The Yiddish Gangster’s Daughter
Joan Lipinsky Cochran
To my family,
Michael, Eric and Ryan
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1
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I’m the type of woman people trust. Or so friends tell me. It’s probably because I have such an open face. Brown eyes set a few centimeters too far apart. Broad cheekbones that taper to a square jaw. Curly brown hair that flops over my forehead.
It’s what people politely call an interesting face.
Strangers in coffee shops ask me to watch their computers when they go to the bathroom. Mothers in grocery stores catch my eye and smile conspiratorially when their kids throw tantrums.
When I was a child, everyone’s assumptions about my trustworthiness embarrassed me. Teachers appointed me class monitor, figuring I’d never lie about my friends’ misbehavior. Neighbors asked me to babysit, confident I’d have their children in bed by eight.
By sixteen, though, I caught on to what I could pull off with an open face. I became the wise guy friends sent inside liquor stores, knowing no clerk would challenge me. When my resident advisor found marijuana in my dorm room my freshman year, I had no trouble convincing her a boy I’d just met abandoned it on my desk.
But my trustworthy appearance is not the problem.
My trusting nature is.
It’s taken me fifty years to find that out.
It’s a typical Sunday in August and my husband and I have driven to Miami to pick up my father for brunch. As we pull up to his building at the Schmuel Bernstein Jewish Home for the Aged, we spot the old man. In point of fact, it’s impossible to miss him. He looks like a giant leprechaun in Kelly green Bermudas and an equally green polo shirt. My dad’s a big man at six feet three inches and his shorts ride well above his knees. Daniel and I exchange amused glances. Then my husband rolls down his window.
“Tootsie. Over here,” he yells, waving my father to the car. Everyone, including his grandchildren, calls the old man Tootsie. It’s the nickname he acquired when an older cousin—another Sydney—insisted he was the original.
This particular Sydney a.k.a. Tootsie stands in the portico of a five-story apartment building, arms crossed and foot tapping in a less-than-subtle demonstration of impatience. He lives in one of eight identical brick buildings on the campus of what the Schmuel Bernstein’s promotional brochure describes as an independent living facility—and Tootsie calls the old folks’ home. It was built fifty years ago in the former hub of Jewish Miami, now a tough neighborhood comprised of car dealerships, Haitian restaurants, and a kosher delicatessen run by Nicaraguans. Every now and then, the locals spice things up with a drive-by shooting.
Though in a gritty section of town, the Schmuel Bernstein’s ten-acre campus remains a Shangri-La for Miami’s elderly Jews. This is due, in no small part, to the generosity of successful Israelites who want a spot to be waiting for them when infirmity strikes. On the kosher side of the ten-foot metal fence that surrounds its grounds are chrome and glass state-of-the-art medical facilities, a nursing home, independent living buildings, and paved trails wide enough to accommodate dual wheel chairs.
Virtually every building, garden path, and meeting room on campus is adorned with a brass plaque that identifies its wealthy benefactor. I tell Daniel on the drive over it won’t be long before little brass testaments to donors show up inside bathroom stalls. One day, you’ll be able to do your business while honoring the memory of Saul Berkowitz or Miriam Wolensky.
My father bought his apartment in the Fannie Sadowitz Residence a year ago and loves to kvetch about the old people. But he likes it here. There’s a dining room, so he doesn’t have to cook, and a couple of his cronies have moved in. Their poker games are rumored to be vicious.
Spotting Daniel, Tootsie ambles over and climbs in back before leaning over to kiss my cheek. “Head to Zimmerman’s Deli.” Then, remembering his manners, “If that’s okay with everyone.”
Daniel and I mutter our agreement, then I shift into first. Today marks three months since we began driving to Miami, an hour south of our home in Boca Raton, to take Tootsie out for Sunday brunch or dinner. It’s a ritual we launched after my father and I made up. We argued after my mother’s funeral two years ago when I said I’d never forgive him for cheating on her. But after my children left for college, I realized how much I missed being around family and reconnected with the old man. So far it’s worked out.
“What’s the matter? Too cheap to use the air-conditioning?” Tootsie says, reaching over the seat and adjusting the fan. The day is turning into a scorcher. It’s only ten and heat radiates off the causeway, forming shimmering pools of light above the tarmac. We park in the lot behind Zimmerman’s Deli and enter through the back door, passing empty orange and blue crates that line the narrow hallway. The early crowd’s gone and it’ll be a while before the tennis players trickle in so we’re seated right away.
Zimmerman’s is one of Miami Beach’s oldest delis and looks it. Its dozen or so red and gray Formica tabletops are scratched and dented, and the grout between the floor’s white tiles is moldy brown. Even the waitresses, with their cheap cotton aprons and tired eyes, seem worn-out. But it doesn’t matter. Miami Beach’s Jews are loyal. Zimmerman’s draws a steady Sunday morning crowd. It’s the place to be seen. I grew up thirty minutes south of here, in Coral Gables, and am glad I don’t need to worry about familiar faces. I’ve done nothing with my hair and wear the gym shorts I threw on to walk this morning.
“Lox and bagels,” I tell the waitress, echoing my father’s order. Daniel, who asked for an egg white omelet, raises an eyebrow and I respond with an abashed grin. I forgot we’d had a discussion the night before about eating healthier. But the lox here is amazing.
When the waitress leaves, Tootsie pokes Daniel in the ribs. “See that broad?” He speaks in a stage whisper as he motions toward a tall, attractive blonde in her early forties. She’s snuggled up to an elderly gnome with gnarled hands about three tables away. She could be the guy’s daughter, except that no one goes to breakfast with their father in a leopard skin tank top that shows off her two best assets. She’s positioned them under the old man’s face. “Son of a gun married her a month after his wife died. Everyone knew he kept her for ten years before the old lady croaked.”
Daniel shrugs. He knows how I feel about cheating. My father’s serial affairs have made me a bit touchy on the subject. “She’s a good-looking woman,” he concedes.
“Good looking, my foot. She’s a beauty. The guy, Morton Shapiro, did well for himself. Made a fortune in the underwear business and could afford the best broads in town. Can’t blame him for having a little on the side.”
It’s the closest my father’s come to the subject of cheating since we reunited and I’m uncomfortable with the conversation. “Dad, you want to drop it?” I try to distract him with news of our youngest son, Gabe, who left for college three months earlier. He has Asperger’s syndrome and we’ve been worried about his ability to survive on his own. He’s high functioning but has trouble meeting people and negotiating complex situations—like signing up for classes.
“Gabe called yesterday. He likes his dorm and professors.”
But Tootsie’s not biting. “Men cheat. That’s all there is to it. It’s not the worst thing in the world.”
“Not to you, maybe. I doubt Mom would agree.”
He glares at me. I pretend not to notice.
“She stayed
with me, didn’t she?” He curls his lip and glances at Morton Shapiro. “Your mother understood that it’s unnatural for a man to be with just one woman.”
There’s no point in arguing with him. It would be like convincing an addict to stay off heroin.
Our breakfast arrives and we’re silent as we eat. I figure we’re safely off the topic of Morton and his friend. But Tootsie continues to sneak glances at the woman. She makes a production of smearing cream cheese across one half of a bagel, then layering it with bright red lox and sliced tomato before handing it to the gnome.
To tell the truth, I’m watching her too, fascinated by her diamond rings, the largest of which has to be ten carats. She’s remarkably adept at manipulating the knife and bagel despite inch-long red nails. Morton’s no more than five feet, two inches and his bald head barely reaches the woman’s shoulder.
“Come on, Daniel, be honest.” Tootsie says. “You wouldn’t give your left nut for one night with a dame like that?”
Daniel frowns and laughs. “No, I wouldn’t.” He squeezes my knee under the table. “You’re like a dog in heat, Tootsie. I never saw anything like it.”
“Not every wife would mind, you know. I bet half my friends didn’t bother to hide their affairs from their wives. It’s what men did back then. At least I was discreet. I don’t know why you get so upset when I discuss it, Becks.
Blood rushes into my cheeks. I can’t help wondering if my dad’s becoming senile. What kind of man talks about his affairs in front of his daughter? I decide to leave the table before I lose it.
“Let me know when this discussion is over,” I say and rise. “I’ll be up front reading the menu or whatever.”
I pass the gnome and his wife on my way to the glass picture window that faces out to the street in front of Zimmerman’s. The view is partially blocked by yellowing newspaper reviews, most of which are at least ten years old. The food’s gone consistently downhill and no self-respecting food critic would set foot inside Zimmerman’s these days.
Five minutes later, I’m squinting to read a faded review when Daniel puts his hand on my shoulder. “Ready to go?”
“You bet.”
He takes my hand and leads me to our table, where Tootsie rises and follows us through the rear door to my car. On the ride home, I tell my father about Gabe’s call Saturday. He sounded happy and excited for the first time since leaving for college. He’s just a few miles away from us at the moment, at the University of Miami, but we’re steering clear until he adjusts to school.
Tootsie sounds interested and asks a few questions about Gabe’s call. When we reach the Schmuel Bernstein, he reaches over the seat to squeeze my shoulder. “Sorry for giving you a hard time, Doll. I’m an old man and it’s hard to break old habits.”
I feel guilty for being judgmental at breakfast. It’s one of my nastier habits. “It’s okay,” I say. “I still love you.”
On the drive home, Daniel and I chat about the bars and restaurants we frequented before we had kids and moved to Boca Raton. Zimmerman’s was not one of them.
“You remember the Fontainebleau?” Daniel asks as we pass the I-195 exit that leads to the classic Miami Beach hotel. He grins lasciviously.
“What about . . .” Then I remember and, despite thirty years of marriage and two sons, feel the heat rush into my face. It was the first—and last—time the boys caught us in the act.
Daniel raises his eyebrows Groucho Marx-style. “What do you say to a repeat performance when we get home?”
I smile and stomp the gas in response.
Yes. Your typical family Sunday—full of food and memories. Little did I know it would be our last.
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2
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True to his word, Daniel takes my arm after we get home and tries to lead me upstairs. But there’s voice mail on my cell. I must have missed it in the noisy restaurant.
“Let it go,” Daniel says. “What could be so important?”
I shrug. “What if it’s one of the boys? I hate to miss their calls.”
I place the cell on the counter between us and press the speaker button while he opens the refrigerator and pulls out a pitcher of iced tea.
“Becks?”
The voice sounds vaguely familiar.
“It’s Eva. Daniel’s office manager.”
I’m surprised to hear from her and glance at Daniel. He raises his eyebrows. He’d told me a week earlier he caught her stealing from petty cash and fired her. She’s got to be calling to get her job back.
What comes next is the last thing I expect.
“I hate making this call but there’s no point in beating around the bush. You know Dawn?”
It’s a rhetorical question. She knows I hired Daniel’s assistant a year earlier.
“Well, your husband and Dawn are having an affair.”
A crash sounds behind me and I look up. Ice tea’s all over the floor. Daniel pulls a stream of paper towel off the roll next to the sink and kneels to wipe up the liquid and shards of glass.
“Can you believe that? How could she say such a thing?” I ask.
I know she’s lying. But her accusation still stings.
When my husband stands, his expression stuns me. I expect anger. Or shock. But his face is white and he’s breathing heavily. “That’s crazy,” he says, tossing a wad of towels in the trash before shoving his hands in his pockets. “I didn’t realize she was so angry at me.”
“What do you think is going on?”
“She was upset when I let her go. Couldn’t believe I caught her stealing. Maybe she figured lying to you was the easiest way to get back at me. And she was jealous of Dawn.”
“Dawn? What did Eva have against Dawn?”
“I’m not sure. Dawn came crying to me one day, claiming that Eva was jealous and making her life miserable.”
“Since when do employees confide in you? I thought you stayed away from office politics.”
I do most of Daniel’s hiring and firing and employees tend to contact me with personnel issues.
“I don’t know. I guess she felt more comfortable, that is . . . maybe she wanted . . .” He waves a hand in the air, at a loss.
It makes sense—sort of. And I want to believe him. But something feels wrong. He never mentioned Dawn’s outburst. And his stance, hands shoved in his pockets and back straight, seems stiff and unnatural. Worst of all, he hasn’t reached for my hand or taken me in his arms to reassure me Eva’s lying. For the first time in our marriage, I’m afraid to approach him. My heart races, as disbelief battles horror.
When he glances around the room without meeting my gaze, I become light headed and grab the counter.
“Something isn’t right here,” I whisper. “Are you telling the truth?” I’ve never accused him of lying and feel sick at the words. “Because—”
“How can you accuse me?” he says before I finish. “I’m hurt you’d consider Eva’s word over mine. Particularly after she stole from me.”
He doesn’t sound hurt. He sounds angry and irritated—and steps back as though frightened of what I’ll do or say. When he pulls his hands out of his pockets and crosses his arms, it hits me:
“Eva never stole from you, did she?” I say, speaking slowly as I work things out in my mind. It’s like pulling taffy from an old-fashioned machine. “You fired her so she wouldn’t learn about your affair with Dawn. You knew she’d tell me.”
“Hold on there. I wouldn’t lie about Eva stealing. She took five hundred dollars, for God’s sake.”
I stare at him. Does he think I’m stupid? That I don’t see his indignation as a pathetic attempt to distract me? My stomach churns. “I can’t believe this. You had sex with Dawn.”
“No. I didn’t—I wouldn’t—” He looks me in the eye and his voice breaks. When he drops his head in his hands,
I almost pity him. “I’m sorry.” He speaks between sobs. “I never meant this to happen. I love you.”
Sure I pushed him to confess. But now that he has, I don’t want to believe him.
“You never meant to hurt me?” I say when I regain my voice. My knees are so weak I barely make it to the table to sit. “Didn’t you think about what it would do to us? To Josh and Gabriel? Did you think I wouldn’t find out?”
He looks up and his eyes are red and puffy. “I don’t know. It was just after my mother died. And nothing seemed to make sense. I got caught up in the moment and—”
“Shut up. I don’t want to hear it.” He flinches. We’ve always treated each other with respect and I’m as shocked by my words as he is. I’ve never used coarse language around him. But everything’s different now. The rules have changed.
It’s funny how we worry about awful things happening, but aren’t prepared when they do. I’d spoken with my friend Leisa about the anger and depression she experienced when her husband left. But she didn’t say anything about the humiliation that overwhelms me. Other people know about this affair! If Eva knows, so does Mary, who handles his schedule. I imagine the pharmaceutical reps who come to his office to push drugs joking about it in Daniel’s parking lot.
Successful doctor screws his nurse and his wife is the last to know it. It’s a cliché. But it’s happening to me.
I stare at Daniel, speechless. When he comes to the table and pulls out the chair across from me, I cringe.
He either misses or ignores my reaction. “I know we can get past this,” he says, reaching for my hand. I jerk it away. “We need to sit down and—.”
“Talk?”
“Of course. We love each other. We can work this out.”
“Right. Just like that. Talk about it and the problem disappears.”
“Come on, sweetheart. I’m not saying it’ll be easy.”
“You’re damn right it won’t. I want you out of here.”
The Yiddish Gangster's Daughter (A Becks Ruchinsky Mystery Book 1) Page 1
