too frightening.
Solution: Why not bring the ghetto into America?
And Rina chose this voluntarily.
In all fairness, Decker knew that American affluence had brought on a host of trouble. Teenage children with adult problems—alcoholism, drug addiction, abortions, divorce. Confused adults running for cover.
Some of the assimilated Jews dealt with the pressure by going inward, seeking a God higher than a BMW. They joined the cults, est, environmental groups, or the society of animal activists and spray-painted fur coats in the name of Good. A handful went back to their roots and became traditional. The “Orthodox from birth” Jews seemed to go it one step farther, deliberately shutting out the modern world altogether.
Almost none of the ultra-Orthodox families owned TVs, few read Time or Newsweek because some of the pictures featured women in “prurient” attire. U.S. News and World Report was the big periodical around these parts. Movies were out, as was popular fiction. Too explicit, though Decker was sure there was a housewife or two with a Danielle Steel novel squirreled away.
He thought: It was good that he’d met Rina. His secular ways kept her from going over the edge. He’d also make damn sure that her boys could support themselves. Many of these children didn’t bother with college—although their parents had. Instead, they opted to learn at a yeshiva, their parents or wives or in-laws supporting them.
No way he’d let the boys live on the dole.
He paused, then thought: Kids had a way of doing whatever they wanted. Just mind your own business, Deck, and let Rina worry about the boys. Besides, it was a ways off.
Decker had walked ten blocks before he realized that the neighborhood had started to change, the Jewish stalls replaced by video rental and liquor stores. He wondered whether any of the religious kids ever forayed into this neck of the woods. Did an invisible wall keep these Jews as insulated from the goyim as the Roman walls had three hundred years ago?
The Levine family flashed through his mind—the youngest son a Conservative rabbi.
And now Decker was Orthodox.
Win a few, lose a few.
He turned around and headed back to the Lazarus house, choosing to take another route, passing a kosher deli, then a little café. The café sign was written in both Hebrew and English and read: TEL AVIV—A DAIRY RESTAURANT—WE SERVE ESPRESSO AND CAPPUCCINO.
A modern reference in an ocean of Old World. He was heartened by the sight.
Decker entered the house through the front door, heard more female voices buzz-buzzing in the kitchen. The men had yet to return from the mikvah and he wondered where the boys were, wished they were around so he’d have someone to talk to.
For a moment he debated sneaking upstairs, locking the door, and reading until it was time for synagogue. But he knew that would set Rina off. Not that she minded his being by himself; she just wanted to know where he was and what he was doing.
After years of being single, he found this the hardest adjustment—having to explain your whereabouts to another person, scheduling your day with someone else in mind. Of course, he wanted to know where she was, but that was more for safety reasons.
Or so he told himself.
He slipped off his overcoat, draped it over his arm, and stood a few feet from the kitchen doorframe.
More women had showed up, the place as crowded as an ant farm. Through the bodies, he spied Rina’s back. She was engrossed in conversation with an older woman. The lady looked around fifty-five, maybe sixty, with a long face with deep-set eyes and a wide mouth. Her skin was shiny and moist from the steam, and she kept brushing locks of brunette wig off her forehead. She was a tall woman, not slender, not fat, perfectly proportioned and dressed in business clothing as if she were attending a board meeting instead of a kaffeeklatsch.
There was something familiar about her, something very eerie. He fought down a weird sensation of having seen her before.
But that was ridiculous. He’d never met her before in his life.
Someone called out the name Frieda and the woman turned around.
And then it became painfully clear to him.
The stifling heat, the walls of the house, everything suddenly closed in upon him. Two invisible malevolent hands had reached out to strangle him.
Mrs. Lazarus noticing him. Her lips forming the word—Akiva.
Had to get out.
Out of the house.
Out of New York.
Decker bolted before she could get his name out, was halfway down the block before he heard someone racing behind him. He didn’t turn around, couldn’t. Something intangible kept his head from pivoting. With great effort, he managed to stop running, but his legs kept pumping him forward. Finally, someone caught up with him.
“Peter, stop!”
Rina’s voice. She was out of breath.
Decker kept walking.
“Stop, for God’s sake!” Rina said. “I … I have a cramp in my side.”
But he kept going.
Gasping, Rina said, “What on earth has happened to you? You’re white.”
“I’m fine,” Decker mumbled out. He sounded winded himself. Rina noticed his choppy breathing.
“You’re not fine! Are you sick? Do you need a doctor?”
“It was hot in there,” Decker said. “That’s all.” He willed his legs to stop but they wouldn’t.
“Stop, will you!” Rina cried out.
Her voice—so desperate. He slowed his pace and said, “I just wanted to take a walk.”
“You just came back from a walk.”
“I wanted to take another one,” Decker said. “What the hell is wrong with that!”
His voice sounded foreign—full of rage. Full of fear.
“I need to be alone.”
“Peter, please …” She grabbed his arm. “I love you. Tell me what’s wrong!”
Decker stopped abruptly, picked her hand off his arm, and kissed her fingers. “I’ve got to be by myself now. I’m sorry, Rina, but please leave me alone.” He dropped her hand and ran off.
Six hours to kill with fifteen dollars and twenty-two cents spending cash. Decker had left the credit cards in the bedroom, so checking into a motel for the night was out of the question. Not that he’d do it, but he wished he had the option. He found a cab at Fourteenth and Fifty-eighth, slid onto the black bench seat and ran his hands over his face.
The cabbie was Indian or Pakistani—chocolate-brown skin with straight black hair and a
