A. Homes - May We Be Forgiven

“Please.”

I get back in my car and start the engine, bracing myself for an explosion, which doesn’t happen. The supervisor comes on the line, and I repeat the story, ending with the fact that I have no cash and am in a gas station hundreds of miles from home.

“It appears the account has been frozen due to pending legal action,” the supervisor says.

“You froze my bank account; I didn’t freeze the account.”

“Do you need money?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“There’s a home-equity line attached to these accounts that, for whatever reason, has not been blocked; you can withdraw from that. The available amount is sixty thousand dollars, and that can be drawn down from a cash machine at one thousand dollars per day, excluding transaction fees.”

From the snack shop of the gas station I make a withdrawal, and pocket the cash.

It’s late afternoon when I pull back into George’s town — the slow part of the day, when everything seems to hang unfinished in midair, until cocktails can be poured. If we were cats, we’d be asleep.

Instead of going to the house, I head for the synagogue. I’m in need of counsel. I park. I turn off the engine, but can’t get out of the car. It’s like I’m stuck. Do you think the rabbi would come out and talk to me — is there a drive-thru temple? I dial Directory Assistance and get the number. The temple’s phone system is automated. “For Hebrew school press two, for a schedule of temple events press one, for Rabbi Scharfenberger’s office press three.” I press three. A woman answers, “ Ni hao. ”

“I’d like to speak with the rabbi.”

“Rabbi is very busy.”

“I have suffered a recent loss. The rabbi spoke at the funeral. We shook hands.”

“Are you a member of the congregation?”

“My brother is a member; my nephew was bar mitzvahed there.”

“Maybe you join and then we talk.”

“I don’t live here.”

“You make donation.”

There’s something about this woman’s voice that’s very odd — it’s like she’s speaking in translation. “I don’t mean to be rude, but your accent is unusual: where are you from?”

“I am Chinese Jew. Big adopted woman.”

“How old were you when you were adopted?”

“Twenty-three. Family came to get baby but did not like baby offered and so they take me instead. I am like a baby. I have no education. I know nothing. Good deal for all. We joke — I am big new baby — not so funny to me. I love being a Jew, nice holidays, good soup.” She pauses. “So how much donation you make?”

“Are you telling me I have to buy the rabbi’s time?”

“The Jewish community needs many things, hard hit by pony scream.”

“Ponzi scam?”

“Yes, money up in smoke. How much you give?”

“A hundred dollars.”

“That’s not so good, you do better than that.”

“What do you suggest?”

“Five hundred minimum.”

“Fine, and how much time with the rabbi for five hundred?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“You are a good Jew,” I say. “Good businessman.”

“Woman,” she says.

I read her the number of my credit card, she puts me on hold for a minute. I hear ancient music, the sounds of the Jews crossing the desert.

“Card decline.”

“Why?”

“They don’t say. You call credit card and then call me back. Bye-bye, shlepper.”

Did she really say “shlepper”?

Pulling out of the temple parking lot, I am nearly broadsided by a delivery truck.

Back at the house, there’s another note resting on the floor under the mail slot.

“I have job to do on you. You need to be home.”

“Tessie, who leaves these notes? Do you see them come, or does some anonymous hand feed them through the slot? What does the hand look like, what does it want from me?”

Tessie looks at me, as if to say, “Look, buddy, I know you’re trying hard, but I hardly know you, and there’s been so much weird shit lately, I don’t even know how to begin to explain.”

Something is different: nothing major, but just that odd sense that things have been moved, like when I left was the newspaper outside or inside? And the pile of mail I’d been keeping by the front door doesn’t look the same. There’s a can of cream soda on the counter. I touch it — the can is cold.

My heart kicks into a higher gear.

I look at Tessie. Her tail thumps.

“Hello?” I call out. “Anybody home?” Too weird. “Hel-lo…”

A noise from upstairs.

“Who’s there — Nathaniel, Ashley? Identify yourself.”

My heart is slamming around in my chest like it’s broken loose. Cupping my hands together, I deepen my voice. “This is Sergeant Spiro Agnew from the police department. We know you are in the house. Come out with your hands over your head.”

There’s a big thud, like something falling. “Shit,” someone says.

“All right, then, I’m coming up. I’m drawing my gun, I don’t like having to pull out this enormously heavy, powerful weapon. Wallace, step back. …”

I slam my foot down on the bottom of the stairs four times — as if to imitate the sound of feet climbing. Tessie looks at me like I’m nuts. “This is your last warning. Wallace, call the station and have them send the SWAT truck.” Tessie looks at me sideways, as if to say, “Who the hell is Wallace?” I take Nate’s baseball bat from the umbrella stand and head up the stairs.

“Don’t shoot,” a woman’s voice says.

“Where are you?”

“In the bedroom.”

I walk in with the bat up, ready to swing. Susan is there, arms filled with Jane’s clothing, clothing on hangers piled high. “You’re not going to kill me, are you?”

“I didn’t realize you had a key.”

“I used the one under the fake rock.”

I look at the clothing in her arms. “Did you find what you were looking for?”

“I wanted some of Jane’s things. Is that weird?”

I shrug.

“Can I take them?”

“Take whatever you want. Take a TV — there’s one in every room. You want some silver, there’s a lot downstairs, in little velvet pouches.”

“Should I look at it?”

“Your call. She was your sister; at this point you’re stealing from your niece and nephew.” I stand aside so she can go down the stairs.

“Where’s your gun?”

“What gun?”

“You said you had a big powerful gun; all I see is Nate’s bat.”

“I lied.” I put the bat down and help Susan carry things to the car. “She sure had a lot of shoes,” I say.

“She had good feet,” Susan says. “Easy to fit.”

“Good feet and a mink coat,” I say.

“Where do you think the coat is?” Susan asks.

“Did you look in the front hall closet?”

“The bastard killed my sister, I should at least get the coat.” Susan goes back into the house, opens the front hall closet, and rummages. Susan finds the coat, puts it on, and walks towards the door, pausing to look at me, as if to ask, “Are you going to stop me?”

“Like I said, whatever you want, it’s yours.” I hand her the can of soda. “This yours too?”

“You can have it,” she says.

I take a sip. “Do you know anything about the mail? Someone keeps leaving me weird notes mixed in with the mail.”

“Like what?”

I show her one of the notes.

“You’re screwed,” she says.

“How so?”

“It’s probably the family of the people George killed, looking for revenge.”

“Should I show it to the police?”

“I’m not the one to advise you,” she says, getting into her car. She backs out.

I go to the hardware store to look at burglar alarms and to buy night-lights and timers for the upstairs lights. Between Susan coming in with no warning, the notes being dropped through the mail slot, and the fact that for the last twenty-two years I’ve lived in a one-bedroom apartment eighteen floors above ground, the stress of being alone in the house is getting to me.