Part 15 (1/2)
She reached out, touched his face, and moved closer to hold him.
”Look, Peanuts,” she said, ”you know where I am, and you can come visit anytime. That's better than it used to be.”
”You think so? Listen, Big Bob's never going to let me get near you again. He's gonna watch you like a hawk. And you're not staying in this nice place forever, trust me on that.”
She didn't respond; she wasn't listening. He knew he had lost her.
He looked in her eyes. ”Wherever you are, if you need me, you call. Even if Mama answers, you just tell her where you're at, and I'll get to you.”
She began crying again. ”But you can come see me anytime you want,” she said, as she fell into his arms. They stood there, holding one another for what seemed an eternity. Only, it wasn't.
He came out of the building, and began his trek back to Crown Heights. Daylight was dwindling, he had to move quickly. He raced against the sun, which was slowly descending somewhere beyond the tenements. Not much of a sunset, but the best these streets had to offer.
His thoughts were muddled, and his spirit was defeated. He had lost the money and Celeste, and had made a mess of everything. He tried contemplating his next move, but was too demoralized to consider the future. Yet, despite this, he knew there would be a next move. Somehow. Sometime.
BOOK II.
CHAPTER 20.
The first time Joshua saw Rachel Weissman, he was sweeping the stairwell of the synagogue. It was his third day on the job, a few minutes past seven in the evening. Quitting time was seven; he was running late.
He was between the first and second floors, and she was ascending the stairs. He moved aside to let her pa.s.s. Their eyes met for a split second. She smiled politely and said h.e.l.lo.
He watched her continue up the stairs. Something about her; no, everything about her struck him. She exited the stairwell, the door closing loudly behind her. He ran up, taking three steps at a time, eased the door open, and stuck his head out to see where she was going. She stopped outside one of the cla.s.srooms in which a group of men gathered every evening to study. She leaned against the wall and waited.
She didn't notice him watching. He came out of the stairwell and started sweeping the hallway. He had already swept it ten minutes earlier; what the h.e.l.l.
She looked at him and smiled once again. The cordial, obligatory sort of smile that one usually offers a stranger. He tried to smile back, but his face froze. He guessed her to be around his own age, and figured she was probably waiting for one of the men in the cla.s.s.
In the three days working in the synagogue, he had encountered some rather strange things. The first was the notion of grown men still attending school. They were all at least in their thirties, and every night they came to study for hours and to listen to an older rabbi give a lecture. Outside the cla.s.sroom, Joshua was able to hear what went on, though he didn't understand a word of it. The men spoke mostly Hebrew, or Yiddish, with a little English here and there. And they spoke loudly, as if they were always yelling at each other, flailing their arms all over.
He'd asked Calvin about it, but Calvin had told him to mind his own business. Calvin was his boss, the custodian, and seemed an okay sort. But Joshua could tell that Calvin was ticked off about having him around. From the moment Rabbi Weissman had introduced them, Calvin seemed less than welcoming.
Joshua understood that Calvin had been working in the synagogue for over five years, was older, and had a family to support. He figured that Calvin had probably been doing a fine job, didn't need any help, and felt a little threatened about having an a.s.sistant. Joshua knew he would have felt the same way if the roles had been reversed.
He tried to explain to Calvin that Rabbi Weissman was doing someone a favor. He even told Calvin about his parole and all. It helped some, but not entirely.
Calvin reminded him of his mother, a hard working, serious sort. She would also have told him to mind his own business about the goings on in the synagogue. They both would probably be clobbering him right now if they knew what he was up to.
Calvin was big, muscular, well defined, and looked as if he spent a lot of time lifting weights. He had a crew cut, and a bushy mustache, both of which were starting to show some gray. And he was always sweating.
Joshua had told his mother about Calvin after his first day. He had pointed out that she would probably think Calvin was good looking, despite the fact that he was married. She'd told him to shut his mouth and mind his own business.
So here he was, sweeping a clean floor, watching this girl, when suddenly the cla.s.sroom door opened and the men came out. Rabbi Weissman, who was among them, greeted the girl with a warm embrace and a tender kiss on her forehead. They shared smiles and a few words, and then started towards the stairwell, holding hands. As they walked past Joshua, the rabbi stopped to ask him how things were going.
”Good,” he answered, trying to hide his anxiety. ”Calvin's been showing me the ropes.”
”Oh, by the vay, this is my daughter, Ruchel,” the rabbi said, p.r.o.nouncing her name in Hebrew.
Rachel, realizing Joshua's unfamiliarity with Hebrew names, politely interjected, ”Rachel.”
The sound of her voice was pleasing. Joshua managed a stiff smile, and said, ”Hi.”
She smiled back, this time with a bit more warmth. One could fall deeply into her emerald eyes, with no hope of returning to his former life.
”Vell,” the rabbi said, ”I'm glad everything is vorking out. Have a good evening and regards to your mother.”
As they walked away, Joshua watched her from behind. He wondered if she knew he was watching, and figured that she probably didn't even care enough to think about it.
It wasn't just her beauty that struck him; there was something more, though he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Perhaps it was the ease with which she held herself, or the tenderness of her smile. Whatever, he had found it quite affecting.
And she didn't do anything to encourage this; on the contrary, he was certain she had no interest in him whatsoever. But that didn't matter, nor did the fact that she was the daughter of a Hasidic rabbi and he was a black kid working as a janitor. Nothing mattered, not even his sordid past. All he could think of was that he wanted to know more about her.
He promised himself he'd work late every evening.
CHAPTER 21.
The first few days in the emergency room were exciting, though there wasn't much for Rachel to do. Doctor Schiffman had explained that they didn't usually have volunteers in the ER, for most of the work that was done there had to be performed by doctors and nurses. ”Unlike the regular floors, patients are here only temporarily, so there's really no time to get to know them,” she said as she scrambled from one treatment room to another with Rachel by her side. ”That's what volunteers usually do: talk to patients, bring them books and stuff. But here there's no time for that. We'll just have to make up a job for you as we go.”
Rachel followed the doctor around, taking in every word and gesture. At the start, she had trouble just keeping up with Schiffman's pace, but after a couple of days, she was well in stride.
”So what do we have here?” Schiffman asked as she opened the curtain to one of the small cubicles. Inside, a young Hasidic boy, not more than five, was crying in pain, sweating profusely, his mother standing next to him. Schiffman picked up the chart, turned to the boy and his mother, and said, ”I'm Doctor Schiffman.” She walked over to the boy, placed her hand gently on his forehead, and said, ”Don't worry, everything is going to be okay.”
Rachel saw the boy's mother eye Schiffman in much the same way her mother had when Rachel had broken her ankle. She recognized the woman from the community, but didn't know her name. It was another of the many faces she usually pa.s.sed in the synagogue or walking the avenue. The woman seemed too preoccupied to recognize Rachel.
”He was feverish last night,” the mother answered, reluctantly. ”We called the doctor, Doctor Bronstein, and he said to give him aspirin. It helped a little, but this morning he woke up screaming in pain and the fever was worse.”
The mother's mention of Doctor Bronstein prompted Schiffman to smile at Rachel, recalling the almost identical situation that had occurred when they had first met. Rachel returned the smile, realizing that this probably happened to Schiffman fairly often.
”Yes, the nurse who just took his temperature recorded it as 104.3. That's pretty high,” Schiffman stated. ”Did you call Doctor Bronstein this morning?”
”Yes, and he said to bring Shloimie here right away. He said he would meet us here,” the mother added, impatiently looking at her wrist.w.a.tch.
”That was good advice to bring him here. I'm sure Doctor Bronstein will join us shortly. Tell me, where is the pain?”
”I think it's his stomach, that's what he says.”
It was difficult to hold a conversation with a screaming child and a skeptical mother, but Schiffman managed. Rachel observed how the doctor took control, and imagined herself in Schiffman's place. She liked the feeling that it gave her.
Schiffman turned to the boy. ”Shloimie, could you point to exactly where the pain is?”
The boy complied.