“I’ve heard about that.” I say as I take a left off Dixie onto Bird Road. The street is lined with trees and, I guess, birds, but I don’t hear them. “They’re the Jewish priests, right?”
“Right. I’d heard of the kohanim too, but none of this bull about not going near a dead body. All the same, I was not going to argue Talmudic fine points with a big cheese from the syndicate. I told him I’d do it, and he got into the Cadillac idling in front of the temple and took off.”
“Did you tell her?”
“I had to. I’d given my word. But I didn’t want to upset Mrs. Pollock. I decided to postpone the message until after the funeral when we made a shiva call.
“We went to her house after the service. Your mother and I were the only ones who stayed for more than five minutes. People wandered in, had a quick cup of coffee, and left without more than a sorry to the widow. Even so, it was a half hour before I got my break. When your mother went to the powder room, I delivered Cohen’s message including the part about his being a kohanim.
“I felt sick about it but I was worried about Cohen finding out if I didn’t. Ethel Pollock stared at me a long time, her eyes wide and lower lip trembling. Then her eyes narrowed. That’s when I realized what an idiot I was. I wasn’t sure Cohen killed Pollock. But if he hadn’t, he probably got another goon to do it. It disgusted me, his acting like some holier-than-thou yid, a big shot kohanim who’s so devout he can’t come near a dead body. Not even one whose hit he ordered. And he got me, the moron, to do his bidding.
“I was so ashamed I couldn’t meet the woman’s eyes. I apologized, found your mother and left.”
“Was Cohen arrested for the murder?” I ask.
“Are you kidding?” Tootsie says as we pull into the Marmelstein driveway. “Boom Boom took the rap. When he got out, the mob set him up with a drift fishing business in Hallandale. Itzhak was convicted of tax evasion years later. Did a couple of months.”
I turn off the engine. “So how’d he make enough money to get an aliyah?” I ask. Only the biggest contributors or most active members of a synagogue are given aliyahs—the honorary Torah readings and ark openings.
“He went legit. They all did, eventually. He opened a chain of men’s clothing stores in Fort Lauderdale.”
“And you? What’d you do then?”
“I told you. Your Uncle Moe and I opened the store. Went legit.” He glances my way, then shifts his eyes. “After what happened to Pollock, I knew it was time to get out.”
We leave the car and climb the steps to the Marmelstein’s front porch. As I push the doorbell, Tootsie grabs my arm.
“Not a word of this to the Marmelsteins,” he whispers. “I wouldn’t want anyone to think your mother associated with gangsters.”
Mrs. Marmelstein opens the door and we step inside before I can read his expression. Tootsie gives her a big hug before she leads us into the dining room where her husband, son, and daughter-in-law sit at a white linen-draped table. Sabbath candles blaze in silver holders and a braided challah rests, uncut, on a crystal platter.
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32
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Tootsie
The stormy look that sweeps Shoshanna Marmelstein’s face as I reach to hug her would turn a lesser man to stone. I struggle to suppress a smile. Honest to God, I can’t help myself. It’s nice of the old broad to invite me for dinner but it’s obvious I’m there through the grace of Becks. If my daughter sees how charming I am to Bernice’s old friend, maybe she’ll be more forgiving.
I chat about the stock market with Syd Marmelstein while Shoshanna goes to the kitchen to get dinner. In the meantime, Becks catches up with the Marmelstein’s boy, Scott, and his wife, Ruth. The three went to high school together and run down a list of old friends, catching up on who’s married and who’s divorced. Becks seems animated, smiling warmly at everyone, and it’s clear she feels at home with Shoshanna and Syd. When Shoshanna serves the Shabbat chicken and potatoes, the room grows silent before everyone starts talking again.
I try to join the conversation but have a hard time focusing. I don’t remember most of the neighbors they talk about and my mind keeps returning to the image of Itzhak Cohen. It’s hard to believe that old man was the gangster I met in New York. Yet another ghost from the past.
The hit on Pollock was my wake-up call. I’d never met him but knew he operated on the fringes of the syndicate. I don’t know what he did to deserve the hit, but his murder scared the living daylights out of me. And not just because I saw my future in his death. Things were getting a little too close to home. Bernice said she met Mrs. Pollock through their Hadassah chapter, but there might have been more to it. Pollock could’ve set things up, suggested his wife get to know Bernice better. It would have been the perfect way to get me involved in whatever underhanded operation he was running.
The funny thing is I have no idea if Bernice knew what kind of business I was in or what Pollock did. Maybe she didn’t want to know. She wasn’t stupid— she must have suspected something.
Once I learned of Bernice’s relationship with the widow, I worried people would think Pollock and I had been business associates. I asked Bernice to stay away from Ethel. She agreed. But who knows with dames? After my problems with Landauer and the illegal arms shipments in New York, I realized it was time to go straight.
Tonight, at dinner, I try to block those memories. Becks looks so happy and relaxed. I haven’t seen her smile in months. I’ve been so wrapped up in my fear of losing her that I haven’t given much thought to her separation. If only she wasn’t so stubborn, if she could accept how little an affair means to a man. I’ve tried to convince her. But nothing I say helps.
It isn’t easy being a father. My spirits drop as I reflect on how lonely and frightened she must be. I hate myself for all the pain I’ve caused her with Abe and Landauer’s visits. Not that she didn’t have a hand in it, sticking her nose where it doesn’t belong.
“Dad?”
I startle at her voice and realize I’ve been staring at Becks.
“Are you okay?”
It takes a few seconds to answer. An unfamiliar ache constricts my chest and I realize I need to get away from the Marmelsteins and these memories. I put a hand over my heart and try to catch my breath.
“Becks, darling, I don’t feel well.” I stand but become light-headed and grab my chair. “I’m sure it’s nothing, but I think it’d be better if we left now.” I glance at my plate. I haven’t eaten a bite.
Becks rises and makes our apologies. We’ve been there only forty-five minutes but the Marmelsteins are gracious. They assure us they’re not offended and walk us to our car. It’s chilly and I quickly slide into the passenger seat, my heart beating rapidly. I don’t know what’s going on, only that I have to get out of there fast. As Becks drives down the street on which we lived for thirty years, I let my eyes wander over the dimly-lit front porches and handsome landscaping. The houses sit far apart, separated by tall ficus hedges and ancient oaks that loom over the driveways. The neighborhood looks alien and forbidding—as though the shadows hide ghosts that’ll catch up with us if we don’t get out of there fast. I’m tense and nauseated and begin to calm down only after we’ve left the neighborhood and reached the brightly-lit strip malls along Dixie Highway.
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33
----
My bedroom’s pitch-black when the phone rings. In my stupor, I knock my glasses off the end table before grabbing the receiver.
“Becks? Are you awake?”
It’s Daniel. The panic in his voice jolts me to a sitting position?
“What’s the matter? Are the boys all right?”
“They’re fine.”
“Then what . . .”
“It’s my father. He had a massive heart attack.”
Fear grips my gut. My mother died the day after her heart
attack.
Daniel and I may be separated but I still love his father, Milt. We hit it off the moment Daniel brought me to his parent’s New York apartment for Thanksgiving our junior year at Amherst. Milt and I chat every few months, mostly about books, and I realize with a stab of guilt that I haven’t talked to him since Daniel and I split up.
“I had no idea—”
“I tried to let you know but you never . . .” He lets the sentence hang. “My dad’s been ill for a few months. Aunt Vivian phoned late last night from St. Luke’s and I’m flying up this afternoon. Do you want to come? ”
“Yes, of course.” When I reach to the floor to retrieve my glasses, I glance at the alarm clock. Five in the morning. Almost seven hours since I dropped Tootsie off. “Does your father know about us?”
“I haven’t said anything. I told him you were busy with a project when I visited last month. I thought we could work things out and didn’t want to worry him.”
He clears his throat. “There’s no reason to tell him now. It’ll upset him. I booked a flight that’s leaving for LaGuardia at two this afternoon. I wanted to give you a chance to,” he hesitates, “say goodbye.”
We agree he’ll book me onto the same flight and reserve hotel rooms. I spend the morning packing and arranging for a neighbor to feed Mulligan.
My elbow feels foreign as it brushes against Daniel’s on our shared arm rest. The only seats he could find on the crowded plane were window and mid-row and I’m uncomfortable being crushed between him and the overweight man to my left.
I’m lost in a bewildering Alice in Wonderland world. Daniel and I haven’t been together in months and here we sit, as if nothing had happened, on our way to visit his critically ill father. He offered to pick me up on his way to the airport but I turned him down, explaining it would be easier to take my own car. We might not fly home together. The truth is I knew any time we spent alone would be awkward, so why prolong it. When I met him at the boarding gate and he leaned down to peck my cheek, I hesitated before accepting his kiss.
What makes this trip particularly strange is the sense of déjà vu I’ve experienced the entire flight. Daniel, the boys, and I have flown to New York dozens of times to visit his parents and attend bar mitzvahs, anniversaries, and weddings. Our last trip, a year ago, was for his mother’s funeral. We held hands the entire flight. One of the things I cherished about Daniel’s and my relationship was our ability to see each other through tough times, to say the words that would bring comfort. Daniel is grieving and I want to console him. But every word out of my mouth sounds like a cliché. “It’ll work out.” “I’m sure he’ll be fine.” Words I’d offer a stranger.
Once the plane takes off, we chat about the boys’ plans. We’ll see how Milt’s doing before scheduling their flights. Daniel and I catch up a little, though we’re both careful to skirt any mention of our future. If we’re going to be together for a few days, we need to get along. Halfway into the flight, the man in the aisle seat dozes off, and I tell Daniel about Florence Karpowsky’s accusation. Daniel’s not as horrified as I’d anticipated when I tell him Tootsie admitted that he worked for the syndicate and was forced to kill a man.
The ease I begin to feel with Daniel fades as the plane descends through dense gray clouds over LaGuardia. The reality of why we’re in New York strikes me. Milt, my friend and the father of my estranged husband, is dying. I’m here to say goodbye. We grab our luggage from the overhead bin and race to the taxi stand. Though it’s only five, the sky is dark and the streets are black and slushy with melted snow. Neither of us speaks during the ride to St. Luke’s.
We find Milt on the cardiac floor, lying with his head elevated in an aluminum-barred hospital bed. His skin has a pasty gray tinge and he breathes with the help of a nasal cannula. His eyes are closed. Daniel’s Aunt Vivian, Milt’s sister, rises from a chair next to the bed and places a finger to her lips. We follow her into the deserted hallway. She’s an attractive woman in her late seventies who dresses exquisitely and never leaves home without makeup. I’m shocked by how old and tired she looks without.
“He drifts in and out of sleep, but is lucid when he’s awake. He asked for the two of you when he came off the heavy sedation this morning.” She smiles at me and I avert my eyes. “Come in and wait. He’ll awaken soon. He dozed off hours ago.”
I sit in the small recliner at the foot of Milt’s bed while Daniel takes the wooden chair next to his aunt. She tells us of receiving a call from a neighbor who was with Milt when the heart attack happened and of arriving at the hospital as the paramedics brought him in.
I don’t join their whispered conversation. Instead, I study my father-in-law’s face, now so passive, and remember the heated discussions we had about books and politics. Milt’s a retired high school English teacher and loves to send me rare books he finds at estate sales and thrift stores. He grew up on New York’s Lower East Side, not far from where my father lived, and dropped out of school at sixteen when his father died. Though he worked at a series of factory jobs to support his mother, he managed to finish high school and attend City College. He loves to tell stories about growing up on the Lower East Side and, later, organizing strikes to get New York teachers the benefits they deserved. Milt also likes to tease me about my father’s youthful years as a tough.
It seems ironic that Tootsie and Milt came from similar backgrounds yet became such different men. Milt chose the world of the mind, while Tootsie decided to . . . these days I’m not sure what to call it.
I’m so lost in thought that I don’t notice Milt watching me. When I catch his eye, he smiles. “How about that?” he says, his voice barely reaching a whisper, “Tootsie Plotnik’s daughter visiting me.”
It’s as if he’s reading my mind.
I go to his bedside to give him a kiss. His skin feels cool. “Would I miss a chance to see my favorite English teacher?” I smile and motion with my chin toward Daniel. “I brought your son the doctor along.”
Daniel, already standing, says, “Hi Dad” and takes his father’s hand.
“You kids okay?” Milt says. “I haven’t seen you in a long time.”
Daniel catches my eye.
“We’re fine,” I answer. “It’s been a busy year.”
“Does your father know about my heart attack?” Milt says. His voice is weak and I glance at Aunt Vivian to see if I should continue. She nods.
“I didn’t get a chance to call yet. I’ll let him know.”
Milt smiles. “Who would have thought my Daniel would end up as the son-in-law of one of the toughest mumsers in the neighborhood?” He stops talking for a few minutes and I watch his chest rise and fall. “We both did okay.”
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
He smiles gently. Then, with a vaudeville inflection, “How should I be feeling?”
I’m about to answer when he interrupts.
“I tell you about the time I tried to join your father’s gang?”
I shake my head. I wonder if Milt should be expending so much energy but reason Daniel will end the conversation if it becomes too fatiguing. I can’t imagine why he wants to discuss Tootsie, but he’s the patient and I defer to him.
“Your dad led a gang of kids I wanted to hang out with. The big boys. He let me once. I went with him and his pals to Hester Street where your father stole an apple from a pushcart.” He stops a minute and catches his breath. “When the vendor chased him, the rest of us grabbed our own apples. It was a con every kid in the neighborhood pulled at one time or another. Your Uncle Moe taught it to him.”
I smile. Stealing apples is the least of my father’s transgressions.
“How about the time your uncle beat up Reb Mottke?” Milt’s voice seems weaker. “Your father tell you about our religious school teacher?”
As he’s talking, a young doctor in a white coat enters the room and announces that v
isiting hours are over. He needs to examine his patient. Aunt Vivian and I exchange glances and retire to the hallway, but Daniel insists on remaining.
In the hall, she takes my hand in both of hers. “Don’t listen to his old stories,” she tells me. “Your father was a good boy. Your Uncle Moe.” She presses her lips together. “A real hoodlum, that one.”
I ask what she means, but she waves her hand in a vague circle as though dusting a stray cobweb from midair. “We all have family skeletons.”
When Daniel and the doctor emerge, Daniel joins us in the corner of the hallway where Aunt Vivian has commandeered an abandoned wheelchair. “Dad’s sleeping. I think we’d better get a bite before he wakes again,” he says.
I glance at my watch. It’s almost nine and I’m exhausted. Aunt Vivian demurs. She’s too tired to join us, but recommends an Italian restaurant two blocks away. She suggests we leave our luggage in Milt’s room and retrieve it when we return to say good night. Daniel and I kiss her and go downstairs.
I step through St. Luke’s sliding glass doors into the dark of night and gasp. Living in Florida, I’ve forgotten the visceral shock of stepping from a warm building into frigid air. Noting my discomfort, Daniel runs into the street and hails a cab. We’re going two blocks but I have no desire to fight the wind. It lashes my cheeks and stings my eyes.
Five minutes later, the cab stops in front of a small brick-fronted restaurant on Amsterdam Avenue. I run inside to get a table while Daniel pays the driver. The air is aromatic with the scent of roasting garlic and fresh-baked rolls and I fall gratefully into the cozy booth the host finds me. When Daniel enters, I wave to catch his attention. He towers over the other men in the room and carries himself with a dignity that belies the fear I know he’s feeling. Without thinking, I stand and kiss his cheek. He pretends not to be as shocked as I feel.
Neither of us bother with the menu. Spaghetti and meatballs are fine. A house salad. We’re alone with our thoughts until the food arrives, when we both lean forward and say “thanks.”
The Yiddish Gangster's Daughter (A Becks Ruchinsky Mystery Book 1) Page 22
