Part 49 (1/2)
”Yes,” Chava said hesitantly, ”I will.”
Rachel walked behind the counter and Chava continued perusing the dresses. The silence was cold, broken only by the screeching of hangers against the metal racks, as Chava moved the dresses, and by the turning of pages as Rachel thumbed through the inventory book. Rachel looked at the clock. About five minutes until the others were to return from lunch-an eternity.
”You're Rachel Weissman, aren't you?” Chava said from across the store.
”Yes, I am. How did you know?”
”Oh, I've seen you around,” Chava answered, her eyes on the dresses. ”Your father, may his soul rest in peace, was a pious man. It's hard having a father like that and not having people know who you are.”
”I guess so,” Rachel responded, observing Chava, as if challenging her to reveal the purpose of her visit.
”Do you know who I am?”
”I think I do. Your husband is Pinchas Sims?”
”Yes. I'm Chava.” Hesitation. ”You know Pinchas?”
”I remember him from years ago. He used to come to our home for Shabbos.”
Chava contemplated what to say next. Nothing was coming to her. ”Well, I don't think I've found anything here.”
”I'm sorry. We're getting in a s.h.i.+pment of summer dresses in about a week. Why don't you check back then?”
”I suppose I might.” Chava moved toward the door. ”It was nice meeting you.”
”Yes, same here.”
”I'll send Pinchas your regards.”
”Please do.”
The door closed behind Chava. Rachel shuddered, and couldn't recall the last time she'd been so unnerved. She was completely puzzled, wondering what it was that Chava could possibly have wanted. The sound of the bell distracted her; Mrs. Rosenberg was back. It was time for her lunch break, only she wasn't very hungry.
Chava Sims walked up the block, feeling like she had made a fool of herself, and regretting having ever set foot in the store. She hadn't found Rachel distasteful in any way; on the contrary, she'd found her rather pleasant in both appearance and manner, the kind of woman for whom most men would probably do anything. Chava didn't see herself as that kind of woman; it was hard for her to feel anything positive about herself during times such as these.
The day pa.s.sed quickly, something Rachel usually resented. Since her illness, she coveted every minute, but this day had been one she would just as soon forget. She was still shaken by its events. She would be okay, she knew, especially since tonight was one of those nights for escaping and forgetting the world. It was what she had come to call a ”Joshua-night.”
She tidied up the store, tallied the cash register, and was on her way out, when she felt a sharp pain in her back. Her legs weakened and she needed to find a seat. Mrs. Rosenberg noticed and came to her a.s.sistance.
”Are you okay, dear?” Mrs. Rosenberg asked.
”I think so. It's just my back; a spasm, I suppose. I've been taking medication, but it doesn't seem to be working so well right now.”
Mrs. Rosenberg could see that Rachel was still uncomfortable in the chair. ”Come, let me help you to the back room, you can lie down on the couch there.”
Rachel got up slowly and, with the woman's a.s.sistance, managed to make it to the couch.
”I think I'll call your mother,” Mrs. Rosenberg said.
”No!” Rachel said. ”I don't want to worry her. It's only a backache; it will pa.s.s.”
”My dear, you can't even walk. How are we going to get you home?”
Rachel thought for a moment. She couldn't ask Mrs. Rosenberg to call Joshua. ”Call me a cab. The driver will help me home.”
Paul Sims observed the sights of black children playing on the sidewalks, as he drove down Eastern Parkway, recalling his own childhood in Hewlett Harbor, when summer was a time for camp or the beach club. What he now saw-the stark reality of life in these parts-saddened him. Camps and beach clubs didn't exist for these kids, only the street.
His mind turned to the task at hand. He and Yossie had recently been invited to join the Rebbe's motorcade, a weekly entourage to the graves of the Rebbe's wife and father-in-law in the Old Montefiore cemetery in Springfield Gardens, Queens. It was a great honor to escort the Rebbe, a reward for their dedicated service in the citizens' patrol.
It was a modest motorcade, usually three or four vehicles led by a police car. Not quite the retinue for a head of state, but the Rebbe didn't require grand displays of his importance, for in the eyes of his followers he was more than a mortal leader. To them, he was the messiah, the savior of humankind. And Paul, for one, was absolutely certain of this. The Rebbe would bring peace to the world, and elevate the Jewish people to their rightful position of prominence. It would happen soon, any day.
Once in the taxi, Rachel instructed the driver to take her to Joshua's office. ”But Ma'am,” the driver said, ”the lady gave me this address.” He showed her the paper in his hand.
”I just need to make one quick stop on the way,” she said. It was difficult for her to talk. She thought about taking another pill, but she had taken the prescribed dose about an hour earlier.
The ride went quickly. The cab pulled up in front of Joshua's office. Rachel tried to get out on her own, but couldn't. The driver came around to help her.
Joshua was in his office and heard the bell as the front door opened. He looked at his watch. Knowing it was Rachel, he quickly straightened his tie. He came out to greet her and was shocked when he saw the driver holding her up.
”Rachel,” he exclaimed as he rushed to her side.
The two men sat her in a chair. The pain was so excruciating, she was finding it hard to breath.
”I think we should go to the hospital,” Joshua said reluctantly.
”No. Please, no hospitals. It's just a back spasm.”
”But you can't walk! You can't even sit!”
”Maybe I just need to take another pill.”
She took her pills out from her bag, and Joshua got her some water. The driver stood by, waiting for instructions.
”We're going to take you home,” Joshua said.
She didn't argue.
”Have you been having any other symptoms?” Schiffman asked. ”Any numbing, tingling, or weakness in your arms or hands? Pain any other place?”
Rachel shook her head.
”How about your vision? Headaches? Memory loss? Bowel problems? Stomach problems?”
Rachel thought for a second. ”Not really,” she said tentatively.
Schiffman looked at her. ”What do you mean?”