Invisible City

by Julia Dahl

  She was pregnant with me almost immediately. Dad proposed, she accepted, I was born, she bailed. Dad went to look for her once, but he didn’t go to the family home. He told me he was concerned that confronting her father would drive my mother further away; that if she had been punished upon her return, the punishment would be redoubled when her goy baby-daddy showed up and gave face to the shame she’d caused. Maybe though, my father wasn’t quite so valiant. Maybe he’d come to Borough Park and seen a man like Aron Mendelssohn. Maybe he’d been afraid. What utterly different lives we’ve had, my mother and I. Me, coaxed and encouraged into adulthood by my dopey, dependable, loving-kindness father. Aviva, ignored and intimidated by a man always cloaked in black.

  I call Cathy and tell her what happened.

  “Can you call DCPI and float a name?” I ask.

  “Sure,” says Cathy.

  “Ask if the dead woman is named Rivka Mendelssohn.”

  “That’s the kid’s mom?”

  “I think so. I’m pretty sure I just met her husband.”

  “I’ll call you back. Head to the house.”

  I start walking. I don’t get hunches a lot. I’m not often in a position where I know enough about a subject I’m reporting on to make any kind of guess about anything other than whom to call next and whether or not people are telling me the truth. I can’t always see a lie, but sometimes it’s easy. Sometimes people lie about really weird things, like, no, my son’s not here, when I can see him peeking out from behind the blinds. I’ve had people tell me they witnessed crimes and accidents they didn’t; I’ve nodded and taken notes while they say, oh yeah, I heard like fifteen gunshots around 10 P.M., when police have already told me there were only two shell casings and that the victim was shot after midnight. Usually they’re harmless; they just want to feel important, maybe get their name in the paper. I shouldn’t have let it slip to Mr. Mendelssohn that I spoke with his son; any father would be upset by that. But when he turned around to look at me after I’d said that, his face wasn’t just angry; it was afraid.

  I get to the Mendelssohn address in about ten minutes. The yard must be doing great business because the house is enormous. It’s a corner lot, and the structure takes up almost every inch of the property, with just a small strip of grass separating the sidewalk from the outside walls. The front porch has pillars, like a Southern mansion, but the house itself is a peach-tinted stucco, with elaborate dormers and window dressings on all three floors.

  I walk up the grand front steps and knock. Nothing. I knock again. Nothing. I go back to the sidewalk and look up. There do not seem to be any lights on, but on the top floor I see a face peek between the curtains. I wave, and the face disappears. I go back to the front door and knock. After a few seconds, I hear footsteps.

  “What do you want?” asks a voice, muted behind the heavy wooden door.

  “I’m sorry to bother you,” I say, “I’m looking for Rivka Mendelssohn.”

  Another pause, and then someone turns the bolt and cracks open the door.

  “Hi,” I say, thinking, friendly, friendly, nonthreatening. “Is this the Mendelssohns?”

  “You know Rivka?” I can barely see the woman’s face. She’s wearing a brimless velour hat pulled down over her eyebrows.

  “I’m a reporter, for the Tribune. I actually talked to her husband, I think, just a few minutes ago….”

  “You spoke with Aron?” She opens the door a little wider at this. Her face is wide and unattractive: eyes too close together, nose too long, a sloping, shallow chin. She looks about thirty, give or take five years.

  “I think so. He owns a scrap yard? In Gowanus?”

  The woman does not confirm or deny. She looks past me, squinting into the street, looking for someone looking at her.

  “Do you live here?” I ask.

  She nods almost imperceptibly.

  “May I ask your name?”

  “My name is Miriam,” she whispers, looking up at me briefly.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, Miriam. I’m not sure if you’ve heard, but there was a woman’s body discovered at the Smith Street Scrap Yard this morning, and we’re trying to get some information about who she was, but the police haven’t released her name yet. I was hoping Mr. Mendelssohn might be able to help.”

  “Did he?”

  “Not really. He seemed … busy. Are you related to the Mendelssohns?” No response. “What about his wife, Rivka. Is she home?”

  Miriam shakes her head and begins to close the door.

  “Wait,” I say, but I’m not sure what to say to stop her. “Um, will you be home tomorrow? I’d love to …”

  “I’m sorry,” she says. Click, bolt, and she is gone.

  I wait a moment and lean in. I think she’s still there; I don’t hear any footsteps. I knock quietly. “Miriam?” Nothing.

  My phone rings. It’s Cathy.

  “Where are you?” she asks.

  “I’m at the Mendelssohns.”

  “Get out of there.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you were right,” she says. “The dead lady is Rivka Mendelssohn.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  When Cathy says get out of there, she doesn’t mean I should flee the scene. What she means is that I should hang back. The Trib doesn’t have much in the way of a code of conduct, but one thing we are very definitely not supposed to do is inform family members of a death. That’s the police’s job. Our job is to swoop in immediately post-inform and gather as much detail as the shocked family will give. It’s an ugly job. I’ve asked mothers about their dead daughters and husbands about their dead wives, but I’ve never done it less than a few hours after they actually learned of the death. Of course, Aron Mendelssohn was at the yard earlier, so he is probably aware that it was his wife’s body in the scrap pile—but Miriam, and anyone else at home, may not know yet.

  “Stick around the block,” says Cathy. “The police should be there soon. We’re past deadline, but get everything. We’ll go with the name and any information you can get. Find out if she’s actually married to the yard’s owner, how old she is, if she has kids, whatever you can. A quote would be great.”

  I’m standing across the street when I see three Jewish men in black hats and vests similar to those worn by the men who took Rivka’s body away come up the block toward the house. They stand together at the street corner, waiting. I decide to approach.

  “Hi,” I say. “My name is Rebekah, I’m with the Tribune.” The men barely look at me. “Are you here because of the woman in the scrap yard? I was out there earlier and I saw some …” Jews? No, can’t say that. “I saw that the body was taken away by …” You guys? Can’t say that either. I stop talking, hoping one of them will help me out. No such luck. They all look elsewhere—the sky, the ground, each other, their hands. For several seconds, I stand there like an idiot, trying to catch someone’s eye. All three men are bearded and wear long tightly coiled sidecurls, which remind me of Shirley Temple ringlets. One is a redhead, like me. The other two have dark hair.

  “We have no information,” says the man with the red beard. They are all wearing long coats, but not gloves or scarves. Instead of boots, they all wear black shoes that are like a cross between sneakers and wingtips. And like DCPI, they display no signs of being affected at all by the icy weather.

  “Is this where Rivka Mendelssohn lives?” I ask.

  The redhead shakes his head. I don’t think he’s saying no, just that he’s not going to tell me anything. I step away, feeling like an asshole, and a moment later, an NYPD squad car pulls up. The officers stay inside. The wind is picking up and I look around for a doorway or vestibule to hide in, but the streets are hopelessly residential. The cops look warm in their car. I wonder if, in the spirit of camaraderie, they’d let me sit in the back, but I’d probably have better luck asking Miriam to let me in and pour me a beer. I start pacing, halfway down the block and back again. The Mendelssohn home is the largest in sight, but many other
s are impressive. There are two-car garages and brass driveway gates and wrought-iron fences and glassed-in porches and patios. No children throw snowballs in the street; no cars blast music. It is just past dinnertime, but the streetlamps are the only lights on the block. Everyone is inside, living in the dark.

  I swing my arms and jog in place. My scarf is wrapped around my mouth and nose, turning damp as I breathe. I wonder if Aviva grew up on this block. Did they live in a house or an apartment? Which synagogue did they pray at? If I had asked Miriam, Do you know Aviva Kagan? would she have said yes? I wish I could talk to someone about all this. Iris is likely to spend the night with Brice. I pull out my phone and text Tony.

  how late do u work?

  Tony texts back: off at 10

  wanna grab a drink?

  sure - bell house?

  The Bell House is a bar three blocks from my apartment.

  great. i’ll text you when I get off - 11ish?

  cool

  The cops are still in their cars. I call Cathy.

  “How long do you think I should stay?” I ask.

  “If the cops haven’t given us more info by ten, they won’t until morning. Hang on till then. Photo’s on the way. Is any other press there?”

  I look around to be sure. “No,” I say. “I haven’t seen anybody.”

  “Good,” says Cathy.

  As soon as I hang up, another set of cops arrive. This time, it’s plainclothes detectives in a black Lincoln Town Car. Just like DCPI and the Jewish cops, they are dressed for October, not deep January. As soon as they get out, so do the uniformed officers. All three groups congregate on the sidewalk for about thirty seconds, and then the cops get back in their cars, tailpipes pumping exhaust into the cold. I decide to make contact with the plainclothes officers. I cross the street and knock on the passenger-side front window. The man inside looks at me and raises his eyebrows without rolling down the window. I wait, then speak through the glass.

  “Hi. I’m from the Trib.”

  He squints like he can’t hear.

  “Is this Rivka Mendelssohn’s house? Her family owns the scrap yard, right?”

  Finally, he rolls down the window about four inches.

  “I don’t have anything for you,” he says, looking in the sideview mirror. He’s probably fortyish, overweight like just about every cop out of uniform I’ve ever met, with a severe gray buzz cut. His partner doesn’t even turn to look at me. He just stares down at his BlackBerry, rolling the cursor ball. “Call DCPI.”

  I cross the street and watch. After about ten minutes, the plainclothes cops get out of their car, which triggers the uniforms to do the same. The Jewish men join them, and the whole group climbs the front stairs. A moment later, they disappear inside.

  After a few minutes, another Jewish man appears, this time on a bicycle. This man is clean-shaven but wearing a black hat like the others. Around his waist is a belt with a badge and a cell phone clipped to it. Huh, I think, an Orthodox member of the NYPD? The man leans his bicycle against the back fence of the Mendelssohn house, and waits.

  Five minutes later, my phone rings. It’s George, the photog. He’s on his way. I’m surprised Pete Calloway hasn’t gotten here yet. Ten more minutes and two more cars pull up. One is George; one is Fred Moskowitz, editor, publisher, reporter, and ad sales rep for The Brooklyn Beacon, a tiny free weekly. I practically run to George’s Volvo and jump in.

  “Cold?” he asks.

  I put my hands up to the heating vents and grunt a noise somewhere between brrrr and yeah.

  “They want a photo,” says George. “But these are Hasids, right? We’re not gonna get anything.” George is probably in his fifties. He wears a bomber jacket with Army patches on the chest and back. We sit together, listening to 1010 WINS, the local news station, which gives us hockey scores and traffic and weather between loud ads for skin doctors and car buy-back programs. Forecast: cold. Windy and cold. It’s going to be fifteen overnight.

  After about twenty minutes, the detectives come outside. George reaches into the backseat for his camera. “I’ll follow your lead,” he says.

  We hurry over, with Fred trailing us. I call out a question: “Can we get an age, Detectives?”

  The men keep walking.

  Fred asks, “Is this about the woman in the scrap pile?”

  “You have to get that from DCPI,” says the one I’d talked to before, barely breaking stride. “We have no information for you.”

  “Assholes,” says Fred, after they’ve gotten into their car.

  “The uniforms are still in there,” I say. “And the Jewish cops.”

  “They’re called Shomrim,” says Fred, loving my ignorance. “They’re a neighborhood watch. And we won’t get anything from them. I’m gonna get some coffee and come back later.” He crosses the street to his Ford Taurus in a huff.

  “What’s the plan?” asks George, once we’re back in his car.

  “I’m not sure,” I say. George has been on the job probably fifteen years, but it’s usually up to the reporter to make decisions about who goes where on a stakeout. Even when the reporter is just twenty-two years old. “I should probably call in.”

  Just then the front door opens and the uniformed officers and the Jewish watchmen exit the house. The Jews walk together down the street and out of view. The officers linger on the sidewalk. One lights a cigarette. In the side-view mirror I see the man on the bicycle walk toward the officers. The officers nod in acknowledgment and they begin to discuss something. One gestures toward the house. Bicycle jots whatever information they’re giving him down on a notepad. When the smoking cop finishes his cigarette, the two uniformed officers nod good-bye, get in their cruiser, and drive away.

  Bicycle watches after them, then closes his notepad and starts walking around toward the back of the house.

  “I’m gonna see if this one will talk to me,” I say to George, who obligingly reaches back for his camera.

  “Let’s do it,” he says.

  We get out of the car and I walk quickly toward the man in the black hat.

  “Excuse me,” I say. “Sir?”

  He turns around.

  “Hi,” I say, “I’m from the Trib; I’m wondering if you can give us any information about Rivka Mendelssohn. Even just an age? Was she married? Did she have children?”

  I speak quickly, including multiple questions because I assume, based on the behavior of the rest of the cops, that he’ll barely stop walking. I am wrong. This cop stops.

  I extend my hand. “My name is Rebekah. I was at the scrap yard earlier today. This is George. I wonder if you could give us any information about the victim.” The cop doesn’t answer. He looks flustered, like I’ve caught him picking his nose or something. I continue. “We know her name is Rivka Mendelssohn, but we’re hoping to get a little more information for the story. This is where she lived, right?”

  As I am talking, his face changes. He begins to smile.

  “Rebekah?” he says.

  “Yes.” My hand is still extended, but he hasn’t taken it. He is just staring at me. I look at George, who raises his eyebrows.

  “Sir?” he says, but the man doesn’t seem to hear.

  “Are you working on this case?” I ask, letting my hand fall, embarrassed. “We’re just wondering if we can get a little information about Mrs. Mendelssohn. Is it correct that she was married to the Smith Street Scrap Yard’s owner, Aron Mendelssohn?”

  “I am Saul,” he says. “Saul Katz.”

  “Okay,” I say, writing down his name.

  “I knew your mother.”

  I look up from my notebook. “Excuse me?”

  He steps forward, reaching out to touch my arm. I flinch. Who is this man?

  “You look just like her.”

  I drop my pen but can’t bend over to pick it up. I feel like I’ve been turned to stone. I know I look like my mother. I’ve seen pictures. We have the same wavy copper hair, the same heart-shaped face, the same long no
se, the same hazel eyes. There is also, I’ve come to realize, a sexiness about us both that, at least as adolescents, made us seem older than we were. Part of it is easy to point at: we’re both stacked. I wore a C-cup before I got to high school. I’ll never forget the way the junior high boys gawked and stumbled when I came to the end-of-eighth-grade party in a bikini. I’d had to buy the two-piece because my top and bottom were totally different sizes. When he is reminiscing, my father refers to my mother, on that first day in the Strand, as a “bombshell.”

  Saul steps back. “I’m sorry,” he says, but he’s still staring.

  “Could you just tell us …” I’m too flustered to form a clear question and my stomach feels like it’s on fire. Is my mother about to jump out of the bushes? Have I become a participant in some kind of reality TV show? Is this like, Intervention for abandoned children?

  I look at George, who, mercifully, takes over.

  “We’ve been told the woman who lives here was found dead this morning. We’re looking for some information about her—age, marital status, that sort of thing.”