“Hersch kept a journal?”
“Naw,” Maya said with a half-groan. “That’s just a log of expenditures.”
I opened it—long lists of dates and amounts in small, meticulous handwriting. Band-aid cloth tape $2.99, Tums chewy $2.11, Jumbo Fair slippers $5.00.
I said, “Captain Coupon strikes again,” and Maya smiled, shook her head.
“What’s weird,” she said, digging in to pull out a rubber-banded brick of folded bank statements, “is that I never heard about all this debt. I mean, for one, I could have helped him.”
“That is odd.”
“And frail as he was, Daddy actually snuck away to Texas? Doesn’t that seem crazy to you?”
“It does—but what does that have to do with the Elkaims?”
“Two years before Daddy died, the debt disappeared—and I’m talking, like, a hundred grand, poof. That got me wondering, so I started taking a look at these. Well—”
“What.”
“Look.”
On the back pages of the bank statements in miniature faded xerox, check after check, all from Charles Elkaim—$5,000, $850, $1,200, $2,500, $15,000, and on and on.
“Elkaim just…like…paid his way?”
Maya nodded. “Till the bitter end.”
“So what are you saying?”
“I don’t know. He really did care about Daddy. And it’s nice that he reached out to you. But this is some scary business you’re getting into, and…”
“What?”
She slammed the trunk shut and there we were, kneeling like two children at their daddy’s coffin.
“I just hope this isn’t Charles Elkaim’s way of calling in a debt.”
25
The next day after lunch, I picked up Endi and her blue acoustic at Ziva’s and together we drove to the Shalom Terrace. On the way, she was edgy, stiff as a board.
“You okay?” I said.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I don’t know why I’m flipping out like this. I’m a nervous wreck.”
“You are going to be great. You’re going to put years on the lives of some of those old folks.”
“Yeah,” she said, “and take a few off my own.”
Still, she softened when she entered the place with its soft gray creatures drifting through long halls. Rabbi Peretz greeted us warmly and told us Charles Elkaim wasn’t back yet, but doctors said he was in much better shape. Then Jensen showed up and took us to the empty rec room. He set up mics, plugged in his guitar, and started looping a sweet hooky riff while Endi strummed along. Then they adjusted volumes, set up a music stand, and cracked open a songbook. Watching them practice, working their two-part harmonies, I wished for the zillionth time that I could sing better, but these two were pitch-perfect; the last thing they needed was my croony croak in the mix. Besides, I was busy holding down the first pangs of jealousy. It was early to be feeling all that, but I did.
At 2:00 p.m. on the dot, the doors flung open and the crowd shlepped in, some clomping on walkers, some rolling by wheelchair, some leaning on nurses. I took a seat between a man with no teeth and a woman with very little hair. Their excitement was childlike and infectious. As Jensen fumbled with the small PA system and karaoke TV screen, a husky old wiseacre snuck up on the mic uninvited, grabbed it, and said, “Introducing Mr. Jensen—a man with too much talent for this sorry place.”
The crowd grumbled, cheered, told the old guy to sit down.
“Actually,” Jensen said, half-laughing, putting an arm around the man, “Jensen’s my first name, and far as I’m concerned, this place…is my happy place.” Then he introduced today’s special guest, “the beautiful and talented Endi Sandell,” and she flashed a blushing smile as they kicked into their set, with the whole room belting out the karaoke hits: “Love Me Do,” “Blue Skies,” “My Favorite Things,” “What a Wonderful World,” “Stand By Me.”
I sang the oldies with the oldies, adding to the general disharmony. From inside this cacophony, though, each song took on a strange new power, a new context of life and death, and Jensen, as if knowing full well the emotional risks of the exchange taking place, did not let a moment of silence lapse—he cracked jokes, addressed the congregants by name, cheered them on, and then he thanked Endi, kissing her hand in a grand gesture before asking her to take five as he launched into a solo number, “All Shook Up,” with some fake Elvis moves that had the seniors clapping in almost-time and hooting and shaking the last of what they could shake.
Then Endi was called back for “Send in the Clowns” and they cheered, they just adored her, and finally she stood at ease, ten times more comfortable than she’d been at the amateur hour, but when the song was coming to a close and the old guy sitting next to me blurted, “Don’t bother. They’re here,” Endi and I caught eyes and we both had to look away fast to keep from cracking up.
After the big “All You Need is Love” finale, the elderly were gently escorted out, and the nurses and the performers and I were treated to some not-that-terrible square-shaped cafeteria pizza. As Endi was being congratulated by all, I got a text from Double Fry, almost like telepathy: Beatles double feature at the Vista 4pm? I showed this to Endi and Jensen and soon the four of us were sitting in the Jetta parked up the street from the movie house, passing around a joint like a pack of teenagers.
“Be careful, guys,” Double Fry warned, “this is some really strong stuff, nothing like what you citizens get at the dispensary.”
Jensen said, “Man, you ain’t kiddin’. I haven’t done this in years—what a treat to meet all you guys.”
“You’re in our gang now,” Fry said. “Going to this movie is the initiation.”
Just then a cop rolled by and the four of us froze up. Double Fry whispered, “Pigs,” and Jensen said, “Duck.” As the cop car cruised past, Endi said, “Geese?” and we burst into unstoppable laughter. Then Fry pointed at the car clock. “Oh shit, we’re late.”
We bustled out, passed out Altoids, and turned the corner, last in line for tickets. Up on the marquee: Beatles Forever.
“So much fun,” Endi said.
“Not for Pete Best,” Fry said dryly and the rest of us groaned.
At the concession stand, Jensen weighed Libra hands. “Raisinets or Kit Kat? Kit Kat or Raisinets?”
I said, “No sane person can decide on that.”
Endi said, “Will you two get out of my way please,” and pushed past to order a huge popcorn.
“See?” Jensen said to me. “They get a taste of fame and all of a sudden it’s outta my way.”
Soon the four of us were down the sticky aisle, grabbing seats in the theater, with Jensen nudging Fry out of the way to sit next to Endi—I chagrined, took her other side, and Fry frowned. Now we were up close with a coming attraction for Andy Warhol’s Frankenstein in 3-D up on the big screen, but without the glasses it was more splotchy than scary. We settled in, Fry, then me, then Endi between me and Jensen, and he angled toward us, raising his two hands in surprise.
“Ta-dah!”
He’d bought the Kit Kats and the Raisinets.
Endi said, “God bless you.”
The movie started and we all leaned back to face the giant black-and-whiteness and then there they were—George, John, and Ringo, on the run from a pack of rabid teenybopper girls, and they’re running, laughing, George falls, then Ringo slips, or maybe Ringo kneels to pick George up, you couldn’t tell, but they’re moving fast—and here’s Paul and now they’re hiding in phone booths, photo booths, climbing the walls—the wanted guys—and the girls, these supercute messengers of crazed yearning, are screaming and chasing them against this music of ridiculous happiness, the exuberance, the ecstasy jamming up everybody’s heartbeats.
From the corner of my eye, I saw Double Fry stunned into ecstasy by the screen, then I looked to Endi, also mesmerized, her beautiful mouth open and breathless, and then I saw Jensen, entranced, stupefied, his eyes welling up and so were mine; I got it, liked him even more for this flash of vulnerability as I leaned back to take in the black-and-white tidal wave of joy and brotherhood before us—almost too much for a human to bear.
The popcorn box was passed, candies exchanged hands, and the movie on the screen maintained this shimmering beauty for an awfully long time, and then it kind of went sideways, cuckoo, but that didn’t matter—the music was all that mattered. During “I Should Have Known Better,” Endi slipped her hand under mine, intertwined our fingers, and I went flush with a happiness I had not thought possible for a very, very long time.
