to go crazy, but maybe to reconcile. And I’ll help you reconcile and take my share of blame. But please, lose the tie.”

Suddenly he surrenders, as she knew he would, pulls the tie from his neck and stuffs it in his pocket, but she pulls it out. “No,” she says, “let me fold it properly.”

And she straightens and folds it, hands it back to him.

He rejects her extended hand. “No, you keep it. So something tangible will remain and not just an imaginary book of poetry, and if somebody here turns into a handsome lad after all, why not have a tie handy?”

A smile crosses her lips, and for the first time she has an urge to touch him. “Just a second, before you disappear,” she says, blocking his way to the door. “Since you brought up the story you’d patiently listened to countless times — now is your chance to take a look at the protagonist, the childhood harp that started my passion for playing.”

“That harp? The little one? The old one?”

“I thought my father got rid of it years ago, but it turned out he stashed it in storage, and Honi and Ima, who found it when they were clearing out the apartment, thought this poor old harp might be just the thing to comfort me while I was far away from my orchestra.”

“And did it comfort you?”

“How could it?”

“Then why look at it?”

“You don’t have to, but since you talked about it, and you’ve never seen it, here’s your chance.”

“My chance?” He turns red with insult. “For this childhood harp I’ve made a fool of myself running after you? No, I’m here only to mourn my child that you aborted in secret.” He shoves her violently out of his way, opens the door and disappears down the stairs.