How could Mordechai be dead?
Steve said something else, but my feet were moving now, and I didn’t hear his words, didn’t hear the TV. I stumbled out of the house and onto our little stoop, my mind balking and stuttering like a car that was slowly running out of gas and hadn’t realized it yet. I stepped down the few steps of our rental and onto the sidewalk. It was still warm out, but dark now, of course. It would be dark at eleven o’clock. It was supposed to be dark. Just like it was supposed to be warm, and it was supposed to be Tuesday, and the only thing that wasn’t right was?—
“You all right?”
I jolted, shocked to see I wasn’t alone on the sidewalk. The short, dark-eyed Mrs. Soo stood in front of me. She was old, but I couldn’t tell how old, her burnished skin and bright eyes making her seem almost timeless as she stared up at me, with a soft, sad smile and softer, sadder eyes. She wore a thin white T-shirt and blue pants, and she put a frail hand on my arm.
“You all right?” she said again, in that confused way of someone trying out a language they weren’t too sure about.
I stared at her fingers on my sleeve, tiny, gnarled fingers that suddenly seemed wrong to be touching me. Like anything that could touch me would be destroyed, defiled.
“I’m fine,” I said roughly, and shook her off, stepping around her like she had some sort of disease. Or I did. “I’m sorry. Thank you. I’m fine. I have to go.”
Then I was walking, moving faster now. Down the street and through the alley and into one of the forlorn city parks with its tiny jungle gym and swing sets on patchwork pieces of concrete. A place I used to be afraid to come to at night, scared of everything that was out there in the shadows. Now I just stared at the swing, then up at the stars.
It was like I was the only person in the universe, now forever and completely alone.
“What happened, Mordechai?” I whispered.
His house, I thought suddenly. His pretty little house and his messy, terrible office. Would I even be able to see it again? How would I know where to go—where to see him? How could he possibly be dead, and what did I do now? I didn’t know if he had family, not real family. I mean, he had a brother, nephews and nieces, and even grandnieces and grandnephews in Missouri. All their pictures were on his office fridge, slowly shifting over the years as toddlers turned into messy-haired kids, and the messy-haired kids turned into gangly, awkward teenagers. He had people who still knew him at the Rockdale Temple too.
The temple. I would go there. Of course, I would go there. I would go there, and they would tell me what I could do, where I could see him. How I should act. How I should be. They would tell me.
The hole in my heart didn’t shrink with that decision, however. It didn’t go away.
I shoved my hands into my hoodie pockets, chilled despite the warm night. My breathing wasn’t right, too shallow, too quick, like I wasn’t bleeding enough oxygen from the air. But I had to try and remember. Slowly, I shuffled over to the ancient slide, and sat down on its surface, everything still and silent around me. The night held its breath even as I fought to fill my lungs. Fought and failed.
What happened to Mordechai?
I frowned fiercely, trying to recall, and my headache came back with a raging force. Not enough caffeine today, I thought. Not enough water. Too many fumes.
Remember!
Pain lanced through me as I hunched over on the edge of the small slide. My nails cut into my palms, but it was no use—nothing came back to me. The police said there’d been no indication of foul play, according to the TV reporter. So he hadn’t been shot, hadn’t committed some sort of spontaneous suicide. He’d simply been a rabbi with a shofar in the middle of a Jewish cemetery, dead as a flipping doornail.
Had he even died right away? Or had he been still gasping for breath, still reaching for me, only I was nowhere to be found? Instead, I’d been running through the night, running so hard and so fast I could still feel the jarring strikes of my feet against the pavement. Had he even reached for me? Had I known he was dying?
Dying!
How could he possibly be dead?
A new fear slid through me. What if they were secretly looking for Mordechai’s killer right now? What if the killer was me? What if I had somehow managed to kill Mordechai without touching him, or even remembering it?
How could he be dead?
“Pull it together,” I hissed to myself, looking up suddenly to see if anyone was there, anyone who was listening to me. I had to remember more of what had happened tonight in case the cops intended to talk to me. Though why would they talk to me? I hadn’t done anything wrong.
I stared into the dark shadows of the playground, hearing the echo of children who’d run and laughed here, seeing them in flashes and spurts, their energy still radiating off the monkey bars and slide. I wasn’t afraid of anything waiting for me in thedark, I realized grimly. But I was still more afraid than I wanted to be.
What had I done?
And then after all that silence, after all those empty hours without a sound—a whisper from deep inside me finally spoke, flowing through me like poisoned silk.
Nothing, beautiful Delia,it whispered. Nothing.
My lips twisted. It was right. I’d done nothing.
And Mordechai was dead.
