couch.
A little more space, but he’d have to do his waltzing elsewhere.
He put on gray gabardine trousers, a white dress shirt, and a pair of black oxfords. People around here just didn’t wear sweats. Strapping his belt around his waist, he felt lighter of weight without his shoulder harness and gun. And a little more vulnerable, too. He found a black yarmulke, bobby-pinned it onto his hair and quickly said Shaachrit—the morning prayers. Then he went downstairs to face what was in store for him.
He swore he’d be in a good mood. He swore he’d be friendly. But he felt grumpy, his leg muscles still bunched. His throat was tight, a sour taste had coated his mouth.
Relax.
No one was in the living room. It, too, was small, walls and moldings painted ivory and hung with dime-store landscape prints. The carpet was green shag, worn nearly flat. The couches were off-white velvet, the arms covered in plastic as were the lampshades. The room might have been described as old and musty had it not sparkled with crystal. On the coffee table, on the end tables, in a breakfront, in the connecting dining room. Decanters, vases, bowls, and goblets. Some of the glasswork had been intricately cut, catching the overcast light from outside and breaking it into thousands of colors. Other pieces were clear or etched—tinted deep iridescent shades.
All the crystal was smudge-and-dust-free. With the kids out of the house, this had to be mama lion’s pride.
The dining-room table had been extended until the top practically abutted the living-room couch. Enough seating for forty people. The entire downstairs was filled with cooking smells—the aroma of roasted meats, spicy puddings, and fresh-baked bread and pastries. Decker realized his mouth was watering.
High-pitched magpie sounds emanated from the kitchen. With all their chatter, the women hadn’t heard him come down. He stood at the kitchen doorframe waiting for someone to notice him. Rina’s ex-mother-in-law, Sora Lazarus, saw him first. She was a small, compact woman with large brown eyes and thick lips. Her hair was pinned under a big kerchief and she had spots of flour on her face. She wore a white chef’s apron and smiled at him, bursting into ooing sounds he interpreted as a welcome.
“Did you sleep well?” Sora Lazarus asked.
“Yes, thank you.”
Rina emerged from the back, wiping her hands with her apron. She smiled at him and he immediately melted. She was exquisite even in a loose housedress. Sapphire eyes, inky-black hair, creamy complexion, full, red lips. Not to mention those curves. And now, she was officially Mrs. Decker. Two long, long years. But she was worth the wait.
She led him into the belly of the kitchen. The place was hot and misty. Most of Rina’s hair was covered by a kerchief, but a few steam-limp strands had escaped and framed her lovely face. She slipped her arm into his and hugged his bicep.
“Akiva, I’d like you to meet my sisters-in-law, Esther and Shaynie.”
Decker found it amusing that she had called him by his Hebrew name. Only in Boro Park. Back home, he was plain old Peter. He nodded hello to the women, but knew better than to try to shake their hands. Men and women in this culture didn’t touch unless married, and even then public displays of affection were frowned upon. But Rina seemed to disregard this little bit of tradition and Decker was glad she did. He smiled at the sisters—women he’d spoken to many times on the phone. He said, “Nice to finally see the faces that go with the voices.”
They both smiled back and immediately averted their gazes.
He put Shaynie at about his age—forty-one or -two. She was petite, with a long face, amber eyes, and warm smile. She wore no makeup, but her cheeks were rosy from the heat. She was married to Mendel, an accountant.
Esther was also small, but heavier than her sister. Her face was fuller, her arms thicker. She had the same amber eyes as her sister and also wore no makeup. But her face wasn’t rosy, it was blood red. Her eyes rested on her feet.
And Decker knew why. Three months ago, her husband, Pessy, had been arrested in a massage-parlor raid in Manhattan. Through the police grapevine, Decker had found the proper connections and managed to spring the guy, expunging all the charges from the computer. He had mixed feelings about it. The guy was a first-class scumbag—had come on to Rina while she lived in New York. Clearing this little mishap meant he owed favors to some brothers in the NYPD. And he didn’t like being in the red.
But the Lazarus family had been grateful, though no one had ever explicitly told him so. It was just implied that they were grateful because everyone was suddenly more respectful to him whenever he called Rina.
Another little piece of dirt neatly swept under the carpet.
Sora Lazarus said, “The men already went to the mikvah. You want me to take you there?”
“Let’s let it go this time, Eema,” Rina said.
It was customary for men to go to the ritual bathhouse before the high holidays. But the idea of bathing in communal water made Decker squeamish. He gave her an appreciative smile.
Sora Lazarus said, “Then maybe you’d like some breakfast? A cup of coffee?”
“A cup of coffee sounds great,” Decker said.
“Then you sit at the table,” the little woman said. “I’ll get you some coffee and a little pastry—”
“Just coffee, please,” Decker said. “Black.”
“Black?” Sora Lazarus said. “No milk? No sugar?”
“Just black,” Decker said. “Please.”
“Rina,” Sora Lazarus said, “sit with your husband. I’ll bring you some coffee, too.”
“I’ll get it,” Rina said.
“Don’t be silly,” chided Sora Lazarus. “Sit.”
A moment later they were alone in the dining room, sipping coffee at a table fit for a mess hall.
“The Lazaruses are having a bit of company?” Decker asked.
“Thirty-six people. Not including the kids’ table.”
“A small intimate meal.”
“It’s tradition,” Rina said. “My mother-in-law always has the Levine family over on the first night of Rosh Hashanah; we go over to the Levine house for lunch the next day.”
“How many Levines are we talking about?”
“Rabbi and Mrs. Levine, their five children and who knows how many grandchildren. And Mrs. Levine’s parents. They must be in their eighties by now.”
“Is everyone going to talk in Yiddish?”
“The grandparents do, but the five kids are our age. The oldest must be a few years younger than you. Shimmy—nice guy, good-looking, too.”
“You notice these things.”
“I’m religious but not blind.”
“Well, you’d have to be nearsighted to marry me.”
