Day of Atonement

The room fell quiet. Exhausted, Decker plopped onto the sofa. “Rina, I can’t face them. Any of them. Just say I’m sick—which is the truth—and can’t come down for dinner. Then, after the holidays are over, I want to go home.”

Rina closed her eyes and nodded.

“I’m sorry,” Decker said.

“Don’t apologize,” Rina said. “I understand completely.”

“I’ll tell them I was called back to the station house on an emergency case.”

“You don’t have to say anything, Peter. I’ll handle it for you. Least I can do, for dragging you into this mess.”

Honey, the mess was created a long time ago, Decker thought. When a fifteen-year-old girl didn’t say no to her boyfriend—with either the sex or the marriage. Decker was never too sure which came first. Only that they must have had some love for each other because they ran off and eloped. Then, the good Rabbi and Rebbitzen Boretsky found their daughter and annulled the marriage. To rid themselves of any remaining evidence of the attachment, they sent Frieda off to Florida to have a baby …

Decker said, “It won’t be so bad. I’ll go back to work and take time off at a later date. Maybe we’ll go to Hawaii—I know, we’ll even take the boys. Hire a sitter. Make them happy. Hotels have sitters—”

“Peter, you’re rambling again.” Rina stood. “The family should be coming home any moment. Go upstairs, put on your pajamas, crawl into bed, and look sick.” She regarded his face. “You don’t even have to pretend, Peter. Go read and try to relax. I’ll bring you up dinner. Can you eat?”

“Not at the moment,” Decker said. “But by all rights, I should be starved.”

Rina walked over to the living-room window and pulled the drapes back. Families were filling the streets—men and women dressed in their finest clothes. Jewelry glittered from fingers, ears, and necks. “Services must have ended at some of the shuls. People are starting to head home. Go.”

Decker went upstairs. He stopped midway and shouted down, “Maybe this is all for the better.”

Rina agreed that it probably was. Decker knew she was placating him, but even so, her response made him feel a little better.

A medley of voices said to Rina,

I’m so sorry.

Did you take his temperature?

Can he eat?

It must be jet lag.

His work is so stressful.

He should eat a little.

Those planes are so crowded, everyone coughing into one air filtration system.

Did you give him Tylenol?

These flus come on so all of a sudden.

Just a little soup.

Rina parried the questions like an expert fencer.

A minute later, Decker heard knocking on the door. Duo knocking. His stepsons, no doubt. But he asked who it was just to make sure. When they answered with their names, he told them to come in.

They patted his cheek, held his hand, smoothed out the covers for him, asked if they could get him anything.

He felt so damn guilty faking it. To make himself play the part with Strassbergian integrity, he thought about meeting Frieda Levine, meeting her parents, and his stomach legitimately churned.

Sammy asked him if he’d gotten sick because he’d been obnoxious on the plane ride over. Decker assured him that was not the case. But the boy remained unconvinced. Sam was the elder of the two, hypermature and, like his mother, willing to tote the world’s problems on his back if he had a big enough knapsack. Decker kissed the boy’s sweaty cheek; to make him feel better, he told him to bring him up some tea. To make Jake feel equally useful, he told him to bring up some lemon and sugar.

Jakey smiled: It was Rina’s smile. The kid was Rina’s clone. Sam had lighter hair, but was darker complexioned, looking like his dad. That must be hard on the Lazaruses, too.

In a grave voice, Sammy suggested honey in his tea instead of sugar. Honey was more soothing, and after all, it was Rosh Hashanah. Honey was traditional fare for the holiday, symbolizing a sweet New Year.

Decker said honey was a spiffy idea.

After the boys were gone, he locked the door behind them, not wanting any uninvited guests.

A moment later, the handle turned, a knock, and Rina said, “Peter, open the door.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Rina came in. “Didn’t mean to sound like an army sergeant.”

“You’ve been fielding those questions like a pro.”

“Thanks.” She felt his forehead, then his cheeks, with the back of her hand.

“Rina, I’m not really sick,” Decker said.

“Oh,” Rina dropped her hand. “That’s right. What am I doing? I don’t know what I’m doing. You know, Peter, you actually feel a little warm.”

“Life imitating art.”

There was a knock on the door. The boys again, bringing up his tea.

Jacob said to Decker, “Everyone wishes you a speedy recovery—a refuah shelema.”

“Thank you,” Decker said.

“Want me to eat with you?” Sammy offered. “You look sort of lonely.”

The truth of the matter was that Decker would have loved the company. But he said, “No problem, Sam, I’m just fine. I know there’s a bunch of kids downstairs. Have a good time.”

Sammy kissed his forehead. “You feel warm, Peter.”

“I think your father has a little fever,” Rina said.

“Rest,” Jacob said, kissing his cheek. “I’ll check on you later.”

“So will I,” added Sammy.

After the boys left, Rina said, “You want company?”

“I’m okay.”

Rina said, “You do look lonely. Downright needy.”

“No, I’m really fine.”

“Friggin fine?”

Decker laughed. “No, I’m not fine at all. I want you to stay with me—”

“Then I will.”

“No, I won’t hear of it. Eat with your kinfolk …” He paused a moment, thinking: kinfolk. Except for her sons, Rina didn’t have a single blood relative downstairs. But he did. “Go eat with them. But if it’s no trouble, bring me up something to eat. My stomach’s rumbling.”

“Will do.” She kissed his lips and left.

Decker locked the door behind her, then crawled back into bed. He thought about it for a moment. Kinfolk. A mother, grandparents, five half brothers and half sisters. God knew how many nieces and nephews … He closed his eyes, felt any remaining energy drain from his body. He dozed until awakened by a hard rap on his door. It startled him and his heart raced inside his chest. Rina’s voice announced her name.

Decker answered a groggy yeah and unlocked the door, then fell back into bed.

“I woke you up.”

He didn’t answer.

“Peter, you look so wan.”

“I’m just tired,” he said. Tired was the polite word. Fucked-up was the accurate description. But his olfactory nerve began to spark. He sat up and said, “What’d you bring me?”

“All sorts of goodies.”

She set plates before him.

There was roasted rack of beef sitting on two bones, cooked crispy brown on the outside, juices sizzling and dripping. There was a separate dish of vegetables—browned potatoes with onions and green peppers, a carrot pudding topped with brown sugar and raisins, breaded cauliflower, steamed asparagus, zucchini in tomato sauce, a sweet noodle pudding topped with pineapple and macadamia nuts. And a traditional plate of sliced apples nesting in a pool of honey.

Food, food. Copious amounts of food.

“I think you’ll need a tray or something,” Rina said.

“Good idea unless you like gravy on your sheets.”

She grinned. “Love the feel of a greasy bed. I’ll get a tray for you and something to drink.” She looked him over. “You need another pot of tea.”

“While you’re down there, how ’bout fetching some silverware and a couple of napkins?”

“Didn’t I bring …? I’m so absent-minded. Just snarf it down through your nose.”

“Get out of here,” Decker said.

She laughed and left. Decker couldn’t wait for utensils. He ate a slice of apple and honey, then peeled a rib bone from the meat and took a big bite.

Words wouldn’t do justice to the taste. He ate one bone and polished off the next. Picked up the breaded cauliflower and ate that, too. Then the asparagus spears, bending them in the middle and popping them whole into his mouth.

There was a knock at his door, then it was pushed open.

Decker looked up expecting to see Rina.

Instead what he saw was Mrs. Lazarus—and her.

Decker felt his eyes widen, his mouth open.

Too surprised to look down, too surprised to refrain from reacting.

She was smiling, her lips painted bright red, a spot of lipstick on her front tooth.

A toothy smile.

Not like his at all.

A stranger.

The two of them standing there, holding a silver tray of sweets—cakes, cookies, strudel, brownies …

He caught her eyes.

Smiling eyes.

But only for a moment.

Then came the confusion, the recognition, the shock, the plunge into despair.

With plates of food on his lap, there was nothing he could do, nowhere to run.

He turned his head away but he knew it was too late. He heard the gasp, the tray tumbling onto the floor. He looked up and saw her hand fly to her chest, her body staggering backward. Her eyes were fluttering, her pale lips were trembling.

Mrs. Lazarus yelling Frieda!

Rina screaming out What are you doing here!

Mrs. Lazarus shrieking Call a doctor!

Rina shoving her mother-in-law out the door, ordering her downstairs.

Frieda Levine hyperventilating.

Rina trying to catch her.

Mrs. Lazarus still shrieking to call a doctor.

And Decker sitting there—an army vet, a cop for twenty years, having served three different police departments, an expert with firearms, the perfect point man for any operation because he was always cool, calm, rational, stoic, so goddamn unemotional. Just sitting there, paralyzed by the sight of his mother falling.

5

The time has come.

The time is now.

Just go, go, go, I don’t care how.

You can go by foot.

You can go by cow.

MARVIN K. MOONEY will you please go now!

Hank closed the dog-eared children’s book and packed it inside his suitcase. Zeyde used to read it to him when he was just a little kid. Then they’d laugh together …

Marvin K. Mooney was one stubborn sucker. Everyone in the book against him, telling him to get the hell out, but he don’t care one single bit. He goes by his own time when he wants to go.

And no one was gonna tell him different.

He thought for a moment.

The time had come.

The time was now.

Do it, do it, I don’t care how.

Go by foot, go by cow.

Just get the hell out, it don’t matter how.

But you need someone to carry the bags.

Need someone to beat up the fags.

Need someone to wash your feet.

Need a wuss to take the heat.

Just look around, it’s there for the takin’.

Your little boys willing to … willing to … willing to …

He stopped, unable to think up the rhyme.

What the hell. Poetry was for faggots anyway.

But there was truth to what he was sayin’. He had a faithful following of true believers. Little dummies just waiting to follow orders. Errand boys. And one of them would do.

The apartment was closing in on him.

Do it. Do it right away.

It was the time of year made him feel this way, all bent out of shape, all nervous inside. Everyone acting so damn godlike and then shittin’ all over you as soon as the holidays was over.

Bunch of fanatical hypocrites. He’d love to buy himself an AK-fucking-forty-seven and take ’em all down in one moment of glory.

But that was too dangerous, too easy to get caught.

One glorious moment, but then it was the cooler for the rest of your life and having to knife off the shaved-headed shvartzes from reaming you in the butt and who needed that crap?

Anyway, he might hit a baby or something and even though the kid would grow up to be one of them, he couldn’t see splattering the wall with baby brains.

Besides, no one had any respect for a baby killer. Rip off a bank or something, now that got you respect. But killing a baby—even by accident—that was definitely out.

Besides, if you’re gonna do anything like that, you don’t do it yourself.

And then there was the principle of the thing.

You needed a gun, no doubt about that. Nothin’ gets cooperation like the muzzle of a sawed-off resting between the eyes. But guns was only for last resorts, or people who couldn’t do no better.

And he could do better.

The suitcase was full of them—knives for gutting, filleting, or butterflying. Cleavers for chopping off heads and tails, picks for piercing tough skin. And the portable hacksaws for the bigger bones.

A part of the old man that would be with him for life.

Best thing was, he knew how to use them, where to stick them to do the most damage with the least amount of blood.

The trick—whether it was a shank or an ice pick—was to keep ’em sharp. The sharper the blade, the cleaner the cut, the less blood.

And he’d packed his best stones.

None of that mass-manufactured sharpeners for him. Just good old-fashioned stones.

Had to have them—all of them. But shit, did they make the suitcase one heavy load.

He picked up a pencil and wrote on a piece of scrap paper:

Rule number one: Keep your hands cleen.

Rule number two: Find the rite dumshit to do the dirty work.

Excepchon to rule number two: First you gotta do the dirty work once to show the dumshit how to do it. Then you let the dumshit do the rest of the dirty work.

Rule number three:

Rule number three:

Rule number three:

He tapped the pencil against the paper, but couldn’t think of anything else to write.

He threw the paper and the pencil in his suitcase, then rummaged through his other papers until he found the right one.

He consulted his hit list.

Three names held the number-one spot, each one just as dopey and stupid as the next.

Any one of the three would do.

Tomorrow morning he’d hang out, see which one came up first.

Then, like Marvin K., he’d be on his way.

6

Somehow Rina caught Frieda Levine before she hit the ground. Just as Peter predicted, she’d looked, she’d seen, she’d gone out cold. Through all the noise and confusion, Rina’s first thought was: Get the woman alone for Peter’s sake, for everyone’s sake, before she blurted out something she’d regret.

She tried to shout over her mother-in-law’s shrieking. She wanted Eema Sora out of the room and Mrs. Levine alone with her and Peter, but it was too late. A dozen adults swarmed around Frieda.

“Give her some air, for goodness’ sake,” Rina yelled.

Frieda’s older daughter, Miriam, screamed out Mama, Mama. Shimon, her oldest son, grabbed his mother from Rina’s arms, patted her face. The second son, Ezra, yelled to the younger daughter to fetch some water. The youngest son, Jonathan—the Conservative rabbi—suggested they call a doctor. His father said it was yom tov and if they needed a doctor he’d run down to Doctor Malinkov’s house rather than violate the holiday. Jonathan answered that was ridiculous, that saving a life took precedence over the violation of a law and he’d call the paramedics if his father had difficulty with it. Rina interrupted the hysteria, yelling out that Frieda had just fainted, what she needed was air and a place to rest. Bring her into the other bedroom and give her a little breathing room.

Miraculously, they listened to her. Frieda’s three sons carried their mother into the master bedroom, laying her on one of the twin beds. As soon as her head hit the pillow, Frieda opened her eyes and groaned. Rina sat down beside her, stroked her face. Miriam ordered her mother not to talk.

Frieda’s husband said triumphantly, “See, there was no reason to break yom tov—”

Jonathan said, “Papa, she still could need a doctor—”

“She’s up!” insisted the father. “She’s up. She’s up!”

Jonathan realized his father was trembling, that he was just spouting religion out of force of habit and was as shaken as the rest of them. He said, “Papa, sit down. You’re pale.” He turned to his sister and said, “Miriam, take Papa downstairs.”

Miriam took her father’s arm, but he pushed her away, then stumbled. Miriam caught him. Rabbi Levine announced he wasn’t going anywhere and his children should stop ordering him around as he knew what was best.

The younger daughter, Faygie, returned with a sodden washcloth. Rina took the proffered cloth, dabbed Frieda’s forehead, and gave a quick glance around the room—a wall of faces. Rabbi Levine’s skin had taken on a grayish hue. Rina managed to catch Jonathan’s eye.

“I don’t think your father looks well,” she said.

Jonathan threw his arm around his father. “Let’s go downstairs, Papa. Mama will be fine.”

The old man was too weak to argue.

Rina continued to bathe Frieda’s face. The woman’s eyes were still unfocused and Rina began to worry. Maybe something more serious had occurred. But a moment later, Frieda grabbed Rina’s hands, and within seconds, her eyes became puddles of tears.

“What is it, Mama?” Faygie cried out.

“You overworked yourself,” Miriam scolded. Her voice had panic in it. “You don’t let me help you. You’re getting too old to do all this cooking by yourself. Why don’t you let me help you—”

“Miriam …” Shimon scolded.

She fell silent.

Frieda continued to cry. Rina brushed away her tears, told her everything was all right. But Frieda shook her head, violently.

“Talk, Mama,” Shimon said.

“What is it?” asked another voice.

Rina felt her stomach turn over. Her sisters-in-law had come up. And their husbands. And some of the children. The room was so hot and stuffy it would make anyone a nervous wreck. With as much authority as Rina could muster she informed the group that Frieda needed quiet and not everyone fretting over her. It was just sudden exhaustion and would everyone please leave so the woman could breathe.

“I’ll stay with her,” Miriam said.

“I will,” Faygie insisted.

“All of you out!” Rina ordered. “You’re all much too excited to be of any use right now!”

Rina was surprised at how commanding her voice sounded. Shimon said that Rina was right and directed everyone out of the room.

“But she needs family,” Miriam protested. “No offense to you, Rina, but she needs family.”

“Why have you taken over?” Ezra asked Rina.

“Because I’m a bit calmer than all of you—”

“I’m calm,” Miriam insisted. “I’m very, very calm!”

Rina said, “Miriam, you want to help out, go check on your grandparents. They must be worried sick.”

Faygie said, “I’ll do it.”

Rina said, “Both of you do it. I’ll call if she needs anything.”

“Maybe Papa’s right,” Ezra said. “Maybe I should get Doctor Malinkov.”

Rina said, “Give her a few minutes—”

“What do you know about nursing?” Ezra interrupted.

Frieda muttered something, eyes still flowing tears.

“What, Mama?” Miriam said.

The woman turned to her daughter, held Rina with one hand, and waved at the door with the other.

“Nu?” Rina said. “She wants you out.”

“Are you okay, Mama?” Ezra said.

“Give her some room, please,” Rina said.

Frieda nodded.

“Would you like me to stay with you?” Faygie asked.

Again, Frieda waved at the door.

Faygie said, “Don’t be stubborn, Mama. I can stay with you.”

“Go,” Frieda whispered. “Go all of you. Rina will stay with me.”

Faygie sighed, accepting her mother’s words with reluctance.

Shimon placed his arm around Ezra, said to his sisters and brother, “Come.” To Rina, he said, “Call us if she needs anything.”

After everyone had left, Frieda turned her head on the pillow, away from Rina, but held her hand tightly. The woman seemed to be muttering to herself, but Rina could make out prayers through the sobs. She stroked Frieda’s hand, tried to think of something to say, but she was as dumbstruck as she’d been with Peter.

Peter!

Dear God, what was he going through!

Rina’s stomach was churning at full force. She took a deep breath, looked around the emptied room. She’d been inside this house hundreds of times but had never invaded the private sanctuary of her in-laws’ bedroom. Twin beds, between them a large night table. Separate beds were required by Orthodox law, but she and Yitzchak had pushed their beds together, each of them sticking their feet in the crack at bedtime, playing with each other’s toes. No such intimacy could be shared here. But despite the beds, there was something warm and loving in the room. Maybe it was the acres of family pictures that covered the bureau and the top of the chest of drawers. Pictures of her sisters-in-law, her nieces and nephews, her sons. Photos of her and Yitzchak before they’d been married, their wedding pictures, snapshots taken when her in-laws had visited them in Israel. Photographs that had showed Yitzchak as a robust young man. Not the skeleton that had died in her arms …

Frieda cried out to her and Rina was grateful for the distraction. Rina kissed her hand and smiled at the older woman. Frieda attempted a weak smile in return but failed.

“It’s all right,” Rina said.

Frieda shook her head no.

“Yes, it is,” Rina said. “Emes, it’s all right.”

Frieda sobbed harder. Rina’s voice had said it all. She looked at her and said, “You know.”

Rina felt her eyes moisten. “I know.”

“He knows, too,” Frieda said.

Rina nodded.

“His eyes …” Frieda said. “He hates me.”

“No, he doesn’t—”

“I never stopped thinking about him,” Frieda moaned. “Never. In my heart, I never stopped looking. Every time I saw someone his age, I wondered … I wondered …”

“I understand—”

“No,” Frieda cried out. “No, you couldn’t understand. Oh, such guilt, the pain … God is punishing me for my weakness. Rina, I was so young, so scared. My father was so frightening. I was weak—”

Rina hushed her.

Frieda was silent for a minute. When she finally spoke again, it was in a whisper. “Every time I gave birth to my babies, I thought of him. Of the baby I had and lost—No, of the baby I was forced to give up. I could never, ever not think of him. I wanted to keep him but my parents wouldn’t let me. Dear God, forgive me …”

She started sobbing again.

Rina said, “Peter … Akiva has a daughter. He understands how you must have felt—”

“He hates me,” Frieda said. “I saw it. I deserve it—”

Rina quieted her again.

“Your Akiva …” Frieda sobbed out. “My little baby boy. Oh, my God, after all these years … As much pain as if it happened yesterday. He wasn’t sick at all, was he, Rina? He didn’t want to see me.”

“He didn’t want to shock you.”

“When you came to New York with him … he knew I’d be here?”

“Of course not.”

“Then how did he know, Rinalah?” Frieda exclaimed. “How did he know?”

“I guess he found out your name a long time ago. But he knew you under your maiden name because that was on the birth certificate. I honestly don’t know how he recognized you. Maybe he had a picture of you. Maybe his biological father sent—”

Again, Frieda broke into sobs. “He met Benjamin?”

“Once, I think.” Rina’s head was throbbing. “I’m not sure exactly what happened except that Peter got this big box of articles from his biological father after he died—”

“Benjamin is dead?” Frieda turned her face away. “Oh, my God! Too much has passed … when?”

“A long time ago, Mrs. Levine,” Rina said. “Peter doesn’t talk too much about anything, let alone something as … as … Peter keeps things inside. That’s just the way he is.”