We step off the elevator and travel down a freshly-carpeted hallway to a room the size of an Olympic swimming pool. The chemical smell of paint and drywall permeates the air and strips of brown paper lie along the corners of the room. A coffee urn sits on a folding table at the front, next to a stack of paper cups, a jar of creamer, and a handful of sugar packets. A man in his early thirties wearing a black yarmulke over close-cropped black hair—I assume he’s the rabbi—stands next to the table talking to a dozen adults and children. The chairs are set out in semicircular rows. My father waves to a man I recognize as Nudelman and we seat ourselves a few rows behind him and his children.
I struggle to stay awake as the rabbi explains that the group will base itself in Jerusalem and Tel Aviv but visit religious sites throughout the country. When the meeting’s over, Nudelman strides across the room to Tootsie and gives him a bear hug. Releasing my father, he turns to me. “You must be Becks. You’re lucky to have such a sweet guy for a father.”
I glance at Tootsie. No one ever calls him sweet. The best I can offer is “Thanks.”
“Don’t worry about your dad. We’ll take good care of him. Though I suspect, with his energy, he’ll take care of us.”
I don’t have a response. It’s a cliché and doesn’t deserve an answer, so I smile blandly.
My father introduces me to Nudelman’s kids, an attractive girl named Mindy and Bobby, the bar mitzvah boy. He’s small for thirteen with thin legs and arms that look like stick figures emerging from his shorts and tee shirt. I find myself comparing this fair, delicate child to my sons, who were clumsy, noisy creatures at that age. Nudelman leads us to the elevator and he and Tootsie talk about hotel accommodations on the ride down. The whole time, Bobby hangs on to my father’s hand. I’m surprised when he gives Tootsie a kiss before leaving for his father’s car. My father’s not demonstrative and he rarely gave his grandsons more than a quick hug. I’m jealous but still touched by his affection for the child.
On the ride to my father’s apartment, he talks about the trip. He’s excited about visiting Israel for the first time. I drop Tootsie off at his apartment and head home, uneasy. I didn’t get a chance to talk to Nudelman although he seemed pleasant enough. If my Google search is to be believed, he’s a successful and generous man who supports Jewish causes all over town. Maybe I’m jealous that my father has a better relationship with a strange family than with his own and concerned about his traveling so far. But I can’t shake my skepticism over Nudelman’s willingness to include Tootsie—and Tootsie’s eagerness to attend—such an intimate and far-flung family event. Traveling to Israel for the bar mitzvah of a child he’s just met seems odd, even for my father.
That night, it takes me awhile to doze off. When I do, I dream of my father riding a camel—alone and far from civilization—along red desert sand dunes.
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35
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The Saturday night after Tootsie leaves for Israel, Daniel calls. It’s almost ten when the phone rings, interrupting work on an essay I’m writing about my mother’s potato kugel. I’m miffed at his interruption and assumption I’ll be home alone on a Saturday night. But his voice holds the soft timbre that means he’s lonely. I haven’t heard that since early in our marriage, when we were apart for weeks at a time while he did clinical rotations in Tennessee. And his good news trumps my resentment. Milt, he tells me, is leaving the hospital Monday. He’ll spend a week or two at his sister’s apartment while Aunt Vivian nurses him back to health. It looks like my father-in-law will be around a few more years.
The last time Daniel phoned, he insisted we take the boys out to dinner together when they’re home for spring break. I told him I wasn’t ready for that. I do miss Daniel. But sometimes, when I hear his voice, my resentment and bitterness flare. The most innocuous question—about whether I paid a bill or hired a new lawn man—sets me on edge. It’s as if he doesn’t trust me to take care of matters I’ve handled for years. I wonder if I’ll get past this. Tonight, he asks if I’ve paid our mortgage this month.
About five minutes into our conversation, Daniel coughs and grows silent.
“Are you there?” I ask.
“Hold on a sec?”
I hear water running. Daniel’s first impulse is to reach for a drink—water or coffee—when he’s angry or nervous. I wonder what I said to upset him.
The sound of running water stops and I wait as he takes a sip and clears his throat. “Any chance of meeting for breakfast tomorrow?” The words come quickly. “We could go to Lester’s? Share an order of blintzes.”
I hesitate. Lester’s has the best blintzes in South Florida.
“I promise not to pester you. Tootsie called before he left for Israel so I figured you’d be free.”
Mulligan jumps onto the desk and rubs against the receiver, no doubt recognizing Daniel’s voice. My dad won’t be back for a week and I don’t relish the prospect of a Sunday alone. Most of my friends spend the day with family or have standing tennis games. It would be nice to have something to do, something to which I can look forward. The thought startles me. I do look forward to seeing Daniel. But I don’t want to be trapped in a restaurant where I’ll be embarrassed to leave if he angers me.
“How about a walk in Delray Beach?” I say. “We could meet in the tiki hut across from Atlantic Avenue?” That’s where we used to stop to rest on our Sunday morning walks along the beach. “Ten thirty,” I add before I can change my mind.
“I’ll pick you up?”
“No. I’ll meet you there.”
I get to the beach fifteen minutes early and park along A1A, managing to snag a spot near the water a quarter of a mile south of the tiki hut. The wind blowing in from the ocean sends sprays of sand across the grassy dunes, slicing my face with sharp-edged grains. I didn’t check the weather before leaving my house and the sky hangs low and forbidding over the slate ocean. Large rollers strike the beach, which is lined with rows of dark sargassum that last night’s storm threw on shore. Even so, the usual crazies are in the ocean—surfboarders in their black wet suit shorties and kite surfers in colorful bathing trunks. When I stop to watch a kite surfer flip his board in the air and execute a tight turn, I’m almost struck by an inline skater.
Daniel’s waiting on a bench inside the tiki hut when I arrive. His black nylon running shirt shows his graying temples and high cheekbones to advantage and I’m struck by how distinguished he looks. He rises and there’s an awkward “should we kiss” moment before I seat myself and he drops onto the wooden planks beside me. We’re the only ones inside the hut. The cooler weather and gray day have apparently discouraged other walkers.
“I’m glad you could make it,” he says.
I smile and shrug. The two of us stare out to sea at a surfer struggling to catch a wave. He’s young, about Gabriel’s age, and lies flat on his stomach as he paddles fifty yards over breaking surf. Then he orients the board toward shore and watches the waves over his shoulder. A few of the waves he catches die beneath him but he turns the board, paddles out, and tries yet again. I admire his persistence.
“You want to grab a bite? Go for a walk?” Daniel asks once the surfer skims to shore on the crest of a breaking whitecap.
“Let’s walk.”
We head north along the sidewalk. Our pace adjusts, as it always has, with him slowing down to compensate for my shorter stride. In less than a minute, we’re back in sync. We make good time, which means I’m breathing hard from the effort of keeping up.
As we walk, we chat about nothing in particular. Tootsie’s relationship with the Nudelmans. Josh’s decision to remain in Atlanta for the summer term. He tells me Gabe decided to double major in engineering and computer science and may remain in Miami over the summer. I realize I haven’t talked to the boys in a week and experience a moment of guilt. My last conversation with Gabe ended in an argument. As usual, he conten
ded it was time for me to let go of my anger and take his father back. I snapped that it was none of his business. I tried to explain that it was up to his father and me to work things out but he sounded hurt. We haven’t spoken since. I hope Daniel’s and my separation isn’t behind the kids’ decision to spend their summer away.
“About the boys . . .” He interrupts my thoughts.
“What about them?”
“They’ve called me a few times in the last week.”
I feel a stab of jealousy. They don’t call me that often.
“They asked me to talk to you. They . . . ” We jump back as a bicyclist in sleek black jerseys zips within inches of us. “They want me to convince you we should be a family again. That we should reconcile.” He hesitates. “We’d all like things to go back to the way they were.”
My cheeks grow warm but I’m too dumbfounded to speak. I’m being blamed for our separation. Yes, I threw Daniel out. But I had a good reason. Why am I the bad guy in this? He’s the one who chose to cheat and break up our family. I break into a jog but Daniel trails close. When I stop and turn around, he almost runs into me.
“I can’t believe you’re having this conversation with the boys. This is between us. I don’t need the three of you ganging up on me. Or you manipulating the kids. You saw what happened to my family.”
Daniel rolls his eyes.
“Don’t start,” I warn. “You know perfectly well how my mother forced Esther and me to interfere. Don’t do that to our kids.”
I turn my back to him and retrace my steps toward the tiki hut.
“Becks.”
I keep walking.
“Becks.”
His voice is closer. Daniel grabs my arm and spins me around. “Don’t do this. I love you and hate myself for what I did to you. I can barely sleep at night because of my guilt. The boys know that and want us to be a family. I’ll do anything you want. But you’ve punished me enough. You can’t believe I’d cheat on you again.”
I pull my arm away. “Why not? I didn’t think you’d cheat in the first place. Why’d you do it?”
The question has plagued me for months, draping me in a cloud of anger and despair each time I think about it. I’ve been afraid to hear the answer. That sex was no longer good? That I’ve let myself go? That I’ve become boring. I’ve been beating myself up searching for reasons. But frustration and Daniel’s determination to reunite have given me the nerve to ask.
Daniel winces, then studies his hands. “I don’t know. I’ve been struggling with it myself. After my mother died, I felt lost. We were pretty close. You remember?”
I nod. Daniel and Sylvia spoke two or three times a week, more often after she was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. They didn’t talk long, but it was enough to feel connected. I hope my sons will be as devoted when I’m older.
“Then Dawn showed up and I was flattered by her attention. I couldn’t believe a girl like that was interested in me. She was young. She made me feel desirable and young. I think she helped me block the depression I felt after my mother died. Around her, everything was easy and mindless. I guess I needed that.”
Easy and mindless? Was I difficult and depressing to be around?
He continues. “But after a few weeks, it wasn’t fun. I knew I was deluding myself, pretending to be someone I wasn’t. And I missed us. I’d come home at night and feel sick with remorse but couldn’t say anything. I felt isolated from everyone, even you. I hated that and wanted so much to get closer to you. We were starting to get closer when Eva called. By then Dawn and I were long over. All I wanted then and now is to be with you.”
I search his face, seeking evidence of truth. Yellow flecks dot his irises and his crow’s-feet crinkle with concern. We’re silent for a moment and, with a jolt, I realize he means what he says. His skin is pale and he chews his lower lip. I want to forgive him. But something holds me back.
A light flickers behind his pupils. “It’s your father, isn’t it?”
I glance toward the beach to escape his gaze. Row upon row of sailboat masts dot the shore, emerging from behind the dunes like popsicle sticks in tufts of grass.
“I’m not Tootsie. Do you understand that?” He speaks slowly and his voice embraces me like a warm breeze. “I’d never treat you the way he treated your mother.” He stands closer to me and I take in the familiar scent of car leather and shaving cream. “I love you and always will. When you’re ready to come back, I’ll be here.”
I nod and step back, torn between the urge to hug him and the compulsion to run. A lump fills my throat, choking off any possibility of speech. I wave a hand ambiguously and shake my head. He squeezes my arm.
I turn away and walk to my car. When I’ve gone a hundred yards, I glance over my shoulder. He stands on the sidewalk, arms hanging at his sides, smiling. Driving home along the ocean, I feel a lightness I haven’t known in months.
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36
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My father’s back from Israel for two days before he calls. We argued before he left, but he dismissed my concerns about getting sick while so far from home. I didn’t mention Esther’s suspicion that Nudelman was running a con. The last time she accused Tootsie of getting scammed—by a woman half his age—Tootsie didn’t talk to her for three months. I don’t need that. Apparently, my nagging’s forgiven. Tootsie invites me for dinner Sunday night.
He’s still jet-lagged when I show up, so we send out for Chinese food.
“How was Israel?” I ask after he calls in our order. “Any problem keeping up?”
“It was tiring but I enjoyed the trip.” He tells me about exploring the Old City in Jerusalem and gives a brief roundup of the bar mitzvah at Masada.
“And the Nudelmans?” I say when he’s through. “They have a good time?”
My father laughs, a short staccato bark, and walks into the kitchen.
“What is it?”
He looks at me, shakes his head, and laughs even harder. Each time he glances at me, he starts in again. In seconds, he’s bracing himself, palms on the counter and arms straight, laughing so hard tears run down his cheeks.
I watch, amused and dumbfounded. “What’s so funny about a trip to Israel?”
“I’m sorry,” he says once he catches his breath. “The answer to your question—at least for Ira Nudelman—is nothing.”
I raise an eyebrow and he motions me to the couch.
“I don’t know where to begin.” He eases himself into the armchair across from me. “I told you about meeting Ira on the trip to Turkey.”
“Yeah, with his family.”
“There’s more to the story. I knew his father.”
“You didn’t tell me that.”
“Of course not. With your big mouth, it would’ve been all over Miami. I didn’t want Ira to know. It’s so crazy. Ira’s father was a big time hoodlum on the Lower East Side. Everyone called him Boots because he’d kick over your fruit or vegetable stand if you didn’t pay protection. It wasn’t a sophisticated scheme, just a pain in the butt. At least until my father, who had a small grocery store, refused to pay. The son of a bitch beat him up and put Grandpa Leo in the hospital for a couple of days.”
I don’t remember my grandfather, who died when I was five, but family photos show him as a big guy who could handle himself. Nudelman’s father had to be pretty tough to beat him up.
“Moe and I were too young to do anything about it. Luckily, at least for my dad, Boots had bigger fish to fry. He joined a gang and left the neighborhood peddlers alone.”
“But how did you figure Ira— ”
“Let me finish, will you. You don’t meet many Nudelmans in this world. So when I got back from Turkey, I called friends in New Jersey. Sure enough, he was Boot’s son. And a con man like his father. Got caught scamming a couple of investors in New Jersey and managed a plea d
eal. Made a new start in Florida. I wasn’t surprised. The bastard was sizing me up in Turkey, asking about my business, my family. I bet he looked into my finances when we got home. The wife and kids are sweethearts. But I can spot a con artist a mile away.”
“So why’d you go to Israel with him?”
He holds up a finger in answer. “About a month after we got back from Turkey, I met Ira for lunch and mentioned I needed a lawyer to update my will. Figured I’d play the half-witted old geezer who needed advice. He bit and gave me a name, Juan Perez. Then, when Ira invited me to Israel, I reeled him in. My guess is he thought I’d update my will before the trip and he’d arrange for Perez to give him a piece of the fee. I didn’t think he was planning to knock me off or anything like that, but I took measures. Told him I had an appointment with Perez to work on the will the week I got back.”
He leans in my direction and plants his hands on his knees. “Did I mention that Ira advanced the money for my trip? Ten thousand bucks with first class seating on El Al. I told him I’d pay him back a few days after we returned. That I had a certificate of deposit coming due.”
“Dad, are you telling me you went to Israel just to—”
“Hold on, Doll, I’m not done. And in case you think I’m some kind of cheapskate, I bought the boy a beautiful gift. A prayer shawl and yarmulke from the Holy Land.”
He waits for me to comment, express my admiration for his generosity. I say nothing.
“We flew back Thursday night and got in about four Friday morning. At the baggage carousel, I pulled Ira aside. The bastard was all smiles, thinking I was going to thank him.” My father curls his lip. “I told him the same thing I told you. What his father did to mine. What I know about him. And how I’m not paying him back.
“You should have seen his face.” My father sighs and shakes his head. He looks genuinely sad. “I could tell he was scared. I’m not going to kid you, Becks, I was out for revenge. But the guy’s got a wife and two great kids. I couldn’t ruin it for them. Nudelman knows I’m watching. And he can’t be sure I haven’t told anyone about his past. That should be enough to keep him straight.”
The Yiddish Gangster's Daughter (A Becks Ruchinsky Mystery Book 1) Page 24
