to keeping a clean desk.
Boruch let out a breathy Eeeema.
But there was a note of affection in his voice.
All three headboards touched the same wall, lined up like a hospital ward. Sheets tucked in, the pillows plumped and rolled under the top cover like the stuffings of an omelet. Above the headboards were three rows of bookshelves. Most of the space was devoted to Hebrew and religious books, but there were about a dozen textbooks of secular study. No posters or art work adorned the wall, the sole exception being a framed picture of a small elderly bearded man in a big black hat. He had a round face, scores of wrinkles, and crinkly eyes that exuded a physical warmth.
“Rav Moshe Feinstein, alav hashalom,” Aaron said.
Decker nodded, recognizing the name. Rabbi Feinstein had been the leading Torah scholar of his day, a man noted for his exceptional kindness as well as his genius mind.
He turned away from the picture. The boys were sitting on their beds. He said, “I’ll try to put everything back the way I found it, but I’m going to have to go through all the belongings.”
The brothers nodded understandingly.
Decker said, “In the meantime, I want one of you to turn on the computer and bring up any files that might be Noam’s.”
The boys didn’t move. Aaron said, “Did you discuss this with my father?”
Decker sighed. “Look, I know you’re not allowed to use computers on yom tov, but this is an emergency. If you don’t want to do it, at least tell me how to do it.”
“No, no,” Aaron said. “I’d be making you do an aveyrah. Boruch, you do it. You haven’t been bar mitzvahed yet.”
“It’s okay?” Boruch asked Decker.
“It’s more than okay; it’s very important.”
“Then I’ll do it,” Boruch said.
Decker began with the desk. Because it was so organized, the search would be a snap. Starting on the right, he opened the top drawer. It contained notebooks of math work; the second was full of lessons in other secular subjects. The bottom drawer contained sheaves of papers written in Hebrew. The left side was a carbon copy of the first. Inside the top middle drawer were office supplies—pens, pencils, rulers, a stapler, a box of rubber bands, a box of paper clips.
So much for the desk.
Boruch announced that there weren’t any files of Noam’s on the first disk. He’d try the others. Decker told him he was doing a great job, and went on to the closet.
It was as organized as the desk. Decker thought a moment. For a room housing three teenaged boys to be this compulsively tidy, Breina must be one stern taskmaster. He remarked upon that and gauged the reaction of the boys. They smiled, didn’t appear to be resentful.
The left side was open shelves containing piles of laundered and starched white shirts. Must have been around twenty of them. The hanging rack held pressed black pants, lint-free black suit jackets. Above the rack was a shelf full of black hats. The right side was more open shelving. Underwear, undershirts, socks, and a couple of dozen talitim k’tanim—small prayer shawls worn on top of the undershirt but under the dress shirt. A belt and tie rack bisected the inside of the door. Above the rack was a small square mirror.
“What size is Noam?” Decker asked.
“Shirt or pants?” Aaron asked.
“Both.”
“We wear the same shirt size,” Aaron said. “Men’s fifteen. Pants, I wear a thirty. I think Noam’s closer to a thirty-one or -two.”
“He’s heavier than you?”
Aaron said, “Heavier and taller.”
Boruch looked up from the computer screen. “I tried all of the disks here, brought up the files. I don’t see anything that looks like his stuff. Either Noam has his own disk or he erased everything he ever wrote.”
“Thanks, Boruch,” Decker said. “It was worth a try.”
Boruch turned off the screen.
Decker said, “You wouldn’t notice if any of his clothes were missing, would you?”
The boys peered into the closet.
Aaron said, “It looks about as full as it always does. But he could take a shirt and pair of pants and I wouldn’t notice.”
On the floor of the closet were the boys’ knapsacks. Decker opened Noam’s first. Just books and school supplies. His papers contained no doodling, no names of girls. Decker asked the boys if he could look inside their knapsacks. Both of them said sure. Their cooperation showed him that the boys had nothing to hide. He took a quick peek, then moved on.
He stripped the beds. Finding nothing, he removed the mattresses, checked all three out individually. Still nothing. Then he removed the box spring. Underneath Noam’s bed was a sales slip—slightly faded pink, dated ten months ago. Someone had purchased a Guns ’n’ Roses T-shirt for fifteen fifty. He asked the boys if Noam ever wore the T-shirt when the folks weren’t home.
“I never saw him wearing any T-shirt with a gun or a rose on it,” Aaron said.
Decker said, “Guns ’n’ Roses is a rock group.”
Aaron shrugged ignorance.
“How about you?” he asked Boruch. Sometimes kids confide more easily in younger siblings than in older ones.
Boruch said, “I never saw him wear any T-shirt except as undershirts for our tzitzit.” He thought a moment. “You know we have this old transistor radio. I think Noam listens to it late at night when he thinks we’re asleep.”
“I never heard anything,” Aaron said.
“I think he uses the earphone,” Boruch said. “We can listen to the radio as long as we’ve finished our studies and it’s news or sports. Abba and I are Knicks fans. Rock music is out of course. But some of the kids at school listen to it anyway. They even watch MTV—go down to the electronic stores and watch the television on display. It’s a hard thing to do because most of the stores are owned by frum yiddin and the kids don’t want anything getting back to their parents, you know.”
“You’d like a TV?” Decker asked.
“Nah,” Boruch said. “Turns your brain to rot.”
Decker smiled. The way the kid said it—just a line he’d picked up somewhere.
“Maybe that’s what he does when he wanders off,” Aaron said. “Walks around Prospect Park listening to rock music.”
Decker thought: Noam sneaking off, maybe wearing his Guns ’n’ Roses T-shirt under his traditional garb. When he was alone, like Clark Kent turning into Superman, he’d pull off his regular shirt, untuck his T-shirt, and blast his pathetic little radio.
Trying to hang out, trying to fit in.
But
