Invisible City (Rebekah Roberts #1)(21)

“And the judge agreed?”

“Apparently.”

Everything I learn about Hasidic life is So. Fucking. Sad. But this is what she left me for. My stomach sizzles. I shift in my seat; I’m going to need a bathroom soon.

“Divorce was rare in the community, and he’d brought shame on his family and hers.”

“Where does Mom come in?”

“Saul had worked at his father-in-law’s clothing store. Of course, he was fired as soon as he filed for divorce. He had nowhere to go, and I think he actually slept outside or in the subway for a while until another man, I forget his name, invited him to help him fix up the run-down Coney Island house he’d been living in in exchange for a place to stay. Saul and the man—maybe his name was Menachem?—turned the place into a refuge for questioning Orthodox. That’s where he met your mother.”

“Mom stayed there?”

“She did. At first, she just went when she could sneak away from home, while her brothers were at yeshiva. But once we met, yes, she stayed there some nights. Until she came to Florida.”

“And now he’s a cop.”

“Yes. He enrolled in the academy, if I remember correctly, the summer your mother and I met. He was older than most recruits, but physically fit and didn’t have a criminal record. And back then, I don’t think you needed any college to get hired.”

“He didn’t go to college?”

“Most ultra-Orthodox don’t.”

“Well, he’s a detective now.”

“Good for him.”

“I think he was pretty surprised to see me.” The burning in my stomach is getting worse. I cross my legs.

“I’m sure. You look just like your mother.”

Sigh.

“Tell him I said hello, will you?”

“If I see him again.” It’s an obnoxious thing to say. I’d like to see him again. My dad would like me to see him again. Saul would probably like to see me again. I’m not sure why I antagonize my dad sometimes. I think I just hate the way he forgives her.

“How’s Iris?” asks Dad.

“She’s good. A lot of people are getting laid off in magazines but she seems to think she’s safe.”

“A lot of people are getting laid off everywhere. Did I tell you your brother lost his job at Taco Bell?”

“He lost a job at Taco Bell?” My brother is a sophomore in high school. He is very good-looking, very smart, and very lazy.

“If you can believe it, they actually closed the location.”

The driver pulls up to my block under the F train.

“Tell him to get into newspapers. It’s a thriving business.”

“Ha.”

“I’m home now, Dad. So I better go.”

“Okay. Thanks for calling. I love you, sweetie.”

“I love you, too.”

I take the stairs two at a time to get to the toilet. Fortunately, I haven’t eaten much, so the acidic shit that comes out is minimal. I have pills I’m supposed to take when the anxiety flares up, but they don’t mix well with alcohol, so I dig around for the little bit of weed left in Iris’s jewelry box. I pack our glass pipe and take a pull. Pot does pretty much nothing to help my symptoms, but it alters my thinking a little so I can sometimes pry my focus away from whatever it’s stuck on. I stand beneath the hot water in the shower for what seems a very long time and concentrate on breathing. My stomach is aflutter and my throat is tight. My heart is beating hard and fast in my chest, quickened by the pot and the image of Rivka Mendelssohn’s blue-skinned body and Aron Mendelssohn’s roar, mixed with the pleasant buzz that comes from the knowledge that I’m about to see Tony. I inhale the steam and the lavender scent of Iris’s fancy foaming body wash. The calm promised on the bottle is something I long for, something I can’t ever seem to catch.

Tony is at the bar before me, drinking a beer and chatting with the bartender.

“Hey,” I say, tapping him on the shoulder.

He gets up and hugs me. I rest my head on his chest for a moment, close my eyes. “What are you drinking?” he asks.

“Beer,” I say, turning to the bartender. “Something local. No IPA.”

“You heard the lady, Rico.” Rico, sporting a newsboy cap and a long, stringy ponytail, obliges. The beers come and we drink. Tony seems to know someone at every bar or restaurant in the city.

“I met the dead lady’s family,” I say.

“Tell me.”

I tell him. I tell him about Rivka’s blue skin, about the little boy at the gas station, about the big house, about Miriam, Aron, and Saul. I tell him that I forgot to ask Miriam’s last name, and that I was worried about her after Aron chased me out.

“So, Saul knew your dad? But you’re from Florida, right?”

“He knew my mom, actually. She was from Brooklyn. She and my dad met here while my dad was doing an internship.”

“And now they live in Florida.”

I don’t tell everybody I meet about my mom—it’s a sad tale, and the awkward pity is unpleasant—but it’s kind of front and center right now. And I feel safe.

“My dad does. My mom’s … gone. She left right after I was born.”

“Really?” He looks genuinely surprised, and then sad, like he just heard really bad news. Almost like he feels for me. “Fuck. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to … f*ck.”