Charlie Huston - Half the Blood of Brooklyn

– And I wasn’t driving. Rachel was driving. - Rachel drove the car? You steal my car and you give it to Rachel and you tell her to drive it into a van?

– I didn’t steal it.- Didn’t steal it? You call it what, when you don’t ask to take my car and you take it and you let someone else drive it and you wreck it? You call that borrowing ?

– Ma, please.

The big old lady raises her hands, turns and walks into the house.

– Yes, of course, you have things to do. What business of mine is it what you do in my house or how you stole my car and what you did to smash it up? Do what you have to do.

Axler watches her with his hands on his hips.

– Fuck.

He kicks the crumpled fender of his mom’s car.

– Fuck.

He looks at me lying between the two cars on the concrete garage floor.

– Are you smiling at something?

I don’t say anything, my mouth still being gagged by leather straps.

He points.

– Get that off him.

Someone cuts the straps around my head.

I work my jaw, but I don’t bite anyone.

Axler looks at me again.

– I asked were you smiling at something?

I tongue a thick scab at the corner of my mouth.

– Naw, I wasn’t smiling at nothing.

– Good.

– Just kind of surprised.

He pushes his hat to the back of his head.

– About what?

I look at the door into the house where his mom disappeared.

– About how all those Jewish mothers jokes are so dead-on.

He starts kicking my face.

OK, figure talking about someone’s mama is never a good idea.

– Axler!

He stops kicking my face.

– Papa.

Through the blood in my eyes I see the man in shirtsleeves who has come out of the house, a wreath of dark curly hair around the bald spot not quite covered by his yarmulke, a book in his hand, index finger tucked between pages to mark his place.

He looks at me and Stretch on the floor. He looks at the blood-spattered young men shifting from foot to foot. He looks at the ruined fender of his wife’s car. He looks at his son and rubs his forehead with the back of his wrist.

Axler opens his mouth.

His father holds his hand out.

– No. Not now.

He points at Stretch and me.

– Cover their heads and bring them to the temple.

He looks at the fender again and shakes his head.

– Your mother’s car, of all things.

Harm is already in the temple in an ankle-length skirt, loose blouse and headscarf, sitting erect on a bench. Vendetta’s head is in her lap, the healing bones back inside her skin.

Across the aisle with the other men, I shake my head, trying to do something about the itch under the small circle of black felt they pinned to my hair.

I look at one of the young men that bracket me.

– Buddy, could you scratch my head?

He looks at his partner. His partner shrugs. He looks to the altar where Axler and his father stand in front of the arc, whispering.

– Rebbe?

Axler’s father turns.

– Yes?

– He wants me to scratch his head.

The Rebbe pats the top of his own head.

– A man with his hands tied has an itch on top of his head and asks you to scratch it for him. This needs a Rebbe to tell you what to do?

The kid raises his hand toward my head, hesitates, looks again at the Rebbe.

The Rebbe throws his arms up.

– Scratch. Scratch. Give the man some relief.

The kid scratches my head.

The Rebbe watches.

– You’re from Manhattan?

My head stops itching. I move it out from under the kid’s hand.

– Yeah.

Axler steps to his father and starts whispering again and his father waves him off.

– Axler, I’m talking to the man. Where in Manhattan?

– He’s from the Coalition.

The Rebbe looks at Stretch.

– Did I ask you?

– You don’t gotta ask me, I’m telling. I’m the only one in this room knows the guy’s story.

– Except the guy himself, of course.

Stretch snorts.

– Like he’s gonna tell you. Like the guy’s from the Coalition and he’s gonna tell you what he’s doing here.

The Rebbe comes down the aisle, stops next to my bench.

– The Coalition, is that right?

I don’t say anything.

– You didn’t hear the question?

I shift, try to find a way of sitting on the bench with my wrists and ankles bound that doesn’t make the hole in my thigh throb or my ribs grate or my face ache.

– Sorry, got lost in a little déjà vu there.

– This seems familiar to you? The temple? Us?

– No, being beaten and tied up and listening to some asshole try to frame my ass seems familiar. Swear I’ve gone through this shit before.

He taps one of my escorts on the shoulder and the kid gets up and the Rebbe takes his place.

– You’re not from the Coalition, then?

– Fuck is he gonna say?

The Rebbe shakes a finger at Stretch.

– You want me to have them gag you again? Yes? No? No. So be quiet for a moment. What my sister saw in you, all the talking without ever listening. A midget, I could almost be proud she was blind to such a thing, loved you despite your infirmity, but the talking and the cursing and never waiting to listen to anyone else, it’s a frustration.

– Fuck you, Moishe.

The Rebbe looks at me.

– See the mouth on him. With or without those grotesque teeth, the mouth. My sister, God love her and comfort her, she thought he was funny. She thought he was clever. To say fuck is clever? This is wit?

I look at Stretch, look back at the Rebbe.

– Fuck do I care.

He purses his lips, covers them with his fist, nods.

– Yes, you’re from Manhattan. It’s in your voice, your accent. And in your attitude. And an attitude like that, I would not be surprised if you are from the Coalition.

– He is, man, that’s what I’m telling you.

The Rebbe bangs his fist on the back of Stretch’s pew.

– Abe! If I have to ask you again to be quiet in the temple while I am speaking. I will be very upset if I have to do that. I did not tell these boys to do what they did.

He looks at his son, still by the Torah and the arc.

– I did not tell my son to abuse the Sabbath in this way.

– Dad!

– Shht! The things they’ve done, they raise grave questions. But they are done. Too late to change them. You are here. The girls are here. This man is here. Now there is nothing but to determine how best to proceed. And when you talk out of turn, you cloud the matter. And when you speak, Abe, it makes me think that perhaps you wish to cloud the matter. And that makes me regard you with doubt. So be quiet, Abe. For the sake of whatever passed between you and my sister. For the sake of my nieces. Be quiet.

The kid who scratched my head holds up a finger.

– There’s also the other girl.

The Rebbe looks at him.

– What?

Axler comes down the aisle.

– It’s nothing, Dad, a shiksa. She was there.

The Rebbe stands.

– Where is she?

Axler looks at the guy who opened his mouth and slits his eyes.

– She’s at my place. With the Lucys.

– What have I told you about that word? I raised you to use that word?

– No.

– Name them with respect.

– She’s with Rachel and Leah of the Tribe of Benjamin of the Chosen.

– Get her, bring her here.

Axler points at one of the other guys.

– Go on, get her.

The Rebbe steps to his son, looks up at him.

– No, you. You go and get this woman and cover her head and bring her here. You.

Axler bites the inside of his lip, nods, walks around his father and leaves the little temple built just behind his father’s house.