Faye Kellerman - The Ritual Bath

“I appreciate what you did.” She started to pat his hand, but stopped herself.

“I don’t bite,” he said softly.

“I wish you did. It would make it a lot easier on me if you were crude and unappealing.”

“Then it’s a good thing you can’t read my mind. A whole lot of crude thoughts are swimming around there.”

She didn’t say anything.

“Did I offend you?”

“Peter, I’m not some naive little Pollyanna who believes the whole world is cotton candy. Or an inhibited prude who thinks people should only make love in the dark with their clothes on. I’m religious . I realize that’s a foreign concept to most people, especially in California, but that’s what I am. I don’t do certain things, not because I don’t want to, but because I have religious values.

“I think it’s wrong to have sex if you’re not married. I don’t think fire and brimstone will come pouring down if you do, but I think it’s wrong. Why? Not on moral grounds-though a case could be made for that, too-but because it’s immodest. Tsnios -bodily modesty-is important to us. That’s why we dress the way we do, that’s why married women cover their hair. Not to look unattractive-we like dressing up as much as the next person-but because we believe that the body is private and not some cheesy piece of artwork that’s put on public display. We know our way of thinking is considered antiquated, as dated as an Edsel. But to me, it has meaning.”

Decker was amazed at her intensity. “Well, it’s a bit old-fashioned-”

“You know what a mikvah really symbolizes, Peter?” She became animated. “Spiritual cleansing. A renewal of the soul. For twelve days, starting from the first day of a woman’s menses, she and her husband are forbidden to have sex. When the twelve days are up, if she hasn’t bled for the last seven days, she immerses herself in the mikvah, and then they can resume marital relations, renew their physical bond. That means for at least twelve days every month a husband and wife are off-limits to each other. I bet that seems nuts to you, doesn’t it?”

He smiled. “In a word, yes.”

“And yet it seems so normal to me.”

“Everybody’s standard of normalcy differs, I guess.” He looked at her. “But all Jews don’t do this. I know my wife never did.”

“Well, Torah Jews do. I did!” She paused, then said, “Now do you see why it’s impossible for you and me to go out?”

“I’m starting to get the picture.”

He laughed, and so did she.

“I can’t believe that people actually…For twelve days, huh?”

She tucked ebony strands of loose hair back into her tam.

“You know, Peter, when you stop and think about it, the world’s become perverse. You’re an intelligent man and a good person. You have no problem in accepting that there are men who rape, men who have no impulse control. They see a woman, objectify her, and tear into her flesh as if she were a piece of meat. Yet, it’s hard for you to fathom men who are the exact opposite, men who can control themselves and their drives. In fact, men who follow Taharat Hamishpacha -family purity-are the exact opposite of rapists. Yet, they’re viewed as weirdos.”

“You’re talking about two extremes,” said Decker. “There’s plenty in between-lots of normal men, like myself, who’d find your customs very hard to deal with.”

“That’s exactly why we stick to our own kind.”

He had no comeback, so he lit another cigarette and looked at the sky.

He still wanted her. The discussion had added hot blue fire to her eyes which only made her more appealing. She was passionate. He knew she’d be passionate in bed. But there was no choice other than to give up. Just concede defeat and forget about her. It would take a keg of dynamite to blast through her armor.

“I like you,” he said sincerely. “I find you incredibly attractive and very nice to talk to. But I can see where a relationship between the two of us might run into some difficulty.”

“I’m glad you understand,” she smiled. “I hope this doesn’t mean I can’t call you if I hear something strange-”

“Of course not. One thing has nothing to do with the other. I’m still the cop assigned to the case. I could find you personally repulsive, and I’d still do my job.”

“You’re a good guy, Detective Decker.”

“That’s what they tell me.” He stood up and watched her kids at play. They were waging a battle, using dried twigs and branches for guns and swords. For a brief instant he was transported back to his childhood-he and his friends playing cops, running through the glades during the hot, muggy summers, shooting at the bad guys. His friends had outgrown the games.

Decker thought of his own daughter. She was sixteen now, and a good kid. Neither Jan nor he had ever had an ounce of trouble with her, even during the worst parts of their divorce. He’d never felt he’d missed out by not having a son. But now as he observed her boys, and with forty less than two years away, he began to wonder.

The total was more than Rina had expected, eight dollars over budget, but she carried an extra ten in another part of her wallet for emergencies like this one. She handed the crisp bill to the checker, who snapped it in her hands.

“Fresh off the press,” the woman said, placing it in the register.

Rina smiled, held out her hand for the change, then stuffed it in her purse hurriedly. Wheeling the shopping cart out of the market, she began the long walk back to her car. The lot was emptier now. When she’d arrived earlier in the morning, there hadn’t been a space on the paved area. She’d had to park in a dirt extension full of broken glass and hope that her tread-bare tires would remain intact. The shopping cart was hard to push; a wheel was stuck, and it was loaded down with bags of groceries. She gave the thing a hard shove and something kicked in.

She couldn’t understand how she’d run so afar from her budget. Maybe she was having more company for Shabbos than usual, or perhaps her boys and their friends were eating more. Certainly, her appetite had decreased ever since the mikvah incident. She’d lost four pounds, and her curves were beginning to angulate.

Stopping in back of her battered Volvo, she flipped open the trunk. It was full of junk: old sand toys that the boys hadn’t used for years, newspapers that had yellowed with age, torn paper bags, and an empty juice bottle. She pushed the trash aside and began to load the groceries, but upon hearing sharp footsteps, stopped abruptly and looked up.

There were four of them-punk kids. Teenagers with greasy long hair, glassy eyes, and wise guy smirks. They were dressed similarly-jeans, black T-shirts emblazoned with images of Satan, scuffed up Wellington boots. The one who approached her was of medium height and build, with a weak chin and blond fuzz for facial hair. She had seen him before but had always avoided direct confrontation. Now he was giving her a lecherous smile that showed yellow buckteeth. His left arm sported a tattoo of a knife in a heart, and from his right ear dangled a gold hoop. He pulled out a cigarette and offered her one.

“No, thank you,” she said quietly.

Her eyes scanned the area for signs of life. In the distance was a woman with two small children.

“Can I help you load those bags, Miss ?” the kid said. “Miss Jewey. Miss Kike . Miss Kikeyikey?”

The other three started to giggle. Rina attempted to ignore them and go about her business, but the punk encircled her arm with grease-stained fingers and yanked her away from the open trunk. Still gripping her tightly, he pulled off the kerchief she was wearing and let out a hoarse laugh. His breath was strong and stale.