I get off the F train at the last stop. The track is elevated here, and I can see the Cyclone and the Wonder Wheel. I can see the icy cold Atlantic slapping the empty beach. I shuffle down what feels like fifteen flights of stairs to the street, the wind coming from everywhere at once, tiny specks of ocean water and grains of sand like needles on my exposed face. People are all around me ending their day, beginning their day, heads down, encased in wool and nylon and fur and fleece. It’s a terrible time to try to get people to talk, the winter. As bad as in the pouring rain.
Snow left over from the big storm a couple weeks ago is still taking up parking spaces, slate-colored and frozen into walls by the passing plow. The dedicated pedestrian walkway and bike lane is impassable, though it’s hard to imagine too many leisure riders rolling to the beach today. The address Sara gave me is six blocks from the station. Nathan’s hot dogs and the souvenir shops on Mermaid Avenue are closed up tight. The faded color murals remembering strong men and sword swallowers of yore look hopelessly one-dimensional. A right and a left and I’m in front of 331 Sand Street. It’s a narrow two-story house with dingy vinyl siding on a block of the same. I open the knee-high white-painted metal gate, and when I reach the base of the concrete steps the front door opens and two young women come out. They’re both within five years of my age, give or take. The older one has close-cropped brown hair and wears shoulder-grazing feather earrings. The younger one is blond, with her long hair in a ponytail. Both are in coats, but they don’t appear to be leaving. Judging by the sofa on the porch and the pint glass of butts beside it, I’d say they’re out for a smoke.
“Hi,” says the blonde.
“Hi,” I say, pausing at the bottom of the steps. The brunette pulls out a pack of Merit cigarettes and lights one. She passes a cigarette to the blonde and then holds her pack out to me.
“Thanks,” I say, stepping onto the landing. “My name’s Rebekah.”
The brunette hands me a lighter and sucks on her cigarette.
“I’m Suri, that’s Dev,” says the blonde. “Are you from Williamsburg?”
“No,” I say. “I live in Gowanus.”
“You’re frum?”
Frum. It’s a Yiddish word and I don’t know what it means.
I shake my head and shrug at the same time.
“You’re Jewish?” asks the brunette. Her face is unnervingly angular. Cheekbones and chin and a tiny mouth no wider than her nose. Her eyes are jade green, rimmed in thick black liner and clumpy mascara. Half a dozen tiny silver hoops climb up her ear.
I nod. “I’m actually a reporter,” I say slowly, lighting my cigarette.
The two girls look at me, and then each other.
“Really?” says Suri. Unlike Dev, Suri is dressed in the female Orthodox uniform: long skirt, tights, and flat shoes. Her sweater covers her collarbone, and her face is colored only by the cold. They are, apparently, in different stages of rebellion.
“Yeah,” I say. “I write for the Trib.”
“Wow!” says Suri.
“What do you write about?” asks Dev.
“All different stuff,” I say. “But I’m actually doing a story about a woman who was murdered. I think she might have come here.”
“She’s writing about Rivka,” says Suri softly.
“Rivka Mendelssohn,” I say. “Did you know her?”
Both girls nod solemnly.
“Did you write the article that said she was pregnant?” asks Dev.
“I did, yeah. Did you know?”
Dev shakes her head.
“I don’t think anyone did,” says Suri. “The article said the gardener killed her. Is that true?”
“The police aren’t sure, actually,” I say. “I was hoping maybe I could learn a little more about her.”
“She was definitely having sex with Baruch,” says Dev.
“Dev!” says Suri. She says something in Yiddish to her friend.
“I’m just saying, if she really was pregnant, it could have been his.”
“Or it could have been her husband’s,” says Suri.
“Do you guys know Baruch?” I ask. “I’d love to talk to him if I can.”
“He’s been staying here,” says Dev. “But I haven’t seen him in a couple days.”
“Me neither,” says Suri. “I can’t believe she’s really dead.”
“When was the last time you saw her?” I ask.
Suri thinks a moment. “The week before last. It was right before the big storm and she was rushing to get home before it got really bad. She’d come over to make some food so there’d be something in the house if the city shut down. She was always doing stuff like that. She never stayed here overnight, but she wanted to make it nice for whoever did.”
“Who usually stays here?” I ask.
“Well, Moses,” says Suri, “he’s sort of the landlord. He’s Menachem’s grandson. Menachem owns the house, but he’s not here. Then it’s sort of ever-changing. How long have you been here, Dev?”
“About a month. Since I got back from Montreal. Baruch’s been here, too, for a few weeks.”
Dev finishes her cigarette and drops the butt into the pint glass. “It’s fucking freezing. Let’s go in.”
“Do you mind if I ask you a few more questions?” I say. “I won’t be too long, but I’d really like to write something about what she was like and I haven’t gotten very much from her family.”
Suri rolls her eyes. “That’s not surprising.”
“I don’t have to use your names, if you don’t want.”
“You can use my name,” says Dev. “Suri might get in trouble at school.”
“I don’t care,” says Suri. “I’ve missed so many days, they’ll probably kick me out for that first. And Rivka is dead. She was murdered. Somebody has to say something. Somebody has to help.”
Dev opens the front door. “Come in,” she says.
I hold my breath as I cross into the house, imagining for a moment that once I enter, the floor will collapse and I’ll fall through time back to 1988, crashing atop my parents holding hands as they scurry toward a bedroom. I am where Aviva was. But the ground beneath me is steady, and though I’m prepared for the house to lay some heavy emotional burden on my back, I don’t feel much of anything except warmer once Suri shuts the door behind us. The foyer and hallway are cramped. Faded floral wallpaper curls away where the first-floor ceiling meets the staircase. I smell mold. We squeeze past the stairs to the back of the house, which is an open room that is one-third kitchen, and two-thirds living-dining room. The TV is tuned to CNN, but the only person in the room, a fat man bent over an old PC at the table, isn’t watching.