Day of Atonement. Faye Kellerman
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right one.
He consulted his hit list.
Three names held the number-one spot, each one just as dopey and stupid as the next.
Any one of the three would do.
Tomorrow morning he’d hang out, see which one came up first.
Then, like Marvin K., he’d be on his way.
Somehow Rina caught Frieda Levine before she hit the ground. Just as Peter predicted, she’d looked, she’d seen, she’d gone out cold. Through all the noise and confusion, Rina’s first thought was: Get the woman alone for Peter’s sake, for everyone’s sake, before she blurted out something she’d regret.
She tried to shout over her mother-in-law’s shrieking. She wanted Eema Sora out of the room and Mrs. Levine alone with her and Peter, but it was too late. A dozen adults swarmed around Frieda.
“Give her some air, for goodness’ sake,” Rina yelled.
Frieda’s older daughter, Miriam, screamed out Mama, Mama. Shimon, her oldest son, grabbed his mother from Rina’s arms, patted her face. The second son, Ezra, yelled to the younger daughter to fetch some water. The youngest son, Jonathan—the Conservative rabbi—suggested they call a doctor. His father said it was yom tov and if they needed a doctor he’d run down to Doctor Malinkov’s house rather than violate the holiday. Jonathan answered that was ridiculous, that saving a life took precedence over the violation of a law and he’d call the paramedics if his father had difficulty with it. Rina interrupted the hysteria, yelling out that Frieda had just fainted, what she needed was air and a place to rest. Bring her into the other bedroom and give her a little breathing room.
Miraculously, they listened to her. Frieda’s three sons carried their mother into the master bedroom, laying her on one of the twin beds. As soon as her head hit the pillow, Frieda opened her eyes and groaned. Rina sat down beside her, stroked her face. Miriam ordered her mother not to talk.
Frieda’s husband said triumphantly, “See, there was no reason to break yom tov—”
Jonathan said, “Papa, she still could need a doctor—”
“She’s up!” insisted the father. “She’s up. She’s up!”
Jonathan realized his father was trembling, that he was just spouting religion out of force of habit and was as shaken as the rest of them. He said, “Papa, sit down. You’re pale.” He turned to his sister and said, “Miriam, take Papa downstairs.”
Miriam took her father’s arm, but he pushed her away, then stumbled. Miriam caught him. Rabbi Levine announced he wasn’t going anywhere and his children should stop ordering him around as he knew what was best.
The younger daughter, Faygie, returned with a sodden washcloth. Rina took the proffered cloth, dabbed Frieda’s forehead, and gave a quick glance around the room—a wall of faces. Rabbi Levine’s skin had taken on a grayish hue. Rina managed to catch Jonathan’s eye.
“I don’t think your father looks well,” she said.
Jonathan threw his arm around his father. “Let’s go downstairs, Papa. Mama will be fine.”
The old man was too weak to argue.
Rina continued to bathe Frieda’s face. The woman’s eyes were still unfocused and Rina began to worry. Maybe something more serious had occurred. But a moment later, Frieda grabbed Rina’s hands, and within seconds, her eyes became puddles of tears.
“What is it, Mama?” Faygie cried out.
“You overworked yourself,” Miriam scolded. Her voice had panic in it. “You don’t let me help you. You’re getting too old to do all this cooking by yourself. Why don’t you let me help you—”
“Miriam …” Shimon scolded.
She fell silent.
Frieda continued to cry. Rina brushed away her tears, told her everything was all right. But Frieda shook her head, violently.
“Talk, Mama,” Shimon said.
“What is it?” asked another voice.
Rina felt her stomach turn over. Her sisters-in-law had come up. And their husbands. And some of the children. The room was so hot and stuffy it would make anyone a nervous wreck. With as much authority as Rina could muster she informed the group that Frieda needed quiet and not everyone fretting over her. It was just sudden exhaustion and would everyone please leave so the woman could breathe.
“I’ll stay with her,” Miriam said.
“I will,” Faygie insisted.
“All of you out!” Rina ordered. “You’re all much too excited to be of any use right now!”
Rina was surprised at how commanding her voice sounded. Shimon said that Rina was right and directed everyone out of the room.
“But she needs family,” Miriam protested. “No offense to you, Rina, but she needs family.”
“Why have you taken over?” Ezra asked Rina.
“Because I’m a bit calmer than all of you—”
“I’m calm,” Miriam insisted. “I’m very, very calm!”
Rina said, “Miriam, you want to help out, go check on your grandparents. They must be worried sick.”
Faygie said, “I’ll do it.”
Rina said, “Both of you do it. I’ll call if she needs anything.”
“Maybe Papa’s right,” Ezra said. “Maybe I should get Doctor Malinkov.”
Rina said, “Give her a few minutes—”
“What do you know about nursing?” Ezra interrupted.
Frieda muttered something, eyes still flowing tears.
“What, Mama?” Miriam said.
The woman turned to her daughter, held Rina with one hand, and waved at the door with the other.
“Nu?” Rina said. “She wants you out.”
“Are you okay, Mama?” Ezra said.
“Give her some room, please,” Rina said.
Frieda nodded.
“Would you like me to stay with you?” Faygie asked.
Again, Frieda waved at the door.
Faygie said, “Don’t be stubborn, Mama. I can stay with you.”
“Go,” Frieda whispered. “Go all of you. Rina will stay with me.”
Faygie sighed, accepting her mother’s words with reluctance.
Shimon placed his arm around Ezra, said to his sisters and brother, “Come.” To Rina, he said, “Call us if she needs anything.”
After everyone had left, Frieda turned her head on the pillow, away from Rina, but held her hand tightly. The woman seemed to be muttering to herself, but Rina could make out prayers through the sobs. She stroked Frieda’s hand, tried to think of something to say, but she was as dumbstruck as she’d been with Peter.
Peter!
Dear God, what was he going through!
Rina’s stomach was churning at full force. She took a deep breath, looked around the emptied room. She’d been inside this house hundreds of times but had never invaded the private sanctuary of her in-laws’ bedroom. Twin beds, between them a large night table. Separate beds were required by Orthodox law, but she and Yitzchak had pushed their beds together, each of them sticking their feet in the crack at bedtime, playing with each other’s toes.