A Town of Empty Rooms (26 page)

“Kayla took a unicorn from me,” said Rachel, grimly. “The pink one. I didn't get it back.”

Sophie sat beside them, listening. She looked both amused and baffled. “Everyone had quite a day,” she said.

They all sprawled, exhausted, around the living room. First, Sophie read the children some stories out of a book, and they appeared to be listening. Serena left the room, thinking her mother might play with the children while she made dinner. Sophie settle on the worn couch and observed the children: Zeb set up some trucks and Rachel placed plastic animals in them. They were not playing, exactly, but there was, briefly, a modicum of peace. Dan came home, and they all assembled around the table, and for the course of the meal, at least, Serena had the feeling that she was inside some harmony that she had imagined.

“Show me your good manners, Zeb,” Sophie said to him, as he sat on his knees, stabbing his chicken nugget, at which point he rested on his bottom, lifting his fork to his mouth with an elegance that seemed to foreshadow hisself in ten years. Rachel took a sequined flower from Sophie's shirt and slid it into her hair.

Dan listened to Sophie's description of having been dumped here instead of flown to Paris and said, “Sophie. Please. This is the Paris of the American South. Haven't you been to the Wrightson-Birch mansion? Haven't you ordered biscuits at Jimbo's? Haven't you tried the delicacies of this part of North Carolina?”

“What am I missing?” she said, her dark eyes flashing a little.

“Don't you want to raise your cholesterol a bit?” he said.

“God, no, Daniel, I already am on medication — ”

“I don't believe it,” he said, standing, arms folded, smiling at her. “You? So youthful?”

“Stop, Mr. PR man,” said Sophie, laughing.

“You look pretty, Grandma,” said Zeb.

“Well, thank you, sir,” she said.

“You are pretty!” said Rachel, determinedly.

“
Merci, mademoiselle,
” said Sophie, with a French accent.

“Say more,” said Zeb. “Say more like that.”

Sophie spoke to them in a torrent of confident, beautifully accented French, as they sat around the foldout table, and it was as though they were, if not in France, in another distant city. How much her mother knew! Serena gazed at her; she seemed to contain everything worth knowing. Her children interviewed her mother, and Sophie taught them to introduce themselves in French. They all shook hands with each other and said
bonjour
.

“
Bonjour,
” said Zeb and Rachel, leaning on the
j,
their faces lit with whatever she taught them.

Serena and Dan went through the high-pitched slog that was bath and bedtime, and Serena thought about inviting her mother to stay longer — a week, a month — her mother teaching her children French, walking them to school, all of them smiling and holding hands. Other families managed to do it, and she imagined Sophie glad to be here, with them, forgetting about Paris, seeing Dawn's mistake as an odd piece of luck. Could a family re-form itself in this new, hopeful way? But her mother stepped out onto the porch after dinner and sat, looking outside, while the children went to bed, and Serena noticed her mother's suitcase, unopened, in the living room. “Hey,” she said. “Do you want to find a place to unpack?”

“Well,” her mother said. She looked at her with a guilty expression. “Honey. I don't need to. I want to go home. In the morning.”

“What?”

“It's, well, nice enough here. But I do want to go home and sleep in my own bed.”

“We can find you a bed here,” said Serena. “Um. Somewhere . . . ”

“I don't even know where my own bed is,” said Sophie. “I wake up in the apartment where Dawn put me, I look at the ceiling, and I think, Where am I? How did I get here?”

“Mom,” said Serena, “why do you have to go? We would like you to stay. We can have a nice weekend — ”

“No,” said Sophie. “No offense, sweetheart. I do want to go. I am looking forward to going home. I will leave in the morning and not bother anyone — ”

“Mom. Why?”

Her mother hesitated; Serena did not know what to do to reach into her mother's own restlessness, to calm it. “I feel more confident, suddenly. I have plans. Maybe I can teach French. There is not endless time. This was a lovely night, but this is what I'm doing,” Sophie said.

She stood up, quickly, as though to continue this line of thought before it disappeared again, and she put her hand on Serena's shoulder, as if to calm her daughter or make sure she remained in her seat. Serena felt the slight, precious weight of her mother's hand on her shoulder and wondered how long her mother would stand like this — it was about a minute. There was no keeping anyone anywhere, not your mother or sister or father, not anyone at all.

Then her mother went into the bedroom, and Serena could hear her on her phone.

 

 

 

THE FIRST FLIGHT SOPHIE COULD get on was at noon the next day. It was a bright November morning. Sophie sat in the kitchen, a little bewildered while the breakfast whirl went on around her.

After everyone had left, her mother pulled her suitcase into the living room. She was not wearing the sweater with the French writing; she was fully made up and had put on a trim, navy blue blazer and matching pants as though she wanted to believe she was going on another exciting journey. She clasped her hands in her lap and looked at Serena.

“Go about your day,” said Sophie. “Ignore me.”

“Don't you want to go to breakfast?” asked Serena. “Or maybe look around town?”

“I'm not on vacation,” Sophie said. “Proceed.”

Serena looked at her mother sitting on the worn couch. Sophie was ready for her next journey, organizing her large purse. She was arranging Ziploc bags of snacks in there — whatever kids' snacks she had drummed up in the cabinet. There was a bag of Cheez-Its, a bag containing Nilla wafers, another containing peanut butter Ritz Bits; it looked as though she was preparing for a large and hungry playdate.

Serena sat at the card table in the dining room. She needed to go
through Betty's list. She took out the first page; it was impossible to read Betty's handwriting. She would have to call the members.

Her mother was watching her. Sophie stood up and joined her at the table.

“What is this?” she asked.

Serena was a little afraid of what her mother might say, but she also appreciated the fact that she was interested, so she said, “A kind of... an investigation.”

Sophie brightened. “Into whom?”

“Well,” said Serena. “The rabbi.”

Her mother's eyes widened. “What did he do?”

“It's not clear, exactly.”

“Well, what do they accuse him of?”

Serena raised her hand and scratched her neck. “Cruelty.”

Her mother smoothed the collar of her jacket, as though this revelation deserved a gesture of civility in response. “Well,” she said. “That's interesting.” She looked intently at Serena. “What is your job in all this?”

“I'm going to call some women and listen to what they are going to say about him. Then we're supposed to decide what to do.”

“Good for you,” said her mother. “Can I listen in?”

Serena was glad for her mother's interest. “Sure.”

Serena set the phone on speaker and dialed the first number: Rosalie Goldenhauer. Age: 82. Temple member: 9 years. Member: Hadassah, Caring Committee, Vision Screening Project. Originally from: Long Island, NY.

“Hello,” said Serena. She did not know what tone to take — impersonal, like she was taking a survey, or warmer, like a kind of therapist. “I'm calling from the board of Temple Shalom. My name is Serena Hirsch.”

“Hello, darling,” said Rosalie. “How are you today?”

“I'm fine,” she said. “And you?”

“I am looking out into this glorious day. Do you know what the weather is in New York this morning, dear? Twenty-eight. Do you know what it will be here today? Sixty. Ha!” Rosalie laughed, a trilling sound. “Now, what can I do for you?”

“Well,” said Serena, “the reason I'm calling today is, well, I don't want to bother you, but I am conducting an investigation into the rabbi. I wanted to discuss an incident — ”

“Oh ho!” said Rosalie, her tone sharpening. “That man should not be called ‘Rabbi.'”

Sophie was sitting at the table, hands clasped; her eyebrows lifted. She leaned closer to the phone.

Serena looked at her notes.

“You claimed that at a Shabbat service, he walked by you without saying hello.”

“That is correct. Not a hello, not a friendly smile.”

“This happened once?”

“Not once. Three times. Once, I think he shrugged when I said hello.”

Serena said, trying not to lean too hard into the third word in the sentence, “Is that
it
?”

“Is that it?” asked Rosalie, crisply. “I pay my dues. I expect service.”

“So he has not said hello to you three times,” said Serena. Sophie raised an eyebrow.

“Not a warm one. Not any.” She paused. “I'm a widow. My children don't call. My knees are shot. Sometimes I go the whole day without speaking to anyone. The rabbi at my shul at Long Island was a hugger. He hugged people he hated. Shouldn't a rabbi, of all people, hug people he hates? I deserve a hello. I deserve a hug.”

Serena thanked her for her time and hung up the phone.

“She does seem mad about something,” said Sophie. “But not a good witness. Next.”

Next: Miss Carmella Steinway. Age: 89. Temple member: 5 years. Member: Oneg Organization Committee. Originally from: Charleston, SC.

“Investigate? What, darling, is there to investigate? The evidence is in.”

“You allege that he screamed at you at a Hadassah dinner.”

“That he did. I recall that Ginger Aretz was in attendance, too.”

“Can you tell me what happened, in your own words?” Now she had become an actor in a police show.

“I certainly can. We were having a perfectly pleasant conversation about my granddaughter's Bat Mitzvah, how we wanted to bring all her friends on the bima for a brief hora afterwards, and he said, in a most unrabbinical way, ‘That's not spiritual!'”

“What did you say?”

“To each his own, Rabbi,” I said, mind you, in a polite voice. Then he yelled, ‘I'm sorry, are we worshipping the Carmella religion?'”

“Describe
yell.
”

“Like a child,” she said. “Then,” her voice grew excited, “let me tell you what he did next.”

“Go ahead.”

“He slapped his hand on the table. He yelled, ‘What is this, a Broadway show? You want to drag the whole world onto the bima? Give me a break. You want to have the Bat Mitzvah on Sunday? What else do you do in the Carmella religion? How about bringing a cross up, too?'”

“Then what happened?”

“He threw a glass.”

Sophie's mouth fell open.

“What?”

“Or maybe it fell off the table. I'm not sure. I am eighty-six years old. I look up to my religious leaders. He would not stop. All I heard was ‘the Carmella religion' over and over. I am not a religion! This was a luncheon! I was trying to eat my Waldorf salad.”

Carmella was excited to be interviewed; it took some time to get her off the phone. Sophie was tapping her fingers on the table impatiently when Serena finally put the receiver down.

“That one,” Sophie said sternly, “goes on a bit. But she's right. He's making fun of her.”

Loretta Stone was next. Age: 72. Temple member: 2 years. Member: blank. Originally from: Cleveland, OH.

“Loretta, I have some questions about the rabbi,” said Serena.

“Yes,” said Loretta. There was the fuzzy noise of a television in the background; it stopped.

“You lodged a complaint against him last year.”

There was a gasping sound; Loretta was weeping.

“Oh, no,” said Serena, alarmed. Sophie leaned forward, her hand lifted as though she wanted to place it on the phone to comfort Loretta.

“Excuse me,” whispered Loretta.

She listened to the woman's ragged breath, helpless. Serena's palms began to sweat. “I'm sorry,” she said. “Miss Stone. What happened?”

Loretta took a shuddering breath. “I sat in his chair.”

“What chair?”

“His office chair. I didn't know it was his. My feet were tired.” She paused. “He shrieked at me to get out of it. Like this: ‘Loretta, get out of my chair!' I just wanted to ask him if the Temple had a cemetery yet. I have diabetes. My heart isn't good. How long do I have here? Where will I rest?” Her voice cracked.

“I'm sorry,” said Serena. Her mother's face was grim.

“He looked at me like I was a thief. He is a rabbi. I just wanted to ask him about the cemetery.” She sighed.

“Did he say anything else?”

“He sat down in his chair, like a king getting into his throne, and looked at me like I was a bug. He yelled, ‘Why would you think you could sit there!' I said I was sorry. I was tired. Could he not yell because it was bad for my heart?

“He said, ‘For god's sake, I'm not yelling! Doesn't anyone here understand who I am?' I got scared and thought, Who is he? Is he a special rabbi? Is he maybe a prophet? Who?”

“Then what?”

“I told him my concerns, and he yelled, ‘That's not my problem! That's the Cemetery Committee. Ask them why the hell they can't get it together to find a decent home for the dead. Get out of here. Goodbye.'