An Image of Death (18 page)

“What happened to that hockey camp Rachel was so excited about?”

“She tried out last weekend, but they told her she needed a little more ‘seasoning.’”

Dad winced. “Was she upset?”

“For about an hour. Then a guy she likes from school called and asked her to go to the movies. She made a remarkable recovery.”

“Ah, youth.”

“It’s hormones, Dad,” I grumbled. “Thick as jam.”

As the waitress warmed up our coffee, a woman and a teenage boy commandeered the next booth. The boy, wearing a sweatshirt and jeans, had that sullen expression that said he was made for better things than a restaurant meal with an adult. Slouching down in the vinyl seat, he slipped his headphones, which had been draped around his neck like a necklace, onto his ears. Even from a distance, I could hear the bass. His mother—I could tell by her tired air of resignation—didn’t seem at all disconcerted by his behavior and gazed serenely at the menu.

“Amazing what they get away with these days.” Dad shook his head.

I kept my mouth shut, knowing, as all mothers do, there would inevitably be circumstances somewhere, sometime, under which I’d allow Rachel to do the same thing.

Dad wagged a finger at me. “Did I tell you about Al’s grandson?”

Al was one of his buddies in Skokie. “No.”

“The kid was a Bar Mitzvah last month. His parents, Al’s daughter, did it up right. Hundreds of people. Big service. Bigger party. The whole nine yards. They even invited all the kid’s friends from camp.”

That was big.

“So, one of the camp friends was this nice little girl from Ohio. The kid’s girlfriend, Al said. Blond hair, blue eyes, cute little turned-up nose.
Verschtay
?”

“She was Gentile.”

“Right. So, there they are at the service. The kid’s just finished his
haftorah
and his speech. The candy’s all been thrown. The rabbi’s given his blessing. They’re just about to start
Musaf
, and you know what happens?”

“What?”

“The kid gets up, goes to the back of the sanctuary, gets the girl, sits her down in the first row, and puts his arm around her. Right in front of everyone.”

“No!”

“Yes. Al says it’s like they were in a movie theater about to start necking.”

“Come on. You’re making this up!”

“
Emes!
You shoulda heard Al. ‘Holy shit,’ he says to me, ‘the kid’s got his arm around a shiksa at his own Bar Mitzvah!’ He almost had a heart attack.”

I glanced at the kid in the next booth, who was bobbing his head to some unheard beat. It probably wasn’t the right time to tell Dad the boy who asked Rachel out to the movies was the son of the Episcopal priest.

Dad speared an olive on his plate with a toothpick. “So how’s the new job?”

“It’s going to be a nice video. It’ll be finished by spring.”

“Good, good. You hear anything more about that tape they dropped off at your house?”

Talk about heart attacks. If I told Dad about Celestial Bodies, we’d be back at the clinic in record time. “N—not really. The police are handling it. I’m out of it.”

He rubbed his palms together again. “Well now, this is a good day. You’ve got a nice job, you’re getting along with your daughter,
and
you’re getting along with your ex. You sound almost normal.”

I gave him a thin smile.

***

David called as I was getting ready for bed. “Hello, Ellie.”

I’d forgotten how the sound of his voice made me melt. I felt shy. “Hi.”

Silence. Then we both spoke at the same time.

“I’m sorry I haven’t –”

“How’s it been going?”

“Sorry.”

“My fault,” I said. “I cut you off.” I wondered if I should say anything about his going to Europe without telling me. I didn’t have the chance.

“It’s him, Ellie.”

I blew out air. “You’re sure?”

“It’s my uncle. Wilhelm Gottlieb. He showed me pictures of him and my mother and their sister as kids. And he’s got a watch that belonged to my grandfather. With his initials. LDG.”

“Leopold Gottlieb,” I breathed.

“Leopold Dieter Gottlieb.”

A prickle ran up my spine. For years David had been combing through dusty attics, museums, and village records searching for his relatives. Now, apparently, he’d connected. Part of me wanted to rejoice and celebrate with him—I knew how much he wanted this—yet, it raised important questions. Why hadn’t his uncle been in touch before? Why didn’t anyone else know he was alive? What had he been doing for the past sixty years? I remembered part of the letter: something about circumstances that now required him to write. What circumstances? What did he want from David?

Thoughts raced through my brain like a freight train until it occurred to me that if I had all these questions, what must David be thinking? Suddenly, only one question seemed important. “How are you holding up?”

He paused, as if this was the first time he’d really thought or spoken about it. “I’m not really sure. It feels like I’m sleepwalking. That I’m going to wake up, and none of this will have happened, and I’ll be alone. Again.”

“Never alone,” I whispered.

He didn’t answer. I felt like I was walking on glass.

Then he said, “He’s been living in Antwerp for the past fifty years. He’s a diamond dealer.”

“A diamond dealer?”

“During the war, he passed. He was blond and blue-eyed, like my mother. It wasn’t hard, he said, if you kept moving. He went from town to town. Always on the run. Afterward, he fell into the diamond trade. Turns out a number of Holocaust survivors did.”

“How come?”

“Some Jews found it hard to put down roots afterward. They never felt secure. They made sure they could travel light if they had to—to make a speedy exit. Diamonds, rubies, whatever—dump them in your pocket, sew them in the lining of your clothes. You’re always ready to run.”

“But he did settle.”

“I guess, eventually he got tired. Or else decided it was safe to stay in one place. He moved to Antwerp and opened a small shop in the Jewish quarter. On the
Hovenierstraat
. He took in a partner, another German survivor. The partner died four years ago. That’s why I’ve been so busy. The partner’s daughter inherited half of the business, and we’re trying to figure out what to do.”

“What do you mean ‘figuring out what to do’?”

“My uncle never married.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know.” David hesitated again. “But he’s sick, Ellie. Advanced kidney disease.”

I bit my lip. “Is he on dialysis?”

“Not yet, but it’s not out of the question.” He sighed. “That’s why he wrote Mrs. Freidrich. He didn’t know whether my mother survived, whether she ever got married, or had any children. But he wanted to find out before…well, you know…” His voice cracked. “He wants to leave me half the business.”

“You’re kidding.”

“So we’ve been trying to figure out an equitable arrangement. It’s complicated.”

“Complicated, how?”

“He’s a small dealer, but he has an excellent reputation. De Beers has a standing offer to buy him out.”

“Really.”

“He’s not sure what he wants to do. And, of course, the daughter of his partner wants him to sell. We’ve been talking to lawyers all week.”

“You don’t want it, do you? The business, I mean?”

I heard the churn of emotion in his silence. Then, “I don’t know what I want right now. But I did manage to convince him to come home with me.”

“To the States?”

“I want him to get checked out at Penn. I told him I’d take care of him. Even help him get a transplant, if it comes to that.” He paused. “He said he’d come.”

“David, that’s wonderful.”

“Yes.”

His response was subdued. Not what I’d expect from someone who just located his only living relative. I pushed the thought away. “How did you track him down? You had no idea where he lived.”

“I located the post office where he rented a box and kept an eye on it until his partner’s daughter collected his mail. Then I followed her.”

“You’d make a good detective.”

A noise came out of his throat, but I couldn’t tell if it was a laugh or a sneer.

“So, when are you coming home?”

“We should be there by Wednesday.”

I felt a flush of excitement. “I could fly in for the weekend. I’d love to see you. And meet your uncle.”

David cleared his throat. “Well.…”

I nattered on about airline schedules and tickets. We hung up a few moments later, with me saying I’d take an afternoon flight on Friday. It wasn’t until later, as I was getting ready for bed, that I realized I’d invited myself.

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-ONE

The same woman has cut my hair for ten years. During that time she changed her name from Ann to Jasmine, started lifting weights, and now competes in bodybuilding contests. Over the same period, I haven’t varied my hairstyle. Which probably says something about our respective abilities to embrace change. Still, I wouldn’t think of switching. How many people get their hair done by a flower child who can bench press a Cadillac?

As Jasmine draped a black plastic sheet over me, I watched in the mirror, thinking how much I looked like a turtle whose head just emerged from a shiny black shell. She picked up a lock of hair with more salt than pepper. “When are we going to do something about this?”

“Soon.”

“You’ve been saying that for years.”

I hunched my shoulders. I haven’t colored my hair, not because of any aversion to vanity or chemicals. Or even resistance to change. I just can’t sit still for the length of time it requires. But Jasmine keeps trying.

A woman sailed through the door, waving her nails in the air. “Hello, Jasmine, dear. I know I don’t have an appointment, but you wouldn’t mind doing a comb out, would you? I forgot I’m going to a fund-raiser tonight. Can you believe it?” Ignoring me, she flashed Jasmine one of those “oh how embarrassing” looks.

Judging from her carefully applied makeup, I found it hard to believe she forgot why she was putting it on. Jasmine raised her eyebrows at me in the mirror. I checked my watch.

“I don’t know, Melody…” Jasmine began.

“It’s all right.” I climbed out of the chair. “I have a few minutes.”

Jasmine mouthed her thanks.

Melody smiled broadly and sat down, still avoiding eye contact with me. “Well, you know, Jasmine, it’s just been the busiest time. We only just got back from Arizona, and we’re supposed to go to Florida next week, and—”

“Ellie, there’s a TV in the other room,” Jasmine cut in. She operates out of the back of a rather large nail salon. She pointed her comb toward the main room.

I nodded.

Melody finally looked my way as if she’d just noticed another human being was occupying the same time and space as she. She blinked like a sleepy owl.

I wandered into the big room, which was divided into twelve stations, a manicurist at each. The smell of nail polish permeated the air. I eavesdropped on a woman talking about fire-eating and how empowering an experience it was, then drifted over to the TV.

The early news had started, the blow-dried, perfectly accessorized male anchor reporting that six children were hospitalized following the evacuation of an inner-city school. After the obligatory sound bites from the hospital spokesman and father of one of the kids, the anchor looked camera left with a perfectly timed sigh. “Jill, I hope you have some happier news.”

The coanchor, his female mirror image, frowned slightly. “Sorry, Jack, I don’t.” She turned toward the camera, her chin tilting down. “A double homicide in the northwest suburbs last night has Des Plaines police puzzled.”

I edged closer. A reporter was doing a stand-up in front of a modest brick house. “Police are investigating the deaths of a brother and sister, both Russian immigrants, in this quiet suburb. The couple ran an illegal dentistry office out of their house, and this wasn’t their first brush with the law.”

Several pairs of eyes looked up from the manicurists’ stations. The reporter went on to say that the victims had been dentists in the USSR but never obtained the proper American licenses. Police raided the place last summer and closed it down, but, apparently, they’d reopened. Not surprising. If most of their clientele were Russian immigrants who couldn’t afford or didn’t want to be treated by American dentists, there probably was a healthy demand for their services.

The report cut to file footage from last summer’s raid, a pan of the waiting room where the murdered couple was found. Three of four walls were paneled and there was a white linoleum floor. With the exception of two chairs and a table, there wasn’t much furniture in the room. I started to feel queasy. Then the camera panned across the wall that wasn’t paneled. In the center of the wall was a huge, unmistakable crack that zigzagged from floor to ceiling.

***

Davis answered on the first ring.

“It’s Ellie. Did you see the news?”

“I’m on it.”

“Is it the same place?”

“Look, I can’t talk. Olson fixed it so I could be there when the techs processed the scene. I need to keep this line free.”

“They said on the news it was past Wolf Road. Near Elk Grove Village.”

“Don’t even think about it, Ellie. You wouldn’t be able to get near the place, anyway. It’s a crime scene, for God’s sake. You show up there, my ass’ll be in a sling.”

“Why?”

“Because—because they’ll probably think I’ve been talking.”

“Davis, don’t be paranoid. It was on the news.”

“Don’t do this to me, Ellie. It’s my case.”

I thought about it for a while. “Okay. But you owe me.”

She didn’t answer.

“The least you can do is tell me what’s going on. I know you have a gut feeling. Is it the same place?”

She grew quiet. Then, “We’re waiting for blood sample results.”

“Blood samples?”

“Luminol raised a shitload of blood smears, and the techs got enough to type some of them. They’ll compare them to the victims’ blood type, and if a third type shows up, we’re in business.”