NORA
EISENBEl~G
91
porous negotiations, we realize that our parents are gone. Then we see
them, out in the bay, their backs to us, their arms entwined, their heads
touching. They aren't moving, and they look like they can't.
"Are they dead?" [ ask Nick, for, of course, death's on my mind.
In
contempt, my brother throws some sand at my face. "You're not
dead if you're upright. Look, 1110ron, they're standing up.
I don't say, Maybe the Rosenbergs would be dead and sitting up. I
say, "They're weird. They're not moving."
The next second we're both running to them, calling to them.
When they turn, we see that their faces are red and wet with tears.
"They're dead?" we say together, meaning, of course, the
Rosenbergs.
Our parent shake their heads. No. There's been a stay. The
Rosenbergs won't be killed that day.
"So why are you crying?" [ ask.
"We're happy," my 1T1Other says.
"We're very happy," our father says, opening his arms so we can join
the huddle. "Justice has been done."
The perfect sun, the white sand, the water cheerful with popsicle
sticks bobbing like little boats, my parents connected like Siamese twins,
my father opening his arms to us. Happy. Very Happy. Justice done.
How [ still remember that day - the unexpected peace and possibil–
ity descending like grace. The day they stayed the Rosenbergs' execution
a week before they died.
Nick says we celebrated by eating lobster rolls at the fish stand at the
end of City Island. I don't remember that - just the feel of all our bod–
ies squished together with bay water and sand, that sweet feel of reprieve
as we hug each other tight.
