Tess resisted the urge to raise her own eyebrows Groucho style, or wiggle her own cigar. When it came to Natalie, shrewd Mark Rubin was fatally thick.
Chapter Twenty-two
ISAAC WAS LYING IN THE TRUNK, THINKING ABOUT ANNE Frank. He had given up being Jonah. After all, Jonah got out of the whale after a little bit and went to Nineveh, but Isaac was still in the trunk. Anne Frank had to stay in the attic, day in and day out, hiding from Nazis. Isaac's teacher had told the class the story of the brave girl this past year, and Isaac had been quite impressed. He did not see how anyone could live under such circumstances, especially when there was no television and, even worse, no new books to read, just a book you were writing to yourself. Which seemed kind of boring, because you would always know what happened next.
But Anne, it occurred to him now, had it better than he did in some ways. Of course, she was up against the Nazis, and that was pretty bad, about as bad as things get. But she had an entire attic and her whole family around her. She had her journal, which became almost like a friend to her. Here in the trunk, Isaac couldn't even see, much less read or write. True, he was seldom in here more than twenty minutes or so, while Anne never got out of the attic. Lately, however, Zeke had begun to put him in the trunk more and more, for all sorts of infractions. That was Zeke's word, and it was new to Isaac. Infractions. He was still trying to figure out what it had to do with math. Maybe it meant Isaac misbehaved in parts, sort of like one-third or three-fourths.
Today, for example, the trouble began because Isaac had refused to eat anything at lunch. He wasn't being stubborn. He just wasn't hungry. His mother had nagged him to eat, which made him feel contrary and mean, and he had crossed his arms against his chest, refusing to take a single bite of anything. His mother had hissed at him, threatening one minute, pleading the next, almost in tears from frustration, and people began looking at them. That was the one thing Zeke would never tolerate-people looking.
So Zeke took Isaac outside to give him a lecture, but Isaac just stared at the sky, as if he were in a place far, far away, where Zeke's words couldn't be heard.
"Listen to me," Zeke had commanded, grabbing his arm, only to drop it when he noticed the two waitresses sharing a cigarette nearby. "Man, you are a stubborn little bas-pisher."
"I'm not the pisher," Isaac had said. "Penina is."
Zeke smiled, giving him credit for the joke. "Daisy," he corrected. "Your sister's Daisy now."
"She's Penina."
Zeke gave him his meanest look, which was pretty scary, but Isaac knew he wouldn't do anything as long as those girls were around. Isaac and Zeke sat next to each other on the curb, enjoying their dislike of each other, the freedom not to pretend. Of course, Isaac never pretended to like Zeke, but Zeke put on an act when Isaac's mom was around, ruffling his hair, giving him play punches on the arm that were just a little too hard.
"So," one smoking girl said to the other, "I love your earrings."
"These earrings?"
What other earrings would she be talking about, stupid? Isaac's father said Isaac would like girls one day, but he couldn't see it. These girls had big, fluffy heads of yellow hair, and their makeup was as bright and vivid as the kind of markings that Isaac had seen on people in National Geographic.
"Yeah. They're adorable. Where'd you get 'em?"
"At the flea market over on Wabash. The Sunday one? Guy wanted twenty dollars, but I jewed him down."
"Ex-cell-ent." The girls tossed down their cigarettes and ground them beneath their feet. One girl wore sensible flat shoes, but the other was tottering around in high heels that looked to be almost four inches tall. How could she walk in those? Isaac had tried on a pair of his mother's high heels once, just to see how she did it, but his father had said he really shouldn't do that.
"What did they mean?" he asked Zeke when the girls were gone.
"What?"
" 'Jewed him down.' Does that mean she made him a Jew?"
Zeke laughed, an unpleasant sound to Isaac's ears. Zeke laughed only when he was laughing at someone.
"It means she drove a hard bargain."
"I don't get it."
"Jews are known for being good businessmen, Isaac. Maybe a little too good. A lot of folks think Jews are cheats, who will do anything for a buck."
"But we're not."
"Some are. Enough to give Gentiles that impression." Zeke stared off into the distance, although there was nothing to see but highway and a large truck stop across the parking lot, a huge complex of silver and chrome where enormous trucks stood idling. "Your grandfather was like that."
"How do you know my grandfather? He died before I was born."
"Well, he was famous, right? Ran a big fur store, made a lot of money, married into even more. But no one in Baltimore who knew him ever said he made his money fair."
"My grandfather was not a cheat." Said with more conviction than he felt, because he had never known his Grandfa-ther Rubin. But his father was a good man, so his grandfather must be a good man, too.
"Suit yourself." Zeke's laugh this time was short and bitter, more like a cough.
"You said Baltimore."
"What?"
"You said no one in Baltimore said my grandfather made his money fair. Are you from there, too?"
"Let's go to that convenience store over there," Zeke said. "See what kind of newspapers they carry in this hick town."
The convenience store at the truck stop was grand, almost as big as a real store, with all sorts of unexpected merchandise-clothing, toys, cassette tapes, even a rack of paperback books. A neon sign pointed the way toward restrooms with showers, while another sign advertised something called a chapel.
"Why showers?" Isaac asked Zeke.
"For long-haul truckers, my man. They can get pretty smelly, driving all day and night. They come in here to wash up and pray."
"Is the chapel only for Christians?"
"Don't worry, Isaac. I'm sure all the Jewish truckers find a way to pray, too. Your dad prays, doesn't he? Even in the middle of making all his money, he finds time to pray, right?"
Isaac refused to answer that question, spinning the rack of books while Zeke waited in line to pay for his newspaper. They looked like adult books for the most part, but there was a copy of something called The Amber Spyglass. Isaac had seen older boys at school with this book. He picked it up and opened to a page. Although the type was really small, he could read most of the words. Tests at school said Isaac read at the sixth-grade level, even though he was only going into the fourth grade. He was filled with longing for this book, any book. If his mother were here, he would beg her to buy it for him. But he hated to ask Zeke for anything, and not just because Zeke almost always said no.
Back home he had a savings account and a bank shaped like an Orioles cap. He could easily buy this book for himself. Of course, if he were back home, he wouldn't have to. His father would buy it for him.
Sighing, he started to return The Amber Spyglass to the rack, then saw the store's security camera focused on him, beneath a sign that promised SHOPLIFTER WILL BE PROSECUTED TO THE FULL EXTENT OF THE LAW. He stared back into the camera's eye, then made a show of shoving the book down the front of his pants, smoothing his shirt over it.
"You ready to go, buckaroo?"
"Yes. Yes, I am."
Isaac and Zeke were almost back to the side of the highway before a woman began shouting after him. "Sir? Sir?" Zeke didn't turn around right away. He never did if he could help it. "Sir-I think your little boy has something of ours."