Faye Kellerman - The Ritual Bath

“You sound as if you could use someone close to home to help ease the transition.”

She smiled. “And you’re volunteering?”

“As a community service.”

“You know, Decker, you would have made a great yeshiva bocher .”

He broke up.

“No, I’m serious. You have all the external trappings. You’re intelligent, curious, hardworking. You asked the right questions. You’re even a lawyer . A yeshiva is like a Jewish law school with ethics and morals thrown in. Anyone who’s ever studied both will tell you that Jewish law is much harder and more challenging than American law.”

“I missed my calling, huh?”

“You laugh, but I can tell, Peter. If you’d been born Jewish and raised in an Orthodox environment, you would have been a fanatic.”

Her words made him uncomfortable. He fidgeted.

“You don’t have any cigarettes, do you?”

She shook her head.

“It’s okay.”

“Would you like some coffee or juice?”

“Just water.”

She got up and he let out a deep breath. Jesus, it was hot in here. Funny he should just notice it. She returned with a tall glass of iced water.

“Thanks.” He drained the glass. “If you don’t go to movies and don’t eat out in restaurants, what do you do for fun?”

“What’s that?” Rina said deadpan.

“Think back to when you were a baby and you used to smile, but everyone thought it was gas.”

“Ah yes-it’s coming back to me.” She gave him a light poke. “We have fun.”

“Doing what?”

“Shabbos is fun. I cook huge meals for Friday night and Saturday lunch until I’m ready to drop, and everyone stuffs themselves, leaving me to do the dishes.” She laughed. “Seriously, I love Shabbos day. We go to services in the morning. Then, either I have people over for lunch or we’ll be invited out. There’s lots of talking, singing, learning, playing with the kids, eating, drinking…We don’t use any electricity on the Sabbath. We don’t even turn on a light, pick up a phone, or drive a car. Disconnecting from the outside world for one day is purifying, Peter. Like the plunge into the mikvah.

“I’ve done a lot of reflecting these past two years since Yitzchak died and found that I like being religious. There’s purpose in it, and purpose in life is a rare treasure these days.”

“Give me your hand,” he said.

“What?”

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to attack you. Yeah, even a lowly goy can control himself. I just want to hold your hand.”

Surprisingly she complied.

“I like talking to you,” he said. “Do you like talking to me?”

“You know I do.”

“Find me trustworthy?”

“What are you leading up to?”

“Why don’t we go out together? We can do something harmless like take a drive to the beach and talk. It would be really nice.”

“I just can’t do it.”

“Why not? We won’t tell anybody.”

“It’s not the external conflict. It’s the internal one.”

“So we’ll just be buddies. Like Marge Dunn and me. Marge and I go out for drinks all the time. Everybody needs a good buddy.”

She shook her head.

“Just one time. See how you like it.”

“I can’t, Peter. It wouldn’t stop at one time, and you know it.”

She was right. He might as well salvage what he could.

“Look, you went out with Goldberg, and you thought he was a real weirdo. I’m not even a teensy bit weird, so how about your giving me as much consideration as old Goldberg?”

“Goldberg?”

“The weirdo who asked you all those questions.”

“That was Shlomo Stein. Where’d you get the name Goldberg?”

“Shlomo Stein, huh?”

Rina glared at him, but didn’t pull away. “That was really rotten.”

“I was sincere about the invitation.”

“I’ll give you that statement now.”

Decker grinned expansively. The evening wasn’t a total loss.

Sammy gazed into space, knotted his fingers into a fist, and slammed it into the mitt. Rina checked the clock. He’d been gawking at the wall and punching the baseball glove repetitively for the last hour, and there was still another fifty minutes to go before Peter showed up.

She’d tried talking to him, suggesting they play a game or learn some Chumash together, but he shrugged her off. Jacob, on the other hand, had spent the morning like every other Sunday morning-glued to the TV. He was excited about going to his first baseball game, but he was just as excited about the Jerry Lewis movie that came on at eleven. Jacob was so good-natured, so easy to please. Sammy was a sweet boy with a heart of gold, just much more serious by nature than his brother.

How could two boys with the same parents, born only a year apart, be so different?

She decided to bake. It was therapy for her, calming her nerves. Picking up the wooden spoon, she creamed the margarine with the sugar, mashing the yellow lumps into a smooth, sweet paste.

When Peter had first offered to take the boys to the Dodgers game, she’d refused. She didn’t want them getting attached to him, and he said he understood-they were her kids, she knew what was best for them.

But guilt began to tug at her heartstrings. Every single morning after his prayers, Sammy would open the paper and pour over the sports section, studying it as diligently as he studied the scriptures. He’d memorized all the statistics, backward, foreward, sideways. Name a Dodger, and he could tell you his life history. It just seemed cruel to deny him such a small pleasure. She’d been putting him off so long. So she asked him if he wanted to go to Sunday’s game with Peter, and the boy’s eyes livened with unabashed excitement. So she called Peter back.

She sifted in flour and cocoa powder, and stirred the batter vigorously.

“Eema?” Sammy called from the other room.

“What, honey?”

“What time is it?”

“Forty minutes to go.”

Silence.

Then the dull thud of flesh hitting leather. She was sure his knuckles were red and raw by now.

Jake came in the kitchen.

“Whatcha making?”

“Cupcakes.”

“Are they pareve?”

“Yes.”

“Can we take them with us to the game?”

“That’s why I’m making them,” she said, pouring the batter into the paper liners.

“Can I lick the bowl?”

“One of you gets the bowl, the other the spoon. Work out the division between yourselves.”

Jake pulled over a chair and watched her put the cupcake pan in the oven.

“Are you excited?” Rina asked him.

“Yeah.”

“You like baseball, don’t you?”

“Yeah.”

“I hope the Dodgers win.”

“Yeah. Can we buy a Coke there?”

Rina smiled. “I think that can be arranged.”

“Thanks.” He slid off the chair, went out to his brother and returned a minute later. “Shmueli isn’t hungry. Can I have the bowl and the spoon?”

Rina gave him the cookware coated with chocolate batter. The little boy scooped up the bowl and utensils in his arms and returned to his television program. Just when the cupcakes had cooled sufficiently for packing, the doorbell rang. Sammy answered it.

Rina was taken aback by Peter’s appearance. Her image of him until now had been that of a “professional detective” in a shirt, slacks, and tie. This afternoon he wore a white T-shirt, sloppy cut-off shorts and sneakers, and a baseball cap perched atop his thick patch of orange-red hair. He looked so all-American, so working class. So goyish. With him were two teenagers. The girl was attractive, but too gangly to be beautiful. She had her father’s hair, cut short, big brown eyes, and an open, toothy smile. She was dressed in short shorts, a midriff tank top, and sandals. The boy was surfer blond and slightly taller than the girl, with meat on his bones. His dress was identical to the girl’s. They had their arms looped around each other.