The Blood Lie (15 page)

It didn't take long for the good news to spread. At the Sit Down, Tiny the cook had just snapped on the radio when Daisy's return was first announced. He shouted through the pass-through for everyone to hear, “The girl's been found!”

His announcement was met with a dumbstruck hush.

“Dead or alive?” Gus called back to him.

“Safe and sound,” he said, and then a sigh swept the diner.

Jed Pike, sitting with his wife at the far end of the counter, was the first to break the glad chatter that followed. “I'm not resting so easy,” he said, biting into an apricot Danish. “No way.”

The weight of his voice sucked the bliss right out of the room.

“Whaddya mean, Jed?” Gus pointed his cigar at him. “There still trouble?” He hardly cared about the answer, though. He'd gotten his liquor supply without a hitch, and that's all that really mattered. The liquor supply that was going to buy him a fishing boat or a Buick or maybe that trip to Lake Placid he'd always wanted to take.

“I still say those Jews had her,” Jed said. “I bet they just let her go 'cause they knew they were about to get pinched. That's what I think, and you'd all be fools to think otherwise.”

Before anyone could respond, the sleigh bells jangled, and Frenchie LaRoux walked in. “Morning, folks,” he said, “or I guess it's afternoon. You hear the news?”

“Just,” Gus said, pouring Buzzy Degon a refill on his coffee.

Frenchie took the last empty stool at the counter. “Didja hear the girl's panties were missing when they found her?”

Silence. Groans. More silence.

“Those pigs,” Eaton Lorado spat. “Those dirty pigs. You know, they're gonna be hiding in that church of theirs all night tonight, thinking it's gonna blow over. Well, it's not, and they'd better pray for forgiveness while they're in there.”

“Amen,” said Jed, and he took another bite of his Danish.

Jack's necktie was too tight, so he kept tugging at it as he walked between Harry and his father, with Martha and his mother a few steps ahead. They were on their way to
Kol Nidre
, the evening Yom Kippur prayers. They moved fast and kept glancing behind them, even though the dirt roads were empty.

This was the first time they'd been out on the street since
last night. They'd spent the whole day waiting—waiting for the trooper to call the rabbi or stop by their houses and say it was a terrible mistake, waiting for Fred Dimock, editor of the
Massena Observer
, to ask them for a statement. They waited the whole afternoon, during their pre-fast meals, and into the evening, but there was nothing, and it made them wonder whether things really were all over.

Mrs. Pool held Martha tightly with one hand and checked her jewelry with the other. She'd never worn both her diamond brooch and her pearl necklace at the same time before, but Mr. Pool said he was worried about leaving the jewelry in an empty house tonight—an empty house with a piece of cardboard where the living room window belonged. As for Jack, he'd tucked his cello under his bedcovers, and now he wondered if he'd picked too obvious a hiding spot.

“Don't pull away from me, Martha,” Mrs. Pool scolded.

“You're pinching my hand,” Martha complained.

“I wouldn't have to pinch if you didn't pull.”

Crossing Main Street, Jack looked over at the diner. Yellow light spilled out of the windows, and he could see the blue outlines of the customers inside. It was just another night to them, he supposed. They were eating their smoky meats and buttery potatoes and treating each other as if they were human beings. Maybe the trooper was in there too, yucking it up with the crowd. Maybe they were all having a good old time chatting about the look on Jack's face last night, about hurling eggs and rocks, about headless chickens. Or maybe they were having a serious talk in there, planning the next thing they would do to uncover the ‘truth.' Jack kept walking.

At the synagogue, Rabbi Abrams was standing on the front
steps, greeting each family as they arrived. “Jack,” he said, offering his hand. “I'm looking forward to hearing you blow the
shofar
tomorrow for us.”

Jack took the rabbi's hand and tried to plumb his thoughts.
Does he know I was here last night?
Jack couldn't tell. The rabbi was either totally poker-faced or genuinely clueless.

Everyone came—the entire congregation—except for Simon Slavin, who was still in Albany trying to get his store door repaired long-distance, and the Popkins, who were with family in Watertown, and Sarah Gelman's mother, who was too sick.

“You showed,” Jack's friend Abe Goldberg mouthed, taking a seat directly behind him. Jack nodded.

Old Max Clopman, holding his cane more tightly than usual, arrived with Benny Kaplan and took his regular place in the front row. Sarah Gelman entered soon after, wearing a beaded navy dress, her face half-hidden behind her dark curls. He nodded to her, but she didn't see.

The chanting began. Jack listened for a while to Rabbi Abram's rich voice intoning the ancient lyrics. Then he let his attention stray around the sanctuary. Everything was the same as ever: the women in grey or brown dresses, praying or quieting their daughters or whispering to each other. The men in their best suits doing the same alongside their sons. The same prayers in the same order with the same melodies.

He wanted it to be different.

How can anything stay the same when everything—the world, me, maybe even God – has changed?
Jack wanted to make the Hebrew words and the music echo his bitterness. He wanted everyone to wear angry red or grieving black. He wanted lightning to sizzle through the windows and thunder to rattle
the benches. He wanted some sign that the others felt the way he did, that they weren't just trying to forget what happened, that he wasn't alone.

He didn't get what he was looking for. When services ended, he walked home silently along the unlit streets and closed himself in his room. His cello was still there. He put it back on its stand and stretched out on the bottom bunk. A few threads hung from Harry's bunk above, and he swatted them absently.

“Why won't You do something?” he demanded out loud.

He listened for a long time for a reply. Then he fell asleep, still in his suit and tie, on top of the bedcovers.

MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 24, 1928

Jack was the first one up the next morning. In the bathroom, he splashed cool water on his face and combed his hair. Thirst had set in, and hunger would soon follow. He watched the water rush teasingly down the sink before turning off the faucet. Then he plodded down the stairs and lay on the living room sofa, where the brisk air seeped easily around the makeshift cardboard window. Even with his legs curled and his arms hugging his chest, he felt cold—not from the wind that grazed his face, but from somewhere deep inside.

With the sun still low in the east, everyone gathered again at temple. During the
Yizkor
memorial prayers, Jack stood on the outside steps and leaned against the wrought-iron railing. Martha skipped around the sidewalk with a pack of other kids, while Harry gathered with a few boys to talk. The handful of adults lucky enough to be outside kept track of the small ones, although they also seemed to be watching Jack.

Sarah Gelman sat on the small stoop and leaned against the building with her eyes closed. This would surely be the last
Yizkor
she'd spend outside; her mother, devastated by a stroke, hadn't been expected to last even this long. God was sealing the Book of Life today, and Mrs. Gelman was not going to be in it. This time next year, Sarah would be inside the synagogue, reciting the
Yizkor
prayer in memory of her mother.

Jack walked over to her. “Hi, Sarah.”

Her eyes fluttered open. “Jack,” she said, her lips parting into a smile. “How are you doing?”

He shrugged. “You?”

“Gus fired me today.”

Jack's eyebrows rose.

“Well, he didn't actually tell me I was fired. He called this
morning to say there was a change in the schedule, that he needed me to work today.”

“On Yom Kippur?”

“And if I refused, I shouldn't bother coming in for my regular shift tomorrow.”

Jack thought of Sarah, of how she looked the last time he saw her at the diner, running around in her hairnet and apron, her thin arms laboring under the heavy platters of food. He thought of how Gus had eyed her that day through the smog of his cigar—not looking at her face, but looking her up and down.

“You're better off away from that place,” Jack said.

“I need the money, though.”

“I'm sorry, Sarah. I'm really…”

“No, Jack, I didn't mean to blame—”

“All right,” called Mendy Segal, throwing open the temple doors. “You can come back in now.” Suddenly, Martha was at Jack's side, and Sarah was walking ahead with little Ruthie Black.

Jack kept his eye on Sarah. He'd never noticed how pretty she was, with her heart-shaped mouth, her vibrant green eyes, and milky swan's neck. Jack wondered why he hadn't ever noticed her this way before.

Because of Emaline, that's why
.

The remaining hours of prayer and fasting passed slowly. People wandered in and out of the sanctuary. Mothers took home the children who were too young to fast, returning with them after lunch. People whispered with bent heads. Jack thought about water and food and whether his cello was safe. He wondered whether Emaline or Mrs. Durham would
phone—or if they'd already tried while the Pools were at
shul
. Finally, in the late afternoon, Rabbi Abrams announced his sermon, which meant that services were nearly over.

“I want to share a story with you,” the rabbi began.