Faye Kellerman - The Ritual Bath

“Do you follow these laws?”

“Oh yes!” she exclaimed. “That’s what being a Torah Jew is all about.”

“How’d this all come about?”

“The primary laws were given to Moses by Hashem on Mount Sinai-some were written, some were passed along orally. Later on, the oral laws were written down and interpreted by the Amoraim-a group of prominent rabbis. The final laws were decided by rabbinic vote between the third and sixth centuries.”

Decker was silent. She knew what he was thinking.

“There are allowances for today’s problems. Like electricity. The question of whether we could use electricity on the Sabbath didn’t pop up in the Talmud.”

“And who decided whether you could or couldn’t?”

“The scholars of the day.”

“Can you?” he asked.

“No. It’s considered kindling a fire, which is prohibited on the Sabbath. That isn’t to say we sit in the dark Friday night. We leave the lights on before the sun goes down, or some of us put the lights on a time clock. We just can’t flick the switch on or off.”

“I can see where this gets very complicated,” Decker said.

“That’s why there are yeshivot. It takes a lifetime to learn all of it.”

“I’m bored,” Jake said. “Can I watch TV?”

“Why don’t you go outside and play with Ginger?” Peter suggested. “She looks bored, too.”

Jacob looked at Rina.

“Fine with me.”

Jacob ran outside with the dog.

Decker looked at Sammy, who was immersed in a book. “You want to go outside with your brother?” he asked.

“Huh?”

“He likes to read,” Rina said. “Sammy, why don’t you sit in the big chair? It’s more comfortable, and there’s better light.”

The boy didn’t answer.

“He doesn’t hear me when he’s concentrating,” she explained. “Shmueli, honey.” She gently tugged on his shirt sleeve. The boy stood up, and she led him over to a chair on the far side of the living room, then walked back to Decker, who was in the dining area clearing the table.

“Sammy’s a real little rabbi,” he said, dumping the plates in the garbage.

“Like his father,” she said, pitching in.

“Or his mother. You seem to know what you’re talking about.”

“No, he’s like his father-extremely intense. Jakey is much more like me. Believe it or not, I’m really an easygoing person.”

“I can believe it. You’ve handled yourself very well under all the stress.”

Decker pulled out a chair.

“Why don’t you sit down? I can clean this up. You’re a guest.”

She sighed heavily, sat down at the table, and rested her chin in the palm of her hand. “I don’t know. I’m so nervous all the time, always on edge.”

“Don’t you think you deserve a night out on the town?” he said quietly, not wanting the boy to hear.

She turned away from him.

“Those sepharim are beautiful. I can’t imagine your in-laws not wanting any of them. They’re works of art.”

“They were about as Jewish as I was. We celebrated Christmas and Hanukkah. We ate ham on Easter. We even joined a Unitarian church when Cynthia was school-age. My ex-wife was adamant about letting her choose her own religion, even though I had no objections to Cindy being raised Jewish. You can’t get much more assimilated than that.”

“True.”

“By the way, you nicely sidestepped my question.”

She glanced at Sammy.

“Peter,” she whispered, “as much as I enjoy your company, I can’t go out with you.”

“I’m not talking about a date. Something platonic. Marge Dunn is giving a recital with her boyfriend, and I’m invited. I wouldn’t mind a little company.”

“What does Marge play?”

“Flute.”

“Is she good?”

“She’s terrible. But we all love her and tell her she’s terrific. Anyway, all her boyfriends have been musicians, and her latest is a violinist. The two of them are planning to butcher Haydn. I need someone to go with.”

She said nothing.

“It’ll be really a harmless get-together. I just don’t want to be stuck there alone.”

“Won’t there be other detectives that you know?”

“They’ll all have dates. If I show up alone, I’ll be conspicuous. Then, someone’ll start trying to set me up, and I’m not interested in being set up. You’d be doing me a big favor.”

“I’m sure you know other women,” she said waspishly, then regretted saying it.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

She blushed.

“Oh, nothing really. I’m sure you have no shortage of women, that’s all.”

“They’re beating down my doorstep,” he laughed, touched by the tinge of jealousy in her voice. “Can’t you hear?”

“Now I know what all the loud thumping noises were.”

She grew serious.

“If feelings were everything, I would have gone out with you a long time ago. I like you. This is very hard for me, Peter. Please try to understand. My religion is my life.”

“Let me ask you something. If I were Jewish, but the same person, would you go out with me?”

“Certainly, if you were religious.”

“Plain Jewish-like my daughter-isn’t good enough?”

She hesitated a moment, then said: “It’s not a matter of good or bad, Peter. Your daughter is a fine person regardless of her religion. It’s an individual choice. I don’t feel any more comfortable with assimilated Jews like your in-laws than with non-Jews. How could they have given away beautiful treasures like these books? It takes a lot more to be a Torah Jew than just an accident of birth.”

Well, that ends that, Decker thought.

He walked over to the refrigerator and pulled out a six-pack of Dos Equis.

“Okay. I give up.”

“Please don’t be angry.”

“Nah, I’m not angry.” He opened up a green bottle and took a gulp. “I don’t understand your reasoning, but at least it’s nothing personal.”

“Believe me, it’s not.”

“I honestly thought you could be worn down, but you’re tough.”

He took a few more swigs, finished off the bottle, and tossed it in the garbage.

“It’s damn frustrating, though.”

Decker stared across the room, then returned his eyes to Rina.

“Anyone else ever chase you like this?”

His tone of voice had become abruptly neutral, and his eyes were hard. She didn’t know what to think.

“Not really,” she said softly. “I met Yitzchak at seventeen and married him six months later. I was out of circulation very young.”

“How about recently? Anyone ever ask you out and you refused?”

“A couple of the bochrim I dated-like Shlomo. When they asked me out a second time, I said no. Except for Shlomo, they’ve all left the yeshiva.”

“Who else?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters to me.”

She stared at him, then asked:

“What are you getting at?”

“Nothing really,” he said mildly. “Just grasping at straws.”

But he had taken on a cop’s demeanor. She found herself relieved that the conversation had turned more business-like.

“No one outside of the yeshiva men ever asked you out?” he asked.

“Well, after Yitzchak died I went back to UCLA to finish my B.A. A couple of grad students and a professor asked me for a date. They didn’t seem broken up by my refusal.”

“How long ago was this?”

“A year, year and a half ago.”

“Do you remember their names?”

“The professor’s name was Dooley. Frank or Fred. I don’t even think he’s in LA anymore.”

“And the students?”

“Blanks.”

“Anyone else?”

She paused.

“Matt Hawthorne asked me out ages ago. But Matt’s harmless.”