Run You Down

by Julia Dahl

  “I promise. I love you, Dad.”

  “I love you, too, honey.”

  When I hang up the call I am trembling. Did Aviva just help bridge a gap between me and my dad?

  I pull out of the gas station and follow Roseville’s two-lane main street east past several more strip malls, each with about half the signs in Hebrew and half in English. The road has no sidewalk, and little shoulder, but scores of men and women in black walk alongside it nonetheless, hands holding hats and head coverings against the wind, arms weighed down with shopping bags and briefcases. After about a quarter mile the buildings become residential. I turn off the main road and wind through a neighborhood of two- and three-story apartment buildings, most shabby and utilitarian with beige vinyl siding and long orange rust stains bleeding from metal handrails down bare concrete front steps. Plastic children’s toys and strollers are scattered on tiny lawns and recently poured sidewalks; minivans abound, the better to carry all the kids in, I guess. The neighborhood reminds me of the low-rent sprawl that popped up outside Orlando before the real estate crash. Every week some new development broke ground. Their names were all stupidly sunny, referencing either the warm weather or their proximity to Disney World. Most of them filled up fast and are now half empty, with absent or incarcerated landlords, falling into disrepair from neglect. Here in Roseville, on the other hand, the buildings appear worn down by use.

  After a few blocks, I pass an enormous yellow brick and stone building that looks like a cross between a castle and a banquet hall. My guess is that it’s a synagogue. Three rows of silver Hebrew letters make a rainbow shape above the entrance. Men, all hatted and in black coats, move along the walkways of the building like ants, scurrying here, stopping to talk or smoke there, then off again. Most have what look like leather binders under their arms.

  Pessie’s apartment is on the first floor at the far end of a row of apartments two blocks from the synagogue. The street dead-ends into a wooded area and through the still-bare trees I can see another, similar street of beige buildings. Aside from the toys—the same plastic cars and slides and blocks and bicycles that litter lawns across the country (across the world?)—there is little personalization. No seasonal flags or window boxes of flowers; no decals in the windows, no bumper stickers on the cars. I park at the end of the street. A woman pushes a stroller in the direction of the synagogue, and another, just one door down from Pessie’s apartment, is unloading groceries from her minivan. Two little girls are with her, squealing and chattering at each other, happy to be outside. The mother yells at one, who stops her sprint up the walkway and turns to catch as her mother tosses a set of keys into her hands. Her little sister claps, delighted, and the girl resumes her race to the door, which she unlocks and props open with a plastic bin of toys. I get out of Saul’s car with my notebook tucked in my jacket pocket and walk toward the woman as she is sliding the side door of the minivan shut.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Hello,” says the woman, not smiling but not unfriendly. The older daughter runs to her mother’s legs and hangs on, looking up at me.

  “Bring your sister, Shaindy,” says Mom.

  “Who’s that?” asks Shaindy.

  “Bring your sister!”

  Shaindy twirls off, a clumsy ballerina in black tights and a puffy black coat. She hollers for her sister, who appears in the doorway. Shaindy wraps her arms around the little girl, and picks her up. The little girl does not like this. She squirms backward, nearly toppling them both, but her big sister rights them and waddles toward us.

  “Let her go! If you break your glasses again Tatty will be furious.”

  Shaindy lets go.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” I say.

  “We have a birthday party today,” she says. “They are showing off.”

  “We are not!” shouts Shaindy, stamping her feet. Both girls are wearing headbands, each adorned with little black bows. The mother’s wig is a beautiful shade of auburn, cut with side-swept bangs. Fastened around her head is a piece of shimmery black and blue fabric that looks like a cross between a headband and a handkerchief. She has small features and well-drawn eye makeup.

  “I’m wondering if you knew Pessie Goldin,” I ask.

  “Pessie died,” says Shaindy.

  “Hush!” says the woman. “Go play with your sister.”

  Shaindy makes a dramatic and ugly whining noise, but seems to know she has tried her mother’s patience as far as she should, so she takes her sister’s hand and lumbers toward the bin of toys.

  “They’re very cute,” I say.

  “Thank you,” she says, smiling at the compliment. “Some days I think so, too. You are a friend of Pessie’s?”

  “No. I’m actually a reporter from the New York Tribune.”

  “You wrote the article? Everybody is talking about it!”

  “Oh?” I say. “Did you know her well?”

  “Yes, of course! We live next door. Levi thinks someone killed her?”

  “He’s not sure. But he wants the police to look into it.”

  “Her sister Rachel said it was a horrible accident. She slipped in the shower! My husband said they should sue the landlord. These apartments are very bad. But that is not true?”

  “I don’t know for sure,” I say. “Did you happen to be here that day?”

  “Yes,” she says. “The girls both had the flu.”

  “Do you remember anything odd? Like, a car or a truck you hadn’t seen before?”

  “I did see a truck, yes. I came out from the bathroom and when I walked past the front window I saw them circle at the end here and then drive off.”

  “Them?”

  “Two men. Goyim.”

  “Did you recognize them?”

  She shakes her head. “They were from the heating company, I thought. Everyone is having trouble with the heat. The basements are flooding all the time when it rains. Pessie complained that the landlord kept sending people who told her nothing was wrong, even though she knew something was wrong. I thought maybe she called someone outside the community to fix it.”

  “Was there a decal or a sign on the truck?”

  “I don’t remember seeing one, but there could have been. I was running back and forth from the kitchen to their bedroom all day. You have children?” I shake my head. At least she didn’t ask if I was Jewish. “They were very sick.”

  “Do you remember anything else about he truck? The color? One of your neighbors got the license plate number. I guess she thought it was suspicious.”

  “Yes? Who? Mrs. Silver? She thinks everything is suspicious.”

  “Where does Mrs. Silver live?”

  The woman points to the apartment above Pessie’s. “Pessie and I, we are a little more modern. Mrs. Silver wouldn’t let a goy rake her lawn. She thinks everyone outside the community is a thief or a rapist. Her children are grown now and they don’t see her.”

  “Maybe I’ll knock on her door and see if she’s home.”

  “I don’t see her car.”

  “Is there anything you can tell me about Pessie? What was she like? You said she was a little more modern?”

  “Pessie was very smart. Most of the women in Roseville just follow what their husbands say, but Pessie did things her own way. And you know what I liked about her? She did not gossip. The women here, they talk talk talk talk. Always talking. But not Pessie. Some people said she thought she was better than everybody, but I don’t think so. She did not need to be Miss Popular. If she had something to say, she’d say it. But she didn’t just go on and on like some people. I think she struggled.”

  “Struggled?” I ask, scribbling as fast as I can: most wom rose follow husb say, but P things own way. didn’t gossip. mos wom talktalk; not need miss pop; if had some to say say it.

  “She had been engaged before Levi,” says the woman, lowering her voice. “I don’t know the story, but I think the young man broke it off. There were lots of crazy stories. Like I said, talk talk t
alk. It must have been very hard for her. She asked me once, when she was pregnant, how long it took for me to love my husband. I told her that I knew I loved him when our Shaindy was born and he was so gentle with her. He kissed her little toes! She said she hoped that the same thing happened to her. She said she and Levi slept in different rooms, but she knew that when the baby came they would have to share because they only had two bedrooms.”

  “That’s sad,” I say.

  The woman shrugs. “Love is not everything. There are different kinds of love.”

  “Do you know if she was still in touch with the ex-fiancé?”

  “I don’t know,” she says. “I didn’t think it was right to ask.”

  “I’ve been told his name was Sam Kagan. And that he left the community.”

  “Could be,” she says. “My husband and I are not from Roseville. I grew up in Pennsylvania. Asher came here for his work in … Oh! You should go to Pessie’s work. Something happened there, a week or two before she died, I think. She didn’t want to talk about it but I heard there was a big scene.”

  “Where did she work?”

  “She did the books at the women’s clothing store in the shopping center. Go there.”

  “I will,” I say. “I’m Rebekah, by the way. Can I ask your name?”

  “I am Raisa. But I do not want to be in the newspaper.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Could I just call you a neighbor?”

  She considers this. “Don’t write about the bedrooms.”

  “No,” I say. “Of course not. I just want to be able to give people a sense of who she was. You said she didn’t gossip. And that she did things her own way.”

  “Yes,” she says. “That is fine. Have you spoken to Levi?”

  “I have,” I say.

  “Poor man,” she says. “Pessie said he was a very good husband. Very patient and understanding. What a shock it must have been to him! If you see him, please tell him we are thinking of him and Chaim.”

  Raisa gathers the little girls and takes them inside. Once she closes the door, I climb the steps to the apartment above Pessie’s. I knock several times, but there is no answer. The blinds are closed in Pessie and Levi’s apartment, so I can’t even try to peek in. Before I leave, I snap a photo of the building with my phone. I don’t think I have enough for a follow-up yet, but just in case, I’ll have art.

  The shopping center Pessie worked in looks like a typical big-box supermarket, until you get up close. Posted at all three entrances are big signs: PLEASE RESPECT OUR MODEST DRESS CODE: NO SHORTS, NO MIDRIFFS, NO BARE FEET. The old me would have gawked at this sign. I probably would have made a big show of taking a photo and posting it to Facebook with some snarky remark, maybe even gone back to my car and dug around for some sandals to walk in wearing, just to see what would happen, just to show all these strangers that their rules are sexist and stupid and that I’m better than them. But I don’t feel like doing that today. Let them have their dress code, I think.

  The first floor of the center is a grocery store, and according to a sign just inside there is a women’s clothing store, a boys and girls clothing store, a wine and liquor store, a toy store, and a Judaica shop upstairs. A woman with a crooked wig and a walleye stands at the main entrance holding a plastic bag. The man walking in front of me drops a dollar in and she barely registers a response. Her gaze remains in middle distance. The grocery area appears bustling, but upstairs is quiet. I follow a long, wide corridor to the back where I see a sign that says LADIES LINGERIE. A bell rings when I walk in. The store is crowded with racks of long dresses: crushed velvet and rayon and sateen, mostly black and dark blue or green or purple, some with a lace overlay or a bow or smocking at the neck. High collars and long sleeves. Two women are deep in conversation as they stand between racks of seemingly identical black mid-length skirts. Both women wear scarves around their heads, their hair presumably tucked beneath. I find another woman in the lingerie section, which consists entirely of apparel in three colors: black, white, and flesh-toned. Long old-fashioned cotton nightgowns, girdles and shape-wear, nursing bras, and full-coverage panties.

  “Excuse me,” I say to the woman, who is tagging boxes of panty hose. “My name is Rebekah. I’m a reporter for the New York Tribune. I was just speaking with one of Pessie Goldin’s neighbors and she told me that Pessie used to work here.”

  The woman, who appears to be in her fifties, puts down her tagging tool.

  “I saw your article,” she says. Her wig is cut in a shorter style than Raisa’s. It is more matronly, with blond feathering around her face. She shakes her head and purses her lips. “I did not wish to gossip, but if her husband is asking questions … Pessie was being stalked.”

  “Stalked?”

  “He came to the store a week before she died. She did not wish to see him. She had Chaim with her—sometimes she would bring him to work, he was such a good little baby. Men are not allowed in the store, but he would not go away. He was yelling and yelling. He pushed right past me! Pessie gave Chaim to me and went out to talk to him. I told her not to! I called shomrim but he ran off before they got here. And she would not say who he was.”

  “Do you remember anything else about him? What he looked like?”

  “He was Chassidish but dressed like a goy. Clean-shaven. He was very upset. I think maybe he was on drugs. He kept saying he was sorry and that she didn’t understand.”

  “Didn’t understand what?”

  “How should I know?”

  “Could his name have been Sam?”

  “She wouldn’t tell me. Pessie was very private. Not friendly like the other girls here.”

  “What did you think when you heard she had died?”

  “It was terrible!”

  “But did you, like, think something might have happened to her? That maybe it wasn’t an accident?”

  She shrugs. “What do I know?”

  “Have you told anyone else about what happened?”

  “Yes,” she says. “Maybe. Why shouldn’t I?”

  “I’m just wondering if you’ve … would you be willing to talk to police?”

  “Police? Puh!” She makes a spitting sound. “My son got hit by a car while he was walking to shul and the Roseville policeman said it was his fault. His leg was broken! They said he shouldn’t have been walking along the road. But where else will he walk? Where else will he walk! Police are bad here. They do not like Jews.”

  The woman refuses to give me her name, but says that I can call her one of Pessie’s coworkers. Aside from Levi, I still don’t have a single named source on the record.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  AVIVA

  Sammy’s letters were always short.

  Dear Aviva,

  Tante Penina says you are my sister. She says you live in Israel and that is why we do not see you. I hope we will meet someday.

  Sincerely,

  Samuel Kagan (your brother)

  His handwriting slanted backward and the piece of paper was fraying at the side where he must have torn it out of a notebook. I wrote him back immediately, telling him that I now lived in Brooklyn and that I would like to meet him, too. I made no more attempts to contact Eli or my father or my sisters. I had become used to loneliness in Israel, and I knew how to bear it. They did not wish to understand me, and I did not wish to force them to. I had made some friends in Coney Island. Isaac and I became very close. He reminded me how young I had been when I had you. He reminded me how lost I was, and how, frankly, stupid. I thought because I had seen movies like Fast Times at Ridgemont High and Splash that I understood life outside the shtetl. I found work cleaning houses again. It suited me perfectly. I could work when I wanted. And every day I learned more about the goyim but I did not have to face the embarrassment of interacting with them for more than the few minutes it took for them to let me in their homes. I cleaned apartments in any neighborhood I could get to on the subway: Brighton Beach and Park Slope and Greenwich Village. Once I had a job a
t an apartment on the same block as the Strand bookstore where I met your father. After I finished work, I went in and walked the aisles of books slowly, hoping as I turned each corner that your father would be there. That you would be there. You were not, of course. What would I have said if you were?

  Sammy’s next letter came two weeks later.

  Dear Aviva,

  Feter Eli told me I should not write to you anymore. Will you ever come visit us in Roseville?

  Sincerely,

  Your brother Sammy

  I wrote Sammy back saying that I would like to visit him, but that I did not think Eli would like that. I asked him to tell me about himself. What do you like to do? Who are your friends? What do you want to do when you grow up? In his return letter, he answered my questions in a list.

  Dear Aviva,

  I like to go fishing with my cousins. I like to eat ice cream. I like to catch frogs. I like to ride my bicycle.

  My best friend is Pessie Rosen. She isn’t like most girls. She catches more frogs than me. She has a very pretty singing voice. My cousin Dovid is also my friend. Last summer we built a fort in the woods. But it fell down in the snow.

  When I grow up I want to move to Israel and study Torah.

  Sincerely,

  Your brother Sammy

  Sammy was an eleven-year-old boy living in frum family. It made no sense that his best friend was a girl. There were only two explanations: either my family had become less observant since I left them, or he was not being properly looked after. I doubted very much that my family was less observant; like most of the people Isaac and I grew up with they had probably gotten even stricter. I discussed it with Isaac, and he agreed that something seemed strange. We asked around and found someone who had grown up in Roseville. The man’s name was Schlomo and he was in the process of divorcing his wife. He had to go to court in Rockland County almost every week because he was trying to get visitation with his children. Schlomo reported back that Sammy was living with Eli and Penina and their four children, and that one of the children was severely disabled. He was almost nine years old but could not speak or feed himself or use the toilet and had to be moved in a wheelchair. My father was also living with them, but had become a recluse. He no longer even went to shul. While I was in Israel, Diny had written me a letter once a year telling me of my family’s marriages and births and movements. She and her husband had also settled in Roseville, as had one of my younger brothers and his wife. My two little sisters, it seemed, had been passed between Diny’s and Eli’s households. Diny had mentioned nothing in the letters about a disabled child, or about my father.