Free Swimming Across the Hudson by Joshua Henkin Page B

and a brilliant researcher at the NIH. Not one or the other, but both.”
    â€œBen—what was she like?”
    â€œShe was a little pushy, I guess. But I couldn’t have expected her to be calm.”
    I tried to sum up the meal for Jenny, yet everything I said felt inadequate.
    â€œHow long will she be here?”
    â€œI don’t know. I was meaning to ask her, but I forgot. I’m starting to think this is just the beginning.”
    â€œOf what?”
    â€œI thought this would be like opening a curtain—I’d see what was behind it, and that would be that. But you open the curtain, and there’s another one behind it. And another and another.”
    Jenny said nothing.
    â€œSusan makes earrings,” I said. “That’s part of the reason she’s here. Because of me, of course, but also because some stores in San Francisco want to sell her work.”
    â€œShe’s an artist?”
    I nodded. “I’m embarrassed to say this, but it made a difference to me. It made her seem more substantial.”
    I wrote my parents, wanting to tell them what had happened, as if failing to do so would be a betrayal. I tried to assume a breezy tone—both casual and reassuring.
    Dear Mom and Dad,
    I had lunch with my birth mother today. We had a nice time. She doesn’t look like me—at least I don’t think so. Do you think I look like you? They say that when you live with someone long enough you begin to resemble them. Some people even start to look like their pets. I’m glad things weren’t reversed—that I wasn’t raised by Susan and meeting you two for the first time. Think of all the catching up we’d have to do.
    The weather’s warm here. That’s one of the nice things about California. I’ve almost forgotten what snow looks like. Remember the story you once told me, Mom? How the first time you saw snow you thought it was sugar piled on the cars?
    Teaching is going pretty well. My students think I ask them to memorize too much, but Jonathan tells me they’ll be grateful for this someday. Short-term memory goes first, hesays, but his patients recall a lot from their childhoods. So I can be confident that, sixty years from now, my students will be able to recite the Gettysburg Address. Remember what we learned in “Ethics of the Fathers,” Dad? How when a child learns, it’s like ink written on new paper, but when an old person learns, it’s like ink written on paper that’s been erased?
    Jenny’s doing well. She continues to keep long hours, working hard to defend people in trouble. I think you both would be proud of her. Whoever said that our generation is selfish—that we have no interest in politics and just sit around watching MTV—hasn’t met Jenny. I hope you’ll get to know her better and recognize what I see in her.
    Tara is good too. We get along most of the time, although she thinks I know nothing about fractions.
    I love you, Mom and Dad. I hope you’re doing well.
    Love,
    Ben   
    I went to Jonathan’s house to tell him I hadn’t been born Jewish. I’d waited long enough. My news would come across as something serious, something I’d contemplated for a while.
    But he didn’t seem interested or surprised.
    â€œDid you know?” I asked.
    â€œI suspected it. What were the chances your father’s real name was Abraham?”
    â€œThere are lots of Jewish Abrahams.”
    â€œLike who?”
    â€œAbe Beame, for one.” We used to pretend that Abe Beame was my father. Mayor Beame, who’d brought New York City to the brink of bankruptcy. We’d been in sixth grade when that had happened.In the next Democratic primary for mayor, we handed out leaflets for Mario Cuomo before he lost in the run-off to Ed Koch.
    â€œIf it’s any consolation,” Jonathan said, “I’ll give you my Jewish birth. It’s more important to