Run You Down (Rebekah Roberts #2)(58)

It was cold on the day we picked him up at the prison, and Sammy slept the whole ride home, huddled in the backseat with an old blanket over him. Isaac drove and I rode in the front, peeking back at him, wondering who we were bringing home, wondering what would happen next.

Sammy’s parole officer explained the conditions of his release: He would be tested for drugs every week. He needed to find a job. And he could not affiliate with criminals.

“What does that mean?” I asked the parole officer.

“What I said. He can go back to prison if I find out he is hanging out with anyone else with a criminal record.”

I looked at Sammy, but he was looking at the ground.

“Did you hear that, Sammy?” I asked.

“I’m not deaf, Aviva,” he said.

“You better check your attitude, son,” said the parole officer. “I have no problem violating you.”

For the first week, we left him alone. He slept all day and lay in front of the television all night. Finally, one night at dinner, we broached the subject of work. Isaac said that he could get Sammy a couple shifts a week at the store where he worked part-time.

“The hippie place,” said Sammy.

“What is this hippie thing?” asked Isaac. “It is a job.”

Sammy rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to sell incense and beads to college students, okay?”

Isaac took a deep breath. “You think it is beneath you?”

“I think it’s f*cking lame,” he said.

“Why do you think it is okay to insult Isaac?” I asked.

“I’m not insulting Isaac,” said Sammy. “He can do what he wants. I’m not into hippies, okay?”

Isaac shook his head. “You have to work.”

“I’ll find a job.”

“Doing what?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’ll pump gas. Whatever.”

“Well,” said Isaac, getting up with his plate, “you better get started.”

Sammy stayed at the table, pushing his food around.

“I know this is hard, Sammy,” I said. “Don’t let this change who you are. Don’t let this get in your way.”

“You don’t know shit about who I am, Aviva,” he said. “You know that, right? You know you bailed on our family. You know you left me alone with Tatty and Eli and the sicko molester freaks. Why didn’t you take me with you?”

I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t take him for the same reason I didn’t take you. I didn’t think I was good enough. I had nothing when I came back to Borough Park. Who was I to take a baby from his home? I couldn’t even get a job. I was broken to pieces and needed time to create a life for myself. Just like him now.

“Whatever,” he said, when I didn’t answer fast enough. “This is who I am. Sorry if you don’t like it. If you want to be a mother so bad now, go find Rebekah. Maybe she still cares.”





PART 3





CHAPTER TWENTY





REBEKAH


It’s nearly 11:00 P.M. by the time I check into a ground floor room at the Comfort Lodge between New Paltz and Poughkeepsie. There is a piece of duct tape over a crack in the window and water stains in the toilet, but at seventy-two dollars a night, I’m way under budget. I turn the room’s heat up high and e-mail Larry to relay what I’ve learned from Van Keller, then send Nechemaya a text saying we need to talk. I haven’t heard from Saul or Iris. After about twenty minutes of CNN, I turn off the bedside lamp and, with the hotel’s floral blackout curtains drawn, fall into the big silence of the little room.

The sick feeling begins in my dream. Mellie is in front of the synagogue on Ocean Parkway shouting Junior! Junior! But instead of emitting a human noise, she barks. She barks and barks and then she pulls a handgun and points it at me. Van Keller is at my side, his arm around my waist. Mellie pulls the trigger and it makes a barking sound. The bullet hits my stomach and I think, I will never meet my mother. And then I am awake. I keep my eyes closed—sometimes, I’ve found, I can return to my dreams. I always imagine that I can change the outcome, but usually I’m just back in the pain, as ineffectual as before. Mellie shoots me again. I am on the ground but this time Saul is beside me instead of Van Keller. Take her gun! I shout. He waves his arms, like he is directing traffic. Someone has painted a swastika on the stone steps. The paint drips white. Where is she? I yell. Saul says nothing, but suddenly I can see her. Her back is to me, her long red hair. She is walking away. And I can’t get up.

At 7:30 A.M., Larry calls.

“Connie Hall has a gay son?” he says. “Unbelievable!”

“You know him?”

“Sure,” he says. “I was the Albany stringer back in the eighties. I covered his manslaughter trial. He ran a guy down with his truck. They couldn’t prove intent so he only got, like, eight years. He pops up every now and then, waving his Nazi flag on Hitler’s birthday, shit like that. People always said he ran drugs and guns for the Aryans but nobody could ever make anything stick.”

“I actually went out to where he lived yesterday and talked to his son’s girlfriend. She said they’re stockpiling weapons for a race war.”