Detroit, Michigan. 1971.
Harry glanced at the row of black Cadillacs parked on the street, a group of friends and relatives around him at Sara’s casket, waiting for it to be lowered into the ground next to her mother. Rabbi Rosenbaum delivering the Mourner’s Kaddish.
“May His great Name grow exalted and sanctified.”
“Amen” from the mourners.
“May He give reign to His kingship in your lifetimes and in your days, and in the lifetimes of the entire family of Israel, swiftly and soon. Now say: Amen. May His great name be blessed forever and ever. Blessed, praised, glorified, exalted, extolled, mighty, upraised, and lauded be the Name of the Holy One.”
And now everyone said, “Blessed is He.”
Harry felt like he had slipped out of his body, watching himself in a black suit, white shirt, black tie and black yarmulke, hands clasped together, holding them over his groin, solemn expression, mind flashing snapshots of Sara like frames in a slide show.
An hour later Harry was sitting in his crowded living room, Aunt Netta, an Orthodox Jew, holding his face in her hands.
“Harry, did you shave? You are not supposed to shave or get a haircut. Harry, don’t you know this?”
“It’s okay,” Harry said.
“It’s not okay. You should be sitting in a low chair.”
“I don’t have a low chair,” Harry said.
She glanced at his shoes, black ankle-high Bally boots with a zipper on the side. “And no leather. You should know better, Harry. It’s rabbinically mandated.”
Telling him what a mourner should do during shiva. Netta was short and wide like his mother, about five two. She pinned a piece of ribbon, a keriah, on his shirt pocket.
After the Nazis murdered his parents, Harry doubted the existence of God, and stopped practicing the rituals and traditions of the faith.
“Harry, I arranged a minyan for tonight’s service,” Netta said. Which meant ten men from Temple would arrive about 7:00 p.m. to recite Kaddish.
Most of Harry’s family had emigrated from Germany in the late thirties. His father’s side of the family was tall, thin and good-looking. His mother’s side was short and stocky. The men had round faces and thinning hair and wore glasses, black horn rims with lenses so thick you got dizzy if you looked through them.
Harry’s uncle and former business partner, his dad’s younger brother, sat next to him and grinned. Sam was seventy-one and always had a gleam in his eye.
“A Polish terrorist was sent to blow up a car,” Sam said. “He burned his mouth on the exhaust pipe.”
Harry grinned.
“Two Jews, Saul and Sheldon, were walking past a church. They saw a sign that said: Become Catholic. We pay $100. Sheldon says, “I’m going to do it.” “No,” says Saul. “Yes, I am,” says Sheldon. “You can’t. Your family, your friends, they’re all Jewish. You go to shul for the High Holidays.” “I’m doing it,” says Sheldon walking into the church. Saul paces back and forth until Sheldon walks out with a big smile on his face. “No,” says Saul. “You didn’t.” “Yes, I did,” says Sheldon. “I’m baptized. I’ve become Catholic.” Saul says, “Tell me, did you get the hundred dollars?” Sheldon looks at him and says, “Why is it always the money with you people?” Sam laughed, patted Harry’s cheek. “So how you doing?”
“Holding up,” Harry said.
“What choice do you have?”
“I miss her,” Harry said, feeling a heavy sadness like he might break down, took a deep breath and it calmed him.
Sam put his arm around Harry’s shoulder. “We all do. That kid was something special.”
Harry saw Phyllis and Jerry, dressed up, standing in the foyer. “Excuse me, will you?” he said to Sam, got up and went over to them. They’d never been in his house and looked nervous. “Thanks for coming,” Harry said.
“Harry, why didn’t you tell me?” Phyllis said. “I’m so sorry.” She hugged him and handed him a glass canning jar. “I made this for you. Salsa, extra spicy, the way you like it.”
He took it and put it on a table and helped Phyllis off with her coat. “Come in, have something to eat.”
Jerry shook his hand. “Harry, I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything.”
“I can’t stay long,” Phyllis said, out of her comfort zone, ready to leave right then if she could’ve.
“There’re no rules,” Harry said. “Go whenever you want.” He escorted them into the dining room, people moving around the table, filling their plates. “But first have something to eat.” A tall dark-haired kid with a beard and glasses with silver rims appeared next to him.
“Mr. Levin, I’m Richard Gold, friend of Sara’s.”
“She mentioned you,” Harry said.
The boyfriend. Clearly uncomfortable, palms clamped together, but it was an uncomfortable situation.
“We were going out, seeing each other,” Richard Gold said. “I was in love with her. Sara was going to introduce us the next time you came to visit.”
Richard was choked up, and Harry was too. He could hear Sam behind him firing off more jokes.
“Doctor, my leg hurts. What can I do? The doctor says: Limp!” People were laughing.
He patted Richard on the back. “I appreciate you being here. Excuse me.” He walked past him into the kitchen and there was Galina. She had just come in the door, carrying a family-size bowl of borscht and a platter of gefilte fish covered in cellophane. She put the food down on the kitchen table.
“Come here,” she said, moving toward him, hugging Harry, pulling him to her, whispering, “I can come back later, give you back rub.”
Her euphemism for going to bed with him. He hoped Aunt Netta wasn’t listening. She would have said, “Harry, no sexual relations during shiva.”
Harry said, “What happened to your boyfriend?”
“Is over,” Galina said. “The man is a schmuck.”
The idea of sex with Galina, being smothered by her massive earth-momma breasts, appealed to him. It would take the edge off, take his mind out of the funk he was in.
At 9:30, after everyone had gone, Harry went in the kitchen and made himself a vodka tonic with a slice of lime. All the leftover food had been put in the refrigerator. All the dishes and glasses and silver had been washed and put away. He realized he hadn’t eaten anything all day but wasn’t hungry.
Harry took his drink and went upstairs, walked in his daughter’s room, turned on the light and looked around, the room telling a lot about eighteen-year-old Sara Levin, revealing a curious blend of girl-woman. Harry sat on the bed, knowing he was never going to see her again, felt tears come down his face, staring at the posters on the walls: the Beatles in black and white, shot on a TV sound stage, could’ve been The Ed Sullivan Show, a color close-up of Jimi Hendrix playing guitar at Woodstock, Bob Dylan wearing a hat in a dark moody shot. He got up, wiped his eyes with his shirt sleeves, looking at tennis trophies on top of the bookshelves, and under the trophies books lined up: the Nancy Drew mystery series, The Sun Also Rises, Of Mice and Men, The Catcher in the Rye, and The Bell Jar. On the desk was a framed photo of Harry and Sara posing in their white judo outfits. He walked out of the room and turned off the light.
Harry was brushing his teeth when he heard the doorbell. He went downstairs, opened the front door. Galina was standing on the front porch in a raincoat on a warm August night. She came in, brushed his cheek with her palm. “Expecting rain?” Harry said, closing the door.
She started unbuttoning the coat as she walked to the stairs, took it off, draped it over the banister and walked up naked, wearing high heels.
Halfway up she turned, glanced at him and said, “You coming, Harry?”