Run You Down (Rebekah Roberts #2)(54)

“He deserves to die,” said Sammy. “You know that.”

What could I say? He was right.

The next morning when we spread the paperwork on the kitchen table in the sunlight, we could see that Sammy was in a lot of trouble. He was charged with possession of marijuana and three kinds of prescription pills with intent to distribute, and criminal possession of a weapon. We called the phone number for the public defender and two days later I drove Sammy to his office. He told us that it was not good news.

“Six months ago I could maybe have gotten you probation and community service,” he said. “But the prosecutor has a hard-on for gun crimes. He’s trying to get on Cuomo’s good side for an endorsement since he’s up for election in November. And you’ve already got this other misdemeanor. I suggest you take a plea. I can probably get the sentences to run concurrently. Three months—give or take—then community service, maybe a fine.”

“Three months in jail?” I said. I didn’t like it. I have been to a lot of ugly places in my life, but jail was about the ugliest.

“I can do three months,” said Sammy.

“There is something else,” said the lawyer. “I see you were arrested with Ryan Hall. In his apartment. Do you live there?”

“Sort of,” he said. “But I’m not on the lease or anything.”

“Okay, that might help you. I’m guessing the prosecutor hasn’t looked too hard at the file yet, but I think I’m likely to hear from him about this. Here’s the thing: If the drugs and the gun you had on you weren’t yours. If they belonged to the Halls, say…”

“You want me to snitch on the Halls?”

“I’m not saying one way or the other,” said the lawyer. “I’m saying it may be an option.”

“You’re the lawyer,” I said. “What do you think he should do?”

“It’s up to you.”

“I’m not going to get Ryan in more trouble,” said Sammy. “I can do three months.”

And that was that. Sammy stayed by us in New Paltz until his court date. He rarely left the house, and spent most of his time asleep or on the phone with Ryan. God knows what they were talking about.

Pessie came to visit several times, but Sammy did not want to spend much time with her. Like me, Pessie had been worried about Sammy’s new life, but unlike me she seemed confident he would come to his senses. I had always liked Pessie, and as she got older, I liked her even more. I had never met anyone like her. She loved Sammy no matter what he did. She even liked me, despite the fact that I represented everything she was supposed to be afraid of: alone, unpious. Sammy was always trying to get her to leave the community, but she did not want to. She said she loved Hashem. She said that Jews needed to be strong to survive and that our strength came from unity. She said she was doing her part. But I do not think it was easy. She defended the community when Sammy made blanket statements about how evil and corrupt everyone was, and I imagine that, occasionally, she defended those of us gone off the derech when her friends in Roseville called us crazy. She told me that as more people went OTD there was opportunity to merge the interests of the two communities. She said one of her friends started a group for people whose family members had left and she hoped she could help with that.

But once we learned Sammy was going to jail, I began to see that she wasn’t as certain about her future as she pretended. One afternoon, she came over with a chulent and Sammy wouldn’t come out of his room to see her, so she and I ate together in the kitchen. She told me that there was a man from Israel who wished to marry her.

“Do you like him?” I asked.

“He is very nice. Not too old.” Pessie paused. “Did you know your husband in Israel for long before you married?”

I shook my head and told her the story about Etan: that he was related to the man and woman that lived down the hall from my aunt and uncle in Jerusalem. He came to Shabbos dinner at their apartment one Friday and I happened to be there. He asked after me and we met again, more formally. My aunt and uncle did not mention that I had been off the derech for more than a year as a teenager, and his family did not ask.

“Did you tell him later?” asked Pessie.

I shook my head. “Why should I?”

“So he would know you?”

I remember being puzzled by what she said. It had not ever really seemed possible that Etan would know me.

“Do you think that if you had told him about Florida and Rebekah that things might have been different?”

“I don’t know,” I said, and I didn’t. “I think the way things turned out was probably for the best.”

“Did you love him?”

I almost lied, but Pessie deserved the truth. “No,” I said. “But I liked him. Most of the time. I think maybe love is…” Love is, what? I never saw anything that looked like love between my parents. They did not kiss or hug or hold hands. They did not say, “I love you.” But I think they had a good marriage. As good as any I’ve seen.

“I always thought I would be Sammy’s wife,” she said. “I know I am not supposed to want so much. But when I imagined being married, and having children, I imagined being with Sammy. And it seemed like fun.” She shook her head and bent forward to sip her tea. “It feels very different now.”