Invisible City (Rebekah Roberts #1)(36)

I fold the note back into the magazine. I’m somewhat surprised I haven’t heard from the city desk, which is good because I’m not sure what I should tell them. There is no way I’m turning the letter over. They’d print it.

Saul arrives, and when he sits down I hand him the magazine.

“There’s a note inside. It’s from Rivka.” As he opens it, carefully, I explain. “I met an old woman at the funeral who said her daughter Chaya had been friends with Rivka. So I went and talked to her. She was very pregnant. Her mother knew about the gardener, but Chaya thought maybe Rivka died in a car accident. It seemed weird that the mom knew so much, and Chaya knew so little.”

“Not necessarily,” says Saul as he opens the note. “Most Hasidim do not watch television or read English newspapers or use the Internet. But there is a lot of talk, especially around something like this. Depending on who they had spoken to, they could have heard completely different stories. Or nothing at all.”

He stops talking while he reads the note, which he balances open on one wide palm. After a minute or more, he closes the note and slips it back into the magazine. “This was given to you?”

“Yeah,” I say. “We were sitting in the kitchen and she told me that Rivka had been her babysitter and had sort of counseled her before she got married. Then she went into her bedroom or something and came back with this. And then she told me to leave.”

“A magazine like this is contraband in an ultra-Orthodox home.”

“Really?” I could see Cosmo being banned, but Oprah?

“Hasidim are taught to fear influences outside their community. They consider most of American culture to be corrupting and much effort is expended to avoid and demonize it. You don’t see it, but there are highly subversive ideas in this magazine. Even Oprah herself. Unmarried. Childless. Hasidic girls are taught that having children and bringing them up in a Jewish home is the most important work there is. They are called and blessed by God for this work.”

“Right, but…”

“There is no ‘but.’ Not for many people. For many people, this is enough.”

I’ve offended him. “I’m sorry.”

Saul shakes his head. “Thank you for this note. This note is very revealing. Have you spoken with your editors at the newspaper about it?”

“No,” I say. “They’d probably print it.” I chuckle, trying to lighten the moment. Saul doesn’t smile. “Seriously. It’s yours now.”

“Thank you,” says Saul.

“I spoke to Miriam again. And the little boy. Yakov.”

“Rivka’s boy?”

“He was coming home from the service. He said his father told him his mother had been sick.”

“Sick?”

“Yeah, but I don’t really know what he meant. He said he didn’t think she was sick.”

Saul considers this. He looks out the window. There is a 1-800-Flowers shop across the street and a narrow pizzeria and a nail salon. I can almost see Saul thinking. The crow’s-feet at his eyes twitch. He is squeezing his jaw.

“Also, the old woman at the funeral, Mrs. Shoenstein? She said Rivka had lost a baby recently. Did you know about that?”

“I did.”

“What happened?”

“That, I don’t know.”

My phone rings. It’s the desk.

“I’ll be right back,” I say, and take my notebook outside.

“It’s Rebekah.”

“Hold for Lars.”

Lars comes on.

“Whatchu got?” he asks.

“The funeral was packed.”

“How many people?”

“Hundreds?”

“What else?”

“Lots of crying. She was in this plain wooden box and they passed the box back toward the car. The women—it was like, you know at a concert when people crowd surf? They passed the coffin back like that.”

“What about quotes? Were people talking about the gardener?”

“Um … one woman said she heard the gardener did it.”

“Great, what did she say?”

I flip open my notebook and realize I’d never actually written down what Mrs. Shoenstein said, but I remember it clearly. Does that mean I’m getting better at this job? Or just getting used to bending the rules?

“She said … ‘It’s so horrible. She trusted a stranger and look what happened.’”

“Perfect. What else?”

“I mean, she didn’t actually know anything.”

“What’s the name.”

“Shoenstein. Mrs. Shoenstein.” I did write that down.

“First name?”

Shit. I didn’t ask, because I wasn’t thinking about calling in to the desk during our conversation, I was thinking, how can I be as friendly and gracious as possible so she’ll give me her daughter’s address. “She wouldn’t give it.”

“Okay, fine, Mrs. Shoenstein. Was she a neighbor? Relative?”

“She said her daughter had gone to…” I can’t remember what she’d said. It was something Yiddish. “Her daughter was friends with Rivka.”

“Great. What else?”