Printed in large, deep blue letters against the background of sky were verses from Jeremiah, one of which the rabbi had recited at Aggie’s funeral:
Rachel is weeping for her children.
She refuses to be comforted, for her children are gone.
Restrain your voice from weeping and
your eyes from tears
There is hope for your future.
A comforting message for the women who stepped into Rachel’s Tent, I thought. But not for Aggie.
“Miss Blume? William Bramer.”
I turned around and shook the director’s hand. He had a firm grip and a pleasant smile and clear blue eyes enhanced by the blue of the shirt he wore with a gray pinstripe suit. A few lines around the eyes and touches of gray in his wavy brown hair put him somewhere in his late forties to early fifties. I can identify every designer shoe, but I’m not great with ages.
“You look familiar,” he said. “Have we met?”
“I don’t think so.” He looked familiar, too. From the formality in his posture and tone I decided he didn’t go by “Bill.”
“Really? Because I’m almost sure . . . Well, it’ll come to me.” He pointed to the mural. “The stones look real, don’t they? I’ve never been to Rachel’s Tomb. Have you?”
“A few times,” I said. “Years ago.”
“It’s dangerous there now. A terrible shame.” He sighed. “Rachel is the universal mother. Everyone should have access to her resting place.” A second later he brightened. “So you’re doing a story about us. Is it for Los Angeles Magazine? They expressed interest a while back.”
“That’s one possibility.” Randy’s funeral—that’s where I’d seen Bramer. He was the one who had approached Creeley. I hoped he didn’t make the connection. “By the way, who came up with the name Rachel’s Tent? It’s so appropriate.”
“That was my idea.” The director smiled, pleased. “As I said, Rachel is the eternal mother. She spans generations and embraces all nationalities. And the image of a tent is informal. There’s something private and intimate about a tent, something comforting and cozy.”
“Unless you’re hiking and it’s raining.”
“Well, yes.” Bramer looked uncertain, then laughed. “I’m not a hiker myself. Why don’t I give you a quick tour and you can ask your questions.”
We started with the ground-floor counseling rooms, all variations on the one he showed me, which was painted a comforting pale yellow and furnished with a chintz love seat, upholstered chairs, an area rug, and a desk with French legs.
“The idea is to create a homelike, nonthreatening environment,” Bramer said when I complimented him on the decor.
Also on the ground floor were a meditation room that served as a nondenominational chapel, a small exercise studio (“We offer yoga,” Bramer said), a recreation room, a kitchen, and a large cafeteria filled with square tables that seated four.
“In addition to group therapy, we encourage activities like bingo and trips to malls, parks, and movies, for example,” Bramer said. “The idea is to strengthen socialization skills. We teach developmentally disabled clients how to make a budget, how to market. Simple skills you and I take for granted.”
On the second floor were bedrooms and bathrooms that provided temporary shelter for women who were abused or homeless. Each suite was small but cheerful.
“We’re open to women of any race or religion,” Bramer told me when we were in his office, which was decorated in masculine tones of gray and navy. “We treat prostitutes and judges, drug addicts and doctors, women who are homeless and those who shop at Barneys. We try to help homeless women achieve independent living and regain their dignity. We give victims of domestic violence tools to empower themselves. We teach pregnant women about prenatal nutrition and give them parenting classes and genetic counseling. If they don’t want to keep the child, we can arrange for an adoption. As a matter of fact, Rachel’s Tent began as a haven for unmarried pregnant women.”
Most of this I knew from Aggie, but I figured I’d allow Bramer the pleasure of telling me about his “baby.” “How long has Rachel’s Tent been in existence?”
“It was founded nine years ago through a charitable trust set up by the Horton family. That’s a picture of Mr. Horton with his wife, son, and daughter at the grand opening of Rachel’s Tent.” Bramer pointed to a wall behind me. “He’s the one standing next to former Mayor Riordan.”
I took a quick look at the photo, but from where I was sitting, I couldn’t see much. “I think I’ve seen the Horton name in the paper several times and on the wing of a hospital.” I recalled seeing it at the funeral on the card accompanying the floral arrangement.
Bramer nodded. “Mr. Horton donates generously to many charities and organizations, but he has a special connection to Rachel’s Tent. If you like, Miss Blume, I’ll ask him if he’ll meet with you.”
“Molly.” I smiled. “That would be great. Why the special connection to Rachel’s Tent?”
“You haven’t read Mr. Horton’s autobiography?” The look he gave me was a mix of surprise and disapproval. “It’s a remarkable story, truly inspirational. Mr. Horton never knew his father. His mother was unwed. She had no education, no skills, no job. She put him in foster care and disappeared. Years later he found out that she had died, hungry and homeless.”
Bramer paused—I think to give me an opportunity to acknowledge the tragedy of the woman’s life, which I did. There’s a Yiddish proverb that says the ugliest life is better than the nicest death, but this woman’s life and death had been ugly. I wonder sometimes what it would be like to be born without the advantages I take for granted. A secure home, parents who provided material needs and education, comfort and advice, unconditional love.
“As you can imagine, Mr. Horton had a difficult childhood and adolescence,” the director continued. “Eventually he ended up in prison. But in prison he read books he’d never appreciated in high school, and when he was released he was determined never to go back. He found a job and turned a small business into an empire. And he never forgot his beginnings. He founded Rachel’s Tent because he wanted to help women like his mother who had nowhere to turn.”
Bramer had spoken as though he was delivering a testimonial, but I had to admit it was quite a story. I couldn’t help thinking about Randy Creeley, who had also been abandoned by a parent and had allowed that event to shape his destiny in a strikingly different way.
“Mr. Horton sounds like a remarkable man,” I said.
“He is. Every month he invites one of our clients to his home for dinner with his family. He wants to get to know the women, to encourage them, to show them that their lives have promise. And he’s setting a fine example for Jason and Kristen. His children.”
A modern-day Daddy Warbucks. I didn’t think Bramer would appreciate the comparison. And I wasn’t sure whether being shown a grand home, which I assumed Horton lived in, was encouraging or daunting.
“What angle were you planning to focus on, Molly?”
Drugs, I thought. “I’d like to share success stories with my readers, stories about women whose lives have been changed by Rachel’s Tent.”
“Without names, of course.” Bramer sounded wary.
“Of course.”
He nodded. “We get letters all the time from women who entered Rachel’s Tent at a low point in their lives. Women with no skills, with nowhere to turn. Now they’re happy, functioning, contributing to society, leading worthwhile lives.”
“You mentioned that you treat women with addictions,” I said, angling for my opening. “I read that someone who worked here died of an overdose last week.” I glanced at my notebook as if I had to refresh my memory. “Randy Creeley.”
Bramer frowned. “I didn’t see anything in the Times.”
“I don’t think it was the Times. I saw the link on the Web when I looked up Rachel’s Tent,” I lied.
“Randy was a handyman and drove clients to activities and app
ointments,” the director said with reluctance. “But he hadn’t worked here in almost a year. I attended his funeral yesterday. Very sad. Of course, we didn’t know he had a continuing drug problem when we hired him.”
“Of course.” I didn’t blame Bramer for distancing himself from Randy and his drug problem. “It’s wonderful that you hired him, considering that he was an ex-convict.”
“So was Mr. Horton,” Bramer reminded me, his tone a light slap on the wrist.
I managed to look contrite. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“Mr. Horton tries to help ex-convicts find employment so that they won’t return to a life of crime. It’s his way of showing gratitude to the person who gave him his first job when he finished serving his sentence.”
“So Randy was referred by Mr. Horton?”
“Or one of his assistants. The point is, Rachel’s Tent is about giving people second chances, about compassion. It would have been hypocritical for us not to give Randy one.”
“In spite of his drug problem?”
Annoyance tightened Bramer’s face. “His parole officer said he was clean. Randy attended Narcotics Anonymous meetings several times a week. That was a condition of his employment. He worked here for over six years, and I never knew.”
I nodded and threw in a tsk to show sympathy. “Do you think he was selling drugs here at Rachel’s Tent?”
“Absolutely not.” Bramer leaned against the back of his chair. “We’re getting off topic, aren’t we, Molly? Unless you’re doing an investigative piece on Rachel’s Tent? Am I going to see myself on Dateline?” Underneath the humor was an edge of irritation.
“Sorry.” I smiled. “No Dateline, I promise. I was just so taken with Creeley’s story. And I have to say I’m impressed that you attended the funeral.”
“The father asked me to tell people who were close to Randy. He sounded devastated, poor man.” Bramer checked his watch. “We all talk about compassion. Most of the time we give it lip service. I felt I should set an example.”
“Did Mr. Horton attend?”
“He was out of town. Jason represented him, and Mr. Horton sent flowers from all of us at Rachel’s Tent.”
I almost said “I know.” The son was probably the twentysomething man Bramer had introduced to Creeley and Trina. No wonder Roland senior had looked so grateful. “Was Randy close to a lot of the people who worked here?”
“Some more than others. I’m afraid I have to cut our visit short. I know you want to hear our success stories. Let me see if anyone is free to talk to you now. If not, you’ll have to come back.”
“Thanks. I appreciate your help.”
Bramer picked up his receiver. I walked over to the wall with the photo of the Horton family standing in front of the entrance to Rachel’s Tent. Even nine years ago Horton had had significant gray in his thick hair and looked several years older than his petite, dark-haired wife. The son and daughter were in their late teens and wore tailored suits and dutiful expressions, much like the one I’d seen on the son’s face yesterday at Randy’s funeral.
Next to the photo was an impressive grouping of Bramer’s diplomas, including a doctorate from USC School of Social Work. On the adjacent wall was a bookcase crammed with large tomes. There were more books on the credenza, next to a stack of blue packets, the size seeds come in.
I picked one up. On the front was printed RACHEL’S TENT, above a color image of Rachel’s Tomb that matched the mural in the lobby.
“You’re in luck.” Bramer put down the receiver. “Barbara Anik, one of our therapists, had a cancellation. Barbara’s been here since Rachel’s Tent opened, so she can give you a great deal of material for your story.”
“Thank you.”
The name sounded familiar, and a second later I remembered why. Dr. Anik had been Aggie’s supervisor. But I hadn’t met her the one time I’d been here, and I hadn’t seen an Anik in the funeral guest book. So I was safe.
“This looks interesting.” I held up the packet. “Okay if I look inside?”
Before Bramer could answer, I turned over the packet, opened the unsealed flap, and pulled out a length of red thread attached to a teeny gold-tone medallion imprinted with the agency’s name.
“We give one of those to each of our clients when she leaves us,” the director said. “We sell them in our gift shop, too. The proceeds help fund our programs. You’ve heard of the Kabbalah? The study of Jewish mysticism?”
I nodded.
“According to the Kabbalah, a red thread wound around Rachel’s Tomb has protective powers. We thought it would be fitting, because of our connection with Rachel.”
“It’s a great idea,” I said. “Who came up with it?”
Bramer hesitated. “Randy. He took care of ordering the threads from Israel and filling the envelopes, which we had printed. We handled the rest. Since he quit we’ve been making our own arrangements. He was a bright young man, enterprising. His death was such a waste.”
The director checked his watch again and stood. “You can take that packet if you like. If you have any more questions, give me a call. Oh, and I’ll ask Mr. Horton if he’s willing to meet with you. Do you have a card?”
I handed him one.
“Excellent.” Bramer peered at me. “You’re sure we haven’t met? Because I rarely forget a face, and you look so familiar.”
twenty
THE FIRST THING I NOTICED ABOUT BARBARA ANIK WAS her eyes. They were kind eyes, perceptive eyes, almost the same shade of slate gray as the short hair that framed her full, relatively unlined face and set off the soft pink of her sweater.
“I’m definitely the senior staff person here,” she said with amusement when I told her Bramer had told me she’d been with Rachel’s Tent from its start. “I turned seventy-one last month. They had a cake for me—only one candle, thank goodness, or there would have been a conflagration.”
I had put her in her mid-sixties and I told her so.
“I love what I do. Perhaps that keeps me young. And worrying about others doesn’t allow me to spend time on my own concerns.” She smiled. “The truth is, I dread the day they tell me I have to retire. So does my family. I’ll probably drive my poor husband and children crazy.”
Her voice was rich and mellow, with a hint of an accent I couldn’t place.
“I’m a mutt as far as my speech goes,” she said when I asked about the accent. “I was born in Vienna and I lived there until I was five years old, when my parents sent me to England on the Kindertransport. That was just days before the Germans invaded Poland and began the war. You know what that was? The Children’s Transport?” When I nodded, she said, “I met my husband Paul—he’s American—when he was at Oxford. He’s a professor of economics. We lived in Atlanta and Chicago before settling here.”
“My maternal grandparents were survivors,” I told her, not with the intention of ingratiating myself. At least, I don’t think so.
“Ah.” She looked at me with interest. “Where are they from?”
“Poland. They were in various forced-labor camps. They met in Germany after the war and married, then came here a few years later.”
The words were shorthand for the harrowing period Zeidie Irving talked about frequently, though I’m certain he spared us many details. Bubbie G has talked about it less easily and less often, so I hesitated before I asked the therapist whether she had seen her parents again.
“No.” Barbara sighed the word. “It took me a long time to forgive them for sending me away, to understand their sacrifice.” She straightened a stack of papers on her tidy cherrywood desk. “But you didn’t come to write about me. Dr. Bramer said you wanted success stories. Let’s start with Cindy—that’s not her real name, of course.”
She talked with affection and pride about her clients— a prostitute who had transformed her own life, a homeless woman who was now supporting herself and providing for her two young children, an attorney who had left an abusive boyfriend, a woman whose undia
gnosed attention deficit disorder had prevented her from holding down a job. The stories were heartwarming, but my mind kept drifting to the packets in Bramer’s office. Randy’s idea.
“Thank you for sharing those wonderful stories,” I said when the therapist had finished. “Dr. Bramer showed me one of the red-thread packets Rachel’s Tent gives to clients when they leave. It’s a lovely gesture.”
Barbara smiled. “I have to admit I’m not a believer in red threads. I don’t think it’s healthy for our clients to rely on miracles. It gives them a false sense of security. But it’s a popular item, and the proceeds from those we sell help Rachel’s Tent, so I suppose everyone benefits.”
“Dr. Bramer told me about the man who came up with the idea. Randy Creeley? He said Randy died of a drug overdose. It’s so ironic and sad. He worked here in Rachel’s Tent and didn’t get the help you provide for so many others.”
“Very sad.” She nodded. “His death was a shock. But of course we didn’t know he needed help.”
“Of course not. He was a handyman, not a client. Was he close to any of the staff?”
The therapist fixed those gray eyes on me. I had the squirmy feeling that I’d tipped my hand. “I’d love to hear more of your successes,” I said to fill the silence.
She linked her fingers and tapped them against her lips. “You’re Aggie’s friend,” she said, without a trace of accusation or anger. “I thought I recognized your name. She had your picture on her desk, you know. She talked about you all the time. Did we ever meet?”
“No.” I slid my hands along the leather arms of the chair and felt as though I were in my high school principal’s office, where I’d been a frequent visitor.
“I didn’t think so. Aggie was lovely, truly special. When she was killed we all felt the loss—the staff, her clients. I still think about her.” Barbara rested her folded hands on her desk. “Why are you here, Molly? What can I do for you?” Her voice was gentle, soothing.
Grave Endings Page 13
