James Siegel - Detour

“Yes, of course. Thank you for coming.”

He wondered how long it would take her to begin asking questions. Knowing that she might’ve been the second-to-last person to see her husband alive, but that Paul was the last .

Not long.

“You have to understand this came as a complete shock,” Rachel said. Her wig had been knocked slightly off-kilter. It gave her the look of someone who’d been blindsided, not just by life.

“I imagine every wife feels the same way. Every widow .” She looked down, as if mentioning that word for the first time had made it real. “Really . . . he didn’t seem depressed, or angry, or desperate. He seemed . . . like Miles . Maybe a little more harried the last few days. I assumed it had to do with helping you. He said the Colombian government had screwed up royally this time, that your wife and baby were stuck in Bogotá.”

“Yes, it’s a big mess,” Paul said.

“Did you sense anything? Did you see something I didn’t?” She’d dropped the Paul, opting for more formality. But then, what was more formal than death? “That day when you talked to him, when we left you alone? Did he seem unhappy, upset about something, suicidal ?” Her eyes were moist, red-rimmed—she probably hadn’t slept much lately. She must’ve lain in bed staring at the same question until it imprinted itself on her eyelids: What had she missed?

“He mentioned something about gambling debts,” Paul said.

True enough.

“ Gambling? Betting?” Using a different word didn’t seem to make it any more comprehensible to her. “He’d bet ten dollars. He’d look at the sports pages in the morning and say there goes my allowance. Ten dollars . How big a debt could that have been?”

“Gamblers lie, Rachel. It’s an illness, like alcoholism. He might’ve told you it was only ten dollars. It’s more likely it was ten thousand.”

“ Ten thousand? It can’t be. I would’ve known. We weren’t in debt. I would’ve seen it.”

No. You didn’t know about Miles’ other little business. You didn’t see the money going out because you didn’t see it coming in.

“Maybe he had more money than you knew about. Who did the finances, wrote the checks? You or him?”

“Miles did.”

“See. If he wanted to hide money from you, he could’ve.”

Rachel seemed to contemplate this notion for real. A new mourner stepped into the room, reached down to take her hand, and whispered something in her ear.

“Thank you,” Rachel whispered back.

The man nodded solemnly and retreated from the room backward, as if it would have been disrespectful to turn around. Paul remembered: the uncomfortable awkwardness displayed in front of family survivors. What to say to a kid whose mother’s died of cancer? What to say to a wife whose husband has just shot himself?

Rachel looked up at him. “I can’t comprehend it. I would’ve understood. It’s just money. I would’ve said okay, we’ll get you help, we’ll deal with it. He would’ve had the support of the entire community. It would’ve been okay.”

No, Paul felt like saying. It wouldn’t have been okay. The community might’ve rallied around a gambler, not a drug smuggler. Or a kidnapper.

“To kill himself because he owed some money. It doesn’t make sense.”

Again, Paul felt like setting her straight. It wasn’t money, it was fear. Not just for himself—for them. In the end a selfish person had committed a selfless act. He must’ve believed if he wasn’t around anymore, his family would be out of harm’s way. But Riojas wasn’t someone who’d shrink from ordering the murder of a woman and children.

“A lot of people kill themselves over money,” Paul said. “Themselves or other people. I know. I work in insurance.”

Rachel looked down at her hands. She still wore her wedding ring, Paul noticed. He wondered how long it would be before she took it off and relegated it to the bureau drawer.

“What else did he tell you? He seems to have chosen you to tell all his secrets to,” she said with just a trace of bitterness.

No, Paul thought, not all.

“He talked about his family. How important you were to him.”

“Not important enough . I think you’re telling me what you think I want to hear. Don’t.”

Paul shook his head. “I got the distinct feeling family was it with him. It made me wonder why you never adopted a child yourselves. Being that it was his life’s calling.”

Rachel hesitated before answering. “I’m not sure a Colombian child would be welcome in this community. We’re an insular bunch, Mr. Breidbart. That’s an understatement. It’s not a particularly flattering thing to say. It’s true.”

“Miles had a kind of love-hate relationship with his community and religion, didn’t he?”

“It’s not a religion. It’s a way of life.”

“I know. I’m not sure Miles felt entirely comfortable with that way of life.”

“You’re not supposed to feel comfortable. You’re supposed to please God. It’s a hard thing to do.”

Someone peeked in, saw the two of them talking, withdrew.

“Did you ever meet any of them?”

“Meet any of who ?”

“The babies. The adopted children. Did Miles ever bring any of them home?”

“No.”

Then someone did come into the room. An older woman, who leaned down and said something in Yiddish. Rachel nodded, stood up. Paul reached out to steady her, but she waved him away. Paul got the feeling she was stronger than first impressions might lead one to think—strong enough to weather her husband’s suicide and the long, lonely nights sure to follow.

She wouldn’t be fainting again anytime soon.

PAUL HUNG AROUND FOR A BIT.

He became increasingly uncomfortable. The heat, sure, but more than that, the sideways glances, the whispered conversations in Yiddish, the islands of mourners that seemed to offer him no harbor.

Then, much to his relief, someone as out of place as him.

An honest-to-goodness black man walked in.

For a moment Paul assumed he was there to clean up. To gather the empty platters, the crumb-filled cake boxes and squashed and lipstick-stained paper cups, and cart them out to the curb.

The black man was wearing a suit—ill-fitting, not very expensive, but nonetheless a suit . He was a bona fide mourner.

One thing was painfully obvious. If the Orthodox crowd had considered Paul an interloper, they stared at the black man as if he were an intruder .

The black man seemed immune to the reaction he’d caused. He went up to Rachel, sitting again on one of the uncomfortable backless chairs—Paul supposed discomfort was the point—reached down, and shook her hand. He said something to her. She looked slightly dazed, no doubt still digesting everything Paul had just told her. Still, she managed to find the energy to nod and say something in return.

When he moved off into the room, staring down at the last cracker topped with chopped liver, no doubt wondering what it was, Paul walked over and told him.

“ Liver, huh?” the man said. “Hate liver.”

“It’s chopped liver. It tastes different . . . It’s pretty good.”

“Still don’t think so. Not a liver guy,” he said. “My name’s Julius.”

Paul shook his hand. “Paul Breidbart.”

“Well, hey, Paul, looks like you and me are the only people here not wearing beanies.”

“Yarmulkes,” Paul said, unable to resist the temptation to correct him.

“Yama- what ? Whatever.”

“Were you a friend of Miles?”

“Friend? Nuh-uh. We crossed paths, like.”