"The Love Elixir of Augusta Stern"

[fiefoe]

Lynda Cohen Loigman's breezy light fantasy about a pair of long-separated lovers is a relief after a string of gloomy reads.

• Since Augusta’s mother’s death, everything in the apartment drooped with grief. <> Augusta knew that her father was still stuck in the quicksand of his sorrow. At the store, he managed to keep up with his duties. But at home, he had a more difficult time. There was a barrier between him and his daughters now, as if he were standing behind a screen—one sheer enough so that they could see him, but opaque enough to blur all his edges.
• She was indulged not only because of her age, but because of her wide-ranging wisdom and talents. Esther could pluck a chicken faster than anyone in the neighborhood. She could get black ink stains out of white shirt cuffs and bloodstains out of almost anything. She could remove a cinder from a customer’s eye with less pain and fuss than her nephew, who had been providing the service in his store for the better part of fifteen years.
• A beam of moonlight shone in from the window, illuminating Esther’s long silver hair. Augusta rarely saw Esther without her headscarf, and the vision was almost otherworldly. Wrapped over her plain white nightdress was a robe Augusta did not recognize. It was long and silky, a deep sapphire blue, unlike anything she’d seen her aunt wear before. There was a haunting and powerful beauty about the woman that Augusta had previously failed to notice... A multitude of scents swirled around them—ginger and garlic, rosemary and yarrow, cinnamon and horehound, lemon and hyssop. There were other scents, too, for things she could not think to name. Augusta shut her eyes, and when she opened them, the scents in the room shifted yet again, smelling now of solace, of something wholesome and strong. A vision of Irving—healthy once more—filled her mind, as if Esther had conjured it out of the moonlight. <> Esther emptied the contents of the mortar onto a waiting square of plain white muslin. The powder on the fabric sparkled like sunshine reflecting off a pile of freshly fallen snow. It shimmered like the wings of a firefly on a hot summer night. As Esther tied the pouch shut with a piece of string, Augusta swore she could see the light melt away.
• This time—for Augusta’s benefit—she whispered the names of her ingredients: pomegranate seeds, black cohosh, stinging nettle, raspberry leaves, viburnum. The spicy aroma of licorice root hit the back of Augusta’s nostrils. <> The moon showed itself as if Esther had summoned it, peering in through the window like a dutiful friend, illuminating the mortar until the brass seemed to glow. As she ground the ingredients, she hummed her strange song. An entreaty. A wish. An incantation. A prayer. The pestle blazed bright from between her long fingers, until the room smelled of potency, abundance, and hope.
• Zip’s laugh was warm and cold at the same time. “Well, Irving, I’m real appreciative of what you did for my Sammy, and I’m happy you came to see me today. If you ever need anything, you let me know.
• Even from behind, with her hair in a swim cap, he had been certain it was her. And when she turned around, it had taken all his self-control not to blurt out that he’d thought about her almost every day for the past sixty-two years... Goldie looked exactly like herself, with every expression he remembered intact. When she pulled away from him, he wasn’t insulted. It was exactly the reaction he knew she would have—annoyed, stunned, exasperated. By eighty, most people had lost their mettle. But Goldie still had plenty to spare. It was like the line from that Shakespeare play he’d read in his continuing education class at Florida Atlantic University last year: “Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale her infinite variety.”
• The care with which she did so made Irving’s heart ache. It seemed to him that Goldie had sprinted to Birnbaum even more quickly than she’d run to him when he’d collapsed on the tennis court. Had he read that incident incorrectly? Was Goldie simply the kind of woman who ran toward others in a crisis?
• “Mama used to say that the three strands of the challah are meant for truth, peace, and justice.” <> “A lovely explanation,” said Esther. “But why not past, present, and future? Braiding is associated with strength, is it not? Why not beauty, honor, and strength? And what of a loaf with more than three strands? Six strands may be the six days of the week, leading up to the day of rest. Eight strands may mean new beginnings, as in the way we circumcise a child on the eighth day after birth. My mother used to make a twelve-stranded loaf, to represent the twelve tribes of Israel.”... I could offer many more interpretations, but the point is, there isn’t one explanation. Things are never as straightforward as we want them to be, Goldie. Why must I choose a single solution when the truth lies somewhere in between them all?”
• How could her father ask her to choose between the enigmatic splendor of Esther’s work and the solid satisfaction of his own? Between the thrill of a patch of kitchen moonlight and the security of the prescription room? Why couldn’t he see that they were equally powerful? Why couldn’t he appreciate the beauty in both?
• Only when they were in the pool did the barrier between them fade and the awkwardness subside. In the water, Augusta’s mind played tricks on her. Place was irrelevant, time turned backward. In the water, she was back at Coney Island, laughing and swimming with her sister. She could hear her mother during their lessons. Don’t forget to stop and breathe. When Augusta was swimming and her body was occupied, her mind expanded in unforeseeable ways. She was meeting Irving for the first time. She was in the kitchen with Aunt Esther. <> In the water, Augusta could remember the subtle magic of her youth.
• Augusta guessed she was in her late forties—older than Augusta’s mother would have been, and yet not so very far off. Her beauty was like the ocean in winter—cold and splendid in its austerity.
• “Because there is still good that we can do. Because sometimes our remedies can cure. Because we can bear witness to a woman who suffers when her doctors refuse to see her pain. Because even when we cannot heal, a bowl of chicken soup can offer comfort.”
• When Prohibition started, the government took all the alcohol off the market. Pharmacists can sell it for medicinal purposes, but only when a customer has a prescription.” <> Augusta had seen the special forms. Customers were allowed one pint every ten days, as long as they brought in a new prescription each time... pharmacies can still get quality whiskey—bottled-in-bond at 100 proof, aged, and stamped by the U.S. government. Which means that everyone wants what we’re selling.”... They set up fake pharmacies so their bookkeepers could make everything look good on paper. They paid off the distributors and the warehouse operators and got their hands on the alcohol withdrawal permits to make sure everything ran smoothly. But the government started cracking down on the permits. So now the racketeers have been forcing pharmacy owners to go into business with them.”
• Her reflection was a kaleidoscope of buried memories. The sapphire fabric was the evening sky outside her half-open Brooklyn window, it was Esther’s silk robe in the kitchen at midnight, and the bottles of Higgins inks on her father’s store shelves. The trim at the edges of her skirt and sleeves was the silver in Esther’s graying hair, the giant stockpot on the kitchen stove, and the band of her sister’s wedding ring. In the mirror, Augusta’s pewter eyes were the same as her mother’s before she got sick: filled with uncomplicated delight. <> Past and present, joy and sorrow mingled together in the shining glass. Augusta wasn’t merely her eighty-year-old self—she was fourteen and sixteen, two and twelve.
• “You kept it? After all this time?” It was almost too much for her to take in, the way the echoes of her past were increasingly finding their way into her present. The air in the library felt thick with wonder;
• I’m perfectly fine. Although getting the Jell-O out of my ears was a lot harder than you might think.”
• The truth was, no one worked for Zip anymore—not since his wife Mitzi had taken over. Zip Diamond’s health was going downhill fast, and in the wake of his steady decline, now his wife was giving the orders. <> Of course, no one was allowed to know. The number one rule of working for Mitzi was that Zip’s illness was never to be revealed to anyone. That was why Mitzi hired Irving. He had no stake in the organization; he didn’t know anyone in her business. Irving Rivkin was a complete outsider, and because he had no interest in rising up through the ranks, Mitzi knew he would never squeal about Zip to any of his competitors.
• For a moment, Augusta could remember what it felt like to believe—not in the magic of witches or fairies, but in the magic of women who knew how to heal; the magic of women in the quiet of their kitchens, who could sweeten a bitter woman’s heart or soothe a man’s temper with a cup of tea. The ones who knew how to bring down a fever, assuage a toothache, or quiet a child with nothing more than a spoonful of honey, a gentle hand, and a few whispered words.
• In all the years since Evie has been gone, I have never once looked at another woman, but now, with you—”
  “NO!” Irving shouted, pounding his fist on the table with such force that the olive at the bottom of Augusta’s martini glass quivered. “Are you kidding me with this crap, Nathaniel? After we had that whole talk? You’re going to do this to me AGAIN?”
  Nathaniel sank back into his chair, looking utterly confused. “What did I say? What did I do?”
  “The same thing you did sixty-two years ago when I told you I was going to ask Augusta to marry me!”
• He bit his lip until he tasted blood. “And what if … what if I say no?”
  Mitzi Diamond’s laugh was as lifeless as Freddie Schechter’s open eyes.
• There were so many women who wanted her help, so many women who felt overlooked by their doctors. They see an old woman with gray hair, said Brenda, and they assume we’re all exaggerating. Meanwhile, when my husband goes for his appointment, they treat his cold like it’s the bubonic plague!