“Maybe,” I said doubtfully. “You said there are three options. You described one. What are the other two?”
“He could break with the strict Hasidic community altogether. There are Modern Orthodox synagogues on the Upper West Side that would probably accept him. He might find a community there. That’s more or less what that gay rabbi I told you about did. He’s from a strict Orthodox family. He came out of the closet when he was in rabbinical school. You can imagine what his family thought of that. Needless to say, he’s not really Orthodox anymore.”
“And the last option?”
“Lastly he could remain in the community, but be on his own. He would never get married. He would live alone, or even with a man if he did it very discreetly. He would be isolated from the gay community, but he would still be a member of the religious community.”
All this was very interesting, but how did it relate to Fraydle?
“Ari was getting married, so he was clearly choosing the first path. What would have happened if Fraydle’s family found out?” I had asked this question of Libby, but I wanted to see if Sam’s answer was any different.
“That depends. They might cancel the match. Or they might ignore the rumors and go forward. It depends on how important the match was, and on how suited the two were for each other in other ways.”
Could Fraydle and her family have heard about the rumors? Perhaps her father had pushed her to go forward despite what they’d heard. Maybe that had been her reason for running away.
“Listen, Juliet, if I were you, I’d be careful.” Josh said.
“Excuse me?” I said.
“The Hirsches are an important family. And Ari’s uncles on his mother’s side are, well, powerful.”
“I know. I heard about the rich uncles who own half of Borough Park.”
“Those uncles have their own reputation. They’re . . . they’re not so easy to deal with.”
“Josh,” Sam said, a note of warning in his voice.
“What do you mean?” I pressed.
Josh looked at Sam and shrugged his shoulders. “Nothing really. It’s just that they’re real estate guys. They collect their own rents.”
“What? Like they’re Jewish mobsters or something?”
“No! No! Nothing like that. All I’m saying is that you shouldn’t mess around with these guys. They might not like someone asking questions about their nephew.”
I looked at Josh for a moment, wondering if he was serious. Was he really telling me to watch out for a couple of old Hasidic men? I thanked him for his warning and assured him I would be careful. I almost told him that after being shot once, I wasn’t likely to put myself in that position again, but I decided that I didn’t have the time for the explanations that comment would require.
What he said did make me think of something else, however. Maybe Fraydle had found out about Ari and threatened not only to call off the match, but also to tell people why she was doing it. How far would the uncles have gone to ensure her silence?
“I need to talk to Ari Hirsch. Can you arrange that for me?”
Libby, who had been silent throughout our conversation, interrupted. “No. That’s ridiculous. Why do you need to talk to this boy? Why do you need to bother him? You’ll just scare him with this.”
“Look, Libby, all I know right now is rumor and innuendo. I need to know the truth, and I need to find out what Fraydle knew. The only way that I can think of to do this is to talk to Ari.”
“Ridiculous,” Sam blustered.
“Not ridiculous at all,” I said. “The other option is to ask Fraydle’s family. Which do you think would bother Ari more?”
The three looked at each other for a moment. Finally, Josh spoke. “I can’t promise he’ll talk to you. But I can tell him who you are. The rest is up to you.”
Sixteen
JOSH agreed to speak to Ari the next day. Libby handed Isaac to me and stiffened when I hugged her. She did not return my embrace. I hoped I hadn’t lost a friend.
I found Ruby still awake and waiting for us at my parents’ front door.
“Hi, kiddo,” I said. “Did you have fun with Grandma and Grandpa? Did you go visit Bubba in the nursing home?”
She nodded, but, with a trembling lip, whispered, “I miss Daddy.”
I handed Isaac to my mother and scooped Ruby up in my arms. I kissed her on the cheek. She buried her face in my neck and started to cry.
I said, “I know, honey. It’s hard to be away from Daddy. I miss him, too. Should we give him a call?” We’d already spoken to Peter about three hundred times in the two days we’d been gone, but another call wouldn’t hurt. I settled her on one hip and reached for the phone. I dialed Peter’s cell phone number, since I was pretty sure I’d find him on the set.
It rang twice and then a female voice answered, “Hi!”
I felt a wave of intense jealousy crash over me, utterly obliterating all the good feelings generated by our loving moments at Miserable Mindy’s party and at the airport. Now, I know that my husband is crazy about me, and I know that he would never cheat on me. But there’s something about being postpartum, even four months postpartum, that makes you feel vulnerable. The problem isn’t that you’re still carrying around that extra pregnancy weight, although that doesn’t help. It’s not even that sleep deprivation has etched permanent black smudges under your eyes and in your mood. The real problem is that the very last thing in the universe you feel like doing is touching any human being other than your baby, and that includes your husband. When you’re a nursing mother, your body belongs to someone else. You are perpetually available to satisfy the physical demands of your baby. The idea of satisfying another person’s physical desires, no matter how much fun that might end up being for you personally, is just too much. At least that’s how I felt. There I was, a woman who loved her husband desperately but who had about as much interest in sex as in skydiving; less, in fact. And there she was, whoever she was, with her breathy little “Hi!”
“This is Juliet. Is my husband there?” Icicles dangled from my words.
“Juliet! It’s so wonderful to hear from you! We were just wondering how you and your adorable kids are doing!”
We? “Who is this?” I asked, not defrosting in the least.
“Oh, I’m sorry. This is Mindy Maxx.”
“No, I’m sorry,” I replied. “I thought I dialed Peter’s cell phone. I must have gotten your number by mistake.”
Mindy and I both knew that I didn’t know her cell phone number. Obviously, I couldn’t really believe I’d miraculously dialed it instead of Peter’s. She would have had to be a total moron not to understand how angry and suspicious I was.
She wasn’t an idiot. “Juliet, I just picked up Peter’s phone. We’re in the production trailer going over the rushes and I just picked it up off the table where he left it. Honestly.”
There was a scuffling noise and then Peter’s voice came on the line.
“Hey, honey!” he said. “Sorry about that. Mindy just grabbed my phone as a joke.”
“Ha ha ha,” I said.
He paused, as if he was trying to figure out why I was upset. Are all men this clueless? “Let’s talk about this later, okay?” he said.
“Whatever. Your daughter wants to talk to you.” I handed Ruby the phone and walked out of the kitchen, tears in my eyes. I grabbed Isaac from my mother and sat down on the couch and buried my nose in his soft little neck. He giggled deliciously.
“You love me best, don’t you?” I whispered in his ear.
He grabbed a clump of my hair and shoved it in his mouth. I listened while Ruby chatted animatedly with her father. That little girl sure loved her Daddy.
“What’s wrong, mamaleh?” my father asked, leaning forward in his chair. He patted me on the knee. “Did Peter say something?”
“No,” I sighed. “I’m just jealous of Mindy, his new best friend.”
“What are you jealous for? You’re a beautiful woman. You’re the
mother of his children. What do you care if he has some friend? He loves you!”
“I know. It’s just that things haven’t been very much fun around the house lately. I can’t blame him for enjoying her company more than mine. At least she doesn’t smell like spit-up. And I’m not beautiful, by the way.” Now I was fishing.
“Yes, you are. You’re gorgeous. Lovely. A little zaftig, maybe, but that’s very attractive. Who wants to sleep with a bag of bones?”
Great. Even my own father thought I was fat.
“For God’s sake, Gene,” my mother said, whacking my father on the back of the head with a magazine. “She’s not zaftig! What are you saying? Zaftig. You idiot.”
“Stop hitting me!”
“What hitting? I tapped you on the head. I should show you hitting.”
By now I’d stopped crying and was just laughing. My parents, the Jewish Honeymooners. I handed Isaac to my dad and went back into the kitchen. I took the phone away from Ruby, unwinding her from the cord she’d managed to wrap around her neck and waist.
“Hi. Sorry,” I said.
“Me, too,” Peter said. “Why don’t you come home so we can fight in person? That way we’d at least get to have make-up sex.”
“We could have make-up phone sex.” I suggested.
“Hmm. Maybe. Where are your parents?”
“Right here.”
“Never mind.”
“We’re coming home soon.”
“I know. I love you, Juliet.”
I started to cry again. “I know. I love you, too.”
“I love you too, too.”
“I love you too, too, too.”
“Oh, for God’s sake,” my mother said, pushing past me into the kitchen. “What are you, a couple of teenagers? You miss him so much, you should go home.”
“I don’t want to go home. I want to stay here and watch you and Daddy hit each other with newspapers.”
“It wasn’t a newspaper! I tapped him with a magazine. You and your father. The two of you should go down to City Hall and get yourselves a restraining order.”
I laughed. “Hey, Peter? Have I ever told you how insane my parents are?”
“I figured that out all by myself,” he said. “Listen, I’d better go. We’re in the middle of something.”
“Okay, honey. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
We hung up.
My mother was pulling covered dishes out of the refrigerator. “I’m heating up leftover chicken for a little late-night snack,” she said.
“Sounds fine to me.”
“You should go visit Bubba tomorrow morning.”
“I will.”
“So how did it go today? Did you find your girl, what’s her name? Fruma?”
“Fraydle. No, I didn’t. I don’t think she’s in New York.” I recounted my conversation with Sam.
“Sounds to me like you need to speak to that boy,” my mother said.
“I thought of that myself. I asked Josh, Libby’s husband, to call him for me.”
“Why not just call him yourself?”
“That’s a terrible idea, Mom. What am I going to say, ‘Hi there, Ari. Are you queer and did you make your fiancée disappear by any chance?’”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Why don’t you just ask him if he’ll meet you for a cup of coffee? Then you can delicately ask him about Fraydle.”
“Right. Like this yeshiva bucher is going to meet some strange woman for coffee.”
“Fine. Don’t take my advice. What do I know? I’m just an old woman. You’re the detective.”
“I am not a detective.”
“No. You just solve murders in your spare time.”
“Exactly. I mean, no! I don’t solve murders. I did solve that one before Isaac was born, but this isn’t a murder. I don’t even know if Fraydle is dead!”
“Who’s dead? Daddy?” Ruby asked, soundly bizarrely unperturbed at the thought.
“Nobody’s dead! Daddy’s fine! He’s just in California!”
“Don’t yell at me! Yell at Grandma, not me!”
I knelt down and gave her a hug. “Sorry, honey.” I kissed the top of her head. Then I walked over to my mother, put my arm around her, and kissed her on the cheek. “Sorry, Ma.”
“What sorry? You don’t need to be sorry. Don’t be silly.”
Seventeen
THE next morning I woke up late and found my mother sitting in the living room, holding the telephone receiver up to a gurgling Isaac’s mouth.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“Isaac is talking to his daddy,” she said.
“Sounds like a scintillating conversation. Here, give me the phone.”
I took the receiver out of her hand and made myself comfortable on the couch. Isaac immediately started nuzzling me, and I settled him across my lap.
“Hi, honey,” I said, into the phone.
“Hi, baby. I’m glad I caught you.”
“Isaac not enough of a conversationalist for you?”
“Not at all. He’s great. He burped twice and I swear he said ‘Dada.’”
“He did not. He’s only four months old.”
“Well, all I know is what I heard. What are you wearing?”
“What?”
“What are you wearing right now?”
I laughed. “Um, my father’s green flannel nightshirt.”
“Underneath?”
“Peter!”
“C’mon! Tell me.”
“I can’t. My mother’s sitting right here.”
My mother shook her head, sighed dramatically, and hoisted herself off the couch. “I’m going upstairs,” she said, and stomped away.
“Okay, she’s gone. Nothing.”
“Mmm. Come home.”
“Where are you? It’s six in the morning California time. Are you at home?” I asked.
“No, I’m in the production office. I’ve been here all night.”
“Is Mindy there?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Juliet! You really are insane. Of course she’s not here. Would I be talking to you about your naked body if Mindy were here?”
I didn’t say anything.
“Juliet. When are you going to figure out that I love you? You’re the one I’m dreaming about. It’s your body that I’m thinking about.”
I sighed. “I know. I’m sorry. Again. As usual. I’m always sorry.” And I was, really, it just seemed like Peter and Mindy were spending so much time together. “Listen,” I said, “let’s not talk about Mindy, or my body for that matter. Let me tell you about yesterday.”
After I told Peter about everything I’d discovered I asked him what he thought my next move ought to be.
“Well, if I were writing this as a screenplay,” he said, “I’d want to know what your motivation was. What do you want to know? What information are you missing?”
I thought for a minute. “I guess what I need to know now is if Fraydle knew about Ari, and if she did, what, if anything, she did about it. Was she planning on going forward with the marriage? What did her parents know? Were they planning on going forward?”
“Well, you can’t ask her, because she’s still missing. She is still missing, isn’t she?”
“I assume so. Nettie has my number here. She promised to call if Fraydle came home or if anything else happened.” I didn’t say what the anything else was, but Peter and I both knew what I meant: if she turned up dead.
“Okay, so you can safely assume she’s still missing. So you can’t ask her. Her father isn’t likely to tell you.”
“And I know Nettie would have told me if she knew anything about it. At least, I think she would have.”
“So who does that leave? The mother?”
“She won’t talk.”
“Then who?”
“Ari Hirsch.”
“So call Ari Hirsch.”
“God! You and my mother. That’s just what she suggested that I do. I’ll tell you what I told her: I asked Jos
h to call him for me.”
“Don’t wait for Josh. Do it yourself.”
And I did.
I found Ari’s parents’ telephone number by using my keen detective skills and calling directory assistance. Once I reached Esther, I claimed to be a clerk at a store where Ari had placed an order and asked to speak to him.
“What kind of order?” Ari’s mother said.
“It’s a gift order, Mrs. Hirsch,” I replied. “Mr. Hirsch specifically asked us not to tell what it was. Are you his wife?”
“No, his mother.”
“Well, then I certainly can’t tell you, can I?” As soon as the words left my mouth I felt horribly guilty, imagining Esther waiting day after day for the surprise gift from her son, which would never arrive.
“He’s at the yeshiva all day today.”
A boy’s high-pitched voice answered the phone at the yeshiva.
“Can I speak to Ari Hirsch, please?” I asked.
“I’ll transfer you to the rabbi’s office. He’s in there, studying.”
A moment later a soft voice answered the phone.
I swallowed, a little nervously. I’ve had conversations with bank robbers, drug dealers, and even the worst scum of the earth, confidential informants, but for some reason this particular conversation, with a young man I imagined to be skinny and acne-covered, hunched over his sacred texts and doubting his sexuality, made me tense.
“Is this Ari Hirsch?”
“Yes, who is this?”
“Mr. Hirsch, Ari, my name is Juliet Applebaum. I’m a friend of Fraydle Finkelstein.”
“Yes. I know about you. Josh Bernstein spoke to me this morning in shul.”
So Josh had come through.
“Ari, is there any way we can meet? I have some questions to ask you and I’d rather do it in person.”
“Meet?”
“This is very urgent. Very. Please trust me. I must talk to you about Fraydle. It’s an emergency.”
He didn’t respond.
“I’m taking my kids to the Museum of Natural History, today,” I said. “Would you meet me there? We can talk for just a moment or two?”
The mention of my kids seemed to reassure him. He said, tentatively, “It is urgent, correct?”
The Big Nap Page 13
