Run You Down (Rebekah Roberts #2)(8)

“I’m sorry?” said the woman, smiling. She, like many of the people I met in Florida, spoke with an accent from the South.

“The mikveh,” I repeated.

“I’m sorry,” she said again. She was ten or fifteen years older than I was, with a deep tan and athletic arms. Her toenails were exposed and painted a shade similar to her lipstick. “The what?”

“Mikveh?” I did not know how else to say it.

“I’m so sorry, hon, I don’t know what that is. Just one sec…” She raised her hand and caught the attention of the rabbi, flagging him over.

“Oh no,” I said, horrified. “That’s fine…”

But it was too late, there he was.

“What’s your name, sweetie?” asked the woman.

“Aviva,” I said.

“What a beautiful name,” she said. “I’m Estelle. This is Rabbi Siegel. Rabbi, Aviva had a question I couldn’t answer.”

“Welcome to Temple Beth Israel, Aviva,” he said, and reached his hand to shake mine. I was so shocked I stepped back. He and Estelle both smiled weakly, indulging my strangeness. “What can I do for you?”

I must have looked as helpless as I felt, because Estelle spoke first.

“She asked about the mik … What was it?”

“The mikveh,” I whispered. It was everything I could do not to run.

“The…? Oh!” The rabbi rubbed the place on his jaw where a beard should have been. He wore a white robe, and at his neck I could see the knot of a tie with pink flamingos embroidered on it. Pink! Was this a joke?

“I’m sorry, we don’t one have. I actually don’t know any temples in the area that do. But let me make a few calls. Have you recently moved to Orlando?”

It was enough.

“Thank you,” I said and ran out of the building. I rode home in the dark and with each pump of my bicycle pedals I became more upset. Who were these people? They couldn’t possibly think that what they were practicing in that big airy room was Judaism. I told your father I had to go back the next day. He looked concerned. I did not sleep that night. There was so much to tell them, and it was so important. I rode there before dawn. The air was already steamy. I forgot my shoes. I waited more than an hour in the parking lot before a car pulled in. It was not the rabbi, but an older man. I ran to his car.

“Where is the rebbe?” I asked him.

“Rabbi Siegel? He’s in about nine.”

“I need to talk to the rebbe.”

“Okay,” said the man, rolling up his window, gathering a bag, taking his time getting out. “Like I said, he’ll be here…”

“It is very important that I speak with him,” I said, starting to breathe more quickly. “Please!”

“Look,” said the man, “you need to calm down. You can wait…”

“I have been waiting!”

He put his hand out to touch my shoulder.

“What are you doing!” I screamed, frightening him. He stepped back.

I froze. What was I doing? “What are you doing!” I screamed again, this time at myself. I slapped my hand to my head. Hard.

“Miss…” said the man, but I was already running. I grabbed the bicycle and tripped. The metal edge of the left pedal skidded along the skin on my right shin, tearing it open, drawing blood. But I hopped and hopped and finally got on and got away.

The next time I went to Temple Beth Israel they called your father. The time after that, they called the police.





CHAPTER FOUR





REBEKAH


Frank’s Diner is on the corner of Forty-ninth Street and the West Side Highway. It’s a 24–7 joint, with mustard-colored pleather booths lining both windowed walls and a full bar with a mirror backsplash. A man in work boots and paint-splattered jeans is sitting at the counter with a beer and the Trib in front of him. A couple, both men, one wearing dramatic eye makeup, whisper across a table along the back wall. Saul and I choose a booth by the west-facing window looking out at the Intrepid docked in the Hudson. It was so cold this winter there were ice floes in the river. One of the Trib photogs snapped a shot of an eagle on one, and it ran with a story about the record-breaking temperatures. The ice is gone now, and with the heat cranking in the diner and the sun shining outside I can almost imagine what it might be like when the weather finally gets warmer.

I asked Saul to come with me because I figured Levi would be more comfortable talking to me with another man present. Other than Saul, all of my sources in the Haredi world have been female. I’m not sure if that’s because men are actually more reluctant to speak to outsiders, or if they’re just unpracticed in interacting with women they aren’t married to. Maybe a little of both.

I see a man in Hasidic dress coming up the block, his head bowed against the wind off the water, one hand pressed down on his tall black hat, sidecurls blown horizontal behind his head. When he comes through the door he looks around expectantly. I wave and Saul stands. They shake hands. I know enough not to extend mine for a greeting. Levi is a good-looking man. Short, with eyes so dark they almost appear black, and a full beard covering half his face. He sits down next to Saul and the waiter comes over with a menu.

“Just tea, please,” says Levi, taking a Kleenex from his pocket. He blows his nose.