don’t want to talk to her.
That’s fine.
Then she doesn’t want to talk to me.
No, Peter, Rina had explained patiently. She does want to talk to you, but she doesn’t want to force you to do something you’re not ready to do.
I’m not ready? Decker had whispered incredulously. I’m not ready? I was the one who’d put my friggin name on the list. I was the one who was willing to be contacted. Now she’s saying I’m not ready?
Rina sighed, gave him a “please don’t kill the messenger” look. Maternally, she patted his hand and said, Think about it, Peter.
The upshot: He decided to eat lunch with her—and her family, knowing that the amount of contact she and he would have would be minimal.
Half of him wondered: Why am I doing this? His other half answered: Because you’re curious, jerk. That’s why you started this whole thing rolling twenty-three years ago.
He was curious. As they started back from shul, her sons at his side, he couldn’t help but sneak sidelong glances at them. The detective in him—trying to find any signs of physical commonality.
The oldest was Shimon, the one Rina had called good-looking. He was a handsome man—solid, strong features. Decker put his age at around thirty-eight: There was a gray coursing through his trimmed black beard. Decker’s own facial hair was full of rusty pigment, not a streak of white anywhere. For some reason that gave him an odd sense of superiority—as if his paternal genes were better. Although Shimon was dark, his pink cheeks—probably tinted from the cold—gave his face a splash of color. He stood about five eleven, had black hair and brown eyes, and was built with muscle—he and Decker had that much in common. In keeping with tradition, he was wearing his white holiday robe over his black suit. His kittel was a nice one—white embroidery on white silk.
The next in line was Ezra—same size as Shimon but thinner. Complexioned identically to his brother, Ezra was dark, his beard wide and wild. He wore glasses, and wrinkled his nose when he spoke. Decker was fixated on his ears—slightly pointed on top, exactly like his and Cindy’s. Ezra had pulled his kittel tightly over his chest as he walked, stuck his hands in the robe pockets.
Jonathan was the baby of the family. The Conservative rabbi was tall—same size as Decker but slender. He was also dark-complexioned, but his eyes were lighter—hazel-green. He was clean-shaven and wore a Harris-tweed sport-coat over gray flannel pants. No kittel—either he wasn’t married or the robe was too traditional for his taste. He was whistling “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah” as they walked, eliciting dirty looks from Ezra. Maybe it was the modern clothes, but Decker found more of himself in this kid than in the two older brothers.
Kid? Jonathan must be Rina’s age, maybe even a year or two older. A pause for thought.
All this mental game playing, it didn’t amount to diddly squat. Unless he ever needed a transfusion or kidney transplant, it didn’t matter what these jokers and he had in common. But he couldn’t stop himself. He was trying to be unobtrusive about it, but more than a few times he managed to lock eyes with one of them, their expressions, in return, mirrors of confusion.
His furtive glances—like Jonathan’s rendition of “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah”—had a slightly unnerving effect on Ezra. Shimon and Jonathan also seemed puzzled by Decker, but amused by him as well.
Rina was walking behind them with the women; her brothers-in-law were walking ahead with the older men. Children were all over the place. Somehow, Decker had been grouped with his half brothers. Did she notice it?
How could she not notice? He wondered what she was thinking at this moment, if the sight of all her sons together caused her untold pain or happiness. A moment later, Decker caught Jonathan grinning at him.
Jonathan said, “I want you to know, Akiva, that while Rina lived here, her phone never stopped ringing—”
“Half the calls were yours,” Shimon interrupted.
“I was calling as a friend,” Jonathan said.
“A very close friend,” Shimon countered. His brown eyes were twinkling.
Jonathan looked at Decker. “She never even looked at another man.”
Ezra adjusted his black hat, frowned, and said, “Is this yom tov talk?”
“I just wanted Akiva to know that Rina was loyal to him,” Jonathan said.
“Look at the man,” Shimon said, pointing to Decker. “Does he look as if he ever had any doubt? He has a magnetic effect on women. Look what he did with Mama.”
Decker said, “Must have been my charm.”
“I think it was the red hair,” Jonathan said. He took off his yarmulke, then repinned it onto his black hair. “Mama loves gingies. Stubborn woman that she is, she’s always trying to set me up with redheads.”
Decker felt his stomach tighten. He said, “You’re not married.”
“A sore point in the family,” Shimon said. “One of many.”
Jonathan said, “Know any nice Jewish women in Los Angeles? Preferably ones that look like your wife?”
Shimon said, “Religious women.”
Jonathan said, “Not so religious.”
Shimon said, “Another sore point.”
Ezra turned red and said, “This is how you talk on Rosh Hashanah?”
“Take it easy, Ez,” Jonathan said. “The Torah’s not going to fall apart if someone cracks a smile on yom tov.”
“What do you know from Torah?” Ezra said. “The way you people make up your own laws—”
“Ezra, not now,” Shimon said.
“It would be better if you did nothing,” Ezra’s pointed ears were now crimson. “What you do now is apikorsis.”
“That’s your interpretation,” Jonathan said. He held back a smile and began whistling again.
“It’s a true Torah interpretation!” Ezra shouted. “And stop whistling that nonsense.”
Jonathan said to Decker, “A point of fact. It was Ezra who took me to see Song of the South way back when before movies were considered unkosher—”
“Before you were tref,” Ezra said, using the Hebrew word for unkosher.
“Low blow, Ez,” Jonathan said.
“Both of you, enough,” Shimon said. “Papa will hear you and get upset.”
“Ach,” Ezra said, waving his hand in the air. He picked up his pace and caught up with the older men and Rina’s brothers-in-law.
Jonathan said, “The man has no sense of humor.”
Shimon wagged a finger at him. “That is not nice.”
“It’s
