“Tell me exactly what the news said, Miguel.”
“They said that they could confirm your family has been missing since December.” Miguel paused. “They showed your son, Rabbi. He was beautiful. I didn’t know you had a family. I’m so sorry. They said that they believe they’ve been killed.”
Miguel kept apologizing, but David couldn’t hear him, not with the world tipping upside down, the sun falling from the sky, the hand of the Lord upon him, dragging him through the Valley of Dry Bones.
TWENTY-NINE
SUNDAY, APRIL 21, 2002
LAS VEGAS, NV
THAT RABBI DAVID COHEN WAS A CHICAGO HIT MAN NAMED SAL CUPERTINE had ceased, over time, to be a problem. At least to the congregants of Temple Beth Israel having the Early Bird Dinner at the Bagel Café.
There was Mark and Claudia Levine, in marriage counseling twice a week for an infinite amount of time, David never once sure what either was upset about, each ending their sessions with the same fucking question that David was forced to answer within the context of the faith: Does that make me a bad husband? or Does that make me a bad wife? No, David always told them, that is not what makes you a bad husband or wife. They never asked a follow-up, and David never offered.
There was Phyllis Rosencrantz, always obsessing about the Teen Fashion Show for the Homeless. With the big-box department stores going out of business, who would sponsor the show this year? With everyone worried about terrorism, should we make the show a 9/11 benefit? Will you go golfing with the general manager of the new Burberry store opening at the Forum Shops? If we could get them on board, Rabbi, it would make a huge difference!
There was Michael Solomon and Naomi Rosen—she kept her last name, after all—dining with both sets of parents, as they did every Sunday night. Michael was a fucking piece of shit, started cheating on Naomi a month after their wedding, came to David in tears, asking him what he should do. David didn’t admit what he hoped would happen—that Michael would have a sudden and profound allergic reaction to the Drakkar Noir he wore that would kill him, fast—but instead pled with him to change his behavior. If he couldn’t change his behavior, then he should ask for a divorce, immediately, not prolong the facade. Michael never showed his face at the Temple again.
There was Clara Jaffe and Esther Barer and Leona Siegel and Violet Epstein and Marie Granek, who called themselves The Widows Club, sharing two sandwiches and a platter of blintzes. Widowed over twenty years now and carried themselves with profound grace and elegance. They were everyone’s Nana, in their St. John knit sweaters, Chanel No. 5 perfume, and coral lipstick. But David knew them differently. David knew that each saw their dead, still, in various forms. Clara’s husband was found in the whiff of cigar smoke on a spring day. Esther’s husband sat beside her in movie theaters, where she spent most of her free afternoons, laughing and sharing popcorn. Leona’s husband sat on the edge of the tub each morning and told her how beautiful she looked before she went off for her nine holes of golf. Violet’s husband didn’t appear at all, because she never loved him, but her special friend Julie did, each night, in the California king they were never able to share. Marie Granek’s husband was in a tiny vial of hair she wore on a necklace, but no one knew that, not any of the Widows, just David.
Fifty-two tables, Rabbi David Cohen counted, with his people.
And there, sitting in his corner booth, alone, was Rabbi Cy Kales. He wore a suit and tie. Hair impeccable. David slid in across from him.
“Rabbi,” David said.
“Rabbi,” Rabbi Kales said. “I thought I saw your car in the parking lot.”
“You should be in Tel Aviv,” David said.
“God created man for incorruption, David, and he failed. There is no running from that truth. So I sent Avi instead. Let him fight for Israel.” He pushed a plate of lox toward David. “Eat.”
“I can’t stand that shit,” David said. “You should know that by now.”
Rabbi Kales gave David a wan smile, then handed over half of his corned beef sandwich, waved over his waitress, asked for a bit of mayonnaise. “Now,” Rabbi Kales said, “eat.”
David did.
“Why so dressed up?” David asked after a while.
“I have a funeral to attend,” Rabbi Kales said.
“My wife and son are dead,” David said.
“I know,” Rabbi Kales said. “I’m sorry, David.”
“Since December,” David said.
Rabbi Kales straightened his tie. “You don’t want to hear what I have to say.”
“Say it.”
“You and I have chosen to put everyone we love in the way of bullets. We have been selfish with their mortality. And so now we have come to a crossroads with a golem standing at the end of all the roads and we are surprised.” He tsked. “We should have been strong enough to say no, David, and so, now, I will. What else is there for me to do?”
“What’s your plan?” David asked after a few bites.
“Sleeping pills.”
“Imprecise,” David said. “You’ll more likely throw them up.”
“Do you have something better?”
He rolled Gray Beard’s syringe across the table. “I was going to use this myself,” he said, “but I can share.”
Rabbi Kales examined the syringe for a moment, then put it into his pocket.
“You’re a young man, Rabbi,” Rabbi Kales said, “you have much to live for.”
“My wife and child are dead,” David said again. “I’ve been fighting to get back to them when they were already gone.” He shook his head. “The things I’ve done. The people I have killed. Useless. Everything.” David looked across the Bagel Café at his people, since they were all he had left. “I have let each and every one of them down. To make Bennie Savone and my cousin Ronnie rich. I have been a fool.”
“My wife is long dead.” Rabbi Kales reached across the table, took David’s hands, squeezed them. “My child is lost to me. And here I am. Do you know why, David?”
“I don’t,” David said. The truth was, David was in shock. All the world had come to a halt a few hours ago. He wanted to kill everyone. He wanted everyone to know his pain.
“Tell me their names, David.”
“Jennifer and William.” When was the last time he’d said their full names out loud? “Jennifer Dawn Frangello Cupertine. William Robert Cupertine.”
