“Where do they get off calling these kosher dills, Benny?”
“You don’t see them called that anywhere that knows dills.”
“My old aunt makes dills like this and she’s as Jewish as your average Cossack.” He nibbled farther, advancing on his thumb. “They’re good, though, for commercial pickles.”
“Why don’t you make a pinch so I can get near what’s left of the pastrami? I’d do it for you, Pete, honest.”
“Trouble with you, Benny, is you’re always abusing your gut. I never saw anybody in my life eat as terrible as you do. You want to look after yourself or you’re going to get into trouble.”
“What are you talking about? I eat in the best restaurants in town. If they don’t know their business, what can I do about it?” A short fat man pushed between Pete and me, giving him an unfair time to reflect.
“Look, kid, you always order the same garbage no matter where you eat. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you when I couldn’t guess what you was going to order.”
“Well, if you mean that I don’t order meat …”
“Come on. I know it’s not the meat. You eat spaghetti, don’t you?”
“Sure, with tomato sauce.”
“And no meat in the sauce? Come on, Benny, I don’t buy the bit that you only eat kosher. What about that pig-out Savas arranged? There must have been every kind of strange meat on that table you can imagine.”
“We can’t eat cormorants or owls, you know. They’re out.”
“Glad to hear it. What about bats?”
“Only the kind with feathers if they have cleft feet and chew their cud.”
“Does that mean you can’t eat venison? Deer chew their cuds and have cloven hooves.”
“Well, you’d have to have a shochet who could throw a fast knife, I guess. Can you get near the turkey? Let’s move in that general direction.”
“Hell, Benny, I’m stuck. I can’t move in any direction. It’s lucky this coleslaw isn’t moving as fast as some of the other stuff.”
“Instead of feeding your face, Pete, why don’t you tell me what happened when you got them to compare the wound in Wally Moore with the wound in Nathan Geller, may he rest in peace?”
“I’m not feeding my face. I’m trying to look inconspicuous.” Pete grabbed at something on a tray. He landed one. I tried at the same time and missed. He stopped chewing long enough to grin at me. “The wounds could have been made by the same weapon. That’s all they’ll say. They are consistent with having been made by the same size and shape of blade. Make what you will of that.”
“‘Consistent’ is one of their words.”
“Yeah. Forensic people.”
“That way they can be expert witnesses and sit on the fence at the same time.”
“It’s like reasonable doubt, Benny They only want to say exactly what they know and no more.”
“I don’t see the connection with reasonable doubt, but never mind. Are you really worried about my health?”
“Naw, it just makes conversation. As long as you’re happy, that’s what counts. You know most of these people?”
“The ones from town I know. His artistic pals from out-of-town don’t light up any bulbs.”
“The tall guy with the long hair and beard is from The New York Times. Writes on the arts pages of the Sunday edition. I was talking to him and he says that Nathan was very well respected.” The man Pete was describing was working on a very stiff drink judging by the deepness of the amber in his glass. He was talking to a large woman with upswept hair and designer bifocals.
“A real loss to the art community,” I said.
“The guy from the Times said it was a good career move.” I heard a high-pitched laugh from across the room. It came from a member of the bereaved family. The Times man looked shocked, Sometimes cynicism’s not even skin-deep. A row of relatives sitting knee to knee with paper plates full of potato salad and smoked salmon didn’t even look up.
I moved through the crowd towards Ruth Geller. She was nibbling at a cocktail frankfurter on a toothpick with some blue cellophane trimming.
“Oh, hello,” she said, “I saw you at the cemetery. Did you ever meet my brother-in-law? Oh, yes, he was here last week. I mean at my house.”
“I was at the studio too,” I said, watching someone trying to slice more meat from the turkey carcass.
“In spite of everything, he was very dear. He cut himself fixing the windows.” She dabbed at her right eye with the knuckle of the hand holding the frankfurter. “Are you going to stay for the service?”
“I’m not much good at this sort of thing, but if you’re short of the tenth man for a minyan, I’ll come back.” Ten was the minimum number for a quorum in the holding of group prayers. In fact it was the minimum number for starting up a synagogue.
“But why are you doing this? You’re not part of this family? Do you think that one of us will tell where Larry’s hiding? Do you think he’ll come up from the cellar when nobody’s looking?” Ruth was looking for a place to deposit the empty toothpick. I took it from her; the least I could do, and added it to an ashtray with cigarette butts and chewed-up salami skins.
“Thank you, Mr. Cooperman,” she said, as though I’d just done something important. I guess she was still in a daze. Funerals are hard enough to take when you are unacquainted with the dear departed. “You said you’d seen his studio?”
“I liked what I saw. I’m not surprised that these out-of-town art critics or whatever they are came. Your brother-in-law made powerful figures.” I wasn’t happy with the way it came out, but I’d promised myself I’d say something along those lines to one of Nathan’s relations.
“‘You called here the other afternoon. I forget what it was you wanted,” Ruth said, making conversation.
“I asked you about that call I’d had from Nathan saying he’d heard from your husband. You didn’t by any chance talk to Nathan after that call, did you?” She switched her eyes from my face to the view over my shoulder. “We can talk about that some other time,” I added.
“I remember now,” she said. “Just before Debbie came back. No, I never spoke to Nathan about that call. It was probably like you said: something to put you off the scent.”
Debbie was wearing a black dress that both squared off her shoulders and made her look vulnerable. She was busy talking to one of the out-of-towners, with a tall drink in her steady hand. When her eye caught mine, she frowned, as though she never thought that an open society would ever include me standing in her living-room. It was the Welcome Churlish in anybody’s register, comparable to saying “How do you do?” while biting down hard on a noisy celery stalk. In cases like this I simply assume it’s not me personally who’s unwelcome, simply the profession I represent that’s unwholesome. I went back to the table and found an opening in front of the corned beef. There was a lot of plate showing through the cold cuts, so I took advantage of the circumstances, making a sandwich which included the possibility that I might not make it to the platter again before it was empty. I’d just taken a bite and had my mouth full when Debbie planted herself in front of me. I chewed my way towards being able to defend myself.
“Mr. Cooperman, I won’t say I’m glad to see you. I’ve tried to form the words, but they won’t come out. Never mind. This is my first shiva, and I hope it’s the last.”