Bicycle watches after them, then closes his notepad and starts walking around toward the back of the house.
“I’m gonna see if this one will talk to me,” I say to George, who obligingly reaches back for his camera.
“Let’s do it,” he says.
We get out of the car and I walk quickly toward the man in the black hat.
“Excuse me,” I say. “Sir?”
He turns around.
“Hi,” I say, “I’m from the Trib; I’m wondering if you can give us any information about Rivka Mendelssohn. Even just an age? Was she married? Did she have children?”
I speak quickly, including multiple questions because I assume, based on the behavior of the rest of the cops, that he’ll barely stop walking. I am wrong. This cop stops.
I extend my hand. “My name is Rebekah. I was at the scrap yard earlier today. This is George. I wonder if you could give us any information about the victim.” The cop doesn’t answer. He looks flustered, like I’ve caught him picking his nose or something. I continue. “We know her name is Rivka Mendelssohn, but we’re hoping to get a little more information for the story. This is where she lived, right?”
As I am talking, his face changes. He begins to smile.
“Rebekah?” he says.
“Yes.” My hand is still extended, but he hasn’t taken it. He is just staring at me. I look at George, who raises his eyebrows.
“Sir?” he says, but the man doesn’t seem to hear.
“Are you working on this case?” I ask, letting my hand fall, embarrassed. “We’re just wondering if we can get a little information about Mrs. Mendelssohn. Is it correct that she was married to the Smith Street Scrap Yard’s owner, Aron Mendelssohn?”
“I am Saul,” he says. “Saul Katz.”
“Okay,” I say, writing down his name.
“I knew your mother.”
I look up from my notebook. “Excuse me?”
He steps forward, reaching out to touch my arm. I flinch. Who is this man?
“You look just like her.”
I drop my pen but can’t bend over to pick it up. I feel like I’ve been turned to stone. I know I look like my mother. I’ve seen pictures. We have the same wavy copper hair, the same heart-shaped face, the same long nose, the same hazel eyes. There is also, I’ve come to realize, a sexiness about us both that, at least as adolescents, made us seem older than we were. Part of it is easy to point at: we’re both stacked. I wore a C-cup before I got to high school. I’ll never forget the way the junior high boys gawked and stumbled when I came to the end-of-eighth-grade party in a bikini. I’d had to buy the two-piece because my top and bottom were totally different sizes. When he is reminiscing, my father refers to my mother, on that first day in the Strand, as a “bombshell.”
Saul steps back. “I’m sorry,” he says, but he’s still staring.
“Could you just tell us…” I’m too flustered to form a clear question and my stomach feels like it’s on fire. Is my mother about to jump out of the bushes? Have I become a participant in some kind of reality TV show? Is this like, Intervention for abandoned children?
I look at George, who, mercifully, takes over.
“We’ve been told the woman who lives here was found dead this morning. We’re looking for some information about her-age, marital status, that sort of thing.”
Saul slowly pulls his eyes off me and addresses George.
“She was married,” says Saul. “I’m not sure of her exact age.”
“Do you know the family?” I manage to ask. My voice is tight, like something has its hands around my throat.
“I do,” says Saul. “Though not well.” He is older than my dad, maybe fifty-five. He is not wearing a wedding ring.
I can’t think of the next question.
“Are you enjoying New York?” Saul asks.
I nod. I can’t bring myself to look at him.
“Your father said you were a reporter.”
“My father? You talked to my father?”
“We’ve kept in touch a little. He sent me an e-mail when you moved here.” He’s still staring at me, and his face has this almost-laughing look. The beer in my stomach is threatening to shoot up my esophagus. I am not prepared in the slightest for this situation. I wonder what George thinks. The last thing I need is him reporting my meltdown to the desk. I raise my eyes and stare Saul down.
“Is there anything you can tell me about Rivka Mendelssohn?” If he’s going to make me feel like a frightened child, I am going to pump him for every ounce of information I can. Fuck you. I am not my mother.
“I’m sorry,” he says, wiping a hand across his face. “It’s just… I’m sorry.”
“Age? Kids? I spoke with Aron Mendelssohn. Were they married?” Each word is difficult to say, but I am not going to let this man-or my mother-turn me into a mute idiot who can’t do her job.
“Yes,” says Saul. “Rivka Mendelssohn was Aron Mendelssohn’s wife. He owns the scrap yard. This is their home. I don’t know her exact age.”
“I knocked on the door and met a woman,” I say. “Miriam?”
“You spoke with Miriam?” Saul seems surprised, which pleases me. See? I’m not just an orphan girl. I’m a big-city reporter, bitch.
“Just for a minute, but that was before we were sure the dead woman was Rivka Mendelssohn. I’d like to see if I can get a quote from her now.”
Saul is silent.
“Are you working on this case?” I ask.
“I work in property crime, not homicide. I was called in to assist with translation. Most Hasidim speak Yiddish at home. I help the department liaise with the community, when needed.” He pauses. “Would you like to speak with Miriam again?”
No cop has ever offered to facilitate an interview for me. Usually, they either scoff, like the detectives in the car outside, or shame me, shaking their head that I would have the gall to prey on these devastated people at this delicate time. Perhaps, I think, I have stumbled upon a source. Courtesy of my deadbeat mother.
“Yes,” I say.
“I will take you around the back.”
“Can George come, too?”
“No.”
I look at George. He doesn’t seem bothered. Saul walks toward the back gate and George bends down to pick up my pen.
“I’ll be right here,” he says. “Holler if you need anything.”
Saul lifts the latch on the gate and holds it open for me. The backyard is a narrow strip of snow-covered grass. A rusty metal swing set stands crooked in one corner; a row of garbage cans are lined up along a two-car garage. All the window shades are drawn. Saul knocks softly at the back door, which looks a lot like the front door; it has its own doorbell and small portico. Miriam appears at the door and Saul motions for me to go inside.
The three of us stand together in a small entryway. Miriam looks very nervous. She says something to Saul in Yiddish and he says something back; then he turns to me.
“It is Shabbos, she is worried what the neighbors will say about all the activity. I’ve told her you are Jewish. She says she can answer a few questions if it helps.”
I look at Miriam and try to catch her eye, but she keeps her head down.
“Thank you for taking the time,” I say. “I can’t imagine how hard this is. I just want to get a little information so that we can…” I want to say “humanize,” but somehow it seems inappropriate. “So we can just let our readers know a little about her life.” I pause for a cue to continue. Nothing. I continue. “Rivka lived here?”
Miriam nods.
“And, may I ask, how you are related?”
“Rivka is my brother’s wife. We are like sisters.”
I scribble sister-in-law in my notebook.
“How old was she?”
“Thirty.”
“Did she have children?”