Invisible City (Rebekah Roberts #1)(31)

“This is my friend Rebekah,” she told the class when the teacher asked her to introduce her guest. “She’s Jewish, but she doesn’t belong to temple.”

I knew a couple of the kids by sight from school. One was a shitty kid named Gabe. He wasn’t terribly bright and his parents spoiled him, a lethal combination in his case.

“She’s not Jewish!” he said, his face a smear of scorn.

Gabe and I, it turned out, had already had it out over my Judaism, or lack thereof. Early in the school year, the teacher had given him some tests to pass back, and when he saw how I spelled my name, he grilled me.

“Why do you spell your name like that?” he demanded, standing over me, waving a paper in my face.

“None of your business,” I told him. My rebuff only enraged him further, and he began telling everyone that I was trying to make myself look Jewish by spelling my name “the Jewish way.” And clearly I wasn’t Jewish, because have you ever seen a Jewish redhead? And besides, her dad works at a church. The gossip was much more interesting to Gabe than most everyone else, since most everyone else didn’t really give a shit about Jews one way or the other. He stuck to it, though. He made a real effort to get people to rally against me. Anya, whom I had told about my mom, told me I should stand up to him and say that I was Jewish because my mom was Jewish. But I didn’t want to open that can of worms with him. So when he protested my Jewishness in Hebrew School, I was surprised at how it suddenly affected me.

“My mom was more Jewish than you’ll ever be,” I said, leaning toward him. “My mom was so Jewish, she gave everything up for Judaism. She gave me up. Would your parents give you up for Judaism? Fuck you.”

If I hadn’t said “f*ck,” they probably wouldn’t have escorted me out. But I did, and they did. When I saw them all again, at Anya’s bat mitzvah, they kept away. Even Gabe. After that, it was me who kept away.

I am pressed toward the funeral home by the crowd, barely having to move my feet. The moaning seems to be coming from every direction. Is Aron Mendelssohn here? Is Miriam? From where I’m standing, everyone looks the same. I am able to get to the sidewalk and just past the gate into the parking lot when the voice on the loudspeaker falls silent. All I can hear is weeping. I rise onto my toes again and see a light-colored wood box moving slowly on the outstretched hands of the women outside. The box that holds Rivka Mendelssohn. The women around me lift their arms. I do the same, my fingers moving in anticipation. As the box moves back, the women turn to watch it, until suddenly, she is in my hands, and everyone seems to be looking at me. My fingertips feel the scratch of the wood, but the box itself seems weightless. Around me, the women turn as one, passing her back toward the street. I watch as she floats away, carried on the outstretched hands of the women of her community, until finally she reaches a waiting black car and is slid into the back. Someone shuts the door and she is gone. The women nearest the car slap their hands on its tinted windows, their rising wails a final good-bye.

Men and women jog after the car, and the crowd thins. I stand and look around for friendly faces to interview. Everyone seems to be looking down. There is a lot of hugging. I spot a woman across the street who is wearing pants and smoking a cigarette. I cross at the light and approach her.

“Excuse me,” I say. “Do you have a minute?”

The woman looks at me. I continue.

“I’m a reporter for the Trib,” I say. “We’re doing a story about Mrs. Mendelssohn.”

“Oh?” She looks mildly surprised.

“Yes, I’m just looking for a little information about her. What she was like, how she’ll be missed. That sort of thing. I’ve spoken a little to her family.…”

“Really?” Now she’s even more surprised. “What did they have to say?”

“Well, they were very distraught, obviously.…”

“Did they tell you she was planning a divorce?”

“No,” I say. That’s news. “Was she?”

“She was. Very definitely. She told me she had seen the rebbe, though I don’t know what other action she had taken.”

“That’s, um, rare, in this community, right?”

“Not as rare as you might think. But yes, it’s unusual.”

“My name is Rebekah,” I say, extending my hand to shake.

“I’m Sara Wyman.”

I jot that down.

“And how did you know Rivka?” I ask.

“That’s a long story,” she says. “And my ride is waiting.” She reaches into her enormous purse and pulls out an overstuffed wallet. “Here,” she says, handing me a business card. “Give me a call.”

The card says, SARA WYMAN, LICENSED CLINICAL SOCIAL WORKER.

“Would you mind telling me something quick about her? Something to characterize her for the article? I’d really appreciate it.”

“You can say that she was a passionate, intelligent woman who cared deeply for her children and her friends.”

I can already hear my editor say, boring.

“Anything else? Was she involved in any … activities?”

“She ran a group for new mothers.”

“Boro Park Mommies?”

Sara nods. She seems to be considering telling me something else, but instead she just says, “Call me. We can talk in depth. But not now.”