Day of Atonement

So be it. There was only so much changing he could do and he’d be damned if he became one of them.

He thought about Rina, about how much she had eased up. She’d become calmer when they were around other Orthodox people, had stopped making excuses for his mistakes of ritual ignorance. Instead, she’d shrug them off as if they were no big deal. Infinitely better than that nervous little laugh she used to let out every time he made a faux pas.

Lord, they were different. A year ago, they were having problems and Rina had to get away from him, had to escape. Out of all the places she could have run to, she chose Boro Park.

It amazed him.

It was a small community, easy to get a feel for. The numbered streets were residential—rows of small brick houses, each one with a modicum of individual trim, but collectively they were hard to tell apart. Landscaping was kept to a minimum—small patches of brown lawn, denuded trees, not one hint of color from flowers or shrubbery. Maybe that wasn’t a fair assessment. Eastern foliage was deciduous, stripped by cold weather. He’d been judging it by L.A. standards, where the grass was green all year long. Rina had told him these homes could go for a million or more. Even with an Angeleno’s jaundiced eye, he was astounded.

He took a deep breath, his nostrils tingling from cold and the smells leaking from steamy kitchen windows. Every now and then, shouts could be heard—a mother scolding her children, a spat between husband and wife, a slamming door. The town didn’t seem to place a premium on privacy. Couldn’t possibly survive if it did, the houses built on top of one another.

New York—crowded and crowding. Everyone hemmed in. Decker longed to elbow the city in the ribs.

Give me some room, Mama.

The avenues seemed to be the business districts, storefronts gazing down narrow strips of bitten asphalt. The shops sold products that served the special needs of the community.

IZZY’S HATS; HOLIDAY SPECIAL FOR REBLOCKING. The place was nothing more than an aisle with racks of black hats.

ROCHEL’S SHAYTELS—this time the racks were full of wigs, as if some scalper had hit the mother lode.

CANNERY ROW—a store devoted to kosher dry and canned goods—all of the products certified by the Union of Orthodox Rabbis. This building was two-storied, the second floor occupied by Mendel the Scribe.

That’s what the upstairs window sign said—MENDEL THE SCRIBE: KETUBAHS AND GETS.

Wedding certificates, divorce certificates. Mendel was a man for all seasons.

Next to CANNERY ROW was GAN EDEN—the Garden of Eden. This outlet sold only fruits and vegetables. Inside was one long gondola covered with a thick plastic tarp. A handmade sign stood atop the tarp like a flag on a ship, announcing a sale on fresh horseradish root.

Little storefronts, locked tight with metal accordion grating, the display windows frosted with age. No community standards when it came to the outdoor signs—some were neon, some were lit with old-fashioned blinking bulbs, some were hand-lettered jobs. Placards were hanging on the doors of the Jewish establishments; on them were written the Hebrew words: SHANA TOVA TIKATEVU.

Happy New Year. May you be written in the book of life.

Between the shops were shtiebels—tiny, no-frills synagogues, many without pulpit rabbis. All had signs wishing people a Happy New Year.

His mind flashed to the holiday caveat: Only three things can avert the evil decree. Ten days between the New Year and the Day of Atonement—the holiest day in the Jewish calendar. Ten days to right the spiritual and physical wrongs. Sins were expunged by immersing the soul in prayer, doing proper penitence, and giving charity. He thought: Ten days allowed for a lot of breathing space.

Down the road was GLUCK’S SEPHARIM: RELIGIOUS BOOKS AND ARTICLES. Decker peered through the steel gate, inside the window. The place looked dusty. Or maybe it just appeared dusty because it was chock-full of books; the shelves seemed to be double and triple stacked, piles of tomes that reached the ceiling. Did the proprietor even know what he had in stock?

Yeah, he probably did. If he was anything like Decker’s father, he knew the store inside out. Ask Lyle Decker where anything in his hardware store was, he’d tell you.

Two-prong plug converter? Third aisle, left side …’bout two thirds of the way down, third shelf, right next to the threeway light switches.

Randy telling him, One of these days we should take inventory, Dad. Really organize the place.

You do that and I won’t be able to find a dern thing.

The air had turned biting, a bank of gunmetal clouds trying to block out the heat and light of the sun. But the mighty orb was fighting back, a burning white disk simmering in a sea of gray. The temperature was hovering in the low thirties. Decker blew hot breath onto his ungloved hands, turned up the collar on his overcoat, and moved on.

GITTEL’S BAKERY—HALAV YISROEL.

JERUSALEM GLATT KOSHER MEAT MARKET—CHICKENS FOR KAPPAROS.

The ritual of Kapparos—symbolically transferring sins to a chicken. A cock was used for a man, a hen for a woman. The chicken was swung in the air three times, special words were recited, then the bird was slaughtered and given to the poor as an act of charity. Some used money in lieu of chickens. The ritual was just custom, not law. In Decker’s mind, it seemed like a very primitive custom. Yet these old rituals had become part and parcel of the religion.

Just a hundred years ago, thousands of Jews had poured into America, working ninety hours a week for a better life, for a chance to get out of the ghetto. But for some, so much freedom had seemed too frightening.

Solution: Why not bring the ghetto into America?

And Rina chose this voluntarily.

In all fairness, Decker knew that American affluence had brought on a host of trouble. Teenage children with adult problems—alcoholism, drug addiction, abortions, divorce. Confused adults running for cover.

Some of the assimilated Jews dealt with the pressure by going inward, seeking a God higher than a BMW. They joined the cults, est, environmental groups, or the society of animal activists and spray-painted fur coats in the name of Good. A handful went back to their roots and became traditional. The “Orthodox from birth” Jews seemed to go it one step farther, deliberately shutting out the modern world altogether.

Almost none of the ultra-Orthodox families owned TVs, few read Time or Newsweek because some of the pictures featured women in “prurient” attire. U.S. News and World Report was the big periodical around these parts. Movies were out, as was popular fiction. Too explicit, though Decker was sure there was a housewife or two with a Danielle Steel novel squirreled away.

He thought: It was good that he’d met Rina. His secular ways kept her from going over the edge. He’d also make damn sure that her boys could support themselves. Many of these children didn’t bother with college—although their parents had. Instead, they opted to learn at a yeshiva, their parents or wives or in-laws supporting them.

No way he’d let the boys live on the dole.

He paused, then thought: Kids had a way of doing whatever they wanted. Just mind your own business, Deck, and let Rina worry about the boys. Besides, it was a ways off.

Decker had walked ten blocks before he realized that the neighborhood had started to change, the Jewish stalls replaced by video rental and liquor stores. He wondered whether any of the religious kids ever forayed into this neck of the woods. Did an invisible wall keep these Jews as insulated from the goyim as the Roman walls had three hundred years ago?

The Levine family flashed through his mind—the youngest son a Conservative rabbi.

And now Decker was Orthodox.

Win a few, lose a few.

He turned around and headed back to the Lazarus house, choosing to take another route, passing a kosher deli, then a little café. The café sign was written in both Hebrew and English and read: TEL AVIV—A DAIRY RESTAURANT—WE SERVE ESPRESSO AND CAPPUCCINO.

A modern reference in an ocean of Old World. He was heartened by the sight.

Decker entered the house through the front door, heard more female voices buzz-buzzing in the kitchen. The men had yet to return from the mikvah and he wondered where the boys were, wished they were around so he’d have someone to talk to.

For a moment he debated sneaking upstairs, locking the door, and reading until it was time for synagogue. But he knew that would set Rina off. Not that she minded his being by himself; she just wanted to know where he was and what he was doing.

After years of being single, he found this the hardest adjustment—having to explain your whereabouts to another person, scheduling your day with someone else in mind. Of course, he wanted to know where she was, but that was more for safety reasons.

Or so he told himself.

He slipped off his overcoat, draped it over his arm, and stood a few feet from the kitchen doorframe.

More women had showed up, the place as crowded as an ant farm. Through the bodies, he spied Rina’s back. She was engrossed in conversation with an older woman. The lady looked around fifty-five, maybe sixty, with a long face with deep-set eyes and a wide mouth. Her skin was shiny and moist from the steam, and she kept brushing locks of brunette wig off her forehead. She was a tall woman, not slender, not fat, perfectly proportioned and dressed in business clothing as if she were attending a board meeting instead of a kaffeeklatsch.

There was something familiar about her, something very eerie. He fought down a weird sensation of having seen her before.

But that was ridiculous. He’d never met her before in his life.

Someone called out the name Frieda and the woman turned around.

And then it became painfully clear to him.

The stifling heat, the walls of the house, everything suddenly closed in upon him. Two invisible malevolent hands had reached out to strangle him.

Mrs. Lazarus noticing him. Her lips forming the word—Akiva.

Had to get out.

Out of the house.

Out of New York.

Decker bolted before she could get his name out, was halfway down the block before he heard someone racing behind him. He didn’t turn around, couldn’t. Something intangible kept his head from pivoting. With great effort, he managed to stop running, but his legs kept pumping him forward. Finally, someone caught up with him.

“Peter, stop!”

Rina’s voice. She was out of breath.

Decker kept walking.

“Stop, for God’s sake!” Rina said. “I … I have a cramp in my side.”

But he kept going.

Gasping, Rina said, “What on earth has happened to you? You’re white.”

“I’m fine,” Decker mumbled out. He sounded winded himself. Rina noticed his choppy breathing.

“You’re not fine! Are you sick? Do you need a doctor?”

“It was hot in there,” Decker said. “That’s all.” He willed his legs to stop but they wouldn’t.

“Stop, will you!” Rina cried out.

Her voice—so desperate. He slowed his pace and said, “I just wanted to take a walk.”

“You just came back from a walk.”

“I wanted to take another one,” Decker said. “What the hell is wrong with that!”

His voice sounded foreign—full of rage. Full of fear.

“I need to be alone.”

“Peter, please …” She grabbed his arm. “I love you. Tell me what’s wrong!”

Decker stopped abruptly, picked her hand off his arm, and kissed her fingers. “I’ve got to be by myself now. I’m sorry, Rina, but please leave me alone.” He dropped her hand and ran off.

Six hours to kill with fifteen dollars and twenty-two cents spending cash. Decker had left the credit cards in the bedroom, so checking into a motel for the night was out of the question. Not that he’d do it, but he wished he had the option. He found a cab at Fourteenth and Fifty-eighth, slid onto the black bench seat and ran his hands over his face.

The cabbie was Indian or Pakistani—chocolate-brown skin with straight black hair and a name with a lot of double o’s and ini’s in it. After a minute of waiting, the driver said, “What can I do for you, sir?”

The “sir” came out like serrrrr. A rolling tongue gathers no moss. Decker felt mean and punch-drunk, realized he was probably scaring the poor guy.

“What’s there to see around here?” he growled.

“See?”

“Yeah, see,” Decker said. “Any interesting sights around here?”

“Around here?” the cabbie said. “Here is very, very Jewish area.”

Very, very came out veddy, veddy.

The cabbie went on, “Not much to see except Jews, but you can see a lot of them.”

Decker said, “There a public library around here?”

He needed someplace to think, someplace to figure out how to disappear for two days.

“There is Brooklyn Central Library,” the driver said. “It is located in a very pretty park. Shall I take you there, sir?”

Decker told him to take him there. The cabbie was bent on giving a guided tour.

“I go by Flatbush Avenue. A very, very long time ago, I thought it was the longest street in Brooklyn but it is not. Bedford is.”

The avenue at best was unremarkable, at worst it exemplified everything wrong with inner cities—old crumbling buildings, trash-strewn vacant lots, and gang-graffitied tenement housing. But the cabbie seemed oblivious to this, kept on talking about how Manhattan was for the rich, but Brooklyn was where the real people lived. Decker wasn’t sure whether he was jacking up the fare by taking a longer route or was just one of those rare, friendly guys.

“Brooklyn Museum is in Prospect Park, sir. The same architect that designed Central Park in Manhattan designed Prospect Park. A very, very pretty park. You can go boating, but not now. It is tooooo cold.”

Whatever the driver’s reasons were for the tour, Decker wished he would shut up. He had to calm down and the sucker was making him veddy, veddy antsy.

He had to calm down.

Of all the people to meet.

Maybe it wasn’t her. Just maybe it wasn’t. There could be dozens of Frieda Levines. (Levine? He’d remembered it as Levy or Levin.)

Frieda Levine—a common Jewish name, it could be equivalent to Mary Smith. But even as he tried to convince himself otherwise, he knew it was no use.

The picture. That old, old picture.

It was definitely her. Decker had sharp eyes, had matched too many disguised faces to too many mug shots not to see it.

Just age the damn face.

The cabbie stopped the lecture for a moment.

“Where are you from?” he asked.

“Los Angeles,” Decker said.

“Oh, L.A.,” the driver said. “Very, very good. If you want I can show you Ebbets field where your Dodgers used to play.”

“Just take me to the library.”

“Not much to see,” the cabbie went on, “a housing project now. But some people are very, very sentimental.”

“I’m not.”

“Are you interested in architecture, sir?” the driver said. “Or perhaps real estate? Two days ago I took a rich man to see the brownstones on Eastern Parkway. He was very, very impressed.”

Decker tightened his fists and said, “Just the library.”

“While you’re here, you should see the Grand Army Plaza. It has a very, very big arch.”

“I’ve seen loads of arches at McDonald’s.” Decker scowled.

“Oh, no,” the cabbie answered. “This one is not like that. It is much bigger. And older too.”

“I’m not interested in seeing any arch—”

“It is a very nice arch.”

Decker enunciated each word. “Just take me to the library.”

“We drive right past the arch to the library—”

“All right, show me the friggin arch!”

“Well, if you do not want to see the arch—”

“I want to see the arch,” Decker said. “In fact, I want to see the arch so badly that if I don’t see the arch, someone will pay.”

Decker looked in the rearview mirror. The cabbie’s mouth had frozen into an O. He steered the taxi by the arch, then took Decker to the library. Throughout the remaining portion of the trip, he didn’t say another word.

4

This was the alibi: He’d suddenly remembered an important detail to a very important case and he had to use a pay phone because it would have been a breach of ethics to let anyone else overhear him and he had to get in touch with Marge at the station house because someone’s life depended on it, well, not only someone’s life but the whole California judicial system—

Then Decker thought: Even the most complicated phone call in the world wouldn’t explain an absence of six hours. God’s judgment day around the corner and his mind was full of half-baked lies.

The night held a bitter chill, dampness oozing through his clothes and into his bones. His toes and fingers were as cold and stiff as marble. Used to the temperate zone all his life, he had blood the consistency of rubbing alcohol.

He came to the street, then the house. Lights shining through the windows, smoke undulating from the chimney. And the smells. He dreaded the people but the structure looked so damned inviting. Approaching the door, he turned up his collar, tried to mask his face as best he could. Just in case she happened to be there.

As he stepped onto the porch, he pulled his scarf over his head.

So they’d think him psychotic. Who the hell cared?

Rina swung open the door before he knocked. Her face held an expression of complete bafflement.

“Anyone home?” Decker whispered.

“Everyone’s gone to shul,” Rina said.

Crossing the threshold, Decker took the scarf off his head and pulled down his collar. He headed up the stairs, heard Rina following him. He swung open the door to the tiny bedroom and immediately stubbed his toe on the fold-out bed. Swearing, he sank down into the mattress and ran his hands across his face. The room was illuminated by a single sixty-watt table lamp that rested on the floor. The nightstand clock read six-fifty-two.

Rina sat next to him.

“Peter, you’re scaring the daylights out of me. What on earth is wrong? Did this massive dose of religion give you an anxiety attack or something?”

“Something.”

“Please, Peter,” Rina begged. “I deserve better than this—”

“What did you tell them?” Decker broke in.

“What?”

“What excuse did you make up for me when I stormed out of the house?”

“Something about your daughter … something you forgot to do for her.”

“Cindy’s a good excuse,” Decker said. “Much better than the one I’d concocted.”

Rina suddenly burst into tears. “We shouldn’t have come out here. I should have told them no.”

“Rina—”

“It’s all my fault,” she sobbed.

Decker put his arm around her and drew her near. “No, it’s not.”

“Yes, it—”

“It has nothing to do with religion,” Decker said. “It’s …” He stood, couldn’t even pace in a room this small. He said, “How are we going to sleep if we can’t turn the light off?”

“It’s on a timer,” Rina said.

Decker sat back down, stretched out on the bed, and buried his face in the blanket.

“You’re not going to tell me, are you?” Rina said.

He picked up his head, then sat up straight. “You’re right. You deserve better.” He said, “This afternoon. You were talking to a woman in the kitchen …”

“Yes?”

“She’s Frieda Levine, your mother-in-law’s best friend?”

“Yes. So what?”

He sucked in his breath. “She’s my mother.”

It took Rina a moment to assimilate what he was saying. She could only respond with a breathy what? Then she added a whispered oh my God.

“You said it,” Decker said.

“You’re sure—”

“Positive,” Decker said. “Faces are my business.”

Rina was struggling to find something to say, but all words had eluded her. All she could think of was that Peter didn’t look a thing like Frieda Levine. And she knew that was the wrong thing to say, so she remained silent.

Decker couldn’t sit any longer. He stood up and ran down the stairway, fully intending to run out the door. But he surprised himself and instead just paced the living-room carpet, further trampling the green-shag piling. The room was hot and bright, the crystal pieces giving off shards of color that splashed rainbows on the wall. As if that wasn’t enough, an illuminated three-tiered chandelier made a glitter dome out of the dining room. He felt as if he’d stepped inside a heat-resistant ice palace. He longed to sweep his arm across the tables, smash what was whole and watch it crumble to dust. His sense of self, shattered. All of it a facade. He spied Rina sitting on a couch, she looking as sick as he felt, and he turned to her.

“What the hell am I going to do?”

“I …” Rina sighed. “I don’t know.”

Decker said, “Rina, I look just like my father—the image of the man down to the coloring. The woman is going to take one look at me, start doing a little mental arithmetic, and faint.” He kept pacing. “Dear God, why did I ever come here? I knew she lived in New York. I knew she was an Orthodox Jew but I never ever considered the possibility of meeting up with her. Never! God, there are tens of thousands of Orthodox Jews in this city.”

“There are,” Rina said. “But we tend to live in concentrated areas. Peter, why didn’t you tell me your mother was from Boro Park?”

“My mother is from Gainesville, Florida—”

“You know what I mean.”

Decker forced himself to slow down. “Rina, I didn’t know that this Frieda person lived in Boro Park. The adoption papers said she was fifteen, Jewish, born in New York and that was it. As I investigated a little further, I discovered she was still living in New York and was married with five kids. I didn’t even know where she lived except that it was somewhere within the five boroughs because I tracked her using city records.

“Once I found out she was married with five kids, I stopped pursuing her. Instead, I put my name on this list of adoptees willing to meet their biological parents. I figured if she wanted to contact me, I’d be willing. I wasn’t about to intrude on her life. Well, she never called me—and that was her decision, so fine. Fine. Just fine. I’ll abide by that. It’s obvious the woman wasn’t interested and it’s friggin fine with me to keep it that way.”

Such hurt in his voice. Rina said, “I’m sorry, Peter.”

“I’m not,” Decker said. “I’m not the least … bit … sorry. I’ve done a damn fine job of living without her and she’s done a damn fine job of living without me.”

Rina didn’t answer. Decker stopped pacing.

“I know I’m not making any sense.”

“You’re very agitated—”

“How would you feel?”

“Agitated … and hurt.”

“I’m not hurt, okay!” Decker yelled. “Hurt is when you find out your wife is stepping out on you. No, that’s not hurt. That’s fury! But later after the fury wears off, it turns to hurt. That is hurt! Real hurt! Got it?”

Rina didn’t answer.

“Okay, so I’m ranting—”

“You’re understandably upset.”

“I’m not upset … well, I am upset—”

“Peter, didn’t you recognize her name when I first told it to you?”

“Somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew her married name was Levine or Levy or something like that. But I always thought of her as Frieda Boretsky—”

“That’s her maiden name all right.”

“You know her maiden name?”

“Remember I told you her elderly parents always have holiday dinner with my in-laws? Their names are Rabbi and Rebbitzen Boretsky—”

“Ain’t that a hoot,” Decker broke in. “I get to meet my grandparents.”

“Peter, this must be awful for you—”

“Not as awful as it’s going to be for Gramps and Grandma Boretsky. Much as they’ve tried, I’m sure they haven’t forgotten old Benny Aranoff either.”

“Benny Aranoff was your biological father?”

“Yep.”