Oedipus in Brooklyn and Other Stories. Blume Lempel

night. But they never invited each other into their homes. The garden brought them together, and as the garden blossomed, so did the friendship — but never did it cross their thresholds.

      Now, when the widow knocks at the door, Betty greets her with undisguised amazement. She isn’t sure whether to invite her in or deal with her in the doorway. Sensing her hesitation, Mrs. Zagretti steps in without ceremony. “Close the door,” she says. “No sense letting the heat out.”

      Mrs. Zagretti removes her coat but not the black shawl covering her head. She sits down and fingers her rosary as if she were seated before the priest in a confession booth rather than in a Jewish home.

      Betty flutters around her guest, making coffee and waiting for her to speak.

      “Why didn’t you go to your son at the store?” she asks. “Is something wrong?”

      Mrs. Zagretti stares at her neighbor in surprise. “Ah, you notice everything,” she says. “No, I couldn’t bring myself to do business on a day like today.”

      Betty sips her coffee and studies her older neighbor out of the corner of her eye. Mrs. Zagretti has not touched her coffee. Something has definitely happened, Betty decides. Or is today a religious holiday? No, it has to be something personal — the shadow clouding her neighbor’s face attests to that. Her nose seems sharper than ever and her cheeks are sunken, with no sign of their summer color. Only the severe black line of her eyebrows hints at her former radiance.

      Mrs. Zagretti sits silently, absorbed in herself — until suddenly she stands up and makes a sweeping gesture with her hand. “Too bad your walls are so bare!” she exclaims.

      “What do you mean?” Betty asks.

      “The people before you had holy pictures on the walls.”

      “But Jews don’t put up religious pictures,” Betty says.

      “A house without a picture, my mother used to say, is like a heart without a god,” Mrs. Zagretti says. “When I pray to God, I need a picture in front of me.”

      “We Jews carry God in our hearts,” Betty says, an edge in her voice.

      “I know,” says Mrs. Zagretti, “I know you do. I often see you standing by the window. Only people who are close to God have such a look. I understand people, you know — maybe not with my brains but with something I got from my ancestors. I have a feeling you have that something inside you, too, Betty. That’s why I find it easier to talk to you than to my daughter-in-law, my son, or even my priest.”

      “Thank you, Mrs. Zagretti,” Betty says. “You’re too kind.”

      The widow doesn’t answer. She hurries down the hall to the doorway. Her face lights up with a summery smile as she tightens the shawl around her head and buttons her coat. A hidden hand seems to have erased the wrinkles from her face. She clears her throat and says, “Can you imagine a person feeling close to a fly?”

      “To a what?”

      “A fly,” Mrs. Zagretti says. “A housefly. Do you know what I mean?”

      “I think so,” Betty answers. “Yes, of course I do.”