by Andrew Kane
Rachel was stunned. “How could this be happening?” she heard herself ask.
Tears began falling from Hannah’s eyes.
Schiffman stayed silent, thinking about what she had just said. Delivering bad news was an inevitable part of her job, yet she had never been so affected by it before. Perhaps because she had remembered Rachel as a young girl filled with passion and spirit, and had stood witness over the years as Rachel’s hopes receded, one after another. The erosion of a life once so fraught with promise, and now this, the greatest blow of all—it was too much for anyone to bear.
Schiffman thought about her own life, the things she’d neglected while relentlessly pursuing her professional career. She had been divorced for years, and was certain that Rachel had noticed the missing ring, though they hadn’t discussed it. She had no children, few friends, and hadn’t gone out on a date for over five months. All the prestige and success in the world, yet no one with whom to share it. It was during moments such as this when she wondered if it had all been worth the price.
“Do you know what the prognosis is?” Rachel asked, using a clinical term she remembered from her days working in the hospital.
Schiffman was surprised by the question that most patients would have been afraid to ask. “It’s hard to tell at this point. During the surgery, the surgeon will examine the lymph nodes and have a better idea as to what extent, if any, the cancer has metastasized. We’re hoping that it hasn’t, that it’s self contained.”
“And what are the chances of that?”
Hannah was growing uneasy with Rachel’s questions, but tried not to show it. To her mind, some things were better off not known.
“It’s possible,” Schiffman answered. “More than that, I can’t say.”
Rachel lowered her head.
“I’m sorry,” Schiffman offered, visibly fighting off tears.
Rachel raised her head, looked at Schiffman, and said, “Don’t worry, I’ll be all right.” It was as if she were talking to herself and allowing the others to listen in. She took Hannah’s hand. “Don’t worry, Mama, everything’s going to be okay.”
CHAPTER 56
Joshua was packing his briefcase, preparing to leave the office for the day, when the front door buzzer rang. Mrs. Sawyer had left and locked up hours ago, and Connie was out to dinner with Marcus. He went to see who it was, and found Rachel waiting in the cold. Behind her, in the street, sat a taxi, its engine still running, the driver waiting, apparently unperturbed. Joshua admired the subtle ways in which men reacted to Rachel. Cab drivers were never so obliging with him.
Joshua opened the latch, ushered her in, and she signaled to the driver, who then departed. Her face was blanched, which Joshua attributed to the cold, but as he removed her coat, it became clear that her shivering was from more than just the weather.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“No, not really,” she answered, a tremor in her voice.
“What, what is it?”
“I’m sorry to bother you, were you on your way somewhere?”
“No, just home. Tell me, what’s the matter?”
“Can we sit?”
He brought her into his private office, and they sat next to one another on the burgundy leather couch she had helped him pick out just a month earlier. “Still feels good,” she said, as she planted herself.
“I hope so,” he responded, recalling the eleven hundred dollar price tag.
He peered at her, waiting. She took his hand, stared into his eyes, and said, “I have some pretty bad news.” She was fighting tears.
He squeezed her hand. “What is it?”
She waited a beat, then came the words: “I have cancer.”
“Cancer!”
She nodded.
“How do you know?”
“I had a biopsy two weeks ago, and saw Dr. Schiffman this afternoon for the results.” Her eyes began to water.
“Biopsy? Of what?”
Again, she faltered. “Breast.”
He looked at her, dumbfounded. She began to cry. He reached out and took her in his arms. She laid her head on his shoulder.
“How bad is it?” he asked.
“They’re not sure.”
“Not sure?”
She picked up her head, took a deep breath, and said, “Not until they perform the mastectomy.”
He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. It had to be a dream, a nightmare. “Mastectomy?”
She nodded, as if she couldn’t bear to verbalize the word again.
“There aren’t any other options?”
“Schiffman’s at Mount Sinai now. She’s consulted with the best.”
She started to weep again. He wanted to break down and cry with her, but he had to keep it together; he had to stay positive. He put his hands on her shoulders, and said, “Rachel, listen to me! We’re going to get through this. I will be at your side. You have the best doctors. We’re going to fight this and win.”
Through her tears, she said, “Win? Oh, Joshua, when have we ever won?”
“We will win, we will,” he responded, trying to reassure her as much as himself.
She melted in his arms, crying uncontrollably as he held her with desperation.
CHAPTER 57
Rachel Weissman arrived home shortly after three a.m., finding her mother awake and sitting anxiously in the living room. “Where in God’s name have you been?” Hannah asked angrily. “I’ve been up all night worrying. I called the police and the Shomrim.” Shomrim was Hebrew for “guardians,” the name the Hasidim had adopted for their citizens’ patrol.
“Why did you call the Shomrim?” Rachel asked, displaying some anger of her own.
“Because the police can’t do anything unless a person’s missing for twenty-four hours. By then, you could have been…” Hannah stopped herself, and added, “God forbid.”
“I’m fine Mama.”
“Yes, I can see that, but where were you?”
Rachel looked at her mother wordlessly.
“You were with him,” Hannah stated.
“Yes, Mama.”
Hannah didn’t know how to react. Fourteen hours ago she had sat with Rachel, listening to Doctor Schiffman deliver the worst news possible, and now this. She should have known that Rachel would go to Joshua, and probably did know, though she hadn’t wanted to believe it. There were so many things she didn’t want to believe.
Whatever her feelings, she couldn’t find it within herself to chastise her daughter. God had abandoned Rachel long ago, and maybe it was time for Rachel to grasp what happiness she could. “Come, let’s get some sleep,” she said, as she turned away and walked toward her bedroom.
“Mama,” Rachel said.
Hannah turned around.
“I’m sorry.”
Hannah stepped forward and took her daughter in her arms. “You have nothing to be sorry about,” she said, her voice trembling from the words she dared to speak. “I’m just glad you’re safe.”
Just then, a knock at the door.
Hannah walked over to the door. “Who’s there?”
A voice on the other side answered, “Yossie Bloom, from the Shomrim.”
Hannah looked at Rachel and unlatched the door.
“Good evening, rather good morning Rebbetzin Weissman,” Yossie said. “I’m here about your daughter…”
Hannah opened the door further and Yossie saw Rachel standing behind her mother. “Oh,” Yossie said, “I was going to tell you that we were still looking for her, but I see everything is okay. Good, I’ll inform the others.”
“Thank you,” Hannah said.
“It’s nothing,” Yossie responded. “That’s what we’re here for. It’s a good thing when there’s a false alarm. Good night.” He smiled at Rachel.
“Good night, and thank you again,” Hannah said as she closed the door. Then, to Rachel: “There, see, that wasn’t so bad.”
Rachel pretended to agree with her mother, but knew otherwise
, for it wouldn’t be long before the news disseminated throughout the entire community that she had been out somewhere until three in the morning. Whatever. She had dealt with the gossip mongers before, and frankly, she didn’t care all that much anymore. She had bigger things to worry about.
Yossie came out of Rachel’s building and got into the car. “She’s home,” he said.
“She’s home?” Paul responded.
“Probably just got home, otherwise the mother would have called us.”
“Where was she?”
“How do I know?” Yossie snapped, completely unaware of his partner’s personal interest in the matter. “Probably on a date or something. Nice looking lady, I’ll say that.”
“Yeah, I know.”
Yossie looked puzzled.
“I’ve met her,” Paul explained.
“Oh,” Yossie remarked, wondering why Paul had sent him up to the apartment alone.
Paul started the engine and drove off, saying nothing else about the Weissmans, guessing, in his mind, exactly where Rachel had been.
Damn that Joshua!
CHAPTER 58
Rachel’s surgery was “successful,” though she still needed subsequent radiation treatments. The doctors had said that the radiation was pretty much routine in cases like hers, and that the prognosis remained “good.” Initially, her spirits were positive; she had summoned the best of her resources to meet the moment. But gradually, over the months that followed, she withdrew and retreated inward.
She stopped leaving home, and saw Joshua only when he visited, which was usually every day. He often felt that she would have preferred that he not be there, but she never actually came out and said it. She was too listless to do even that.
Hannah, however, didn’t seem to mind Joshua’s presence. She no longer cared what the neighbors thought. Still, he made a point of scheduling his visits for the late evenings, when it was unlikely for him to be seen.
The doctors wanted to place Rachel on medication, some kind of anti-depressant, but she refused. She believed she had earned her depression, that she deserved it. Wallowing was the least she could do. There was no talking to her, no pulling her out of it. Not until she was ready.
The months turned into a year. Her hair grew back to its full length, and she regained her weight. She began using make-up again, dressing up, and even taking walks during the day. She resumed her excursions to Joshua’s office, every day around noon, always packing sandwiches and whatnot, more than enough for Connie and Mrs. Sawyer as well.
Connie had become engaged to be married to Marcus Sterling. She and Rachel were becoming good friends. Joshua found it hard to believe that things were finally getting into a groove. Even Mrs. Sawyer was mellowing.
Loretta still did her thing, and still didn’t want to hear about it from Joshua. Between his practice and late night community board business, Joshua didn’t see much of her anyway. Once in a while he would awaken with a strange feeling that someone had been standing in his door during the night, watching him sleep. He could swear he wasn’t dreaming.
The afternoon lunches stopped when Rachel returned to work in the dress shop. It had been a year and a half since the surgery, and it felt—at last—that things were finally getting back to the way they had once been. She and Joshua resumed their dinner dates, even attending the theatre and a few movies from time to time. Sneaking around had somehow become far less important.
Joshua, of course, yearned for more. He would wait as long as it would take, and if that wasn’t enough he would live with it. For he realized, all things considered, that however much time he had with her was a gift.
Connie and Marcus were married on October 24, 1987, and Rachel was Joshua’s date for the reception. It was ironic, for he had often chided her for her feelings about being seen with him by members of her community, and now with the tables turned, he understood how she felt. He would never raise the issue again.
Having been the daughter of a rabbi, she had always been in the public eye. Now, he was too. He was surprised to find himself concerned about the perceptions of others, and realized how that concern was often legitimate. People were looking and talking.
They sat at a table with Mrs. Sawyer, her husband, Loretta, two other members of the community board and their wives. It was his fellow board members he was worried about. Tensions had been mounting, once again, between the blacks and Hasidim on the board, the blacks still arguing that the Hasidim were over—represented. It was an old story. At the last meeting, Joshua had argued for compromise, hoping to resolve the issue. After he had spoken, another board member called him a “Jew lover.” And now, here he was, proving the point.
Joshua tried to ignore his anxieties and have fun. A couple of drinks and the scent of Rachel’s perfume helped. There was also the pleasure of watching one of Connie’s uncles, a distinguished looking widower, put the moves on Loretta. Joshua had forgotten how beautiful his mother was, how human she was, until she smiled and accepted the man’s invitation to dance.
The music was stirring. Rachel and Joshua sat alone at the table. “Come,” she said, “let’s dance.”
“Dance?”
“Yeah, dance.”
He pointed to his leg. “Can’t.”
“Yes you can,” she said, pulling him from the chair.
“But I’ll fall.”
“Just hold onto me, you’ll be fine.”
“Rachel, I never…”
“Neither have I, at least not with a man. There’s a first time for everything.”
She dragged him to the dance floor, put his hand on her shoulder, and said, “There, use that as your cane.” She put one of her hands on his waist, and cupped his free hand with her other hand. They started to move.
He was flustered, and didn’t know what he was doing. Their pace was too slow for the music. “It seems we’re dancing to our own beat,” he said in her ear.
“Aren’t we always?”
The band slowed its beat, playing a tune more fitting to their step. Rachel moved closer to him. He felt the entire room watching, but held her tightly. He was dancing.
At the end of the evening, on the way home in the cab, she turned to him and said, “You’re going to catch a lot of flak for tonight.”
“Flak? Me? Hey, that’s my middle name.”
Her look told him that she wasn’t convinced.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I’ll handle it.”
She took his hand and kissed him on the cheek. “I know. It’s just that I wish the world were different.”
“We all wish many things.”
Joshua arrived at his office early the next morning, sleepless, in no mood for the day awaiting him. Connie would be honeymooning in Hawaii for two weeks, augmenting his already overloaded schedule, and Mrs. Sawyer wasn’t due for another hour, forcing him to make his own coffee. He added an extra spoonful; he needed it strong.
He emptied his briefcase, except for the newspaper, and started working on the mail he’d neglected yesterday. When the coffee was ready, he got up to pour a cup, returned to his desk, pushed the mail aside, and grabbed The New York Times from his briefcase.
He leaned back and began thumbing through the pages. There wasn’t anything out of the ordinary, so he skipped to the Matrimonials, and there, staring at him, was a photo of Connie and Marcus, a headline announcing their wedding, and a small write-up. Connie had known it would appear, and asked him to save a copy for her. He figured she had probably asked all her friends to do the same, just to make sure everyone saw it.
He took a scissors from his desk drawer, cut out the article, and returned to the news. A few minutes passed, he became antsy and realized there were a thousand other things he should be doing at that moment. He was about to put it aside, when something suddenly jumped up at him, a small, inconsequential paragraph, with the heading: Black Underworld Figure Slain In Bed-Stuy.
The paragraph read:
A fifty-two year old black man, Robe
rt Franklin, of 201 Van Buren Street, was found dead yesterday in the back alley of an abandoned building on the corner of Ralph Avenue and Madison Street. The coroner said the victim had sustained multiple stab wounds in the chest and abdomen, and that at least one of the wounds had pierced the victim’s heart. Police sources claim that Franklin was a local crime boss, dealing in drugs, numbers, and prostitution, and had been called “Big Bob” by the many neighborhood residents who knew him. It is speculated that Franklin’s killing was the result of a local turf war, or an insurgence within his own organization. The victim is survived by an estranged sister, who was contacted but refused comment.
He put the paper down and closed his eyes, trying to picture Big Bob’s body lying bloodied on the ground. All he felt was numbness. And an embarrassing but satisfying sense that at last there was some justice in his otherwise twisted universe.
CHAPTER 59
It was a blustering, dreary, February day with remnants of a recent snow on the streets and walkways. Chava Sims, in full winter ensemble, trudged to the local market just three blocks from her home, the wind assaulting her face. She berated herself for not having called for a delivery.
She had been home alone—the girls were in school and Pinchas was at work—and had needed to get out. The weather had kept her indoors for days, and though the house was large, richly decorated, and comfortable, to her it was confining.
It was a new home for them, purchased just the previous year, after Alfred had given Pinchas a sizable raise. It seemed Alfred was becoming more generous with age, or perhaps more penitent. Either way, it was a perfect dwelling for their needs, a one-family limestone row-house, primely located on the south side of Eastern Parkway, just two blocks east of the Lubavitcher main headquarters and synagogue. It was a dream-house, one any woman in the neighborhood would be happy to live in, yet Chava was miserable.
