A Pain in the Tuchis: A Mrs. Kaplan Mystery (5 page)

After we left Fannie and Dr. Menschyk, Mrs. K told me she had promised to help Mrs. Bissela with a sewing problem she was having, so I headed back to my room by myself. On the way, I came upon an unexpected distraction.

I met in the hallway Moses Klein, whom everybody calls “Motorcycle Moishe.” (“Moishe” is just Moses in Yiddish.) This is because he used to be one of those
nogoodniks
who wear the black leather jackets and ride around on noisy machines like a pack of hyenas, just making trouble. A
vilder mensch,
he would have been called, a wild person. Now, this is, of course, many years ago I am speaking of, and Moishe eventually quieted down and became a successful businessman—selling motorcycles, of course, what else? And he did it very well, they say.

Moishe still has this very large motorcycle that he parks in the Home’s garage, although he stopped riding it alone some years ago. Now he only gets on it when his son, Moishe, Jr., whom they call “Little Moishe,” comes to visit and takes him for a ride. (I should point out that his son’s given name actually is Michael: it is customary not to name Jewish children after a living relative, because the Angel of Death coming to take the older relative might take the younger by mistake. Personally I doubt the Angel of Death is that careless, but why take chances?) Little Moishe is not so little, weighing maybe 250 pounds, while his father is weighing maybe half of that and really looking somewhat frail these days. It is something to see, I can tell you, the two of them on that big black machine: Motorcycle Moishe and Little Moishe, both in black leather jackets and black leather pants and with shiny black helmets on their heads—
nu,
at least they should be safe—roaring away, the father holding on for dear life to the son’s waist, or as much of Little Moishe’s substantial waist as his arms will fit around. And
oy,
with a noise that could wake the dead.

To tell the truth, every time I see and hear them ride off, I wonder whether they will return in one piece, because riding on one of those big machines looks to me about as safe as jumping off a cliff onto a pile of sharp rocks, shiny black helmet or no shiny black helmet.

Moishe is really a most pleasant man, always polite and with a smile for everyone. He lost his wife, Eva, to whom he was very devoted, about two years ago, and it took him a long time to get over her passing. But lately he has become again what you might call more social and has been trying hard to make new friends.

As I said, Moishe is a nice person, a
mensch.
He has just one little quirk. Well, maybe it is not so little. He still likes to dress like he is an “Angel from Hell,” or whatever silly name they call themselves, even when he is not riding on his motorcycle. Is it not a bit silly for a man of maybe eighty years to walk around in a black leather jacket with knobbly silver things all over it and boots on his feet like he is in the army?
Es past vi a khazer oyringlekh,
as my mother would have said: it is like earrings on a pig.
Nu,
to each his own. At least he does not wear the helmet to dinner.

So here comes Moishe clomping along in his jacket and boots. When he sees me, he smiles like a man who has just been served a nice bowl of chicken soup. He stops and says to me, “Ida, just the person I wanted to see.” I could not imagine why he wanted to see me, but soon I found out.

“Ida,” says Moishe, “I want that you should come with me for a ride sometime on my motorcycle. You would have a good time, and we could get to know each other a little better.”

Oy gevalt!
Moishe did not speak many words in those two sentences, but what he did say, it set off several loud alarm bells in my head. First, I am being asked to go for a ride on that terrible machine of his, which I do not even like to be near when it is moving away from me. Second, I am suddenly having a picture in my mind of sitting on that machine wearing one of those black leather jackets and shiny helmets. Can you imagine me, a proper lady of over seventy, in such a costume? Third, since there appear to be only two seats on the machine, he must be suggesting that it is he, and not Little Moishe, his son, who would be sitting on the front seat and driving. And this I am sure he has not done in many years. Fourth, I would have to be wrapping my arms around Moishe’s waist, like he has around his son’s when he rides behind, which would be a most undignified thing for a lady of my age to be doing in public. And of course this leads to the last and most troubling thing about what Moishe is suggesting: that we should by doing this “get to know each other better.”
Oy Gotenu!

Do not get me wrong. Even at my age, I am not against having what people now refer to as a “relationship” with a man. I have been a widow for many years now, and I am sure my dear husband, David, may he rest in peace, would not mind. In fact, such a thing is not uncommon here at the Home, at least among those of us who are still functioning properly in all the necessary ways, if you know what I mean.

No, the problem was not having a relationship, but only having one with Moishe Klein. He may be a very nice man and pleasant enough to talk to. In fact, I am sure many of the widows at the Home would be most pleased to have such a relationship with him. But between Moishe and myself we have in common about as much as did Golda Meir and the pope. Well, perhaps a little more than that, but you understand. He is, to put it plainly, “not my type.”

So when you put together that a man whom I have no interest in getting to know better is asking me to come and ride with him, on a machine of which I am terrified, while wearing a silly outfit I would not want to be seen in and holding on to him like we are close friends, in order that we might become even closer friends, you can understand why those two short sentences of his sent a shiver right from my
kop
down my spine to my toes and back again.
Oy vey!

As I was at a loss to know how to respond to Moishe’s suggestion—I just stood there like a
shlemiel
—he spoke up again. “So how about it, Ida? What do you say?”

Now, what I should have said was, “Thank you for the invitation, Moishe, but I would rather not. It is nothing personal, but this is not something I would enjoy doing.” That is what I should have said. I am certain that is what Mrs. K would have said. But Mrs. K thinks much more quickly on her feet than I do. The best I could come up with was, “Thank you, Moishe, I will have to think about it.” And far from discouraging Moishe, this answer only gave him the idea I might actually be willing to ride on his motorcycle. He took my hand and squeezed it, said “Excellent,” bowed slightly in the European manner, and then continued down the hall, leaving me to wonder into what kind of pickle I had just gotten myself.

Whatever kind of pickle it was, I was afraid it wouldn’t be a good one.

Back in my room, I went over what had just happened and wondered how Mrs. K would have handled the situation with Moishe. Just before dinner, I stopped by her room to ask her.

“I wouldn’t feel too bad about it, Ida,” she said after I had told her about my strange encounter. “While Moishe might be a bit
meshugge,
he has always seemed like a
mensch,
really a good person who is maybe a
bissel
obsessed with his big toy.”

“I agree, but that is not the point, Rose,” I said, “although of course I would be more worried if he were a
momzer
instead of a
mensch.
No, it is that he seems to have some kind of ‘relationship’ in mind, and I have no desire at all to relate with him, whatever that might mean. Not to mention the part about riding with him on his machine.”

Mrs. K just laughed. “You are taking this too seriously,” she said. “My guess is that by tomorrow, if not already, Moishe will have forgotten all about his invitation. You’ll see.”

I didn’t see, at least then. But a few days later, when I again passed Moishe in the hallway, he simply smiled and nodded politely and passed by without a word. It seemed Mrs. K was right, as usual, and I had been taking Moishe—and perhaps myself—a little too seriously. I breathed a sigh of relief and went on my way.

The day after Fannie, Mrs. K, and I met with Dr. Menschyk (and I had my encounter with Motorcycle Moishe), Mrs. K received a telephone call from Fannie. She said she had spoken with Daniel and asked him if he would consent to an autopsy of his mother. Apparently he flatly refused, saying it was against
halacha,
or Jewish law. So Mrs. K and Dr. Menschyk had been right in assuming Daniel would not give his consent so easily. Fannie said she did not try to argue with him, probably because she lacked the necessary information, and besides, since Mrs. K had offered to do the arguing for her, why should she bother?

Having made the offer, Mrs. K then had to make good on it and try to convince Daniel to give his consent. So she and I went to see Daniel. We had to visit him at his place of work, since of course he no longer would be coming to the Home to visit his mother, may she rest in peace.

Daniel was one of the senior pharmacists at a local Superior Drug Mart, part of a big chain in the state, only a few miles from the Home. We had telephoned ahead and he said he could see us anytime, as long as he was not in the middle of helping a customer.

“Before we visit Daniel,” Mrs. K said as we waited for a taxi to arrive, “I think we should make a stop at Congregation Beth Shalom, which is the
shul
where Daniel worships.” Beth Shalom means “house of peace.”
Shul
is just Yiddish for “school,” and for Orthodox Jews calling it a school emphasizes that the synagogue is primarily a place to learn. So I was wondering what it was Mrs. K was wanting to learn at Daniel’s
shul.

“I am thinking,” she said when I asked, “that perhaps if we talk with his rabbi and can get the rabbi’s approval, it will help to convince Daniel.”

“And who is the rabbi at Beth Shalom? I know that Rabbi Goldstein, who was there for many years, retired recently, but I do not know who replaced him.”

“I’m pretty sure he was replaced by a rabbi named Brown, or Brownstein, something like that. Unfortunately, I’ve never met him and have no idea how flexible he is on matters like this. As you know, there is a lot of—what would you call it?—a lot of wiggle room with regard to interpretations of the Torah. So we shall see.”

The taxi dropped us off in front of a plain white building with “Congregation Beth Shalom” written across the entrance in big gold letters. We were fortunate that Rabbi Braunstein (Mrs. K had been close) was available to consult with us. We were ushered into his office by the receptionist. Rabbi Braunstein turned out to be a tall, slender man of maybe thirty-five or forty years, quite young compared to their former rabbi. We introduced ourselves, and when the rabbi asked what he could do for us, Mrs. K got right to the point.

“A good friend of ours, Daniel Gold, is one of your congregants.” The rabbi nodded. “As you may know, his mother passed away recently. Her sister, Daniel’s aunt, suspects there may have been…uh…what you might call foul play involved.”

“You mean someone might have deliberately killed her?” the rabbi asked. He seemed somewhat surprised, as one would expect.

“Well, that is what his aunt suspects, yes.” Mrs. K recounted briefly what Fannie had told us. The rabbi’s jaw dropped a considerable distance as she was recounting.

“This sounds like it could be a serious matter,” the rabbi said. “Has anyone gone to the police about it?”

“No, not yet,” Mrs. K said. “It seemed best to first find out whether there was anything to go to them about. And to be honest, I doubt what we have told you would be enough for the police to start an investigation. So we thought first we should learn precisely what Daniel’s mother died of, and for that there must be an autopsy.”

Rabbi Braunstein rubbed his chin and looked thoughtful.

“Yes, I see,” he said. “And I take it you’re aware of the prohibition against autopsies and have come to me to get my opinion, or maybe to get my blessing, so to speak. Is that right?”

This Rabbi Braunstein is pretty quick on the take-up, I thought. And he comes right to the point.

“Well, yes, that’s right,” Mrs. K said. “Do you think the circumstances warrant an exception from the usual prohibition?”

The rabbi did not answer right away, but he seemed to be turning this over in his mind. After a minute or two he shook his head a little and said, “This seems like something of a borderline case to me. That is, on the one hand, a murder investigation by the police is definitely a reason to relax the prohibition against autopsies, and in fact I doubt an objection on religious grounds would get very far if taken to court under such circumstances. But a murder investigation, so to speak, by a private person, even a close relative of the deceased, that’s another thing entirely. I hate to say this, ladies, but it seems to me that it is one of those situations in which a person—Daniel in this case—would be justified in withholding his consent.”

This, of course, was not what we wanted to hear. But Mrs. K is not one to take “no” for an answer when it is “yes” she wants to hear.

“I understand,” she said. “But suppose we ask the question from the other side. Is this maybe an in-between situation in which Daniel would also be justified in giving his consent? Is it maybe so in-between that either way would not be violating
halacha
?”

Again, the rabbi took his time thinking. When he answered he clearly was choosing his words carefully.

“Hmm, I suppose you have a point there, Mrs. Kaplan. I did say it was a borderline case, and as such I do think Daniel could be…could be justified in deciding either way, although on balance I still have to come down more on the side of no autopsy.” He paused before continuing, “Now, if you’d like me to do some research and see if this question has been decided before…”

Mrs. K rose and said quickly, “No, I do not think that will be necessary, but I thank you very much for offering….”

“Or,” he interrupted, “we could gather some members of the community and convene a
beit din,
and it could decide the matter….”

“No, no, I would not think of making such a big deal of this. And there really is not time to go through such a process.” A
beit din
(which means “house of judgment”) is a Jewish court. It goes back to Biblical times, and today in America it usually is used only to settle a dispute within the Jewish community. Three members of the community are selected to sit in judgment. Clearly Mrs. K felt she had gotten as good an answer already as she was liable to get and did not want to take a chance on what some strangers might decide.

We both thanked Rabbi Braunstein for his time and his advice. He seemed a
bissel
amused by our hasty exit, and I am sure he understood exactly why Mrs. K was content to take what she had and run. Like I said, he is a sharp one, that Braunstein, and he does not miss much.

The receptionist called for us another taxi, and while we waited for it outside, Mrs. K said, “So, Ida. What did you think of Rabbi Braunstein?”

“That man has
saichel,
” I said. “Common sense. He knew what you needed to hear, but he also knew what he had to say. He walked this tightrope very well, I thought.”

“So did I,” replied Mrs. K. “It is a wise man who knows when to speak, when not to speak, and also when to do both at the same time.”

We continued by taxi to Daniel’s place of work, the Superior Drug Mart on Twelfth Street. It is a big place, with a parking lot for maybe a hundred cars all around it, like a black moat with white stripes and a few colored boats floating here and there. As soon as we got near the glass doors that said “Entrance,” they swooshed open, with a sound like a large person taking a deep breath, and we walked in. They call it a “drugstore,” but in most of it they sell no drugs, but everything else from toys to televisions. Only a small part in the back is for buying drugs. When I was younger, the only drugstore we went to had an orange and blue sign on the outside that said “Rexall,” and inside the only things they sold other than actual drugs were maybe corn plasters and Epsom salts. Maybe also some Juicy Fruit gum and Life Savers.

The pharmacy part of the store was against the back wall, and we made our way there, passing by many things—like bags of salted snacks and sweet drinks, even liquor—that, if a person ate or used a lot of them, would make it much more likely they would need to buy medicines at the pharmacy. Maybe that is why these “drugstores” sell them!

Daniel was busy with preparing some potion or other for a customer, so we sat down on the chairs set aside for people waiting for their prescriptions. The one I was sitting on had a little plastic switch on it. It was turned off, but I wondered what it was for, so I pushed it to “on.” Immediately my seat—and I do mean both the chair and my
tuchis
—began to vibrate. It was most embarrassing, especially because I gave a little shriek—only a little one, but enough for Mrs. K to look over and see me squirming and shaking like I had
shpilkes,
pins and needles—you know, ants in the pants. She looked alarmed.

“Ida, is something the matter? What is wrong?”

“No, nothing is wrong, it is just…,” I managed to say, although my voice went up and down every time I did. I was fumbling for the switch to turn the vibrations off, but I could not find it.

Fortunately, Mrs. K figured out what was happening and she reached over and turned off the machine. What a relief! I am surprised they are allowed to sell these machines, much less inflict them on unsuspecting customers. I quickly moved to the next chair.

After a few more minutes—during which I recovered my dignity and we had a chance to examine closely several magazines and a special on toilet paper—Daniel came out from behind the counter and greeted us.

“Hello, Rose, Ida.” He gave us each a little hug. “It’s nice to see you again. I’ve missed our little chats when I was at the Home. So what can I do for you? Fill a prescription?” He sat down next to us, in the chair with the tricky switch. I’m sure he knew enough not to press it, though.

Mrs. K first said how sorry we were about his mother’s passing, although of course we had said this already at the funeral. He thanked us and asked after our health, which for a pharmacist might be a business as well as a personal question. We assured him we were in good health, except for my bursitis and a few minor aches and pains. I’m not sure he really wanted to know.

“So, Daniel, how is it to work in this big, fancy store?”

Daniel rolled his eyes and said, his voice lowered a bit, “To be honest, Rose, it’s not like when I was working at Midtown Pharmacy.” This was a small, family-owned drugstore where Daniel worked before they closed—they could not compete with the big chain—and he moved to Superior Drug Mart.

“No? Is that because it is such a large place?”

“Well, it’s that, but also it’s the whole experience. When I was at Midtown, I knew everyone and everyone knew me. I mean, the people I worked with had been there for many years, like I had, and most of the customers were from that neighborhood and I knew them by name. It was like we were all family, and I was in the position of helping them to get well.”

“And it is not like that here?”

Glancing around first, Daniel said, “I’m afraid not. First of all, we serve a much bigger area, not just a neighborhood, so a lot of the people we see have never been in before, or they go to whatever branch is handy when they need a prescription filled. They might come in here once or twice a year. And even with people who come in regularly, we’re under pressure to get prescriptions out as fast as possible, so for the most part they hire clerks to deal with the public—to take in the prescriptions and deliver them when they’re filled—and about the only time we pharmacists talk with customers is when we’re called out to make sure that someone taking a medicine for the first time knows what it is and how to take it. There’s not much time or opportunity to really become acquainted, or talk with them if we already know them.”

“But here you are talking nicely with us, are you not?”

“Of course, but I’ve had to make this my coffee break; otherwise I couldn’t take so much time with one customer.”

“I see,” Mrs. K said. She sounded a little concerned, as a mother might be if her son was having difficulty at work. “So if you are not happy, are you planning to continue working here?”

Daniel lowered his voice further and said to us, “As a matter of fact, I’m not. Can I tell you something in confidence?”

“Certainly,” Mrs. K said.

“Well, I guess it’s sort of an ‘every cloud has a silver lining’ thing. While my mother’s passing was a very sad thing, it was not really unexpected given her age and her illness. She died peacefully, and what more can you ask? When it’s a person’s time, it’s their time; it is all in the hands of
Hashem.
” (
Hashem
just means “the name,” and it is how many religious Jews refer to God.) “And as a result, I’m expecting to receive an inheritance that should allow me to quit this job and do whatever I want. It’s not the way you want to become wealthy, of course, but it will be a great help to me. And that’s what my mother wanted.”

“And how do you know this inheritance is coming to you?”

“Well, it’s not official yet, but to be honest, I did help my mother to draw up her will. She didn’t trust anyone else, even her lawyer. So I know there was a large gift to me. She wanted her estate divided half to me and the other half split between Fred Herrington and the Home. But I probably shouldn’t be telling you this until the will is official. And to be honest, I haven’t yet seen the will—I never had a copy. I think the police have it, but if so, it should be in her lawyer’s hands anytime now.”

“And who is this Fred Herrington, that he should be getting a quarter of the estate?” I asked.

Daniel looked surprised. “I’m sorry, I assumed you knew. After my dad died, maybe a year later my mother met this fellow Fred Herrington. He was somewhat younger than her, but they seemed to hit it off. They ended up living together for about four years, including the time when my mother made the will I’m telling you about. I don’t think they ever actually married.”