“Excuse me,” I said, trying my best to seem pleasant. “Could you tell me where is the mikveh?”
“I’m sorry?” said the woman, smiling. She, like many of the people I met in Florida, spoke with an accent from the South.
“The mikveh,” I repeated.
“I’m sorry,” she said again. She was ten or fifteen years older than I was, with a deep tan and athletic arms. Her toenails were exposed and painted a shade similar to her lipstick. “The what?”
“Mikveh?” I did not know how else to say it.
“I’m so sorry, hon, I don’t know what that is. Just one sec…” She raised her hand and caught the attention of the rabbi, flagging him over.
“Oh no,” I said, horrified. “That’s fine…”
But it was too late, there he was.
“What’s your name, sweetie?” asked the woman.
“Aviva,” I said.
“What a beautiful name,” she said. “I’m Estelle. This is Rabbi Siegel. Rabbi, Aviva had a question I couldn’t answer.”
“Welcome to Temple Beth Israel, Aviva,” he said, and reached his hand to shake mine. I was so shocked I stepped back. He and Estelle both smiled weakly, indulging my strangeness. “What can I do for you?”
I must have looked as helpless as I felt, because Estelle spoke first.
“She asked about the mik… What was it?”
“The mikveh,” I whispered. It was everything I could do not to run.
“The…? Oh!” The rabbi rubbed the place on his jaw where a beard should have been. He wore a white robe, and at his neck I could see the knot of a tie with pink flamingos embroidered on it. Pink! Was this a joke?
“I’m sorry, we don’t one have. I actually don’t know any temples in the area that do. But let me make a few calls. Have you recently moved to Orlando?”
It was enough.
“Thank you,” I said and ran out of the building. I rode home in the dark and with each pump of my bicycle pedals I became more upset. Who were these people? They couldn’t possibly think that what they were practicing in that big airy room was Judaism. I told your father I had to go back the next day. He looked concerned. I did not sleep that night. There was so much to tell them, and it was so important. I rode there before dawn. The air was already steamy. I forgot my shoes. I waited more than an hour in the parking lot before a car pulled in. It was not the rabbi, but an older man. I ran to his car.
“Where is the rebbe?” I asked him.
“Rabbi Siegel? He’s in about nine.”
“I need to talk to the rebbe.”
“Okay,” said the man, rolling up his window, gathering a bag, taking his time getting out. “Like I said, he’ll be here…”
“It is very important that I speak with him,” I said, starting to breathe more quickly. “Please!”
“Look,” said the man, “you need to calm down. You can wait…”
“I have been waiting!”
He put his hand out to touch my shoulder.
“What are you doing!” I screamed, frightening him. He stepped back.
I froze. What was I doing? “What are you doing!” I screamed again, this time at myself. I slapped my hand to my head. Hard.
“Miss…” said the man, but I was already running. I grabbed the bicycle and tripped. The metal edge of the left pedal skidded along the skin on my right shin, tearing it open, drawing blood. But I hopped and hopped and finally got on and got away.
The next time I went to Temple Beth Israel they called your father. The time after that, they called the police.
CHAPTER FOUR
Frank’s Diner is on the corner of Forty-ninth Street and the West Side Highway. It’s a 24-7 joint, with mustard-colored pleather booths lining both windowed walls and a full bar with a mirror backsplash. A man in work boots and paint-splattered jeans is sitting at the counter with a beer and the Trib in front of him. A couple, both men, one wearing dramatic eye makeup, whisper across a table along the back wall. Saul and I choose a booth by the west-facing window looking out at the Intrepid docked in the Hudson. It was so cold this winter there were ice floes in the river. One of the Trib photogs snapped a shot of an eagle on one, and it ran with a story about the record-breaking temperatures. The ice is gone now, and with the heat cranking in the diner and the sun shining outside I can almost imagine what it might be like when the weather finally gets warmer.
I asked Saul to come with me because I figured Levi would be more comfortable talking to me with another man present. Other than Saul, all of my sources in the Haredi world have been female. I’m not sure if that’s because men are actually more reluctant to speak to outsiders, or if they’re just unpracticed in interacting with women they aren’t married to. Maybe a little of both.
I see a man in Hasidic dress coming up the block, his head bowed against the wind off the water, one hand pressed down on his tall black hat, sidecurls blown horizontal behind his head. When he comes through the door he looks around expectantly. I wave and Saul stands. They shake hands. I know enough not to extend mine for a greeting. Levi is a good-looking man. Short, with eyes so dark they almost appear black, and a full beard covering half his face. He sits down next to Saul and the waiter comes over with a menu.
“Just tea, please,” says Levi, taking a Kleenex from his pocket. He blows his nose.
“Thank you for meeting us,” I say. “I’m sorry about your wife.”
Levi nods. “Thank you,” he says. He puts his Kleenex back in his pocket and looks at me. “What do you need to know?”
“Well, Saul said you had some questions about Pessie’s death.”
“I have lots of questions. Although I seem to be the only one.”
“What do you mean?”
“My wife should not be dead,” he says. “She was twenty-two years old. She was a mother. Her family seems to think it was…” He shakes his head. “I do not understand them.”
I open my notebook. “Can you tell me how she died?”
“That is what I am trying to find out.”
I’m not making myself clear. “I mean…”
“Our son, Chaim, was scheduled to go to the doctor for a checkup. A woman from the office called me at work and said that they had missed the appointment. I called Pessie, but she did not answer her phone. I thought something had happened, perhaps with her father. He has diabetes and Pessie’s mother often calls her to help with his insulin. But when I got home…” He pauses. “I could hear Chaim crying from outside the front door. When I got inside I saw he was strapped into his car seat, just sitting there on the floor in his dirty diaper. Pessie would never have left him like that. I heard the water running in the bathroom. The door was closed. She was in the bathtub.”
Levi rubs his hand across his face. I look at Saul, who raises his eyebrows as if to say, your move. What’s my next question? To me, dying in a bathtub conjures up images of slit writs, or maybe an overdose. Should I ask if he saw blood? Or vomit? Or spilled pills? I decide to wait.
“I called 911,” he continues. “And Pessie’s mother. She called the chevra kadisha.” I must look like I don’t understand him, because he translates. “The burial society.” Ah. “The Roseville officer arrived first. He was very professional. He asked me if I had touched her, and when I said no he took some photographs. But when Pessie’s family and the chevra kadisha arrived…” Levi purses his lips, like he’s trying to press back whatever emotion is threatening to pop out. “There was an argument about who would take the body, and when Pessie’s mother learned the officer had taken photographs she became hysterical. She insisted Pessie be taken immediately to the funeral home.”