The Mourning Sexton (22 page)

CHAPTER 35

T
he men rose for the
Aleinu,
the final prayer before the mourner's
Kaddish
. Pinky Green had described it as the national anthem of Judaism, a prayer thanking God for giving the Jewish people a unique destiny. Tradition teaches that the author of the
Aleinu
was Joshua himself, who composed it shortly after leading the Hebrews across the Jordan River and into the Promised Land.

The men bent their knees in unison and bowed as they chanted,“
Vah-ahnach-nu koh-reim ooh-mish-tah-cha-vim ooh-moh-deem lif-nay melech
. . .”

We bend our knees and bow, and acknowledge our thanks before the King of Kings . . .

The
minyan
was smaller this morning. Only eleven. Sid Shalowitz, a member of the
Alter Kocker
Brigade, was back in the hospital for more heart tests. One of the two regular Friday volunteers, Jerry Tennenbaum, was missing. Jerry was an occasional handball opponent of Hirsch's, and they'd played a match last night. In the locker room afterward, he told Hirsch that he wouldn't be at services in the morning because he was on a 6:15
A
.
M
. flight to Detroit. Hirsch had done the head count before going to bed and confirmed that there'd be at least ten for the morning service.

He glanced back. The last row on the other side of the aisle was empty, as it was most mornings. Staring at the far back seat, he thought again of that morning last December when he'd turned to see Abe Shifrin sitting there. He remembered the distracted look on Shifrin's face, the prayer book closed on his lap. That was the last time Abe Shifrin had attended a morning service at Anshe Emes.

The prayer ended. The men took their seats.

The rabbi led them in the recitation of the short reading between the
Aleinu
and the
Kaddish
—a passage composed of snippets from Exodus and Proverbs and Isaiah. Hirsch followed along in English as he moved up the aisle toward the podium:

Do not fear sudden terror, or the holocaust of the wicked when it comes. Plan a conspiracy and it will be annulled; speak your piece and it shall not stand, for God is with us. Even till your seniority, I remain unchanged. Even until your ripe old age, I shall endure. I created you, and I shall bear you. I shall endure, and I shall rescue you.

Mr. Kantor tipped his hat. “And a good day to you,
Gabbai
. I shall see you tomorrow morning bright and early.”

Hirsch held the door for the old man and then followed him out of the shul. Mr. Kantor turned left toward the handicapped spaces in front of the building. Hirsch turned right toward the parking lot, his mind already shifting from religious to legal mode, from prophets to profits, from chapter seven of Leviticus, with the bloody ritual of the guilt offering touched upon that morning by Rabbi Saltzman, to chapter seven of the Bankruptcy Code, with the bloodless ritual of the debtor's offering to be touched upon later than morning by Judge Crane.

His stride slowed as he looked up. Standing at the end of the walkway was his daughter Lauren. The chilly April breeze ruffled her curly red hair. She had on a cable-knit sweater, jeans, and suede clogs. Her hands were in the front pockets of her jeans.

His delight was tempered by a rush of anxiety. He scanned the parking lot as he started toward her, looking for, well, for anything that seemed suspicious.

Nothing.

“Hey, Peanut,” he said, trying to stifle his concern.

She smiled. Peanut had been his nickname for her going all the way back to nursery school. He called her that until the day they led him off to prison.

“Hi, Big D.” Her nickname for him.

“What are you doing here?”

“I asked Professor Lorenz if there was something else I could do to help with your case. She said she didn't think so.” She shrugged. “I just wanted to make sure.”

He glanced around again. “Do you have a few minutes? We could get some coffee, maybe a bite to eat?”

Her smiled broadened. “Sure.”

She followed him in her car to Companion Bakery in Clayton. He got them each a cup of coffee and a pumpernickel bagel. Just like old times, he thought as they carried their trays to an empty table. They had been the pumpernickel pair. Lauren's older sister and her mother preferred poppy seed. He remembered those Sunday morning runs to Pratzel's bakery—milling in front of the display cases with the other dads, nodding at a familiar face, exchanging a few words with an acquaintance, waiting for his number to be called, picking out his mixed dozen (four pumpernickel, four poppy seed, four sesame), and then heading back to the smell of fresh coffee and the sight of his beautiful wife and his pajama-clad daughters waiting in the breakfast nook for their daddy.

As Lauren spread cream cheese on a bagel half, he explained to her that the case was basically settled and thus there was nothing further she could do—or that anyone else could do, for that matter.

She looked up at him with those earnest blue eyes. “I think it's terrific what you did for that poor girl.”

“Dulcie is working out the final terms. She gets the credit.”

“That's not what she said, Dad.”

He felt a pang when she said
Dad
.

Hirsch sipped his coffee and watched his child eat her bagel. He wanted this to be a special time, but he couldn't hold back his unease. Ever since spotting those headlights in his rearview mirror, he'd worried that he'd become a danger to his daughter and to Dulcie. He'd talked to Dulcie about it. He'd called her, in fact, the same night of their kiss in the parking lot. He'd told her his concerns and explained that they should avoid any non-lawsuit–related contact until after the settlement had been approved and consummated. She'd accepted good-naturedly, telling him that his advanced years were rendering him hopelessly paranoid.

Rosenbloom told him the same, although in coarser language, when Hirsch explained why he felt they shouldn't go to Dulcie's house for the
seder
. So instead, the two men celebrated the first night of Passover at Rosenbloom's apartment. They did so in strict accordance with Rosenbloom's Rules, which included a reading from
Don Quixote
in lieu of the Four Questions; a tasty selection of Spanish tapas and a seafood paella instead of the standard gefilte fish, matzo ball soup, and overdone brisket; a full-bodied Paternina Tempranillo Rioja from Spain in place of the Mogen David Concord Grape; and a ceremonial fourth cup of wine poured in honor not of the Prophet Elijah but of Don Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, whose grandfather Rosenbloom claimed was a
converso
who'd secretly practiced Judaism after escaping the flames of the Spanish Inquisition.

But now the settlement was approved. The funding would be complete by the end of next week. The defendants were supposed to wire the $120,000 settlement payment into a court-supervised trust account by Tuesday, and Peterson Tire was scheduled to deliver the $50,000 check to the law school in a special ceremony at the end of next week, by which time the school's lawyers would have finalized the paperwork for Judith's endowment fund.

And the investigation was dead in the water. He'd been up late last night paging through his notes, trying to figure out a new angle. He'd failed. There was no new angle. Judith's deleted e-mails haunted him. They were the key, the secret map through the forest, and they were gone forever.

“It's so sad about her father,” Lauren said.

“Pardon?”

“Mr. Shifrin.”

Hirsch nodded. “He has no one left.”

“He has you.”

“That's not much.” He took a sip of coffee, wanting to change the subject. “Tell me about you, Lauren.”

He listened as she told him about her apartment and her roommates and her classes and her plans for the future, which didn't extend beyond her summer clerkship with a Chicago legal foundation that specialized in family law. It was a conversation he'd dreamed about for years. Nothing epic. Nothing dramatic. Just the two of them talking about everyday things over coffee.

She glanced at her watch. “Whoa. My Con Law class starts in eight minutes.”

He walked her to her car.

She turned to him. “Well.”

“Thank you, Lauren.”

“Sure.”

“I mean it. This is the best breakfast I've had in more than a decade.”

She giggled. “Oh, Dad.”

“The case will be over soon. We'll get together after that. I'll have you over for dinner.”

“That would be awesome, Dad.”

He kissed her gently on her forehead. “I love you, Peanut.”

“I love you, Big D.”

He waved to her as she drove off.

All those years,
he thought as he turned on the ignition and put the car in Reverse.

All those years, and what had the two of them ever really done together? What experiences had they actually shared as father and daughter?

An afternoon at the zoo.

A father-daughter Girl Scouts banquet.

A few of her soccer games. He mainly recalled standing along sidelines and talking business on his cell phone—so distracted that he missed her one goal that season, not even realizing he missed it until she asked him about it after the game, asked him softly as he started the car engine, wanting to bask in the glory of her father's praise but not wanting to ask for that praise. He had barely picked up the cue in time, telling her how proud he was, trying to make it sound like he'd actually seen her goal.

Could that really be all? His own child. His own blood.

He shook his head.

You could never rectify something like that. He knew men his age, successful lawyers and doctors and businessmen, men like him who had allowed their ambitions to destroy their first marriages. Nasty divorces, strained, distant relationships with their children. They were all on their second wives now. The trophy wife. And their second round of children. Bragging that they were going to get it right this time. That they were going to make time to coach the Little League team and be at the birthday party at Chucky Cheese, and help with the homework.

Kidding themselves.

As if getting it right this time would expunge the first time. As if the wreckage they'd walked away from hadn't involved real consequences, including their own children.

As if there were do-overs in this life.

Hirsch shook his head.

There were no do-overs. No rain checks. Once you fucked up a life, you couldn't unfuck it. Anyone who thought otherwise was deluding himself.

Time moves in one direction only. It doesn't slow down and it doesn't circle back and whatever it passes once it passes forever. Your child grows up only once. You miss that childhood and you miss it forever.

It was not until he turned onto the entrance ramp for the highway downtown that he remembered. He looked in his rearview mirror, but it was too late. There was no way to tell whether any of the five cars following him up the ramp were actually following him.

“Damn.”

CHAPTER 36

“T
here's a Mr. Redding for you on line four.”

Hirsch smiled as he reached for the phone. A welcome break from preparing for tomorrow's round of Chapter Thirteens.

“Jumbo?”

“Hey, Rebbe, how's it hangin'?”

“Good. What's up?”

“Found something.”

“Where?”

“In that network. Been rummaging 'round in there like one of them old codgers with a metal detector.”

“And?”

“Found y'all some loose change.”

“E-mails?”

“Wouldn't that be nice? Naw, them e-mails is gone for good, thanks to those government imbeciles. But there's this other feature in Outlook called Notes. Lets you type out little reminders and comments, sort of like a computer version of them yellow Post-it thingies. Some folks use 'em, others don't. I never do, but that little gal of yours sure did, and I think I found most of hers.”

Hirsch leaned forward and reached for a pen. “Anything important?”

“Hard to say. Nothing jumped out and bit me on the nose, but I'm not up to speed on that case of yours.”

“How many of her notes did you find?”

“There's a bunch.”

“Can you send them to me?”

“Done that already, Rebbe. Check your e-mail in-box.”

He did. There were three new e-mails. One from a lawyer for GMAC in one of his Chapter Sevens, one from the clerk of the bankruptcy court of the Southern District of Illinois regarding a new hearing date on a Chapter Thirteen, and one from Harry and David Fruit-of-the-Month Club announcing a special discount on an attached coupon.

“Hasn't arrived yet,” Hirsch said.

“Don't you be dissing my Royal Rivieras.”

“You're kidding.”

“Don't call me Ishmael, Rebbe. Call me Harry.”

“I'm impressed, Harry.”

“Don't want any of them nosy bastards tracing this stuff back to me. All you got to do is double-click on that coupon.”

He did, and watched the screen view transform.

“Jumbo, you're a genius.”

The big man chuckled. “Happy hunting, Rebbe.”

There were forty-seven notes in all, displayed on his computer screen in chronological order like a fanned stack of playing cards. Each bore the date and time (down to the minute) of its creation. The notes spanned the entire time of Judith's clerkship.

Most were commonplace—the type you would expect to find on anyone's computer. Birthday reminders. Confirmation numbers for mail-order items from J. Crew, Lands' End, Nordstrom. Contact information (name and phone number) for an auto mechanic and a tire center and an electrician and a hair stylist. Various to-do lists and notes of telephone calls, all related to court matters.

But four notes stood out. None fit neatly into any of the usual categories. All four were created during the last few months of her life:

Hirsch read through the four notes a second time. He leaned back in his chair and stared out his window.

Eight-four-seven.

And look at the date.

It wasn't much, but it just might be enough.

“Judith,” he said aloud, “we're back in the hunt.”