Washing the Dead

by Michelle Brafman

  “I had chop suey once at my friend Mira’s house, and I thought it tasted like bad cafeteria food.” I cringed at the thought of my high school cafeteria, a reminder of our age difference.

  “Well, let me introduce you to some Chinese food that I guarantee tastes nothing like cafeteria food.”

  He told me about a little place south of downtown La Jolla as we lwalked out to the driveway. He opened the car door for me, which no man other than my father had ever done. I tried not to look at him too much as we drove down the coast.

  When we passed the street that led to La Jolla Shores, I glanced toward the ocean and remembered holding pale, scrawny Benny’s hand as we skipped through the sand toward the awesome Pacific. Now I chased after a sturdy sun-kissed Ollie in my red bikini, my midriff tanned and bare. I’d grown accustomed to the feel of the air on my body, and freckles had replaced the old acne on my back. Still, I would always associate Benny with my first dip into the ocean. I missed him.

  “Smoke is coming out of your ears.” Daniel knocked his knuckles playfully on my leg.

  I rubbed my fingers against the spot he’d touched. “I was just thinking about my first time in the water.”

  He glanced over at me as he passed the turnoff for the La Jolla Cove.

  “Simone might have mentioned that when she met me, I looked like I’d jumped out of a page of My Name Is Asher Lev.” I felt as though I’d just told him I was half Martian.

  “Go on.”

  “I grew up in a community like Asher’s. Lots of rules,” I said, and then my memories spilled out of me. “I liked knowing that every Saturday I was going to wake up and go to services. My best friend, Tzippy, would meet me in the women’s section—men and women don’t pray together—and when we were tiny, our moms would feed us saltines from the kitchen to keep us quiet.”

  “What about when you got older?” he asked.

  “Tzippy and I played out on the bluff and came back in time for the last prayer where her dad would throw his prayer shawl over our heads, and the air would smell like our hair and the milk on our breath as he talked to God on our behalf. When we got too old for that, we’d spend much of the service trying not to talk to each other or helping the young moms take care of their children. After shul, we’d eat a big lunch, and Tzippy and I would spend the afternoon together while the adults took their Shabbos naps.”

  Daniel pulled into the parking lot and cut the engine but made no move to get out of the car. “You did grow up like Asher Lev.”

  “Kind of,” I said shyly. “We knew who we were.”

  Daniel faced me. “I’m glad you told me all that.”

  “You and Simone know how to get me talking.” I’d told Simone secrets about my background in order to entertain and engage her; with Daniel, I shared my most sacred memories of the Schines’ world because I wanted him to help me keep them alive. My finger was starting to tingle where I’d been rubbing my leg, and I felt pressure building in my chest. It took Asher Lev and Daniel’s rapt attention to help me name everything I’d lost. The sadness was intense but fleeting. I opened the car door.

  “Okay, I’m ready to try your Chinese food.”

  Daniel held the restaurant door for me. Inside, a waiter seated us. “Would you like me to order?” Daniel asked as he opened the large red menu. I was enthralled when he spoke the words “moo shoo” and “kung pao.”

  “And to drink?” the waiter asked me.

  “I’ll stick with water, thanks.” I wasn’t going to repeat my escapade with Simone.

  Daniel ordered a Coke, and we talked about his agnostic mother, who lived in San Francisco and worshiped Carl Jung. She seemed nice enough when she called on Sunday mornings.

  The waiter arrived with a large tray of steaming dishes. “I’ll make the first one for you,” Daniel said, opening a flimsy beige pancake on his plate and spreading one side with what looked like brown coleslaw mixed with bite-size pieces of chicken. He folded the pancake into an envelope, handed it to me, and watched as I took a bite. The warm juice escaped from the dough and ran down my fingers. My teeth crunched on thin slivers of vegetables, releasing an exotic blend of flavors.

  “What am I tasting?”

  “Garlic, sesame, ginger,” he replied eagerly. “So?”

  “Delicious.” I felt like we were acting the scene from the movie Funny Girl where Nicky Arnstein introduces Fanny Brice to her first bite of lobster.

  “Phew. Glad you like it.” He pretended to wipe his brow with the back of his hand. “Big responsibility.”

  After dinner, Daniel said, “Come on, I want to take you someplace.” We crossed La Jolla Boulevard and walked down a narrow street that led to a small beach. We leaned over a railing and looked down at the waves, lit by the moonlight.

  “This is Marine Street beach.” I followed him down the steps to the water, listening to the shorebreakers slam into the sand. “There’s a hurricane brewing in Mexico. The surf will be huge tomorrow.”

  I felt wildly free being out at night on the beach. I looked up at the moon, and something wet landed on my forehead. “I think I felt a raindrop.”

  “They’re predicting record-breaking storms.” Daniel turned back toward the steps. “We should go.” By the time he started his car, the sky was dumping rain. He gripped the steering wheel tightly as he concentrated on the slick roads. We got drenched on the short walk from the car to the front door, and as soon as we entered the house, we ran around shutting all the windows.

  He tapped my shoulder. “Thanks for keeping me company tonight.”

  “Thanks for the Chinese food,” I said.

  When I was around Simone or Tzippy, I wanted to become them. But Daniel, like Mrs. Kessler, journeyed deep inside me and made me feel good about what he found. Mrs. Kessler spotted my gift with children, and Daniel made me feel that my ideas mattered, that I mattered.

  I forced myself to brush my teeth, not wanting to rid my mouth of the new tastes of garlic and ginger. I fell asleep at midnight, only to be woken an hour later by loud claps of thunder. Sheets of rain pounded against the side of the house. The thunder grew louder, and when I got out of bed to check my windows, I felt a presence at my door. I turned around. Daniel stood in the doorway in his pajama bottoms, his bare chest lit by a fresh crackle of lightning.

  “You okay in here?” he asked.

  I swallowed hard. “I’m fine.”

  “Here’s a flashlight. The electricity is out.” He put it on my dresser.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Good night.”

  “Good night.”

  I crawled back into bed, pulled the covers over my head, and I thought about what I would do if Daniel appeared in my doorway again.

  The next morning, the sky was dark and angry. I could hear Daniel in the kitchen as I dressed. We drank orange juice and ate fistfuls of granola. When we finished the box, the power still hadn’t returned, so he lit candles in the living room. He handed me my Chaim Potok book and sat next to me, perusing a publisher’s catalogue and marking biographies to order for his store.

  I read the same paragraph describing one of Asher’s crucifixions over and over, unable to grasp the words that only a day before had mesmerized me. I was aware of Daniel’s every breath, every mark of his pencil.

  The sky opened up and unloosed more rain than I’d ever seen in my life. “How long do these storms usually last?” I asked.

  “This one’s supposed to go on for another day.”

  “It feels like we’re inside a car wash,” I said after a minute.

  “It does.”

  “My dad used to take me with him to get his car washed. He’d buy me an orange Tootsie Pop, and I’d sit on his lap feeling like we were in a cave.” I raised my arms over my head and stretched out my toes.

  “I wish I’d had a father,” Daniel said.

  I looked at him in surprise. “What happened? I’ve told you so much about me. Tell me about your family.”

  “Not muc
h to tell. My dad died when I was three, and I grew up with my mom, stepdad, and two stepsisters. Pretty dull compared to your history.”

  I spared a moment to say that I was sorry about his dad and then continued to detail the inner workings of my very intriguing life. I told him about Mrs. Kessler and how she’d saved me from my mother’s craziness. “That’s how I kept sane while my mother was living her lie.”

  He listened hard while I talked. “I’m sure Mrs. Kessler appreciated your help, Barbara.”

  “She was way more helpful to me,” I said with a pang. I hadn’t written Mrs. Kessler since I left Milwaukee.

  “Plus, you’re an easy person to have around. You have what my mom would call a light touch.”

  “A light touch, I like that a lot.”

  I tapped his wrist lightly. Then I grabbed his hand. I couldn’t let go. I wanted to hold on forever.

  “Oh, God. Sorry about that. I guess you want your hand back.” I looked toward the window at the rain pummeling the trees, and my history didn’t feel so fascinating any more.

  “Don’t be sorry. You’re fine.” He smiled at me.

  That was all it took to unleash a torrent of tears. I cried for the innocent Barbara Pupnick who had been content following the Schines’ rules and for the bitter Barbara Pupnick who alternately cursed and mourned the people who brought those rules to life. This rogue Barbara Pupnick was unpredictable, and entirely terrifying.

  Daniel sat next to me and let me cry for a few minutes, and then he held up his sleeve. “Here, you can use this.”

  I slung my arm across his ribs. He patted me on the back in a brotherly fashion, which made me cling to him more tightly. I pressed my wet face against his cheek and his stubble chafed my skin. I’d been lost and alone for so many months, taking care of my mother, Sari, Benny, Ollie, and Simone, worrying about my father. I had no family or shul to hold me. I climbed into his lap and wrapped my arms around his neck, and he embraced me while I cried a new set of tears, not caring how embarrassed I’d be afterward. He was offering me comfort I badly needed, and I was going to seize it.

  The hysterical claps of thunder blocked out the door slamming and Simone clomping through the house in her rain boots, carrying a bottle of champagne and two flutes.

  “I came home early, love,” she shouted. “Time to celebrate our vacation.”

  Daniel and I jumped up from the couch, but it was too late. She’d already seen us. She stood slack-jawed in her Mexican sweater, dropping the flutes and the bottle on the floor. The sound of glass shattering echoed throughout the house, and champagne sprayed my jeans.

  I climbed off of his lap and wiped my nose with my sleeve.

  “What’s going on?” Simone’s voice was shrill.

  “Nothing. We’re cool.” Daniel looked at her as if to say, “I’ll explain this to you later.”

  “Not cool. Barbara, why were you sitting on Daniel’s lap?”

  “Simone, it’s okay,” he said, walking over to his wife. “Barbara was upset.”

  “Daniel, cut the ‘you’re taking hormones tone.’ I walk in from a trip to find my babysitter sitting on your lap? That’s weird, even if she was upset.”

  “Simone.” He tried to put his arm around her, but she shook him off.

  “Look, I’m going outside, and we can all pull ourselves together.” Now she was looking at me more with pity than anger, as though she wished she could save me from the humiliation of throwing myself at her husband.

  I thought my whole body would go up in smoke and shame.

  “Simone. Don’t go out in this storm,” Daniel said. “We’re all cool here.”

  I wanted to agree with him, but I was paralyzed.

  “Give me a minute alone.” She looked at me and shook her head.

  I got up and ran to my room. I had to get out of there. I threw some clothes and toiletries in my duffel, slung it over my shoulder, and headed for the front door. When I entered the living room, Simone was walking away from Daniel, glass crunching beneath her boots.

  “Simone, come back here!” He went after her in his bare feet, the glass slicing his soles, leaving a trail of blood behind him.

  My body hummed with adrenaline as I stood and watched him through the scrim of water pounding against the glass door. He ran out to the middle of the driveway, but Simone was gone. From my angle, I could see that she’d parked her car on the street, so she must be close by. He got into his Datsun and started it. Suddenly, Simone emerged from the Torrey pines at the foot of the driveway, drenched. And then it all happened so fast. I put my hand out to open the door and yell for her to move out of Daniel’s way, but it was too late. I heard the familiar squeal of his temperamental brakes as the Datsun skidded down the driveway. Simone tried to move out of the way, but she tripped and landed on her back. The car slowed and rose slightly, plowing over her leg as if she were a speed bump. She gave a cry so primal that it didn’t sound human.

  I ran out of the house and escaped into the grove of trees, my duffel bag banging against my leg. I fell twice on the winding streets of La Jolla, relieved to hear sirens. I prayed that they were on their way to Simone. I kept running, darting through intersections with broken lights. I stopped when I reached the condominium with the big menorah teetering from the gales of wind.

  When Sari Levenstein found me, I was rocking back and forth on her front porch, breathless, my leg bruised, my jeans reeking of champagne, my lips as blue as the San Diego ocean on a clear day, and my toes dotted with Simone’s nail polish and Daniel’s blood.

  19

  October 2009

  I couldn’t look at the rebbetzin as I told her my story about the Coxes. I kept my eyes fixed on the chandelier as I spoke, each syllable carrying me back to San Diego. I could almost taste my first bite of avocado and smell the little-boy sweat in Ollie’s hair and the coconut oil I’d rubbed on my virgin skin. I felt Daniel’s innocent tap on my leg, and was mortified by my neediness.

  “Am I a rotten person?” I asked when I finished, still afraid to look in the rebbetzin’s eyes.

  “No. You were at sea, all alone.” Guilt laced her words.

  “Nobody forced me to cling to Daniel or abuse the Coxes’ kindness or run away from Simone’s accident.”

  She cocked her head. “As the prophet Jeremiah says, God will judge us when we say we didn’t sin.”

  “Well, before my father’s funeral, I tried to tell my mother that I’d sinned, but she was….”

  “Distracted.” The rebbetzin finished my thought.

  “Yes. And I have to confess that I never think about Simone and Daniel anymore. I’ve just been happy going along living my life.”

  “I’m not so sure, Barbara.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You came to see me because you were upset that you were leaking rage, isn’t that right?”

  “Like a Chernobyl reactor. Kaboom. Radioactive contamination everywhere.”

  “All right, let’s say you’re a Chernobyl reactor. If I’m remembering my history correctly, a power surge caused that explosion.”

  “So you’re saying that all I needed was some kind of power surge to release all my unsafely stored toxins?”

  She smiled. “It’s just a metaphor.”

  “And now it’s time to clean up the spill?”

  “And to make room for Hashem’s love to flow through you.”

  I stared out the sanctuary windows. The trees were bare enough that I could see the lake. The sky was black, and yellow lights blinked from a boat miles off shore. I listened for the bones of the mansion to creak as I contemplated God’s love. On my last birthday card, Sam had written that if loving were an Olympic event, I’d take the gold. I lavished my love on Sam and Lili, and parents lined up at the door for the chance to have me nurture their children, and them for that matter. Beneath this patina of Olympic-caliber caring, however, I wasn’t sure who I was at the core.

  “Where are you?” the rebbetzin asked.

&n
bsp; “Barbara, where are you?” I laughed, not needing to explain my reference to the question God asked Adam after he bit from the apple.

  “Another one of Rabbi Lichtenberg’s lemon drops for you.” She squeezed my hand.

  “He paid a hefty price for hiding his sin from God, that Adam.”

  “God knows we’re not perfect. He only expects us to take responsibility for our actions, which you’ve done, unlike Adam.”

  “That’s generous of you to say.”

  “You’re not the only one at fault here, Barbara.” The wrinkles on her forehead looked deeper to me.

  Suddenly I had a feeling that she was hatching a plan that involved me and that I was going to start feeling better soon. In a way, I already did. I knew from long conversations with my students’ parents what it felt like to hold someone’s trouble in your palm and offer them a second of relief from the burden.

  I left the mansion, floating between San Diego and my home ten miles up the road. My cell phone rang.

  “Hello, stranger,” Sheri said. “Did you forget something today?”

  The sound of her voice yanked me back into my life, but what had I forgotten? “Today?”

  “My birthday lunch.” She sounded hurt.

  “Oh, crap.”

  “Barbara, are you upset with me?”

  “God, no. Why?”

  “You’ve been so distant lately. Like you’re off somewhere else.”

  She didn’t have to say more. I knew exactly what she meant. I knew how it felt to watch someone disappear into a mist.

  “Sheri, I am so sorry. I’ve been worried about Lili. I haven’t been myself.” This was partially true.

  “What can I do to help?” Her voice had warmed up.

  “Just forgive me.”

  “I’m sorry things have been so rough.”

  “Listen, I’m just getting home, and Lili’s here. Talk later?”

  “Whenever you want.”

  We hung up, and I walked through the door to find Lili waiting for me at the kitchen table, primed to ignore me.

  “Hi, Lil,” I said.

  “Hi,” she grunted.

  I was too exhausted to cook or deal with her sullenness. “You in the mood for Thai?”