The New Earth

by Jess Row

Genres: Cultural Heritage; Family Life; Sagas

Synopsis

A globe-spanning epic novel about a fractured New York family reckoning with the harms of the past and confronting humanity’s uncertain future, from award-winning author Jess Row 

For fifteen years, the Wilcoxes have been a family in name only. Though never the picture of happiness, they once seemed like a typical white Jewish clan from the Upper West Side. But in the early 2000s, two events ruptured the relationships between them. First, Naomi revealed to her children that her biological father was actually Black. In the aftermath, college-age daughter Bering left home to become a radical peace activist in Palestine’s West Bank, where she was killed by an Israeli Army sniper.

Now, in 2018, Winter Wilcox is getting married, and her only demand is that her mother, father, and brother emerge from their self-imposed isolations and gather once more. After decades of neglecting personal and political wounds, each remaining family member must face their fractured history and decide if they can ever reconcile.

Assembling a vast chorus of voices and ideas from across the globe, Jess Row “explodes the saga from within—blows the roof off, so to speak, to let in politics, race, theory, and the narrative self-awareness that the form had seemed hell-bent on ignoring” (Jonathan Lethem). The New Earth is a commanding investigation of our deep and impossible desire to undo the injustices we have both inflicted and been forced to endure. 

Release date: March 28, 2023

Publisher: HarperCollins

Print pages: 592

Sample

The Apthorp

“Ruth,” he starts again, “I’m going to say something, and if you can, do me a favor and save your questions for the end. Hear me out and then you can reject my advice and we’ll move on. But I just have to say this, because I look at you and I recognize you. You understand what I mean?”

She gives him a shrewd squint, lifts and drops her shoulders with a sigh.

“We’re the same age,” she says. “Roughly. I suppose.”

“We’re the same demographic,” he says. “And I’m not saying this because I knew Stan a little. I can tell just looking at you. In ten minutes we could probably name ten friends in common. We’re Upper West Siders. We have fantastic apartments we’d never be able to afford today. We remember what it was like when you couldn’t walk on Amsterdam. Crack vials crunching underfoot. That’s how we raised our kids, in a different city. When everything wasn’t so easy. Those organizations they have today, we started those. NPR. Mostly Mozart. Shakespeare in the Park. Writers in the Schools.”

This time she actually rolls her eyes, visibly, up to the ceiling tiles. A deeper sigh. Joni, his assistant, stares over her monitor at something invisible in the hallway.

“Am I wrong?”

“No. You’re not wrong. Irrelevant to my case, maybe. But not wrong.”

“Then stay with me here. You want me to cut to the chase, but I’m not cutting to the chase. Sometimes time is not of the essence. You have to let a thought expand. What else does it mean, getting old, if you haven’t learned that? Anyway, I’m only asking for a few minutes. Before you cut us a retainer bigger than your annual rent.”

“All right, all right,” she says. “I’m all ears.”

Ruth Liebler. Second viola, Met Opera Orchestra. Stan Liebler’s widow. Stan was a graduate of some Ithaca commune who’d returned to the family fold and become a costume jeweler specializing in low-end silver, the kind you find at head shops and Renaissance fairs—pentagram rings, spiky skulls, Celtic crosses, Iron Crosses, Om Mani Padme Hum bracelets. He was party to a patent-infringement suit that went on for nearly a decade, and a major fixture at Fein Lewin in the old days. Many lunches billed for no conceivable reason. Lewin was lead counsel, but he’d always get dragged in because Stan liked him. A fellow traveler. You should meet Ruth, Stan would say, my classier half, and here she is, in a long brown dress with a scarf cinched too tight around her wattling neck. She has the pinched look of the perennially aggrieved. Orchestras, as he understands it, are like colleges—they have tenure, they have committees, every tiny incremental shift arbitrated by amateurs full of sedimented rage. So Ruth was capo di tutti capi of the something something committee, had been for twenty years, and a group of younger players hatched a scheme, probably for reasonable reasons, and voted her out. Will Diamond, his best associate, already told her that you can’t file for wrongful termination if you weren’t actually getting paid. But she doesn’t want to hear it. She wants to sue.

At this age you can’t say a single thing without feeling the weight of worlds around it. He senses that. Why begin here, in this conversation, of all places? Because the novel holds us all in place. He, who is speaking; I, writing; you, reading. The novel does our thinking for us. At the beginning it holds us around the legs. Walk out into the waves and you can feel the tides move. The trillion trillion gallons.

“So let’s go back a few. I grew up in Davenport, Iowa. How about you, Ruth?”

“Fall River,” she says, “Fall River, Massachusetts.”

“Two not-dissimilar towns. Same size. Working-class. The Mississippi, the Atlantic. The working river, the working ocean. Barges, freighters. Coal and steel. Corn and wheat. Industries mostly gutted, now, of course. Outsourced. Trump Country. In our time, already teetering into decline. That sound about right? Not that we noticed. We had decent schools. Cyclone fences. Neat little gardens. Little tufty, scabby lawns. Stable families, tight neighborhoods. Big Fourth of July parades. Lots of Catholics. Lots of vets. Big union halls, American Legions. Kids started going to Vietnam early. Like ’65, ’66 early.”

“And coming back in coffins early. My best girlfriend’s older brother. Norman Feldkrantz. Killed in March of 1967.”

“I mean, what is there to say anymore about the sixties? Turn on PBS these days and it’s the deadly nostalgia channel. Peter, Paul and Mary, still in the same turtlenecks. Embalmed.But what are we supposed to do? It’s us. It’s the weight of something dreadful called, I don’t know, experience.”

“Except for Mary. She’s actually dead now.”

“I would never get into it, except for one thing: we can’t avoid it. It’s material evidence of who we are, our ridiculous expectations, our sensitivity about failure. Et cetera. I toldmyself to avoid it, for years. I felt like a survivor, which is ridiculous. Here I am, a white guy, and I never got drafted—too young, by a hair—never got gassed. Kent State happened while I was at Oberlin; we drove there that same night, stood outside holding candles. That’s the closest I came to any physical danger. That and organizing out in Chico, in ’76. Nearly run over by a pickup truck in a field of celery. But my point is—and I think you know what I’m talking about—1980.”

“Don’t even mention that cursed year.”

“It was like a door closed, and I told myself I was living a new life, for better or worse. Morning in America. I had a job, all of a sudden. A real job. I had kids, soon enough. In my case, like in your case, we were a two-income family. Everything was sink or swim. Nobody was marching for anything. Lennon died, and the lights went out. Like the song said, remember? This is not my beautiful house! This is not my beautiful wife!More clichés, I know. I’m helpless with them.”

She inspects her hands.

“I was in the car,” she says, “in my little Beetle, on I-95, on the way back from my great-aunt Sylvie’s funeral. On election day. I was planning to drive straight back to New York that night. I was pregnant, five months pregnant, with Andrew. I had my viola in the car with me, because Sylvie had asked that I play something at the memorial. Some Yiddish song she loved. ‘Oyfn Pripetshik.’ Anyway, by around New Haven I was starving and so I pulled over at a diner, a truck stop. I remember it was a truck stop, because it had pay phones right there on the tables, one at every booth. So I was sitting there with the case between my knees, I was too scared to even leave it on the seat next to me, and I decided I would call Stan and just let him know I’d be home really late, past midnight. And when he picked up, he said, ‘Thank god you called. I just got off the phone with James Levine. You passed the audition. You got the job. Also, Reagan won.’ And do you know what I remember thinking?”

“No, what?”

“‘Life is very long.’”

They laughed together.

“Because I’d already had what I thought of as a full life. A whole life.”

“Tell me about it.”

“We’d put our skin and blood, what’s the expression? Blood, sweat, and tears, into that farm. New Morning Farm. For six years, before it collapsed. We all got hepatitis. Stan probably never told you the story.”

“He alluded to it.”

“In any case. The details aren’t important.” She seems childlike, he thinks, seized with eagerness. It makes him recoil. “When Reagan came to power, to us it was like the end of Weimar. Jimmy Carter was a Weimar president. Massive inflation. Social chaos and disorder. Metal machine music.”

Now she licks her lips. Actually licks them.

Because he gets so many of the off clients, the characters,Mark calls them, the firm has configured his office so he can see straight over the client’s shoulder through a window to Joni’s desk, and Joni, whoever she is at the moment, can look up, periodically, and if he raises an eyebrow, rescue him. Ethan needs to ask you a question. Also he leaves the door open an inch or two, in violation of every American Bar Association guideline. Because sometimes it’s all in the intonation. Joni gives him a questioning look. He smiles and shakes his head.

“You know, we were going on with our lives, just as you said. Raising Andrew and Sarah. Making actual money. And for me, of course, playing extraordinary music, night after night. I’m not talking about the repertoire. I’m talking about Koyaanisqatsi. The Death of Klinghoffer. And all the time, I was expecting that Reagan was preparing for the end, for the next Holocaust. God, you know, that was the eighties. People actually ate caviar, you remember? They served it, at parties. Ordinary people. And the whole time, because of course I was doing it too, I was eating caviar and waiting for the sirens that would tell us the coup had started. I don’t think I had a single good night’s sleep until the wall came down in ’89. And by then the kids were almost teenagers.”

This conversation is losing its usefulness, he thinks. Its direction. A wayward paper boat of a conversation on tidal swells of historical anger.

“You know what happened to me recently?” he says. “I went to my doctor, after the election, because I was having heart pain. Seriously. Not the crushing heart-attack kind. And not heartburn. Heart pain. It was hard to look at things, hard to see things and feel alive. I felt crushed.”

“Well join the goddamned club.”

“I mean outside of the mishegas in Washington. I’m talking about everyday misery, people yelling at their kids on the street. Homeless people. Syria. Not to mention kids in cages in Texas. It all whips together with your memories, the things you’ve seen, the people you’ve been, right? That pain,” he said, “is congestion. Congestion of emotions. A calcification of feelings. Too much feeling over too much time. And I said to the doctor, what do I do about it? Do? he said. Feel lucky. Be grateful you still have the capacity.”

She’s looking at her hands again.

“I remember,” she says, “and forgive me for mentioning it, but back when your daughter passed . . .”

(She didn’t pass. She never passed.)

“. . . and Stan said, that guy works at Fein Lewin, I knowhim, I’ve seen pictures of that poor girl on his desk. I remember that. Watching the news about it, and thinking, that could have been so many of us. Our kids. Whatever else you want to say, she was an idealist. There aren’t many of them left. That’s what I appreciate. Even if she was, I don’t know, misled. And there was so much hate being expressed about her. I don’t have to tell you that. Our supposedly liberal friends, Stan always said. It was sickening, to me. I was almost physically ill. I just have to say that. Never having met you.”

This is my meeting, he wants to say. I called this consultation, and you can go now. And then: oh go ahead and sell her, sell your dead child. As if it’s never happened before. It’s a relationship business. Sympathy drives relationships. In the short term. It works only as a clincher, when the rational faculties are spent. Someone could write a book about it. Personal Tragedy: The Art of the Deal.

“Well, thanks, Ruth. Thanks for those kind words. I appreciate it.”

“There was a saying we had,” she says. “At the farm. Justice has to come from everywhere or it exists nowhere. We really believed that. Looking back, it seems like a nightmarish thing to imagine, in a way. The either/or part, I mean. But that’s where we were at in those days. And when I heard about Bering, I felt like, that girl was one of us, so to speak.”

Now he has to imagine sleeping with her. It worked, once upon a time. It got him through interviews, back when they were still giving interviews. Never, though, with a woman quite this far along. Not so much in years, or in gravitational compromises, as in sheer compactness of spirit. You see these women all over the neighborhood now. How would you go about seducing such a person? What would be your point of entry, physically, literally? Would you take her hand? Find a particularly appealing fold in her elbow crease?

Naomi isn’t like that. There’s still give.

“Thank you,” he says. Without knowing why. “I appreciate that. I really do.” More filler. “But you want to know why I’m bringing this up, Ruth? Because, as far as I can tell, you’ve lived a good life, a well-intentioned life.”

“Psssht.”

“And yet. And yet. The world goes the way it goes. There are unintended consequences.”

“That’s the understatement of the millennium.”

“And thus the congestion. It hurts, but feel glad that it hurts. Getting wrapped up in a lawsuit is going to rob you of that capacity. You’ll be a little twig flushed over a waterfall. Your savings, your health, whatever hard-won emotional stability you have—it all goes. Take it from someone who’s barely escaped this profession with his mind intact. There’s nothing the law can’t take from you. So what I’m asking you to do is, don’t take the bait. Look at yourself. You’ve already given so much. You have! We’ve given so much. It’s true that not everything worked out the way we wanted. By a long shot. But you have to step back and reassess who you’re really doing it for. The kids are grown and gone. Your protégés, your students, whoever, if you were lucky to have any—you taught them what you knew. You made an impact. I promise you that. But it’s time for people like us to start taking care of ourselves. The world has used us up and frankly we’ve used up our share of the world.”

“I was cc’d on an email,” she says, “and this is just one tiny example, believe me, but I was mistakenly cc’d on an email in which the first chair said, ‘She’s had that stick up her ass so long, if you took it out she’d have to have reconstructive surgery.’”

“Yes, you were insulted. I’m sorry. Yes, the process was abused. Your colleagues treated you badly and should apologize. But I’m telling you that you have to stop trying to be the arbiter of everything. I know the last thing you ever expected was for someone to tell you to take a load off and not take everything so seriously. That’s why it has to come from a fellow traveler like me. Stop ignoring your grandkids. Before you know it they’ll be grown and gone, too, and you’ll be moldering alone. Cultivate those ties. What do you want, at your time of life, at our time of life, with a lawsuit? Not that you can’t afford it. I’m casting no aspersions. And believe me, there’s lawyers in this town, in this building, on this floor, who will take your money. But you don’t need it. We don’t need it, any of us.”

Deep breath.

“What we should be talking about, if you want my opinion, is estate planning. If you’re like me, your files are a mess and your kids are always after you about it. Not this minute. But not not this minute, okay? Let’s make an appointment for three months.”

He’s had people in tears at the end of the speech. He’s been embraced by women wearing supportive garments not visible through their loose drapey dresses. Lots of nodding and reaching for the Kleenex. One poor guy even applauded. But Ruth Liebler sits alone and stoic. Unmoved. She writes him a check on the spot, shakes his hand. Thank you for your time.Maybe she’s Congregationalist on her father’s side. Her eyes saying, You are a hypocrite, a calumnist, a failure, and a sellout. And his eyes saying, back to her, he hopes, why stop there?

My last client, he’s thinking. She senses something. Later she’ll say, there was something off about him, but I couldn’t put my finger on it.

“It’s funny,” she says on her way out the door. “Stan always said, ‘the thing about him is he’s actually not Jewish.’”

“I’m not,” he says. “Like I was saying. Davenport, Iowa. United Church of Christ. My dad, rumor has it, once went to divinity school. Naomi’s Jewish. My kids are Jewish. We were members of Beth Shalom for thirty years. I read Hebrew. I fast on Yom Kippur. My firm is Jewish. Ninety-five percent of my friends are Jewish. My shrink was Jewish. Should I go on?”

“You never converted.”

“No, the technical term for me is stranger in the camp. In the old days my rabbi used to call me a righteous gentile. You’d have to ask him if it still applies. At shul, once, a guy came up and said to me, ‘people like you don’t really exist.’”

“Of course you do. Here you are.”

“That,” he says, “is no evidence of anything.”

* * *

As he exits the elevator Jean-Louis, the security guard, catches his eye over a corner of the Daily News and waves. He waves back.

One twelve in the post-meridian, Wednesday, April 11, 2018. Fifteen years and twenty-nine days of the New Life.

Imagine him as he is, the novel asks us. Imagine me, he says to no one in particular, go ahead. Imagine me, on this, my last day on earth.

He’s out on the ground, on the street, Fifty-Sixth between Fifth and Park, jingling the keys in his vest pocket, the sun dry and blinding, an unfeeling forty-eight degrees in the shade. This in the middle of April, some spring we’re having. He’s left work early. The prerogative of the senior partner. Joni, he said, a first and last lie slipping from his lips, my urologist had to reschedule. If you need anything, I’ll be on my phone.

April 11: Primo Levi Day. His private holiday.

Circa 2010, he sat for a week on the porch in Blue Hill and read all of Levi’s later books—The Periodic Table, The Drowned and the Saved—and then two of the biographies, one by Thomson and one by Angier. To make sure he had the facts straight. On April 11, 1987, at 10:20 A.M., Levi jumped from his third-floor apartment into the interior courtyard of his building in Torino. He was sixty-seven. No immediate cause for the suicide was identified, one article said, as if suicide, presumptively, has an immediate cause? Some investigators believed he might have fallen by accident, due to dizziness from a prostate medication; this theory was considered and rejected. Levi had collected his mail from the building’s concierge only a few minutes earlier: he appeared perfectly healthy. It was an ordinary spring morning. Nothing had changed. His mother and mother-in-law, in their nineties, suffering from dementia, were in another wing of the apartment with their live-in nurse; no one else was home. Life was going on. He stepped out of it.

Cynthia Ozick described Levi’s suicide as the final proof that his rage over the Holocaust had no end: “The rage of resentment,” she wrote, “is somehow linked to self-destruction.”

Elie Wiesel said, “The Holocaust killed Primo Levi forty years later.”

In 2003 a Haaretz columnist wrote: “If the Holocaust created the state of Israel, then the Holocaust is responsible for all the deaths of Palestinians over the occupation, and by proxy, Bering Wilcox, too, a Jewish American, is a victim of the Holocaust who died defending other victims—”

That’s all as may be, he says out loud, enjoying the looseness of the phrase on his tongue. A Davenport phrase, something Mother used to say. But the truth is: life is very long.

Primo Levi Day: the day of the perfect death. The golden ratio for a man. A swift removal from life, no announcement, no explanation. Elected and autonomous. An end that speaks for itself. He named the impulse in 2010, but when in his adult life, his post-Vermont life, has he not promised himself some version of it? In, say, 1987? 1989? 1993? To say nothing of the later and more obvious dates? But he had to reach this moment to be ready. Choosing to die, he’s thinking, as if delivering a lecture, step by step down the sidewalk, amounts to a statement about the nature of time: time flows only in one direction, it’s all chronology, in the end, chronology is order and necessity, the order of moments, no matter what, and there’s a moment when one has collected oneself from all the disturbances, reassembled a shattered life, put one’s affairs in order, faced the clock, and put a finger on a number. Chosen a day. Call it the beauty of the refusal, the beauty of saying no more. Naomi and I have decided to withdraw from the arena, he emailed the reporters in May 2003. He knows it by heart, every white-knuckled word. Not to continue the appeals, not to establish a foundation in Bering’s name, though we’ve been asked to by generous friends, and not to grant any more interviews to the press. Because nothing we can do will change the events of March 13, and for the health of our family we need to mourn and recover in private—

And who’s to say, he asks the air along Fifty-Sixth Street, facing west, grinning into the midday sun, that Levi never recovered, that he was not, in the end, perfectly composed? Nothing so extraordinary as life glimpsed through a closing window. He has an hour left, at most. Life palpates everywhere around him. A woman in a herringbone suit, shielding her eyes, digging in her purse for her sunglasses. A garbage truck pulls around the corner, huffing and clanking; a little girl cranes her neck around her stroller to watch. Perfect. Perfect. Perfect. The small consolations of the everyday, right up to the end.

His eyeballs flicker around the edges with blue fire.

Upward is where this goes. Away.

Dearest Marie, Heinrich von Kleist wrote to his sister in 1811, moments before he shot his lover Henriette Vogel and then himself, If you knew how death and life take turns to garland these last moments of my life with the flowers of heaven and of earth, surely you would be content.

His phone buzzes in his pocket; he should have known better than to leave so abruptly after lunch. “Sorry to bother you,” Joni says. “But someone named June called? From your dry cleaners? You have clothes that have been ready to pick up for almost two weeks. Should I send a messenger?”

“To pick up my dry cleaning?”

“That’s exactly what Joanne said you would say.”

“I’ll pick it up this afternoon. They can wait two more hours.”

“Are you sure? Because I can just book it right now.”

A stippling in his pulse. As if he’s anxious about being found out.

“I have time. Tell Joanne people are abusing the messenger account.”

“She told me to tell you to let her do her job and you do yours.”

“Got it. Over and out.”

* * *

I, I, I, he’s thinking, on the way to the subway, ducking under the vast Moorish bulk of Carnegie Hall to get out of the glare, have lived enough moments, which is not to say wasted them; he refuses to put it that way. I have exhausted them. I have put the first-person singular at the beginning of enough sentences. He narrates his life, for the most part, in individual lines. Not paragraphs. The novel arranges them into paragraphs for ease of access, with added commentary. This is called free indirect discourse. Why not walk all the way home, as he used to do in warm weather, pretending it was exercise? Or take a car? It was the bane of his existence, back when he still used that phrase, having to walk three and a half long blocks to the 1 at Columbus Circle, in the snow, in the subzero winds. He refused to take a cab. Never. Not as a matter of habit. Twelve dollars each way, five days a week? He wouldn’t have it. He hated his commute, could never reconcile himself to it, short and unremarkable as it was. Sensei used to say, Your problem is you do everything too fast, and he would say, I hate being in the middle of things. I’m impatient, so shoot me. I hate inefficiency. I hate feeling surrounded and nebulous. I hate repetition.

You have to discover the secret of what is inside repetition, Sensei said, and now he has. The secret to repetition is choosing when and how it ends.

A shot of pure joy; as if his heart jumped, or something did, his gullet, Adam’s apple, esophagus. Something jammed in his throat. To have gotten it right for once. The day is a window I can close. See everything now, one last time, without trying to grasp it. See it and let it go.

A pigeon flutters in a shaft of light in the stairwell. Fifty-Seventh Street. The screech of a train rises up, and a gust of subway-station air, which always smells and tastes the same. Machine oil. Straining brakes. Rainwater pooling on the tracks. He drinks it in.

Alexander Wilcox, Lawyer in Holocaust Art Fraud

When did he write that? Two or three months into the grief group; that would put it in 2005 or 2006, the middle Bush years, when he billed nearly nothing but pro bono hours reviewing pointless appeals from Clare Hynes at the NYCLU. Six or eight hours a day looking at photographs of torture victims, and then two hours of grief group, three nights a week, Monday Wednesday Thursday. He wasn’t drinking then. He was done with drinking. Naomi was drinking. He was going to grief group, and when Dr. Simmons-Cheng said, bear with me on this, it sounds insane, writing your own obituary, but we all do it on the inside anyway, and that’s what group is about, it’s about bringing out everything, no filters, no boundaries, he went home and filed five hundred words in crisp Times copy. It took fifteen minutes.

Alexander Wilcox, Lawyer in Holocaust Art Fraud

Alexander Wilcox, a lawyer who exposed his own client as the perpetrator of the largest known fraudulent claim on art seized during the Holocaust, died on _______ of ________. He was _____ years old and lived in Manhattan.

Wilcox, who was known as Sandy, was a young partner at Fein Lewin in 1992 when he was contacted by Irwin Klaufelt, a wealthy Cleveland industrialist. Klaufelt claimed he was grandson and heir to Jonas Klaufelt, a garment manufacturer and then art dealer in Bavaria who before World War II owned one of the world’s largest private collections of Netherlandish art, including a Rembrandt etching of one of his own ancestors, the rabbi Manasseh ben Israel. Wilcox aided Klaufelt in recovering a related set of Rembrandt etchings, with an estimated worth of at least $1 million, from a Swiss art dealer in 1996.

In 2000, Wilcox was contacted by distant relatives of Jonas Klaufelt, living in Israel, who suggested that Irwin Klaufelt was an impostor. After conducting his own investigation, Wilcox negotiated with the Manhattan district attorney’s office and was able to protect Fein Lewin from a criminal indictment for malpractice. Irwin Klaufelt was later convicted of two counts of wire fraud. He suffered a stroke and died before his sentencing hearing in March 2001.

Wilcox returned to the public eye briefly in 2003 when his daughter Bering, 21, a peace activist, was killed by an Israel Defense Forces sniper during a protest in the West Bank village of Wadi Aboud. Following an international outcry, the Wilcoxes were asked to file charges in Israeli criminal court but declined.

Wilcox was married for ______ years to Naomi Schifrin Wilcox, the climate scientist and author of the bestseller The Shiva Hypothesis, who survives him, as do his daughter Winter and son, Patrick.

And now the beautiful revision:

Alexander Wilcox, a lawyer who exposed his own client as the perpetrator of the largest known fraudulent claim on art seized during the Holocaust, died Wednesday after falling from a window into the interior courtyard of his Upper West Side apartment building. Police said no foul play was suspected. He was 66.

So many satisfactions to be had in the brief obituary, the column stub, the quick take. No mention of Davenport, for instance. None of the nubby words that make up his version of the 1970s, like Oberlin or Zen master or Vermont. A slightly longer version would have to take in some of those uncomfortable lacunae. Decades of psychotherapy and a few years of outright analysis. Too predictable. Survived by his wife, Naomi, fellow-sufferer in a disastrous marriage. Too gloomy; too much like a Puritan epitaph. Where’s the spanner to throw in the works?

Naomi Schifrin Wilcox, whose biological father was the African American physicist John Downs, a fact she only confessed to her children in December 2001, in a Chinese restaurant on Sixty-Ninth Street—

No. Too much of a tangent.

Saved an unhappy marriage through decades of masturbation.

Too general; too pathetic; needs nuance.

Benefited from his sole experience with hallucinogens.

In San Francisco, in 1976, they had a friend named Dallas Goodyear. It’s a good story to think about now, traveling in the bardo of the subway, the birth or death canal, the liminal zone. Dallas was the first Black philosophy professor hired at Berkeley, also the first in non-Western philosophy, which meant he was responsible for everything from Avicenna to Zoroaster, though his own field was comparative shamanism. He’d done fieldwork in Korea and Peru. You met these people in the seventies: actual ostensible Americans who seemed like emissaries from a different planet. A few years later Dallas’s appointment was moved to Ethnic Studies and he quit in protest and moved to Chicago to teach at UIC, but for that year he was still an actual Berkeley professor: a tiny impish man, his hair bound up in a single long braid down his back, who wore only white clothes and no shoes. Sometimes the three of them drove out to the valley on weekends, canvassing farmworkers; Dallas spoke beautiful Spanish but could also get by in Mam and K’iche’ and several other Indigenous languages. Dallas playing with six kids in the wretched thin shade outside a tar-paper shack on an unnamed dirt road ten miles east of Fresno, across from twenty acres of lettuce, the irrigation sprinklers pumping chemicals in a fine rainbow mist every fifteen minutes. Learning all the kids’ names, tickling them, singing them folk songs from Puebla. Then climbing back into the cab of the United Farm Workers pickup and taking out a stack of papers on Descartes to grade.

Did he and Naomi have any idea, even then, how bad, how shameful, how isolated, things would get in their world, racially speaking? He loved Dallas. And was in awe of him. There’s no right order for those sentences: each precedes the other. He had never had a Black man as a personal friend, an intimate friend. And—this is the horror of it—never would again. The ghost of a father-in-law didn’t count. In the great racial retrenchment of the early eighties they lost touch with everyone: Shirl Watson, Naomi’s classmate at Berkeley, who dropped out before finishing her research to teach high school in Oakland. Damon and Charles from Boalt. Fred Paul, who played the clarinet at their wedding. The Apthorp, when they moved in, had a grand total of three Black families. By 1990 it was down to one. After the Central Park Five were convicted—those nightmarish years, the absolute nadir, Howard Beach Tawana Brawley Crown Heights—Bering looked across the dinner table at them and said accusingly, You guys have no Black friends at all.

What was he supposed to say? There’s always your grandfather? We are our own Black friends?

Having that thought makes his skin flex and contract, an unwatered cactus.

Dallas liked to laugh and slap him on the thigh. There was one Spanish radio station in the valley, KLT or KLP, and he played it loud, with the windows open, putting his arm around Sandy’s shoulders and insisting that they sing along. You want to know people, you have to get to know their songs, he said. Dallas’s hot meaty breath in his ear, as they rolled under that flat summer sky the color of jaundice. Everything felt necessary and significant under Dallas’s eye. That was the thing. He felt, maybe for the first and last time, seen.

And Dallas operated as a shaman himself, though he never used the word. It was under his guidance, as part of a study, that he and Naomi took psilocybin—just that one time. In the darkened living room of their apartment in North Beach, in January, on a cold night, an electric army heater wheezing in one corner. Candles everywhere. Lying next to each other on the kilim, covered in some kind of grass blanket Dallas had carried up six flights of stairs. He remembers the little dry knob dropped on his tongue, the sensation of Dallas’s fingers, a taste of dirt and sawdust. He was mortally afraid of choking on his own vomit and had carved a special foam prop to keep himself from rolling over onto his back.

There was a sensation of flying, which was also floating; he was aware of his limbs swimming around in a medium that wasn’t air or water, but some third thing. He had gills running up and down the sides of his body. He was a fetus, rotating in oil: it smelled and felt like oil, now, very clearly black petroleum. Now his ribs couldn’t take the pressure, and the bubble of breathable air around his head became an oval, squeezed smaller and smaller. The oil was suffocating him. He started singing “After the Gold Rush,” at the top of his lungs. That was hilarious. He was drinking the oil now; it flushed through him, it was poisoning him, but he remained alive, somehow, only covered in gray moss. He was weak and soft to the touch. He was spongy. He thought, I will come back here, to the place where I’ve swallowed all the poisons and survived.

He came to and Naomi was lying with her head in Dallas’s lap, silently weeping. As it turned out he hadn’t vomited at all. He drank some elderflower tea and sat cross-legged at Dallas’s feet, or as close as he could get, and told him what he’d seen. God, it was the seventies. He’d drooled into his beard; he desperately wanted a shower.

Dallas said, “You’ve received an unambiguous message.”

“It feels pretty damn ambiguous to me.”

“You’ve put yourself on a path of liberation,” Dallas said. “A new path. A dangerous path. You’re not the person your parents ever imagined you would be.”

“Get to the point.”

“That is the point. You may not get much farther than where you are right now. And that’s all right. One life isn’t very much time.”

“But I’m only twenty-four!”

“You could die right now, and it would still be meaningful.”

Naomi reached out and took his hand. “My soul is trapped and may never emerge,” she said. “That’s what Dallas says. And it’s true.”

It was all true. Never was anything in their lives more true. His quest for liberation peaked at age twenty-four, and Naomi remained a trapped soul, unable (as of about 1982) even to call herself a soul. Forty-two years later, and it’s all the same. He wants to laugh. Cut through the weight of their circumstances, their possessions, their accumulated griefs, as if you’re slicing a cross-section through a mountain of guano, and there you have it: Sandy and Naomi in profile. In utero. In shit instead of amber. They tried so hard to free themselves, and for what?

He should have written to Dallas, should have found a way to reach him, to find out the conclusions of his study. If it was ever completed.

* * *

It’s the weather, the dry wind sweeping across West Seventy-Eighth from Hackensack. The land wind, the continental drift. Climbing the last few stairs out of the subway, back into the light, he feels his corneas begin to water. Eyes always leaking now that he’s cleared sixty-five. Am I moved, he asks himself, am I still congested? He should be arguing with himself now; it should be a contest, a debate, with citations on both sides. He read the halakhic literature on suicide long ago, in connection with a bizarre case involving a Lubavitcher family, a tennis academy in Rockland County, and a diamond merchant from Scottsdale; he knows the arguments around the divine spark and the offense of presumption of G-d’s will. It all melts away. He craves something else, immutable and immovable, not open to dispute.

I’m getting bitter, he’s thinking, bitter and maudlin, exactly how I promised myself I wouldn’t be. Losing my resolve. Not on Primo Levi Day. The fear of being lugubrious and maudlin. I should have a band behind me. “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot.” I want to hear music. The impulse glows and fades. It’s not a day for celebration, exactly. It’s the quiet after the party is over.

* * *

Because he found family life unbearable and life without a family unbearable.

Because he tried, for fifteen years, which is long enough.

Because, biblically, his children abandoned him, and his wife abandoned him.

Because the world’s vital signs are at an ebb. Because the body politic he clings to has been rolled, set upon, kicked into a corner, and offered only the faintest, saddest semblance of resistance. Perpetually indignant, shamed by its hypocrisies, tripped by its compromises, addicted to throat-clearing on the op-ed pages of the New York Times, above all made complacent by the easy life. The life of constant small adjustments and upgrades. And he’s no different. Fallen into his life, recessed, barely able to read the paper, and now, for these brief few weeks, obsessed only with planning and curating his exit.

Not just no different. When we came back from Vermont, he remembers telling Brisman, more than once, in eighteen years of sessions, I was convinced we could still have an enlightened existence, here in the city, detached and engaged all at once, compassionate and purposeful. I mean we were senior meditators, for Christ’s sake, I thought, You can’t just wipe away the sheer depth of perception you gain from thousands of hours of zazen. And yet it was wiped away, in a heartbeat, I mean for a few years we were carried along in the torrent of child-raising, once Bering was born, especially, the sheer stress of the three of them howling like little jackals—we woke up sometime around 1989, after Naomi’s tenure case was finally settled, and realized we were no more than the sum of our resentments, we were caught in the obverse of Indra’s net, the narcissistic prism of so much seriously unfinished business, the price any couple pays for getting married at twenty-two, only slightly exaggerated by certain karmic residues—

What Sensei always said. When the great truth is forgotten, only the great lie remains.

White, he said to Louis once, is something no one can actually be. Except maybe Swedes and Norwegians. No American can be white, in the simple declarative sense. They have to say it defensively, antagonistically. I’m white and it’s not my fault. And Louis said, actually putting a hand on his shoulder—they were sitting on a bench near the Great Lawn, waiting out one of Patrick and Jacob’s interminable baseball games—It’s all right, man, it’s going to be all right. Someday she’ll be ready. Give her time.

The kids will be fucking traumatized, he said, when she finally gets around to telling them it’s not just that they tan easily.

The wind crosses him again as he crosses Broadway for the last time, so that he has to lean into it, so that it holds him up like a scarecrow. Women flattening skirts, newspapers whirling. The land wind. I’m sick of walking, he hums to himself. I’m done with walking. He thinks of the Audi, nestled in the dark, three inches to spare on all sides, the battery probably on its last legs. When was the last time it was inspected? Before Naomi left they’d been meaning to sell it, then he insisted on keeping it. We’ve had two cars all these years, he said, now you’re saying we should go down to zero? Plus, I might want to come visit you.

Yeah—she said. Yeah with a high intonation, as if with another unvoiced word attached. Yeah, right. Yeah, you bet. Yeah, that’s likely.

This was last July, when she was packing, when he still thought a one-year fellowship was a one-year fellowship, and then noticed a slab of boxes in the little study, tied up like a gift with plastic cord, delivered neat from the movers. There were movers? Look, she said, I bought a house there. Might as well put some stuff in it. We’re bursting at the seams. I’m going to get some of Winter’s college paintings framed. I want it to feel like a home.

Which was an odd phrasing, he thought at the time. Not myhome or our home. What it did mean, absolutely, was what Naomi said when she’d packed the Subaru, filling every inch of the back with plants—most of the surviving plants from the front windowsill, in fact, some of which had been there for thirty years, growing rust rings around their bases, living on milky, striated apartment light, waves of radiator heat, and a baseline ambient degree of human pain. They’d probably had a slight anesthetic quality, these plants, the way the Northeastern US forests absorb carbon—not enough to make a difference, but a gesture, nonetheless.

Naomi said, “You know I’m not going to be back for a while.”

“Yeah,” he said, “I can tell.”

“Simon’s already circulating a rumor that Columbia’s going to try to fire me. For moving the lab.”

“Columbia can’t fire you.”

“I’m not saying they can,” she said, “I’m saying they can see which way the wind is blowing, which for geophysicists is saying a lot.”

And with that she gave him a good, substantial kiss, a schmack; passed a hand over his chest, patted him, as if to reassure herself that he still existed; and hopped into the driver’s seat.

“Call me when you pass Hartford,” he said.

“I’m not planning to stop,” she said. Gripping the steering wheel with both hands now, staring straight ahead. “I’ll call you when I get there.”

* * *

Still alive, he returns to his apartment.

There were times in the early years, coming home from work, when he would stop on the street and stare up at it with a flutter of disbelief. Of course it helped that Naomi would be upstairs with Bering draped over one shoulder, Winter howling with wet undies in the bathroom, Patrick poised for a flying leap off the couch. Anyone would hesitate and take a breath. When William Waldorf Astor visited New York in 1905 and handed prints of the Pitti Palace to Clinton and Russell and said, make it something of that kind, he intended the passerby to stare. A three-story arch. Cobblestones around the fountain, just visible from the street. Putti under the eaves. Laurels. Gilded antelope heads. A fucking loggia on the roof. And yet somehow it’s neither a folly nor a Gilded Age birthday cake. It stands up straight. Massive. At the time of construction it was the largest apartment building in the world. Made for people to live in, though not, perhaps, in Astor’s imagination, shrinks, dentists, oboists, and CUNY professors. Certainly not Jews in such profusion. To think of Astor wandering the halls, circa 1986, say, on the first night of Hanukkah, the smell of frying latkes seeping into his ghostly pores!

How many are left? In 2008, when the condo conversion finally happened, there were 79 stabilized and 17 rent-controlled out of 163 total units, with 27 vacant. Ninety-five layabouts and leeches on the new management’s good graces, which meant, according to Anglo Irish Bank logic, that there would have to be about sixty upstanding billionaires willing to pay $3,000 a square foot for a building with no pool, no gym, no view of the park or the river. Just Gilded Age street cred. No wonder it’s been a roiling sea of litigation ever since. Twice teetering on the very brink of default. Three of the light fixtures on his floor are still busted. Last he heard they were slashing prices so hard it might almost be worth inquiring about an insider deal. But for what? So he could own a slice of some Massapequa slimeball’s private equity wet dream?

All those years he spent hating the tenant life. Kissing Reynaldo’s ass so he’d come up in the middle of the night when the Fitkowskis’ pipes broke and water was running down the walls. All that regulation paint going from white to gray and then flaking off and then having to threaten to call in Housing Court before they repainted. Begging Naomi to look at the Real Estate section. When duplexes on West End and town houses by the park were going for a song. All that animosity, all those poisoned Sundays—

Your body is a rental car, Sensei used to say. In this city, this life, this Earth.

He stands in the entryway, surveying the scene. The battered Shaker bureau. The antique mirror he inherited from Uncle Philip, growing a little smokier at the edges year by year. The double rows of coat hooks along the opposite wall, now empty except for his winter overcoat and rain parka, and at the other end, a long burgundy robe. Patrick left it the last time he was back from Nepal, thirteen years ago. A newly minted home-leaver, returning home for some rugelach and an infusion of cash, and in all other ways so like his former self that despite carrying almost nothing—robes, sandals, backpack, laptop—he managed to leave his spare robe behind for someone else to worry about.

There were entire years—forget it, the better part of two decades—when it was physically impossible to keep the entire apartment clean all at once. You could sponge the counters and mop the kitchen, but then someone would have left the toilet in the rear bathroom wadded and overflowing. This was a given. Then in 2005 they decided, without quite discussing it, to remove every last encrustation of their child-rearing years. He hired an interior designer and an architect to repaint every surface, redid the floors, new cabinets, new appliances. He’d thought Naomi would love it. When she came back from teaching summer lab in Boulder and stood in the entryway—right where he’s standing now—she merely shrugged. “It looks like the inside of a catalog,” she said.

“Is that good or bad?”

“Is it what you wanted?”

“More or less.”

“Well then I guess the joke’s on me.”

It was the last conversation they had about décor of any kind, except the couches: she could never stand the couches. Despised them. Too low. Too flat. Too shiny. They were Roche Bobois; they cost fifteen thousand dollars each. Finally he caved; it was the night of Obama’s first victory, the first time they’d actually sat next to each other on the couch watching TV in years, eating popcorn, talking with Winter on the speakerphone, and he said, when it was all over, you know, Naomi, get the couches you want. Just do it. Life is short. And a week later some Albanians in an unmarked truck delivered these swollen brown leather things, whalelike, sofas you’d buy to match the chairs at the Harvard Club. Hate couches. That’s how he thinks of them. And then, a few years later, the hate TV. That thing belongs in a frat house, ...