Sammy’s parole officer explained the conditions of his release: He would be tested for drugs every week. He needed to find a job. And he could not affiliate with criminals.
“What does that mean?” I asked the parole officer.
“What I said. He can go back to prison if I find out he is hanging out with anyone else with a criminal record.”
I looked at Sammy, but he was looking at the ground.
“Did you hear that, Sammy?” I asked.
“I’m not deaf, Aviva,” he said.
“You better check your attitude, son,” said the parole officer. “I have no problem violating you.”
For the first week, we left him alone. He slept all day and lay in front of the television all night. Finally, one night at dinner, we broached the subject of work. Isaac said that he could get Sammy a couple shifts a week at the store where he worked part-time.
“The hippie place,” said Sammy.
“What is this hippie thing?” asked Isaac. “It is a job.”
Sammy rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to sell incense and beads to college students, okay?”
Isaac took a deep breath. “You think it is beneath you?”
“I think it’s fucking lame,” he said.
“Why do you think it is okay to insult Isaac?” I asked.
“I’m not insulting Isaac,” said Sammy. “He can do what he wants. I’m not into hippies, okay?”
Isaac shook his head. “You have to work.”
“I’ll find a job.”
“Doing what?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he said. “I’ll pump gas. Whatever.”
“Well,” said Isaac, getting up with his plate, “you better get started.”
Sammy stayed at the table, pushing his food around.
“I know this is hard, Sammy,” I said. “Don’t let this change who you are. Don’t let this get in your way.”
“You don’t know shit about who I am, Aviva,” he said. “You know that, right? You know you bailed on our family. You know you left me alone with Tatty and Eli and the sicko molester freaks. Why didn’t you take me with you?”
I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t take him for the same reason I didn’t take you. I didn’t think I was good enough. I had nothing when I came back to Borough Park. Who was I to take a baby from his home? I couldn’t even get a job. I was broken to pieces and needed time to create a life for myself. Just like him now.
“Whatever,” he said, when I didn’t answer fast enough. “This is who I am. Sorry if you don’t like it. If you want to be a mother so bad now, go find Rebekah. Maybe she still cares.”
PART 3
CHAPTER TWENTY
It’s nearly 11:00 P.M. by the time I check into a ground floor room at the Comfort Lodge between New Paltz and Poughkeepsie. There is a piece of duct tape over a crack in the window and water stains in the toilet, but at seventy-two dollars a night, I’m way under budget. I turn the room’s heat up high and e-mail Larry to relay what I’ve learned from Van Keller, then send Nechemaya a text saying we need to talk. I haven’t heard from Saul or Iris. After about twenty minutes of CNN, I turn off the bedside lamp and, with the hotel’s floral blackout curtains drawn, fall into the big silence of the little room.
The sick feeling begins in my dream. Mellie is in front of the synagogue on Ocean Parkway shouting Junior! Junior! But instead of emitting a human noise, she barks. She barks and barks and then she pulls a handgun and points it at me. Van Keller is at my side, his arm around my waist. Mellie pulls the trigger and it makes a barking sound. The bullet hits my stomach and I think, I will never meet my mother. And then I am awake. I keep my eyes closed-sometimes, I’ve found, I can return to my dreams. I always imagine that I can change the outcome, but usually I’m just back in the pain, as ineffectual as before. Mellie shoots me again. I am on the ground but this time Saul is beside me instead of Van Keller. Take her gun! I shout. He waves his arms, like he is directing traffic. Someone has painted a swastika on the stone steps. The paint drips white. Where is she? I yell. Saul says nothing, but suddenly I can see her. Her back is to me, her long red hair. She is walking away. And I can’t get up.
At 7:30 A.M., Larry calls.
“Connie Hall has a gay son?” he says. “Unbelievable!”
“You know him?”
“Sure,” he says. “I was the Albany stringer back in the eighties. I covered his manslaughter trial. He ran a guy down with his truck. They couldn’t prove intent so he only got, like, eight years. He pops up every now and then, waving his Nazi flag on Hitler’s birthday, shit like that. People always said he ran drugs and guns for the Aryans but nobody could ever make anything stick.”
“I actually went out to where he lived yesterday and talked to his son’s girlfriend. She said they’re stockpiling weapons for a race war.”
“She said what?! Is this on the record?”
“No,” I say, throwing off the hotel covers and sitting up, trying to fling out the fear left in my stomach by the dream. I’m going to have to use the bathroom soon. Fucking anxiety. I always laugh when movies and TV shows portray mental illness as, like, glamorous. Oh, that poor, sensitive girl. I’ll tell you what’s not glamorous: diarrhea. “I was… I wasn’t sure it was, like, safe to say I was a reporter. I kind of just went poking around, trying to find the son or his boyfriend, Pessie’s ex.”
“Have you talked to him?”
“The son?”
“Or the ex.”
“Not yet. I’ve left messages but I haven’t heard back.”
“So, what do you have on the record?”
“I have that Pessie was still hanging out with her ex and that he spent time in prison. I guess I need to confirm that with the DOC. The girl I talked to used to live with the gay son and the ex and told me they used to deliver drugs for Connie. She said they all got arrested about four years ago. Plus, we have the license plate number of the truck a neighbor saw at Pessie’s. The cop told me it’s registered to Connie Hall, but that’s off the record. But if we could confirm on our end…” I trail off, hoping he’ll interrupt with an idea.
“His truck being seen at the apartment doesn’t mean he killed her, but clearly it means they have to talk to him-it’s not exactly his neighborhood.”
“Not at all. And if the Roseville chief is related to him, that’s a pretty major conflict of interest.”
“I can get the library working on confirming a family relation between a possible murder suspect and the chief supposed to be investigating the case. I think that’s the best lead. The whole gay son, ex-fiancé thing feels iffy. I don’t want to write about a relationship if we haven’t talked to either of the people supposedly in it. You make sure the State Police never got a call from the Roseville chief. You also want to get them to say that, yes, murders in towns with small forces are typically kicked up to them. Your first story already made the point that police didn’t seem interested. We need to advance that with specifics. Can you get the neighbors on the record saying they gave the plate number to the cops?”
“They didn’t actually give it to them-they gave it to my burial society guy and he gave it to the cops.”
“Is he on the record with that?”
“No.”
“You need to get this stuff on the record. I’ll try to confirm that the plate is Hall’s. Meantime, get the chief’s response as if we know for sure. Does he deny getting the plate? What’s his comment on it being Hall? Does he think he’s got a conflict of interest? And ask about Hall’s son. Does the chief know about this relationship with Pessie’s ex? I’ll loop in the city desk.”
“Tell them I have a photo of Pessie’s apartment.”
“Great. That’ll help. E-mail it to me.”