He inspected the pushke, rattled it. Still full. Except for the quarter and the dime. Strange.
Several kichlen were gone and, from what Sam could see, quite a few crackers.
Hungry gonif. Probably some bum, too doped up to know what he was doing, one of those nuts who lurched up and down the walkway. Sometimes Sam gave them money, other times he wanted nothing to do with them.
A skinny nut, because the lav window was small. Junkies got skinny. And weren’t they always hungry for sweets? Okay, no big loss. He dropped the coins back in the pushke, brushed crumbs from the velvet, closed the cracker box and the bakery box and carried them over to the bookcase. Opening the lower cabinet where the food went, he saw something else the gonif hadn’t touched: booze.
Schnapps for the regulars. A nearly full bottle of Crown Royal, and a half-empty Smirnoff’s vodka.
A junkie with one vice only, no taste for booze?
Next to the bottles were some folded prayer shawls. A bunch of small silk ones, striped blue, but also the big black-striped woolen tallis worn by the prayer leader. That one belonged in the compartment under the platform—how had it gotten there?
Had he put it there? Had Kravitz? He strained to remember, damn his memory . . . last shabbos . . . yeah, yeah, Mrs. Rosen hadn’t felt good and Sam had left early to take her home, he’d left Kravitz in charge. The guy had no eye for details.
Removing the woolen shawl, he saw that Kravitz hadn’t folded it properly, either. A klutz. He’d clerked for the Water Department all his life, what could you expect from a desk jockey.
Refolding the shawl, caressing the thick wool, Sam carried it to the platform, bent down and opened the compartment door.
Inside was a boy.
A small, skinny kid, curled up into a corner, looking scared as hell.
Breathing hard. Sam could see his chest moving, and now he could hear it, fast, raspy, like he had asthma or something.
Such a look on the face.
Sam knew that look. His siblings; faces through train windows.
Laborers in the camp who didn’t make it.
Even tough Emil’s face the time he got pneumonia; thought this was it.
Sam’s own face when, in the dead of winter, he found a piece of broken glass in the snow, used it for a mirror, saw what he’d become.
This boy looked exactly like that.
“It’s okay,” he said.
The boy shivered. Hugging himself like he was cold, and even though this was June, Venice, California, a beautiful sunny day, Sam felt a Ukrainian freeze pass over his own body.
“It’s okay,” he repeated. “Come on out, I don’t bite.”
The boy didn’t budge.
“Come on, you can’t stay in there all day—still hungry? Crackers aren’t enough, let’s get you some real food.”
It took a long time to coax the boy out, standing far back so the kid could crawl free. When he was finally out, he looked like he wanted to run.
Sam held him by the arm—skin and bones. More memories.
The boy struggled, tried to kick. Sam, knowing what it felt like to be restrained, let go and the boy dashed toward the front of the shul.
Rattling the door, but locked in.
Returning to the sanctuary, he gave Sam a wide berth. Wild-eyed, looking from side to side, trying to figure out how to escape.
Sam was sitting in a front pew holding a box of doughnuts the boy had missed. Real chazerei. Entenmann’s chocolate-covered cake doughnuts, still unopened, hidden behind some old prayer books. Kravitz’s secret lode—who did he think he was kidding? Next to the doughnuts was also a sealed jar of gefilte-fish balls in jelly. Sam couldn’t imagine the boy going for it.
“Here,” he said, holding up the doughnuts. “Take it with you.”
The boy stood there and stared. Despite being dirty and ragged and skinny, with a scratched-up face, he was a nice-looking kid. Maybe eleven, twelve. What was he doing out here so young? There were plenty of runaways in Venice, but they were mostly teenagers, bigshot rebels, with needles and rings stuck into their bodies all over, crazy haircuts, tattoos, a bad attitude. This one just looked like a kid, undernourished and scared.
Definitely goyische—look at that upturned nose, that dirty-blond hair. Sometimes the goyim beat their kids, abused them, God knows what else. Maybe this one had run away. Jews, too, he supposed, though he’d never encountered that personally.
What did he know about kids, anyway?
Emil had one son, a lawyer, lived in Encino—drove a German car!—never talked to his parents or Sam.
“Here,” he said, shaking the doughnut box. “Take it.”
No response. The kid, distrustful, thinking Sam was up to something. Dirt stains all over his jeans and that T-shirt was full of holes. He was making fists, a tough little pisher.
Sam put the doughnuts on the floor, got up, said, “Fine, I’ll open the door for you, you don’t have to crawl out the window. But if you ask me, you should get some clean clothes, eat some real food with vitamins.”
Dipping into his trouser pocket, he took some bills out of his wallet. Two twenties—way too generous for someone he didn’t know, but what the hell.
He placed the money on the floor next to the doughnuts, walked to the back of the shul, and unlocked the rear door. Then he went into the gents’ lav, to give the kid a chance to make a graceful exit, and because his bladder was killing him.
CHAPTER
40
Petra stared at the doorway through which Stu had just passed, then she went after him.
He reappeared in the doorway before she got there. Cocking his head.
C’mere.
Oh yeah, faithful little junior partner will jump up on cue.
They locked eyes. His face was stone; no apologies. Deciding to maintain her dignity, she followed him down the stairs and out of the building to the rear lot, where his Suburban was parked. The truck, usually spotless, had dirty windows. Crusted bird droppings freckled the white hood.
She said, “What the hell’s going on, Stu?”
He unlocked the passenger door, motioned for her to get in, came around and sat behind the wheel.
“We’re not going anywhere,” she said, remaining outside. “Some of us have work to do.”
He stared through the windshield. Sun from the east traced the contours of his profile in orange. A paperback-book model couldn’t have posed for greater effect. Everyone a goddamn actor.
Petra got in and slammed the door so hard the truck shook.
Stu said, “I owe you an explanation.”
“Okay.”
“Kathy has cancer.”
Petra’s throat seized and closed, and for a moment she couldn’t breathe. “Oh, Stu—”
He held up a finger. “She’s going in for surgery tomorrow. She’s been having tests done; we weren’t sure. Now we are.”
“I’m so sorry, Stu.” Why didn’t you tell me? Obviously, not close enough. Eight months of chasing bad guys doth not a deep relationship make.
“One breast,” he said. “Her doctor found it on routine checkup. They think it’s just a single tumor.”
“What can I do to help?”
“Nothing, thanks, we’re covered. Mother’s taking the kids and Father’s dealing with the hospital.”
His right arm rested on the center console. Petra put her hand on his sleeve. “Go home, Stu. Wil and I will handle everything.”
“No, that’s the thing, I was going to take a leave of absence, but Kathy insisted I shouldn’t. She wants me home tonight to take her to the hospital, told me I can stay until she falls asleep. And tomorrow, when she comes out of surgery, I’ll be there. But in between she insists I keep working. Even when she gets radiation . . . maybe they can do just a lumpectomy, they’re not sure.”
“You’re planning to stay on the job?” said Petra.
“Kathy wants it. You know Kathy.”
Petra knew very little about Kathy. Gra
cious, pretty, efficient, supermom, never without makeup. High school prom queen, with a teaching credential she’d never used. During the family outings, Petra had observed a superorganizer.
A bit reserved—let’s be honest, more than reserved. Despite superficial friendliness, the woman had always maintained distance, and Petra had thought of her as an ice queen.
Thirty-six years old. Six kids.
Petra thought of her own father, raising five children by himself. And all the while, Stu’d been fighting to maintain.
“She’s so strong,” Stu said. “I’ve never slept with anyone else.”
Saying it with wonderment. Petra patted his arm.
“Most guys get tired of being with the same woman. All I ever wanted was Kathy. I really love her, Petra.”
“I know you do.”
“You try to do the right thing, live a certain way—I know there are no deals with God, He’s got His own plan, but still . . .”
“She’ll be fine,” said Petra. “It’ll work out, you’ll see.”
“Look at Ramsey,” he went on. “Has a healthy wife, does that to her. The Eggermann woman. All the things we see.”
He put his head down on the steering wheel, broke into startling, phlegmy sobs.
Vivian Boehlinger, now this.
This was different. This was part of her.
Petra reached over and held him.
CHAPTER
41
As she approached the elevator, Mildred Board heard footsteps from above. Then a toilet flush, the bathwater running. The big house was built beautifully, but if you stood in certain places, sound traveled freely through the rafters.
Missus drawing the bath herself. There was something new.
Perhaps it would be a good day.
She returned to the kitchen, ate the shirred eggs and drank the coffee at the old yew-wood table, dumped the coffee, made a fresh pot and waited, allowing the missus a nice long time to soak. By 8:45 she was riding up with the second batch of breakfast.
No newspaper on the tray. But not because she’d screened it for nastiness. The delivery service had skipped the house this morning. Again. Such a slipshod world.
She’d take care of it after serving, get right on the phone with the newspaper subscription office, give them what for.
Sometimes she wished the missus would allow the subscription to lapse. There was no need to read the kinds of things they printed.
The lift let her out on the carpeted top landing. She walked past the space where the upstairs Steinway grand had stood, past the ghosts of the Regency chest with its intricate tortoiseshell front, the pair of monumental Kang Xi vases, blue as the sky, white as milk, sitting high on Carrara-marble pedestals. A patch of dust in an alcove made her stop and wipe with the hem of her apron.
The walk to the missus’s suite took her past the echoes of Chinese porcelain, the gilded cases, one filled with animalier bronzes, the other teeming with Japanese inro, jade, ivory, mixed-metal vases.
All irreplaceable. Like the boulle chest. It was illegal to kill tortoises now. Unborn babies, yes, but not reptiles.
She knocked on the missus’s door, received the expected faint reply, and went in.
The missus was in bed, wearing the cream satin bed jacket with the covered buttons—what a quest it had been finding a proper dry cleaner for that—hair wrapped in a white French towel, no makeup but still beautiful. Rosewater scent sweetened the enormous room. The only items on the nightstand were a Limoges tissue-box holder and a black satin eye mask. The bed covers were barely mused; even in sleep the woman was genteel.
But the missus was acting strange—staring straight ahead, not smiling at Mildred.
Bad dreams again?
The room was still dark, both sets of drapes drawn. Mildred stood there, not wanting to intrude, and a second later the missus turned to her. “Good morning, dear.”
“Morning, ma’am.”
Her face so thin, so white. Tired, very tired. So it probably wouldn’t be a good day.
Midred resolved to try to get her out of the house a bit—a drive to Huntington Gardens? Last month the two of them had spent a glorious hour strolling at the missus’s snail’s pace. A week later Mildred had suggested they repeat it, perhaps the art gallery, but the missus demurred. Maybe another time, dear.
Once upon a time, a driver had wheeled the Cadillac and the Lincoln. The Cadillac was gone; Mildred wrestled with the Lincoln . . . how much petrol was in the tank?
If not a drive, at least a stroll out in back, some fresh air. Maybe after lunch.
“Here’s some breakfast for you, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Mildred.” Saying it automatically, so politely that Mildred knew the missus wasn’t hungry, probably wouldn’t touch a thing.
The body needed sustenance. That was simple logic. Yet, despite all her education, the college degree from Wellesley—the finest women’s school in America—the missus sometimes seemed unaware of the basics. During those moments, Mildred felt she was the older sister, caring for a child.
“You do need to eat, ma’am.”
“Thank you, Mildred. I’ll do my best.”
Mildred put the food down, drew the drapes, fetched the bed tray, and set it up. She noticed a kink in the drapery pleats, straightened it, and looked out the window. The blue-tiled pool that him had modeled after Mr. Hearst’s at San Simeon was empty and streaked with brown. The boxwood knot garden—too painful to see. Mildred looked away but not before being assaulted by a distant view of downtown Los Angeles. All that steel and glass, hideous from up close, but this far perhaps it did have a certain . . . stature.
When she turned fully, the missus was wiping her eyes.
Crying? Mildred hadn’t heard a sniffle.
The missus pulled a tissue out of the porcelain box and blew her nose inaudibly. Another cold? Or had she been crying?
“Here you go, ma’am, toast just the way you like it.”
“Forgive me, Mildred, it’s a beautiful breakfast but . . . maybe in a bit, please leave it.”
“Some coffee to stimulate the appetite, ma’am?”
The missus started to refuse, then said, “Yes, please.”
Mildred took hold of the cozy-wrapped pitcher and directed an ebony stream into the Royal Worcester cup. The missus lifted the coffee. Her hands were shaking so, she needed both to keep it steady.
“What’s the matter, ma’am?”
“Nothing. Everything’s fine, Mildred—what a beautiful rose.”
“Giant blossoms this year, ma’am. It’s going to be a good year for roses.”
“Yes, I’m sure it will . . . thank you for going to the trouble.”
“No trouble at all, ma’am.”
The same dialogue they exchanged every morning. Hundreds of mornings. A ritual but not a formality, because the missus’s gratitude was genuine, she was gracious as royalty—more gracious. Look what royalty had become! It was hard to think of her as an American. More of an . . . international.
The missus reached for another tissue and patted her eyes. Mildred picked up the first tissue, dropping it in the Venetian wastebasket beneath the end table, noticed something in there.
A newspaper. Today’s!
“I got up very early and brought it up, Mildred—don’t be cross.”
“Early, ma’am?” Mildred had been up at six, taking her own bath, ten minutes of secret bubbles, ten minutes later. She hadn’t heard a thing—the missus’s escape concealed by running water!
“I went outside to check the trees. All those winds—the Santa Anas we had last night.”
“I see, ma’am.”
“Oh, Mildred, it’s fine.” The soft eyes blinked.
Mildred crossed her arms over her apron. “How early is early, ma’am?”
“I don’t really know, dear—six, six-thirty. I suppose I went to sleep too early and my rhythm was off.”
“Very well,” said Mildred. “Would you be wanting anything el
se, ma’am?”
“No thank you, dear.” Now the missus’s hands were shaking again. Holding tight to the covers. Smiling, but it looked forced. Mildred prayed it wasn’t another downturn. She looked down at the newspaper.
“You can take it,” said the missus. “If you want to read it.”
Mildred folded the horrid thing under her arm. Read it, indeed! She’d throw it out with the kitchen trash.
CHAPTER
42
When the lock clicked on the back door to the Jewish church, my brain froze and I couldn’t move.
What would the Jews do to me? Now I was finished.
As the back door opened, I jumped under the big table, crawled into the cabinet, and closed the door quietly. I could hear footsteps from inside.
Just one person walking—yes, just one.
The cabinet was empty and smelled of wood and old clothes. My mouth tasted of crackers and fear. I pushed myself into a corner and didn’t move. Praying whoever was in here wouldn’t open the doors.
The sign said no prayers till tomorrow; did the Jews have secret prayers?
Whoever it was out there walked around, stopped, walked some more.
Now he was close to me. If he did open the cabinet, I’d jump out, I’d scream like a maniac, surprise him and escape.
Escape, how? Not through the back door, unless he’d left it unlocked.
The front—could you open it from inside? The bathroom window again—that would take time. My stomach started to hurt really bad. I felt like I was being suffocated.
I didn’t even do anything really wrong—just ate some of their food, and it wasn’t that good. Crackers with an onion taste, some butterfly-shaped cookies that were stale.
I didn’t even mess with the silver bottle with the Jewish star on it, just shook it to see what would fall out. Even though the lock looked dinky. I thought about breaking it, but the bottle looked nice and I didn’t want to damage it.
Billy Straight: A Novel (Petra Connor) Page 28
