The Yiddish Gangster's Daughter (A Becks Ruchinsky Mystery Book 1)

by Joan Lipinsky Cochran

  And there she is, again. My mother. It’s uncanny how much I look like she did at the same age.

  As a teenager, all I felt for my mother was contempt. I’m not proud of it, but when you’re young, the world is black and white and you’re unwilling to dwell in the subtle grays and off-whites that make life bearable. If your husband cheats, you leave him. I never thought about the fact that my mother was married at twenty-one and a mother of two by twenty-four. And a woman who spent her life keeping house, raising children and playing tennis is ill prepared to face the working world. I often heard my mother and her friends speak in the hushed tones they used in discussing a friend’s cancer diagnosis when they talked about Bunny, who returned to work after her husband died. A working mother was someone to be pitied.

  She and my father fought late into the night, sending me scurrying for the comfort of my sister’s bed when I was little. When we were in our early teens, Mom would call us into her room, sit us down, and solemnly announce she was leaving my father. Esther would get upset, which bugged me no end me because we’d been through this so many times and our mom always stayed. I’d shrug, say go ahead, makes sense to me. Then my mother would glare at me, waiting, and I’d squirm under the pressure of her desperate need for sympathy.

  It seems crazy now. I resented my father for cheating on my mother. And my mother for putting up with him while pressuring Esther and me to take sides. The older I get, the more I realize what a lasting effect my parents’ relationship had on me. I had a hard time trusting boys, worried that the boyfriends I dated saw other girls. Daniel proposed three times before I felt confident enough of his love to accept.

  “Becks, you okay?” My father bangs on the bathroom door. “I’m reheating the stuffed cabbage.”

  I splash more water on my face before coming out. He’s in the kitchen, adjusting the heat under an open pan. “Let me tell you a little story before we eat,” I say. “Let’s sit down?”

  When he hesitates, I take his arm and propel him toward a kitchen chair. He looks confused but sits and I join him.

  “You remember the Boopsies?” I ask, referring to what my mother and her girlfriends called their little circle. It consisted of four couples from the neighborhood who dined at one another’s homes on Saturday nights.

  He nods.

  “There was this one night, I was nine, when mom took Esther and me to meet them at Burger King. You,” I take a few seconds to emphasize the word, “were in Nassau. On business.”

  He raises an eyebrow but I continue.

  “I figured it was just another night without Dad, which was okay with me because we got to eat at Burger King. Mom seemed nervous all day and yelled at me twice to do my homework. Usually she wouldn’t take us out if we didn’t have our homework done, so I was surprised when she told me and Esther to get in the car.”

  I stop a second to collect my thoughts

  “When we got to Burger King, Aunt Lacey and Aunt Bunny were at a table, eating. Mom got Esther and me hamburgers and made us sit at a separate table with the kids.”

  My father smiles, probably remembering how I resented being relegated to the children’s table.

  “So I was sitting there, fighting with Robbie, when I looked up. Aunt Lacey had her arm around Mom’s shoulders and Mom was crying. I got scared and thought something happened to you. I jumped up and started toward Mom but Esther grabbed my arm and told me Mom didn’t want us to hear.”

  “Do you really need to tell me this?” my father breaks in.

  “Fair is fair. I’ll listen to your story about that lady,” I nod toward the bulletin board, “but I get to talk too.”

  He shakes his head and sits back, staring through the glass sliding doors toward the concrete slab patio. The only furniture out there is a weather-beaten wicker chair that my parents kept in their bedroom for thirty years. The legs have unraveled and the once-pink cushion is white from exposure.

  “Mom and Aunt Lacy left the restaurant and sat in Mom’s car but it was too dark for me to see them in the parking lot. You remember what a troublemaker Robbie was?”

  My father nods without meeting my gaze.

  “He saw me staring out the window and told me he heard Aunt Lacey talking on the phone with Mom that afternoon. She sent him out of the room, but he listened at the door and heard his mother say you had a black girlfriend and child in Nassau.”

  My father rises and walks into the kitchen. I stop talking as he gets the flatware from the drawer, then returns and slams forks and knives onto the placemats. His eyes are red and I suppress a pang of guilt.

  “I punched Robbie so hard his nose bled,” I continue after my father is seated. “Aunt Bunny dragged me off of him and sent Esther to the car to get Mom and Aunt Lacey. We left before the bleeding stopped.

  “Later, in the car, I told Mom why I hit Robbie. I asked her four or five times if it was true before she answered. Know what she said?” I wait a second. “She said that you loved me and Esther and that’s what mattered.”

  I don’t know what to expect from my father. Contrition? Maybe shame? I wouldn’t be surprised if he grew angry. Instead, he shakes his head and looks at me with pity.

  “Your mother was right.”

  I raise an eyebrow.

  “Sure, I cheated. But it didn’t mean a thing and your mother knew it. I loved her and I loved both of you kids. She,” he nods toward the bulletin board, “had nothing to do with my girls at home. A man travels a lot, he gets lonely. And I don’t have another family, white or black.” He laughs. “Why make such a big deal?”

  I stare at him, too outraged to speak. He has no idea what I’m trying to tell him. I’ve wasted the last half hour explaining something he’s incapable of understanding. Is he unaware of the pain he caused? Or in denial? Maybe he doesn’t care.

  “But you were gone so often and for so long. You can see how Robbie came up with that idea.” I know my question is feeble and beside the point, but I ask anyway.

  “Robbie was an idiot. Probably still is. I had a family to support and I did what I had to. If that meant a week or two in the Bahamas every month, so be it.” He hesitates, looks toward the bulletin board. “It’s not like I had a choice.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He glares at me. “It means that you and your mother and sister lived very well and you have me to thank.”

  His face takes on a closed look and the angry set to his jaw signals the conversation is over. I‘m furious but realize there’s no point in arguing. If he feels no remorse for cheating on my mother, how can I expect his sympathy over Daniel’s betrayal? Further discussion will lead to an argument. I don’t want that. Right now, I need my father. Friends are one thing but with the kids away at college and Daniel gone, I desperately need the comfort of family.

  I walk to the bulletin board and examine the photo of my father and his girlfriend in the banquette. Tootsie looks proud of the attractive woman around whose shoulder his arm is draped. I search for the slightest sign of contrition in his expression. There is none.

  “You know what?” I say. “My appetite seems to be gone. I’m going to skip dinner. You enjoy the stuffed cabbage.”

  I grab my purse and step into the kitchen on my way out, leaning over the stove to sniff the sweet and sour scent of cabbage, raisins, and meat rising in heady waves from the pot. Unless my nose misleads me, The Epicure uses a hint more vinegar than my mother did. The pungent aroma recalls the smell I often came home to on Friday afternoons. It meant Dad was flying back from a business trip.

  Driving home on I-95, I try to figure out why I’ve waited forty years to tell my father this story. I think it’s because even as a child, I knew he wouldn’t change. He saw no reason to. When I was a teenager and lashed out at him for hurting my mother, he told me to mind my own business. He didn’t understand it was my business—and Esther�
�s. We witnessed our mother’s anguish. She turned to us for the love and companionship Tootsie wouldn’t provide. It was too great a burden for a child and I grew up resenting her for demanding more affection and loyalty than I could offer.

  I’d hate it if Josh and Gabe felt they had to choose between Daniel and me. They’re already upset enough. When I called the boys last Monday and told them Daniel had moved out, Josh sounded near tears and begged for more details. I told him about Dawn without mentioning her age. Gabe isn’t much good at feelings. His “that’s too bad” was roughly the same reaction he had a few weeks earlier when I told him I’d cut my hand and gone to the emergency room for stitches. He’ll process the information his own way.

  Daniel’s called every day since I threw him out. The first few times I listened to his apologies and pleas, but told him I wasn’t ready. I’m too angry and hurt to face him—and the pain seems to be worsening with time. Now I don’t answer his calls. Alone in bed at night, I picture him and Dawn on the sofa in Daniel’s office or sneaking into her apartment after work. I imagine him comparing her flat stomach and firm breasts to my older, looser-skinned body. Most nights, I become so enraged and embarrassed that I have to get up and walk around. Daniel insists his affair is over, but I don’t believe him. Why should I trust anything he says?

  When I get home from my father’s, I open the plastic container of stuffed cabbage I left on the counter to defrost that afternoon. Josh and Gabe are coming into town tomorrow to make sure I’m surviving the breakup. Grandma’s stuffed cabbage is one of their favorites, as it is my father’s. But it’s a lot of work and, because of how my father treated my mother, I won’t make it for him. When I open the container to check if it’s defrosted, the odor nauseates me. I pour it down the disposal and listen as the metal blades shred the chopped meat and cabbage.

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  7

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  Tootsie

  The garbage disposal churns to a halt as I flip the switch above the sink. Epicure’s stuffed cabbage is good but it leaves a funny aftertaste and the prospect of eating it a second night turns my stomach. I fill the pot with warm water and leave it in the sink. Then I collapse on the couch and prop my feet on the cocktail table.

  That Becks is something else. Smart. But a pain in the ass. I never should have opened my trap about Fat Louie. Now she’s poking into my past. Like she has nothing else to do. Better she should work on her marriage. The dark shadows around her eyes make her look like a sick raccoon. And her rat’s nest of a hairdo—I was tempted to offer to pay for a beauty parlor visit.

  The article about the Kefauver investigation—how did she find it? I never saw it but I sure as hell remember what a wreck Moe was when he returned to the store after testifying. He shook life a leaf. Even the secretaries picked up on his panic.

  “Dammit, Tootsie. They know,” he said, slamming the door to our office and dropping into his chair. “Someone’s feeding the feds information.”

  He’d stopped by a bar on the way to the office and his breath stank of Scotch.

  “Did anyone mention Louie?” I asked.

  “It didn’t come up. But the deals with the Colonial and the Sands did. The committee knows something’s up. They wanted to know why we got the contracts to outfit the restaurants.”

  “You held to our story, right?”

  Moe nodded.

  “The restaurants called us. We did what any business would do.”

  “You think they’re buying it?”

  “Absolutely. We sent out bids. That’s it. If the restaurant owners wanted to pay a little more than our competitors were asking, so what? We’re good businessmen. Deliver on time. Provide reliable service. Nothing wrong with paying a little extra for that.”

  Moe tied one on that night and came in hung over the next morning. A dumb thing to do, but that was Moe. Always ready to go out with his friends. Who knew how we survived with him drinking and shooting off his mouth? We were lucky. After one day of testimony, the committee left Moe alone.

  Shaken by the memory, I rise from the couch and return to the kitchen, where I scour the pot and set it on the counter. If only I could make Becks understand how things were back then. When men were expected to have affairs. And when you had to be tough to support a family. I worked damn hard. And if I had a woman on the side, so what? I deserved it. I didn’t have the advantages Becks and Esther had—a house in the suburbs and a father who could send me to college. Surviving in the business world meant compromising and dealing with whoever had the power to make or break you. Legitimate or not. She’s never known the tough demands life can make, never had to face the darker side of human nature.

  After all I’ve done for my family, she should have the decency to back off when I ask her. I’ve worked hard, and done a few things I regret, to give her and her sister a good life. But convincing her of that is going to be tough.

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  8

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  I love grocery shopping in the early morning, when the tomatoes are piled in glossy red pyramids and the kale, romaine, and red leaf lettuce sparkle like dewy spider webs from their first-of-the-day showers. Other than the roll of trolleys and the rip of cardboard boxes by clerks stocking shelves, the store is silent. I can be in and out in a few minutes and don’t have to maneuver around pokey shoppers or make small talk with acquaintances.

  This particular Monday morning is different. I haven’t had a chance to shop all weekend and Josh and Gabe are due in at noon. As I’m racing around the produce section to pick up ingredients for a Niçoise salad, a familiar cough whips me around.

  I do a double take. It’s Daniel. He’s picking through the organic broccoli, looking sheepish and grasping a bag of apples. They’re sour apples, the kind he hates, but I don’t tell him that. I suspect he’s here because he knows it’s where I shop. After weeks of dodging his calls, I have to face him.

  I search for an escape route but a produce clerk arranging eggplant blocks my exit. I’d feel silly pushing her aside, then bolting like an Olympic sprinter. I try to control my breathing and smile.

  It’s the first time we’ve come face-to-face since Daniel left. I’m wearing torn jogging shorts and haven’t washed my hair in three days. He looks crisp and professional in khakis and a blue button-down shirt. Both are neatly ironed. If he’s moved in with Dawn, she’s taking good care of his wardrobe.

  “Becks. What a surprise!” he says in what sounds like a well-rehearsed line. “I needed some fruit for the office so stopped by. How are you?”

  “I’m fine,” I say, looking around for his basket or cart. There isn’t one. “Are you cooking now?”

  He laughs. “Yeah. Frozen dinners. I’ve moved into the Carlisle Apartments and have a kitchen you’d love. But mostly I eat out.”

  The Carlisle is a haven for over fifty singles and it’s hard to picture Daniel in its world of hot tubs and cocktail parties. Even so, I feel a stab of jealousy at the thought of attractive single women bringing him casseroles. Then, as though to prevent me from feeling sorry for him, he adds “There are terrific diners in East Boca and I’ve become an expert on the local pizza joints.”

  Daniel’s pants hang loosely around his waist and his shirt bunches over his belt. He’s lost a few pounds. Dawn may be gorgeous, but she’s a lousy cook. Or he’s telling the truth about living alone. His apartment is a mile from our home, close to his office, and I wonder if he’s been driving by the house, keeping tabs on me. He knows I don’t shop every day, so that would explain how he “ran into” me here this morning.

  I pick up two ears of corn and put them back. He turns toward the broccoli, takes a bunch, and stuffs them in his bag of apples.

  The clerk must sense our unease because she eyes us, then abandons her eggplant for the tomatoes on the far side of the produce section.

  “The apartment’s nice,” Daniel says, breaking t
he silence. “I rented some black leather couches and a wood kitchen table, just like at home.”

  I picture Daniel at a furniture store, struggling to pull together a bachelor pad. It sounds like he’s trying to re-create the decor of our home and I feel sad, realizing how homesick he must be.

  “Becks. I came here to talk to you.”

  I refuse to meet his gaze. “About what?”

  “Getting together. I’ve been patient and a good sport. Whatever you needed was fine with me.”

  I know he’s talking about money. He has been generous. But that doesn’t make up for his betrayal.

  “What about Dawn?” I say. “What’s she supposed to do?”

  “There is no Dawn. I told you it was over.”

  “She must have been devastated.”

  He folds his arms across his chest. “You need to let it go. I did something awful and I’m sorry. But we can get on with our life. I love you and I think you love me. We have too much history to walk away from. And we have the kids. They’re upset.”

  “Of course they are.” I let my voice rise. “Their father had an affair with a girl their age. Their mother is alone for the first time in her life. But they’ll be fine. No thanks to you.” I reach for my cart. “I don’t want to have this conversation. I can’t let it go. I don’t know that I ever will.”

  I walk away with as much dignity as I can muster in shorts that bunch between my thighs and a grocery cart that squeaks like a trapped mouse. When I pull into line for a register, he’s standing with the plastic produce bag at his side.