“Nu, so please use it and tell me already.”
“It is interesting, and also disturbing. First, it appears this Eddie Christensen is indeed the son of our Molly, the former cleaner at the Home. And I feel sorry for Molly if that is so.”
“From what we have seen of him, I would certainly agree.”
“But there is more than what we have ourselves seen. To begin with, Eddie has been arrested many times by the police. He has a long record.”
I was not totally surprised, but I was still shocked to learn that Rachel’s Doreen was living with such a farshtinkiner, and planning to marry him yet!
“What kind of things has he been arrested for?” I asked. “Like robbing banks and murder?” I perhaps watch too much television, as this was the first thing I could think of.
“Nothing like that, danken Got. Mostly it is for having drugs, or for petty theft, nothing of great consequence. But he also is suspected of having some connection to much worse people, the ones who commit the more serious crimes.”
“You mean like that big Italian family, what is their name?”
“You are thinking maybe of the Mafia.”
“That is them.” Again too much television, I suppose.
“No, I don’t think so,” Mrs. K said, “at least that is not the impression I got. They probably are just plain American criminals, a local gang, which is just as bad. But whoever they are, the police are watching Eddie to see what he and the others are up to. When they get enough evidence, the police will arrest them.”
“This sounds bad for Doreen,” I said.
“It gets worse, I’m afraid. A few years ago, when he was about to be put on trial for stealing from someone, the important witness was to be a young woman with whom Eddie had been living. Apparently she saw the stolen items when he brought them home. Well, it turns out they had just recently gotten married, and so the woman could not be forced to testify against Eddie, and the prosecution was dropped. Mr. Taubman said it is some kind of privilege not to testify against your husband.”
I was getting confused now. “But Eddie is not married—Rachel has told us he is in fact going to marry Doreen…”
“That is what I said to Taubman. He said Benjamin did not mention, and in fact may not know, what has become of Eddie’s wife—that information perhaps is not in his file.”
I let this sink in for a minute, and briefly I had a chill down my spine. Mrs. K was correct—it was all very disturbing. And at least one thing was clear:
“Rose, we must try to protect Doreen. Perhaps if we tell her what we have found out…”
Mrs. K shook her head. “No, I’m afraid she would just consider us two meddling yentas. She is no doubt flattered by Eddie’s attentions, and she is not likely to believe anything bad about him that we tell her.”
“So what do we do? Surely we must do something.”
“I intend to do something,” Mrs. K said. “I intend to go and see the only person who will be able to deal properly with Mr. Eddie Christensen.”
“Who is that?”
“His mother, of course.”
—
When Mrs. K decides to do something, it usually gets done very soon. Of course, at our age, if we do not act on our decisions while they are fresh in our minds, we are likely to forget to act on them at all.
So right after lunch, Mrs. K got Molly Christensen’s address and telephone number from the telephone directory. She telephoned Molly and asked if it was okay that we come over to speak with her that afternoon. Molly remembered Mrs. K and said she would be glad to see her. She would be home and we should feel free to drop in.
Mrs. K then asked me if I would like to accompany her to see Molly. I was not otherwise occupied on this Thursday afternoon, and of course I was curious as to what Mrs. K intended to say to Molly, so I readily agreed.
Molly lived across town, and we decided to take a taxi to get there. I should point out that although both Mrs. K and I drove cars when we were younger, neither of us feels comfortable doing it now. Our reactions are a little slower and our eyesight is not so good. So like most of the residents at the Home, we do not own a car and must take a bus or taxi when we go out, at least if Andy’s shuttle is not available. Some residents, like Mr. Taubman, do own cars and keep them in the garage under the Home. If we really need to go somewhere by car, sometimes we can ask of them a favor to drive us. But on this errand to Eddie’s mother, Mrs. K and I had to go alone.
I excused myself to freshen up before we left, and a few minutes later I met Mrs. K in the reception area of the Home. I saw that she had also returned to her room and was now wearing one of her pretty hats, the blue one with the white ribbon. It is a shame ladies do not wear them much these days, but everything is so “casual” now, even in the evening.
We were about to ask the receptionist to call a taxi for us when Mrs. K stopped short. She turned to me and said, “No, Ida, we cannot leave just yet. I just remembered something important I planned to do first.”
She then turned in the direction of the lounge and walked toward the back corner, where Mrs. Bissela was sitting in her usual spot—it is where she can see everything that is going on in the rest of the lounge—knitting what looked like a child’s sweater. It was white and light blue and very soft looking. This also somewhat describes Mrs. Bissela: She has light skin and blue eyes that seem to sparkle, rosy cheeks, and being more or less on the rounded side is soft-looking as well.
She looked up as we approached, and smiled. She is always glad to have someone to talk to, and she always has something—or more likely someone—to talk about. As it turned out, that is exactly why Mrs. K was coming over to see her.
“Rose, come and sit down,” Mrs. Bissela said, patting the cushion next to her. “And you too, Ida. We have not talked in quite a while.”
“Thank you, Hannah,” Mrs. K said, and we both sat. I was glad to get off my feet for a few minutes, but I was sure we were not there just to rest. Mrs. K had a purpose, and I would soon find out what it was.
We began to shmooze about the Home—this resident who is getting a little shikker, drunk, from too much schnapps after dinner, that resident who has found a new girlfriend twenty years younger than he, the latest gossip about Mr. Pupik—and soon I could see that Mrs. K had managed to turn the conversation toward Bertha Finkelstein.
“So, Hannah,” she said, “what do you think happened to Bertha? A heart attack, no?”
I now saw where Mrs. K was going. If anyone had heard about what caused Bertha’s death, it would be Mrs. Bissela. And if anyone had heard what anyone else is saying about her death, it would be the same person. Our Mrs. Bissela is like that Wiki-tiki thing I keep reading about. You know, it is like the encyclopedia but on the computer, where anyone can write things even if they are not true. There is much Mrs. Bissela can tell you about what goes on at the Home, but it is only as reliable as the person from whom she has heard it.
“Oy, a gevaldikeh zach, a terrible thing,” says Mrs. Bissela. “Yes, a heart attack it must have been. And that it should happen right there at the seder…”
I am glad that the way Bertha died and the suspicion on Mrs. K by the police had apparently not been heard even by Mrs. Bissela. Pupik may be a momzer, but apparently he is a momzer who can keep shut his pisk.
“It was indeed terrible,” agreed Mrs. K. “Did you know Bertha well?”
“Not very well, no,” Mrs. Bissela said.
“I was just wondering about her family. You know, did she have close relatives living nearby. I mean, if there is a large estate to divide up…”
“Oh, there is no large estate,” Mrs. Bissela said, interrupting. “And there is hardly any family.” Here she became more confidential-like and leaned closer to Mrs. K. “The day after Bertha dies, I hear Pupik telling Joy Laetner, the morning receptionist, that they have traced her closest relatives to somewhere in England, and that she should send them a message that he hands her.”
“So no nearby
relatives?”
“No. And as for there being a large estate, I was told by Mrs. Switzer’s daughter Sonia, who works for Goldman the lawyer—you know, he looks after the financial affairs of the less well-to-do of our residents—she told me in confidence that Bertha’s is only a small estate. Of course, she did not reveal any details…”
“Of course not,” Mrs. K said.
So Amy Bergman’s story about the evil relatives and the big estate turned out to be just more of that poor woman’s mishegoss, as we thought was most likely at the time. Nevertheless, it didn’t hurt to check the facts with a higher authority.
31
We left Mrs. Bissela after a few more minutes and returned to the lobby. There we told the receptionist at the front desk—I think this was Marilyn, who works in the afternoons—where we were going, and we signed out so no one would think we had wandered off absentmindedly and disappeared. (Believe me, it happens!) She telephoned the taxi company, and it was only about five minutes before a taxi arrived for us at the front door. Business must be slow on Thursdays. The taxi was bright yellow with a checkered stripe along the side, and on the door it said “Midtown Yellow Cab.” It could have used a washing, but it seemed to have all of its necessary parts. Mrs. K wrote the address on a slip of paper and handed it to the driver. He nodded and opened the back door for us.
It is a small but important benefit of being our age that we can ride in taxis for half price with the pink vouchers that are handed out at the Home. When I was younger I never rode in a taxi, as it was a luxury we couldn’t afford. So now when the driver held the door open for me, I remembered how it used to be and I felt very hoity-toity!
The driver was not one to inspire confidence in his passengers. In fact, he was looking extremely shlumpy: He needed a shave and his uniform looked like he had been sleeping in it, which perhaps he was doing before we called. But we couldn’t be choosy, and besides, it is how one drives that counts, not how one looks. (Still, his shlumpyness did lessen my hoity-toity feeling just a bissel.)
On the way, Mrs. K and I did not say much to each other. She had her eyes closed but I knew she was not asleep, just thinking. I was wondering how she intended to get Molly to help Doreen, and that is probably what she was wondering too.
At one point I asked her, “Do you think Molly will be willing to help us, or will she only defend her son?”
She looked up and said nothing for a moment, as I must have interrupted her thoughts, but finally she answered, “I suppose that depends on what is the relationship between them. Does she recognize Eddie for who he is, or only for who she wishes he would be?” She again closed her eyes.
I was not so deep in thought, so I was looking out the window and seeing where we were going. The driver apparently was not doing the same, because he was going very fast and just missed hitting a bus, a dog, and two old ladies in a crosswalk. I was at this point wishing Andy was driving the taxi and wondering whether we would make it to Molly’s house alive. Are all taxi drivers in such a hurry?
To get to Molly’s house we had to go through a rough-looking neighborhood, and at first I was afraid we would find Molly’s house there. It would not have been a good place to get out of the car. But fortunately we kept driving and finally came out into a neighborhood that I did not recognize. It looked as if most of the houses had been built only recently. In fact, many of them looked like they were not built at all, but that thing they do with the sheep—“cloned,” I think it is called—because they all looked exactly the same. I will bet a person living there would have a hard time finding his house if he should forget the address. Anyway, Molly was not there either.
Soon we were in another, slightly older neighborhood, but still quite respectable. We passed several clusters of houses, each with a name like “Sunny Heights” (although they were on level ground) and “Laurel Woods” (although I saw no woods in the area, laurel or otherwise). Finally, the taxi turned into what you would call a “gated community.” That is because there was supposed to be a gate across the entrance, I assume to keep out the riffraff. But since the gate was wide open, the riffraff was free to enter, and we drove in as well.
This community was named “The Pines,” and indeed there were small pine trees in front of every house. With this I was impressed. All of the pine trees were about eight or ten feet high. I wondered how they would get along with each other when they were ten times that height; but I suppose the present occupants of the houses did not need to worry about that, at least for many years.
The taxi stopped in front of number 238, which I assumed was Molly’s house. It was a nice enough house, painted yellow with brown trim, a bit faded. In the front there was a white picket fence surrounding a small lawn (and a pine tree, of course), and between the house and the lawn were a few clumps of flowers. It did not look as if anyone was taking too much trouble with it; just enough to keep things neat.
Mrs. K paid the taxi driver and told him not to wait. I am sure from the way he drives that he does not like to wait for anything or anyone, from stop lights to passengers. Then she and I went through the gate in the fence and walked up the few steps to the front door. The mat on the top step said “Welcome,” and I was hoping it was being sincere.
Mrs. K knocked several times rapidly on the door. I don’t know why she didn’t use the doorbell that was just to the left of the door; perhaps she did not see it. There was no response and after maybe half a minute, Mrs. K started to knock again. Just then the door was thrown open and she pulled her hand back just in time to avoid striking Molly Christensen directly on the nose. For it was indeed she who opened the door, out of breath as if she had been running up or down stairs to reach the door. And as I could see a stairway just behind her in the foyer, this was probably what had happened.
Molly is about sixty years old, give or take. She had gained some weight in the five or so years since we last had seen her, but then who has not? She was dressed in a red housecoat that looked almost new, with pretty matching red slippers. Her hair was pushed up in a bun, just like I remembered it when she was working at the Home.
She greeted us cheerfully. “Well, well. It’s good to see you ladies after all this time. Please come in.” She stepped aside so we could enter.
“It is good to see you also,” said Mrs. K, and I nodded in agreement. We went through to the living room, past the stairway that Molly must have run down to answer the door. I think I heard someone upstairs close a door, but I could have been mistaken. She gestured for us to sit down on the sofa, which was powder blue, as was the carpet. In fact, there was quite a bit of powder blue in the room, no doubt a color Molly is particularly fond of. Personally I can take it or leave it.
Molly excused herself and went out to the kitchen. Soon she returned with cold drinks on a tray and some cookies on a plate. She served us each a drink, which turned out to be lemonade, one of my favorites, and passed the plate of cookies. Coconut. Nu, so one out of two is not so bad.
We spent a few minutes discussing the years when Molly was working at the Home. It turned out Mrs. K was correct about Molly winning the lottery, except she had won closer to two hundred fifty thousand dollars than the one hundred thousand Mrs. K recalled.
“Whatever did you do with so much money?” I exclaimed, before I realized that it was not polite to ask such a question.
I started to apologize, but Molly waved it away and said, “Oh, I don’t mind telling you. I got some really good advice from a man my late husband knew who is in the business of investing other people’s money for them. I put most of the money into the investments he suggested, and they have done very well, almost doubling in the last five years. I also had some money saved up, mostly from the insurance policy when my husband passed away, and I invested that also. Now I am able to live off of the income if I am careful what I spend.”
“You worked hard all your life,” said Mrs. K, “and you certainly deserve to have a comfortable retirement. Zie ga zink! May you enjoy it in g
ood health.”
Molly looked pleased and said, “Thank you, Mrs. Kaplan.”
“Rose, please.”
“Rose. But what is it you wanted to see me about? You haven’t come all the way out here just to talk about me.”
“No, you are quite right,” said Mrs. K. “In fact, we want to talk to you about your son, Eddie.” Mrs. K does not believe in beating around the bush.
Now Molly no longer looked so pleased, and the smile suddenly was gone. But she said quite politely, “My son, Eddie? I don’t understand. I didn’t know you even knew him.”
“We don’t really,” Mrs. K replied, “but we did meet him, in a way, recently. And I am sure we met him many years ago when he came to pick you up at the Home a few times.”
“I see,” Molly said. “But what about Eddie could you want to discuss?” She sounded wary, as if she didn’t know whether she wanted to discuss her son with us and was waiting for more details before deciding.
Mrs. K explained briefly about Doreen. “She is a very innocent young woman,” she said, “and Eddie is, shall we say, not the kind of man she should be marrying, or even living with, at this stage of her life.”
I looked at Molly’s eyes, trying to read whether she was going to act as the mother bear defending her cub from attack. They did not give away what she was thinking, however. She asked Mrs. K, “Why do you think so? If you don’t even know Eddie…”
“We do not know him, but we know a lot about him.” And she related our meeting with Eddie at the Emporium.
Molly listened, still with that fixed expression that did not reveal her feelings, and then said, “Yes, well, I know that Eddie certainly could use some manners, and I’m certainly sorry about his rudeness to you. Mind you, he has always been attentive and respectful to me, especially since his father died—in fact, he still is. And I tried to teach him as best I could, but with working every day and no father around…”
Mrs. Kaplan and the Matzoh Ball of Death Page 13
