Invisible City (Rebekah Roberts #1)(34)

I don’t know how to respond. Sick could mean a million things.

“Tatti says he is going to send us to the mountains with Meema Miriam and Feter Heshy,” Yakov says, his eyes on the sidewalk. Tatti, does that mean father? I think.

“Oh? Do you like the mountains?”

He shakes his head. His nose and fingers are red again. I wish somebody would dress this kid better. Maybe when his mom was alive.

“You better go inside,” I say. “You look very cold. You don’t want to get sick.”

Yakov looks up at me. Oops.

“I mean … catch a cold.” Yakov stays where he is. I rip a page out of my notebook and write my name and phone number on it. “Call me if you need anything, okay?”

The boy takes the paper. “Do you know what happened to my mommy?”

“I don’t,” I say. “But I’m going to try to find out.”

Yakov nods again. He looks at the piece of paper, like he’s trying to decide if he should fold it or not.

“Bubby Mendelssohn had cancer before she died. But I asked Tatti if Mommy had cancer, and he said no. And she didn’t smell bad like Bubby. And Meema Tova, she coughed all the time before she died. She had a … she was connected to a tank. To breathe.” He pauses. “If you find out what happened, will you tell me?”

“I will,” I say. “I promise.”

“Mommy used to tell me lots of things. But nobody tells me anything now.”

I see an opening. “What kind of things did she tell you?”

“Last summer she took me to Coney Island and we rode the roller coaster. She told me that she rode it every week, but that it was a secret.”

“Did you tell anyone?”

Yakov looks down. “I didn’t want to. But Tatti said it was my duty, as a man, to help Mommy get well. He said if I didn’t tell, she could get more sick. He already knew, though. He said, ‘Has Mommy been to Coney Island?’ What’s so bad about Coney Island!” Yakov starts to cry. I look around. On the other side of the street, two young mothers push strollers. They gawk at us. I gawk back.

I kneel down and look up at Yakov. “I don’t think there’s anything bad about Coney Island.”

“Me neither!” he wails.

“It’s okay,” I say. “You’re going to be okay. We’ll find out what happened to your mommy.”

“Stupid Coney Island! I hate Coney Island!”

“Hey,” I say, trying to calm him down. I stand up and push open the back gate. “Let’s go in here.” Yakov follows. I close the gate behind us. Yakov’s face is a snotty mess. I give him a tissue from my pocket. It’s probably been used, but he doesn’t seem to care.

“Yakov!”

Miriam is suddenly standing three feet from us. “Oh,” I say, startled. “I’m sorry. Yakov seemed very upset.…” I should not be there, obviously.

Miriam says something in Yiddish and Yakov runs inside. I brace for her to scream at me to leave, but she doesn’t. Instead she motions for me to come with her toward the door to the garage. She is shivering, but she doesn’t seem uncomfortable. The first time I saw her, Miriam had a wrap covering her head. Today, she is hatless, with a wig a little like Malka’s, except that Miriam’s is parted in the middle. The hairline is a little too low on her forehead, and the part is about half an inch from the center of her nose. The dichotomy between her plain, shapeless clothes and the smooth shine of her hair is a little jarring. The hair has bounce, but Miriam’s face is leaden, her small gray eyes rimmed in red with puffy purple bags beneath them.

She sees me looking and raises her hand to her head, a little bashful.

“The children are very upset,” she says.

“Of course,” I say. “How are you?”

Miriam looks surprised that I asked. “It is very hard. Rivka and I were born on the same day. Her mother worked as a secretary in my father’s business and when she got sick my father paid for the hospital bills. After she died, he helped with Rivka’s upbringing. She lived with us for several years before she and Aron married.”

“I’m so sorry,” I say again. Rivka Mendelssohn was motherless. “How old was Rivka when her mother died?”

“We were very young. Five years old, perhaps?”

“I lost my mother young, too,” I say. I can’t help it. I feel like I can tell her. I feel like somehow she’ll understand.

“Oh!” she says, putting her hand on my arm. She’s not dressed for the cold. “Losing a mother is…” She shakes her head, trying to come up with a word, and I think, exactly, it is…? Miriam—like Chaya—seems like a fragile woman. Was Rivka fragile, too? Was she easy prey? At the funeral home, Malka said Rivka was not easy to kill. Miriam, I think, might be easier. Could she be next?

“I wanted to thank you for speaking with me yesterday. I really appreciate your time,” I say.

Miriam smiles weakly.

“Do you have any idea what could have happened?” I ask, my voice low, like, you can tell me. “Do you feel safe?”

“Me?”

I nod.

“No, no,” she says. I’m not sure if she’s answering my first or second question. I have to be better about doubling up on questions.