Mama cooking, girl?” Decker said, petting the Irish setter. He went to the kitchen, the dog at his heels. The counters were filled with cookie sheets containing hundreds of miniature knishes—tiny bits of puff pastry filled with potato, spinach, or buckwheat. He picked up a couple and tossed them in his mouth, swallowed them down with a tall glass of orange juice.
He looked outside the window, at his own acreage, then opened the back door to let the dog out. Rina was nowhere in sight. Maybe she was inside the barn. Again, he called out her name. No answer.
The timer on the stove went off. He opened the oven door, saw the tops of the knish dough had turned golden brown and turned off the heat. With stuff left in the oven, she was bound to show up soon. Or so he told himself. But he was determined to be calm. He was getting better at not worrying about her, but as with the mending of his wounds, it was proving to be a slow process.
He opened the kitchen drawer and fished out a yarmulke stuffed between a tape measure and a hammer, then bobby-pinned the skullcap onto his hair. He filled a plate with knishes and poured himself a glass of milk. Standing, he ate while he phoned the hospital. Everyone was out to lunch. After being relegated to hold six times, then being disconnected twice, he was finally put through to Dr. Kessler’s office. Kessler’s secretary announced that he was in a meeting, but Decker pushed her, and a few minutes later, the OB-GYN came to the phone.
“Sergeant Decker?”
“Doctor,” Decker said. “Thanks for taking time to talk to me.”
“Sergeant, you rescued me from a committee meeting,” Kessler said. “You did a big mitzvah.”
Decker laughed. Imagine a Jewish doctor treating him like an MOT—a member of the tribe. Of course, he was Jewish. But it still took him by surprise that others could think of him as a Jew.
“Glad to be of service, Doc,” he said. “Did you happen to admit Lilah Brecht this morning?”
“I sure did,” Kessler said. “Isn’t Lilah Brecht the one with the famous actress mother?”
“Davida Eversong,” Decker said.
“Yeah, that’s it. Star of late-night television. She always played vamps, didn’t she?”
“I think so. Davida’s a little before my time.”
“Mine, too. If you can hold the line a few minutes, I’ll get Lilah’s chart.”
“Sure. How’s she doing?”
“She’s doing very well, all things considered. We did a CAT scan, radiographed her orbits. Nothing showed up, but that doesn’t mean anything. Takes a while for the blood to clot if there’s subdural hemorrhaging, so we won’t really know until after twenty-four hours. But I’m encouraged. As of an hour ago, she was still woozy, but she was oriented. Knew her name, her address.”
“That’s good news. She seemed pretty bad when they loaded her into the ambulance.”
“Yeah, she was probably in shock. If you get to them before the body temperature sinks, they recover remarkably fast. She not only knew who she was but also why she was in the hospital.”
“She knew she’d been attacked?”
“She knew she’d been raped. Hold on, I’ll get the chart.”
As Decker waited, he heard his front door slam, followed by Rina’s voice calling his name.
“I’m in the kitchen.”
She walked in, carrying bags of groceries, looked at Decker’s plate piled with food, and placed her parcels on the counter.
“Peter, what are you doing?” She pulled his plate away. “Can’t you tell these aren’t for you? How can you just take without asking?”
Decker rolled his eyes. “Sorry.”
Rina sighed, her shoulder sagging. “I’m sorry. I’m being ridiculous. I’ve got more than enough.” She put the plate back in front of him. “Eat as many as you want.”
“Save them. I’ll grab something else.”
“No, take,” Rina insisted. “Take more. Take as much as you want.”
“I’m fine, Rina. I’m getting full.”
She piled another half-dozen knishes on his plate. “Here. Take.”
“I don’t want any more,” Decker said.
Rina looked at him, her eyes suddenly moistening. “You don’t like them?”
“No, no,” Decker backtracked. “They’re delicious.”
“You really like them?”
“Yes.”
“The spinach, too?”
“Yes.”
“Really?”
“Rina, you’re a fabulous cook. I like everything you make. Who are you baking for anyway?”
“I’m going to freeze them,” Rina said. Then she added quickly, “It’s for the bris … or the naming if it’s a girl.”
Decker held his temper. “I thought we agreed that it was too much work for you to do all that cooking. We were going to hire a cater—”
“Just a few appetizers.”
“You should be resting. Isn’t that what the doctor said?”
“What does a man know about pregnancy?”
Decker wasn’t about to be suckered into that argument. “You’re going to tire yourself out.”
“Why do you say that? Do I look tired?”
“No, Rina. You look great.”
She did. From the back, Decker couldn’t tell she was pregnant. The front told another story: Six months gravid, but her face was as finely featured and beautiful as ever. Her milky complexion was flawless, her cerulean eyes clear and bright. Her hair had grown very long. She’d braided it and wore a tam on the crown of her head. According to Jewish law, married women had to cover their hair, but Rina had allowed the jet-black plait to escape down her back. It was thick and shiny. She simply glowed with health.
Kessler came back on the phone. Decker held up his palm.
“Okay,” the doctor said. “I did all the tests you wanted, sent them to your lab. She was bruised vaginally, but there was no semen inside of her.”
Decker looked at his wife. “Could you hold, Doc? I want to change phones.”
“Don’t bother on my account,” Rina sulked. “I’ll go in the other room.”
“Rina—”
“No, I insist.”
