But here on Whippoorwill Lane, the cracked paint and weeds didn’t just stink of neglect. The houses on this block all carried the same faint odor of injury, hunching over the chopped-off lane. It was a street full of old people, or the grown-up children of people who’d gotten old when they weren’t paying attention. The kind of street no one expected to find themselves living on, at least not on purpose. And certainly not for very long.
BANG! BANG! BANG! Bang-Bang-Bang-Bang-BANG!
I glanced back at the house.Stupid bitch.
Well, if she wanted to wait for Mordechai, she could enjoy another 24 hours of suck.
I stalked away, timing the cadence of my walk to the crashing going on behind me. Mrs. Klein screeched out another sharp word.
Only this time it ended on a scream.
“Iris!”
I heard the old woman’s fear, shocked and high, sounding not only panicked but terrified. Then steps were running through the house as another voice’s laughter surged forth on the trailing edge of her cries.
I pictured the frail Mrs. Klein I’d seen in the doorway, racketing around her tiny little home, about to break a bone or shatter a hip. Her fear pierced through my sneering dismissal, and before my brain could conjure anything else, I ran back up the steps and did my own banging, pounding once more on the front door.
The moment my fist hit the thin wood there was silence inside, like children caught acting out at bedtime. Then came the swift shuffle of feet approaching, the equally fast swipe of the chain being drawn away.
“Oh.” Mrs. Klein took me in, once more glancing behind me. Her face fell.
Nope. Still no rabbi.
“Can I come in, Mrs. Klein?” I asked in a rush. “I might be able to—do something. About Iris.”
Mrs. Klein didn’t even hesitate as she opened the door. At that point, she probably would have taken help from the Easter Bunny.
I stepped inside with my shoulders back, my chin high, acting like I knew what I was doing.
Of course you know. You’ve known for a long time.
Heat prickled along my spine as my inner voice whispered its support, leaving me unsteady, unsettled…needful. I shoved those feelings away and looked around Mrs. Klein’s living room. The afghan-covered couch pressed against one wall, glaring at the dead eye of a silent TV. The gleaming grandfather clock hugged another corner, slightly off center, as if hoping to escape unnoticed when no one was looking. The whole place crouched with an air of expectation, and I exhaled slowly, steadying my nerves.
I could do this.
Once again, the softest brush of sensation slipped along my neck, a prickling of awareness, a murmuring of a thousand voices and none at all. I barely kept from letting my eyes drift closed, wanting to lean into that dark invitation, to slip away on its lies, to immerse myself in?—
“You can help her? Today—without the rabbi here?”
Mrs. Klein’s desperate plea sliced through my warm haze, and I jerked my gaze back to her. She stood wringing her hands in the center of the living room, but she was alone.
“Where’s your sister?” I asked abruptly.
She flinched, and even I tensed a little at the sound of my voice. It sounded too clipped, almost angry.
“In her room.” She waved vaguely toward the back of the house, and I nodded, working up a reassuring smile. I was doing this all wrong, dammit. I needed to slow down. Mordechaialways treated the family of the afflicted as if they needed as much help as the victim. The more wounded the family, the more ceremonial he got. “To each according to his needs,” he’d always say.
Mrs. Klein seemed pretty traumatized, but I couldn’t brandish an ancient shofar or suddenly whip up ten holy men and all their whispering chants. So I did the best I could. Blowing out a calming breath, I set my pack on the ground and pulled out the small metal mezuzah case I’d tucked carefully inside, offering it to her. She took it almost sheepishly, a thin stain of color warming the ash away from her cheeks as she stared down at it.
“We had one years ago, but we just—it got stolen, I think. Or fell off. But there seemed no reason to…” She sighed. “I never expected anything like this.”
“It’s okay.” I folded my hands over gossamer-light fingers, absorbing her tremors while she held the small cylindrical case. “Rabbi Mordechai created this himself to bless your home. When you’re ready, after I leave, put it up, okay? It’ll make you feel better.”
She began to nod, then a new sound issued forth from the back of the house. Not the BANG! BANG! of something big anymore, but a low rhythmic thump, like a piece of furniture thudding against a wall.
Mrs. Klein clearly knew what it was because her face tightened into an anxious mask, and she turned away from me. With almost exaggerated care, she set the mezuzah on a small, doily-covered table. Then, with quick, shooshing steps, she led me toward the back of the house. I didn’t miss the fact that my inner voice and all its brash confidence had now gone silent, just when I needed it most.
Thump. The house shuddered again with the force of whatever was being shoved against the wall.
