Knot My Sister's Keeper

by Mary Marks

“For how long?”

  “Usually he resurfaces after a week or so. The best I can do is leave him a text and voice message later this afternoon. He’ll pick them up when he’s ready to return to the real world. Meanwhile, I know a guy in Beverly Hills. I’ll put in a request for the Maguire file. It might take a few days to locate it, but I’ll let you know as soon as it comes.” He stood looking at his watch. “I’m due in a briefing.” He pointed to my left hand and smiled. “Again, congrats on your engagement.” Then he surprised me by giving me a quick, one-armed hug.

  On the way home, I stopped at Bea’s Bakery in Tarzana for a loaf of raisin challah and a twelve-inch-long hunk of apple strudel. Another stop at the kosher market for a brisket, and I was back in my kitchen by one—plenty of time to heat the oven to 275 degrees and slow-cook Shabbat dinner.

  I set the table with a white cloth and my bubbie’s white china with the blue rim. As I laid down the last piece of silverware, my cell phone buzzed with an incoming text message from Crusher. Got file. Interesting. C U tonite.

  My heart sped up a little. If Crusher said the file was interesting, that could only mean we were finally onto something.

  I called Giselle and told her what I’d learned.

  “Set an extra place,” she said. “I’m coming to dinner.”

  Why did she have to be so bossy? “I thought you never came to the Valley.”

  “I didn’t say never. I just avoid the place like the plague.”

  “Oh. Sorry I misunderstood, your highness.”

  “You don’t have to get all snarky. I’m only being honest.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Whatever. Be here by seven. I’m fixing brisket.”

  “I don’t eat red meat.” Fingernails on a blackboard.

  I sighed. “I’ll grill a salmon fillet, then. Okay?”

  “Perfect. Shall I bring dessert? Benesh makes divine éclairs.”

  I didn’t have time to give my Gentile sister a lesson on why a kosher meal is either meat or dairy but never both. “Don’t! I’ll explain later. By the way, we’ll be celebrating the Sabbath. My family is very Jewish.”

  “Fabulous! You’re my big sister, Martha. I want to know everything about you. I’m so glad you decided to invite me to a real Jewish dinner.”

  “Have you forgotten that you invited yourself?”

  “Don’t get technical. I mean it when I say I’m honored.”

  Strangely enough, I believed her.

  CHAPTER 6

  I dressed for Shabbat in my long black skirt, pink silk blouse, and my bubbie’s pearls. At six-thirty Crusher walked through the front door with Uncle Isaac, whose dark embroidered Bukharin skullcap sat like a square box over his short, white curls. I settled him in the living room and pulled Crusher into the dining room. His hands were empty.

  “Where is it, Yossi?” I whispered. “My father’s missing-persons file?”

  “Check your messages. I e-mailed you a copy. This is the digital age, remember?” He noticed the fourth plate on the table. “Who else is coming for dinner?”

  “Giselle. She invited herself because she also wants to see what’s in this file.”

  “You should prepare Isaac before she gets here.”

  “Good idea.”

  “Meanwhile, I’m going to shower. Sitting in that surveillance van all day was hot and sweaty work.” He kissed my forehead and disappeared down the hallway toward the bedroom.

  I walked back into the living room and sat next to my uncle. “Um, I wanted to let you know we’re having a guest for dinner tonight.” I cleared my throat. “It’s Giselle Cole.”

  He pulled back a little and studied my face. “Nu? Things seem to be moving fast along those lines.”

  “It’s fine. She says she wants to get to know me better. I’m just concerned about your comfort. I want you to be okay with this. And I should warn you, she can be a little outspoken.”

  “I’ll be okay only if you are.” He patted my hands. “I know you want answers. Who could blame you? But after what he did to your mother, I wouldn’t care if your father was roasting in Gehennah.”

  “I know you’re angry, Uncle. Me, too. But I’m not giving up my search for the truth.”

  He sighed. “You may never know the whole truth, faigela. Remember what I always taught you—every answer brings a new question.” How often had I heard him repeat that Yiddish saying?

  The ringing of the doorbell interrupted our conversation. Giselle stood on the doorstep in a slinky black cocktail dress with short sleeves and black stiletto heels. A diamond necklace twinkled around her throat. In jarring contrast, a scarf printed with golden horseshoes over a bright blue background was wrapped over her head and tied under her chin babushka-style. “Here.” She smiled and thrust a bouquet of pink roses and a bottle of Dom Pérignon toward me. “Happy Sabbath.”

  My jaw fell open at her curious choice of evening wear, and I stared at her a beat too long.

  “What?” she demanded. “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

  I closed my eyes briefly and stood to the side. “Sorry. Sorry. Come in.”

  A cloud of French perfume followed her through the doorway. She stopped and slowly scanned the inside of my house. “Well, this isn’t the best part of the Valley, but it’s not the worst. You could’ve ended up in Pacoima.”

  I gritted my teeth and made mental apologies to the North Valley community of mostly blue-collar Latino and African American families.

  She spotted my uncle sitting in the living room and strode over to him. “I’m Martha’s little sister, Giselle. You must be the brother of Daddy’s mistress.”

  Poor Uncle Isaac! His jaw dropped open and he looked at me with wide eyes. I could tell he was far from pleased at the crude characterization of my mother.

  “This is my uncle, Isaac Harris,” I said.

  She sat next to him on the sofa and smiled. “I’m happy to meet you, Uncle Isaac.”

  She called him Uncle Isaac and not Mr. Harris, or just Isaac? What chutzpah. And why was she still wearing the head scarf? She crossed her long legs, and the hem of her tight skirt rode up six inches above her knees, exposing smooth, slender thighs. If family members were identified by the shapes of their legs between the hip and the knee, no one would ever guess we were related.

  I asked, “Giselle, what’s with the scarf?”

  She patted the silk draped over her auburn hair. “It’s Hermès. Do you like it? I’m wearing it out of respect for your Jewish customs. Don’t you people keep your heads covered on your Sabbath? Like the Moslems?”

  I briefly closed my eyes. “Take it off, G. I appreciate the sentiment, but no, you’re not required to do anything like that in my house. If we’re ever in a situation that dictates otherwise, I’ll let you know.”

  She untied the knot under her chin, whipped off the scarf, and smoothed her perfect, straight hair. “Thank God. This thing was ruining my whole look.” She suddenly sprang off the sofa and hugged me. “You called me G. I really like that. It’ll be our pet name as sisters, okay?”

  Oy vey.

  She released me from her grasp when Crusher came into the room. He wore his usual Sabbath attire of black trousers, a crisp white shirt, and a white crocheted yarmulke covering his head. “I’m Yossi.” He stretched his right arm toward Giselle.

  She took his hand in both of hers and held on. “Are you the federal agent responsible for that rock on Martha’s finger?”

  “Guilty.” He pulled his hand away.

  She gave the tall giant a slow once-over and then winked at me. “He’ll do.”

  Oh dear God. Doesn’t this woman have a filter? “Excuse me, but it’s time to put your salmon on the grill.” Clearly I wasn’t going to have time to look at my father’s file before dinner.

  Ten minutes later we gathered at the dining room table. “Now’s the time for the scarf, G. Me, not you. I cover my head as a sign of humility when I talk to God.” I draped the white cloth over my head and lit the candles. �
��Blessed art Thou, oh Lord our God, King of the Universe, Who has sanctified us by Thy commandments and commanded us to kindle the Sabbath lights.” I removed the scarf and sat while Crusher honored me with a reading in Hebrew of the Eshet Hayil, the “woman of valor.” When he finished, he lifted my hand to his lips and kissed it.

  Giselle watched intently. “What was that you just did?”

  He said, “It’s a passage from the Bible praising the woman of the house. The husband reads it to his wife at the beginning of every Sabbath, as a kind of thank-you for all her hard work the previous week.”

  “That’s beautiful.” She sat back as Uncle Isaac recited the Kiddush welcoming the Sabbath.

  He blessed the wine. “Blessed art Thou, oh Lord our God, King of the Universe, Who created the fruit of the vine.” Then he passed the silver cup around the table for all to partake equally. When the cup finally made its way to Giselle, she picked up her napkin and wiped the rim before taking a sip. “Germs,” she said.

  Uncle Isaac looked at the table and wagged his head slowly.

  Crusher sang the hamotzi, blessing the challah. “Blessed art Thou, oh Lord our God, King of the Universe, Who brings forth bread from the earth.” He tore off pieces of the soft, yellow bread, sprinkled each with salt, and passed them around the table.

  “Why the salt?” Giselle nibbled on the soft part of the bread.

  “Originally it was used to add flavor. But it’s also a sign of something deeper.” Crusher touched his head covering. “Jews no longer have a temple in Jerusalem. So, we treat our table like an altar. Every meal becomes a metaphor for sacrifices on that altar. Since one of the commandments in the Bible is to include salt with the sacrifices, we put salt on the challah to fulfill that commandment.”

  “Nice. I get it.”

  “You’re a good learner,” said Uncle Isaac.

  I smiled at Giselle. “Now we eat.”

  During the meal, the two men discussed the Torah portion for the week as was their custom and the custom of observant Jewish males around the world. Giselle waited patiently, using her fork to slide the last of her salmon around the plate. She eventually buried it under a pile of uneaten roasted potato chunks. Finally, she looked at Crusher. “I want to see the old missing-persons file on my father. Martha said you found something interesting.”

  CHAPTER 7

  “I have the file on my cell phone, G.” I retrieved my phone from my purse. We left the men at the table with their hot tea and apple strudel and settled on the living room sofa.

  She stared at the screen and moaned, “It’s too small to read!”

  “Don’t worry.” I pressed a button. “Come with me.” I led her to my sewing room, where my printer began spewing out page after page of BHPD documents.

  While we waited, I asked, “Tell me what you remember about the time he disappeared.”

  “Well, I was twelve. Nobody told me he was missing. I just thought he was away on a long trip. Whenever I asked, Mother would tell me not to worry, he would be home soon. A lot of people I’d never seen before came to talk to my mother. When they did, she sent me out of the room. I remember overhearing a lot of whispering and my mother crying.”

  “When did you find out the truth?”

  “About two weeks after he’d gone. Mother forgot a copy of the LA Times on the breakfast table. I sat down for my waffles and saw his photograph on the front page, along with the caption, ‘Car of famous local artist found at airport. Foul play or cold feet?’ Mother had to tell me then.”

  “What exactly did she say?”

  “I still remember her words exactly. She said, ‘Your daddy didn’t fly to New York after all. He decided to go somewhere else, but silly Daddy forgot to tell me where. So, right now, we don’t know where he is. He’s bound to come home soon, though, and I know he’ll be very sorry he made us worry because he loves us so much.’ I believed her for a while, but after six months, she had to acknowledge he was probably never coming home. We were never the same after that.”

  “In what way?”

  Giselle looked around the sewing room as if noticing for the first time the sewing machine and all the colorful fabrics folded on shelves. She strolled over to my Prairie Braid quilt still in the hoop. “All the fun went out the door with Daddy. The scandal of his disappearance humiliated Mother. She stopped seeing her friends. She rarely left the house.” She ran her fingers gently over the bumpy texture of the stitches. “You know, I think that’s when my grandmother began making that quilt I told you about.”

  The printer stopped running and the room became silent. I gathered a sheaf of papers and spread them out on the cutting table. “I think we can sort through these to establish a timeline. We’ll pin the results up here on my design board.” I pointed to the white flannel sheet hanging on one wall of my sewing room.

  When I saw the confusion on her face, I hastily added, “Many quilters use something like this to audition quilt blocks or swatches of fabrics as they work on their projects. Regular cotton fabric easily sticks to the fuzzy nap of the flannel sheet.” I pointed to the pages of the missing-persons file on the table in front of us. “Of course, these papers won’t stick to the flannel. We’ll attach them with straight pins.”

  “Sounds like you’ve done this before.”

  I nodded and gestured toward the empty flannel sheet. “It’s called a murder board.”

  She grabbed my arm. I’d just spoken out loud the word we’d avoided using. “So you think Daddy was murdered?”

  “Don’t you?”

  Giselle and I sat at my cutting table and began to sort the files into three stacks: reports, interviews, and evidence. Then we arranged them in chronological order. The initial missing person’s report yielded basic information we already knew. On Sunday, May 25, 1980, Jacob Quinn Maguire left his home in Beverly Hills for a flight to New York on TWA. He was scheduled the following night to attend an opening at the Montmartre Gallery in Manhattan. The family filed a missing-persons report after several days of not hearing from him. Quinn was never seen or heard from again.

  A subsequent report indicated his Cadillac had been located two weeks later, parked in the TWA lot at the airport. “Look at this, G. Quinn made it as far as LAX.” I read from the page in my hand. “‘A preliminary examination of the vehicle by detectives failed to find the subject’s luggage, indicating his disappearance may have been voluntary.’”

  “Does this mean Daddy might still be alive?”

  “Maybe. Or it could mean that whoever abducted him also took his luggage to make it look like he did a bunk.”

  Her shoulders sagged. “Does it say if they found any other clues?”

  “That’ll be on the forensic report in the evidence pile.”

  Giselle picked up a paper. “Here it is.” She began to read aloud.

  “‘A search of the subject’s Cadillac, California license plate PAINTR 1, was conducted on June ninth, 1980, by the Forensic Division of the BHPD. The following is a summary of the results.

  “‘The glove compartment contained the following: a vehicle owner’s manual, Thompson street guide, a pair of men’s leather gloves, sticks of charcoal, a gum eraser, a small spiral sketchbook, and a package of condoms.’”

  She stopped briefly and raised her eyebrows. “Condoms?”

  “Keep reading,” I urged.

  “‘The interior of the car yielded seven receipts. Five for gasoline from the Mobil station on Wilshire and Robertson; one for a carton of Marlboro cigarettes from 7-Eleven on Sepulveda; and one for two corned beef sandwiches from Kresky’s Kosher Market on Pico Boulevard.’”

  There it was. Although the police might not have known why Quinn would be at Kresky’s Market, I knew. Uncle Isaac said that was where he used to pick up my mother. That receipt was proof Quinn was seeing my mother right up to the time he disappeared.

  “‘The ashtray held seven Marlboro cigarette butts, three with red lipstick.’”

  “Stop,” I said. “Cou
ld those cigarettes be your mother’s?”

  “I don’t think so. She smoked, but she never wore red lipstick. She said it looked too garish against her skin. She only wore frosty pink.” Her eyes narrowed. “How about your mother? Did she smoke?”

  I thought about how she used to sit for hours on the same chair in the living room and gaze out the bay window with a view of the street. I’d watched the smoke from her long Virginia Slims curl upward in a ribbon, dancing in the tiny air currents. I sighed. “She was a heavy smoker, but she never wore lipstick.”

  Giselle continued to read.

  “‘The trunk of the vehicle contained the following: standard repair kit including jack and spare tire. Unidentified coarse fibers, possibly from canvas cloth.

  “‘Fingerprints: Nine full and partial sets were collected. Five were identified as belonging to the subject and his family members: wife Louise, daughter Giselle, mother-in-law Edith Eagan, and father-in-law Jerome Eagan. One set belonged to the investigating detective, and two sets remained unidentified.

  “‘Trace: No visible traces of blood were found, and an examination with luminol revealed no fugitive traces. Ultraviolet light revealed evidence of multiple semen deposits on the leather of the backseat. Lab tests confirmed the samples were the same blood type as the subject, type A positive.’”

  She stopped and glared at me. “The condoms. The semen. Daddy had sex in the backseat of his car? Like some horny teenager?”

  I stared at her. “Look, G, I know what you’re thinking. He could very well have been with my mother. But since Quinn wasn’t exactly the faithful type, he also could’ve been screwing any number of women. It may be that one of them is responsible for his disappearance. After all, there were two unidentified sets of prints and cigarettes with red lipstick that neither one of our mothers wore.”

  She twisted her mouth and frowned. “When you told me about your mother, I thought it was kind of romantic Daddy had a secret mistress for so many years. But now it turns out he was nothing but a horndog! Do you suppose Mother knew about all his affairs?”

  “Why don’t you ask her?”