Unsafe Harbor

by Jessica Speart

  “How strange. Oh wait. Now I remember. I told Bitsy not to bother with an invitation since I was going to be out of the country. I was on safari with Paris in Botswana and then went to a friend’s tea plantation in Rwanda,” I replied, nimbly tap-dancing my way out of that one.

  I figured I might as well hit her up again while she still had Paris Hilton on the brain.

  “By the way, I’ll need one more favor. Being that Bitsy was so successful, I think I will try auctioning those shawls. Thank you again for the marvelous suggestion. No wonder she used your firm. You’re an absolute lifesaver. Of course, I’ll need to place an order right away for a few hundred of them. Would you mind providing me with the name of the supplier?” I congratulated myself on being oh so clever.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Hilton, but I’m afraid we had nothing to do with the shawls. Mrs. von Falken took full charge of obtaining those, herself. Perhaps her husband might be able to help you,” she suggested. “Although I suppose this probably isn’t the proper time to ask.”

  “No, I’m sure you’re quite right about that,” I agreed. “In any case, it shouldn’t be a problem. I’ll just call around and ask a few people. Please don’t forget to e-mail those lists to me. I’ll be back in touch tomorrow.”

  “Don’t worry. They’re already on their way,” she assured me.

  I thanked her and hung up. Then I got into my Trailblazer where a number of vehicles prowling the street immediately homed in on my primo parking space. I was tempted to sell it to the highest bidder but instead rushed home, anxious to peruse the list.

  I parked in my garage and then dashed across to the old Essex Street Market. More than likely, there wasn’t any food in my fridge.

  The market opened in 1930 to accommodate all the pushcart vendors. Now it sprawled across an entire city block. These days, stalls offered everything from canned goods to fresh produce, dumplings, tripe, pigs’ feet, and rib belly, in an edible cultural explosion. I made my way down the aisles, along with a parade of local Latinos, Chinese, and Jews, where I was tempted by assorted cheeses, fish, spices, nuts, and fresh fruit. There was even a variety of services available.

  JCC Electronics had once fixed my TV, and I’d had pants hemmed by “Mr. Smith Expert Tailor of London, Piccadilly.” Both stalls were next to a botanica that offered aerosol cans of “Money Attracting Spray,” breast-enhancing cream, laminated portraits of Pope Benedict, and Virgin Mary statuettes. I passed them by and ducked into Schapiro’s Wines, where I grabbed a bottle of cheap kosher burgundy and then left, having forgotten what I’d intended to get in the first place.

  Hightailing it home, I jogged up to the third floor and unlocked the door. Spam raced toward me with the determination of a homicidal linebacker. It was one thing to be loved, quite another to be mauled as the dog nearly knocked me over.

  “Down, Spam! Down,” I ordered.

  But the pit bull continued to lick my face as he pinned me against the wall. So much for my home-school course in obedience training.

  Otherwise, the place was bursting with silence. I was more aware of the quiet than I’d ever been while living alone. I glanced up at the clock, knowing that it was too early for Jake to come home, yet wishing that he were already here. I suppose that’s what happens when you get used to spending time together. The only problem was that we were doing less and less of that these days.

  Quit worrying, I reprimanded myself, and locked any misgivings away.

  Then I turned my attention to the work at hand.

  “Good boy, Spam. Just give me a minute and then I promise that we’ll go out,” I told the pooch, knowing he would understand as I booted up the computer.

  He laid back down and rested his chin on my foot as I entered my password.

  Two e-mails from Haller and Associates immediately popped up on the screen. I downloaded the attachments and printed out both lists.

  My, my, but Joy was well organized. Not only did they include a bounty of names, but also their contact phone numbers.

  I quickly scanned them and could scarcely believe my eyes. I didn’t need to know about charity balls to instantly recognize the crème de la crème of New York high society. Included was everyone from socialites and supermodels to actresses, countesses, heiresses, and trophy wives. It was a virtual Who’s Who of Manhattan. At one time, I would have swooned to spot my name among such a celebrated group. But times change, dreams shift, and now these people were on my hit list.

  I was musing about life’s strange twists and turns when the telephone rang.

  “I predict we’re having dinner together this evening,” Terri said in place of hello.

  “Uh-huh. And I knew it was you before I picked up the phone,” I jokingly responded.

  “Seriously, if I catch a sleigh downtown can we snowshoe out and grab a bite to eat?”

  “Are you trying to tell me that you don’t like my home cooking?” I teased.

  “And what home cooking would that be? A Swanson’s frozen dinner, or takeout?” he parried.

  “I just got a bottle of Schapiro’s finest kosher burgundy. Care to come up for a drink before we head out?” I asked.

  “Rach, surely you jest. That crap is pure rotgut. I don’t know how you can drink the stuff. For God’s sake, even they advertise it as wine so thick you can cut it with a knife. The only thing it’s good for is cleaning out clogged pipes. I’ll come up for a while, but you’re going to have to do better than that. Besides, I’m afraid if I stay too long I’ll thaw out and won’t be able to leave until spring.”

  Terri was having a hard time adjusting to the cold. All the ice and snow just didn’t go with what he liked to call his tropical personality.

  “Why couldn’t Eric have found a new job someplace more suitable? Say in Hawaii, perhaps?” he’d moaned after experiencing his first bout of snow.

  In truth, I was beginning to worry about their relationship. Eric was a workaholic and homebody, while Terri still liked to party. Throw a rebellious teenage girl into the mix, and they were beginning to have trouble.

  “See you soon,” I said, and hung up.

  Then I walked into the kitchen and flicked on the light, only to have a shriek tear from my throat. Every horror film I’d ever seen came rushing back to haunt me. There on the counter was my worst nightmare: a roving gang of cockroaches.

  A group of oval brown bodies were gathered in a shiny mass of twitching antennas, and skittering limbs. Santou had left a slice of Gerda’s cake out, and the bugs were rockin’ and rollin’ all over it. Unbelievable. The damn things didn’t have the decency to run away and hide from me, even though they were faster than cheetahs.

  I quickly transformed from my normal animal-loving self into a vindictive Terminator.

  Yeah, yeah. I know. I’m supposed to protect every living creature. But truth be told, we all have our limits. Besides, these were the least endangered critters on the planet. Not only can they survive decapitation, but the frigging bugs regenerate their own body parts. I should have such talents. Even the army could learn a thing or two from them. Cockroaches are the perfect survivors, able to live on a drop of water, a sliver of soap, strands of hair, and fingernail clippings.

  The only thing worse than encountering one was actually having to kill it. No way was I going to smash them on the counter and hear their tiny exoskeletons crunch. And then there was all that goo that would have to be cleaned up. Instead, I chose to do the only rational thing in such a situation. I closed the kitchen door, grabbed a can of Raid, and furiously began to spray the room.

  A sickly sweet scent permeated the air, but I didn’t care. To hell with the fine mist that fell on my dishes, pots, and pans. What were a few toxins and chemicals when it was a matter of self-preservation? The bugs were mini-weapons of mass destruction and this was all-out war.

  It was only when the can of Raid was finally empty that I knew the battle was temporarily over. I quickly cleaned up the mess, grabbed hold of Spam and left, unable to stand t
he smell any longer.

  I didn’t take a deep breath until we were standing outside, where Spam began to pull me around the block. We went for our ritual walk, during which I acted out my secret fantasy. I morphed into Michelle Kwan while slipping and sliding along the ice.

  I eventually had no choice but to go back inside the building. However, I wisely made tracks for Gerda’s rather than enter my own apartment.

  Nailed to the right-hand side of her doorpost was the mezuzah I’d first seen as a child. I’d always loved its silver-and-blue rectangular case adorned with mysterious Hebrew lettering. Only later did I learn that two handwritten chapters of the Torah were tightly rolled up inside. I’d always wondered how someone managed to do that.

  The mezuzah was nailed to the post at an angle, and I used to try my best to straighten it. Gerda had caught me once and laughed at my mistake.

  “Rachel, not everything in this life can be exactly as you want it. Mezuzahs are supposed to hang that way. Do you know why?”

  I shook my head, not having the slightest idea.

  “Then I’ll tell you, my darling. The rabbis couldn’t agree on whether mezuzahs should be horizontal or vertical, so they decided to compromise. Remember that as you go through life.”

  I touched the mezuzah and kissed my fingers before knocking on her door.

  Gerda answered my tap looking particularly spiffy tonight. She wore a deep blue dress offset by a beautiful diamond brooch. The stones reflected the twinkle in her eyes, and she had carefully applied her makeup so that the rouge on her cheeks matched the color of her lips. They both complemented her freshly dyed hair, which was red as ripe strawberries.

  She took one look at me and started to tsk, tsk, tsk with her tongue.

  “Rachel. What’s the matter? You seem a little frazzled, my dear.”

  I leaned in to give her a kiss, and a flood of memories washed over me. I took a deep whiff and realized it was the scent of Gerda’s skin. The smell was exactly the same as that which I associated with my grandmother. It was a mixture of powder, soap, and perfume. I wasn’t yet ready to release my breath, but rather chose to float on a soothing sea of remembrance. Though it was too comforting to immediately exhale, it was also too bittersweet to stay for very long.

  My childhood hadn’t been all that easy. It had been filled with pain, loss, and regret. Only at my grandmother and Gerda’s had I been able to escape into a different world—one filled with laughter and music and happiness.

  I could still smell the tantalizing aroma of Passover meals cooking in their kitchens, and nearly taste the holiday sweets. My grandmother, my mother, and my sister were all gone now, and Gerda was the only family that I had left. It was one of the reasons why I had chosen to come home to New York.

  “It’s those damn cockroaches,” I said, and stepped inside her door. “They’re driving me crazy, Gerda. I don’t know what your secret is, but I can’t seem to get rid of them.”

  “I already told you what to do, my darling,” she replied, while fingering the diamond studs in her ears. “First you have to keep your apartment spic-and-span clean. Those cock-a-roaches will eat anything. Grease on the kettle, crumbs under your toaster, even food particles on a dishrag.”

  Good luck with that, I thought.

  Between Spam, Santou, and myself, the roaches were clearly having a field day. Besides, I knew that nothing would ever totally stop them. The little beasties not only eat their own dead, but also dine on their living when food becomes scarce.

  “If that doesn’t work, then stick some bread in a jar and smear the inside lip with Vaseline,” Gerda instructed. “They’ll climb down inside the jar, but they won’t be able to climb back out. After that, screw the top on and walk down to Chinatown, where you can spin the jar around and let them loose. They’ll be so dizzy that they’ll never find their way back home again.”

  Gerda was incredibly humane, even when it came to something as miniscule as bugs. I wondered if it had anything to do with her time spent in a concentration camp. Though her homespun remedies were fun, I still preferred my tried-and-true method—a few good shots of Raid. At least that way, I knew for certain that they were gone.

  “You look so pretty tonight, Gerda. Are you going out?” I inquired.

  “Yes. David is coming by and taking me to dinner. We’re going to Sammy’s Romanian. Why don’t you join us?” she suggested with a sly smile.

  That would be terrific, if I was trying to boost my cholesterol level and wanted to risk plotzing from a heart attack. Sammy’s was famous for enormous slabs of beef slathered in chicken fat. Jugs of additional rendered schmaltz were placed on each table as if on a dare. Dinner required that a bottle of iced vodka be consumed just to help “Roto-Rooter” your arteries.

  Gerda had an ulterior motive for inviting me to dinner. She knew that Jake and I were involved, but still hoped that one day her grandson and I would become an item.

  “You’re a nice Jewish girl and David is a nice Jewish boy. Besides, he’s a gem dealer in the Diamond District. What could be better?” she’d ask with a shake of her tightly permed curls. “So what if you’re a little older? That doesn’t really matter. Men tend to die earlier. Think of it as a bonus. You’ll have him around a bit longer.”

  “Thanks, but I already have plans with Terri tonight,” I told her.

  “That fagellah?” she asked and wrinkled her nose, as if wondering why we were friends. “Oh well. What do I know about young people these days? The world is a different place. Who’s to say? Maybe it’s a good thing.”

  “Would you mind if Spam stayed here with you while I’m gone? I just launched a roach attack in my apartment, and it smells like the inside of a Raid can.”

  “Of course, he’s welcome. At this point, he’s the closest thing that I have to a grandchild.” Gerda leaned down and gave the pooch a pat. “For you, I have some pot roast,” she said.

  No wonder her place smelled so good and brought back so many memories. Spam apparently felt the same way. He let out a bark and merrily wagged his tail.

  Seven

  I walked into the hallway only to hear the buzzer insistently ringing from downstairs. I didn’t bother to let Terri in, but quickly raced down to meet him. He stood shivering in the cold as I headed outside.

  “Hey, I thought you were going to buzz me up,” he complained. “What’s the problem? Cockroaches again?”

  “Wow, you really are psychic,” I answered, duly impressed.

  “Oh please. Don’t cheapen my psychic abilities. You know perfectly well it’s the fragrant scent of Eau de Raid that you’re wearing,” he wisecracked. “So, where are we off to?”

  I glanced at my friend. Terri had on a heavy winter jacket and thick woolen cap. Dressed like that, I figured he could withstand a few blocks of hiking in this weather.

  “What say we do a little shopping before dinner?” I suggested.

  “Oh my God. Hell has frozen over. You’re finally going to hit some of those cute little boutiques around here that I’ve been telling you about,” he crowed.

  “Don’t get so excited. This excursion isn’t for me, but for a woman who owns a luncheonette truck at the port. She’s in bad need of a decent winter coat, and I’ve decided to buy her one.”

  Terri looked at me in surprise. “Well, aren’t you turning out to be the Good Samaritan. And here I thought all you cared about were creatures with a minimum of four legs and fur,” he replied, linking his arm through mine.

  I would have loved to be viewed as genuinely benevolent, but my conscience wouldn’t allow it.

  “I’m afraid it’s a bit more complicated than that. Magda had a beautiful warm shawl. The only problem was that the wool turned out to be illegal. I also suspect that it was taken off a dead woman. So, I had to confiscate it,” I explained.

  “Your friend took it off a dead woman? Honey, maybe it’s time you start hanging out with a better class of people. So then, this is a pure guilt shopping trip,” he surmised.


  “Well, yes. But there’s something else,” I replied. “I went to see a very wealthy woman today. I swear, she looked like an over-the-top ad for Tiffany’s. In fact, that was her name. Even her dog wore designer accessories. It made me wonder, What the hell’s wrong with this picture? I figure if her dog can wear an Hermès collar, then Magda shouldn’t have to suffer and shiver in the cold.”

  “See? Now that’s more in line with what I’m talking about. People of that economic caliber. An Hermès collar? I’d love one of those things, myself,” he said, and gave my arm a squeeze. “Ooh, I’m definitely beginning to see exciting new things for you.”

  “I hope so,” I replied, feeling less certain of my fate.

  It was an emotion I’d been experiencing of late, and had yet to figure out why. I pushed it to the back of my mind, and instead tried to focus on all the stores around me.

  Common wisdom is that the Lower East Side has already been fully co-opted, whitewashed, and stripped of its personality. That isn’t quite the case. True, the neighborhood is going through a period of transition. However, there are still a few unique pockets to be found.

  We passed by historic buildings that had been constructed to pack a maximum number of people into a minimum amount of space. Individuals now occupy the same tenements that once housed entire families.

  Soon we wandered past a line of boutiques so ultra-cool that I couldn’t even tell what they were selling. Terri gave a disappointed sigh as we continued on and headed for a strip of bargain clothing stores. The owners stood outside where they hawked their wares like carnival barkers. It’s here that I entered a shop that had been around since my grandmother’s days.

  “Great. They should call this place ‘Schmata Central.’ I should have known we’d end up at discount heaven,” Terri griped.

  Terri might consider their wares to be rags, but to me they were hidden treasures. I went to the back and picked through the racks until I found exactly what I was looking for: a winter coat in Magda’s size.