A Town of Empty Rooms (27 page)

“Miss. I can't go to him. What is going to happen to me? I don't want him to pray beside me when I die. Who do I go to if I can't go to him? Can you tell me?”

“That 's bad,” said Serena, “I'll look — ”

Sophie stood up and grabbed the phone. “Miss Loretta Stone,” she said. “My name is Sophie Hirsch. I'm Serena's mother. Pardon me for listening to this, but I think this man should . . . apologize to you. That is not the way to treat someone. You should . . . I don't know. Trust your feelings.”

“Yes,” said Loretta. “I agree.”

Sophie sat back. Serena thanked Loretta for her help and gently hung up the phone.

“What should we do?” asked Serena.

Sophie shook her head.

“You know what the problem is?” said Sophie, her voice firm. “No one is listening to them. That's why they're upset. You're doing a good thing here. Listen.”

Her mother stood up and walked out onto the porch. The morning was white with mist, the magnolia and crape myrtle trees pale, barely visible — Serena went to her mother, and they stood on the edge of the day, silent, looking out as the trees and cars and houses pressed themselves into the air.

Part Three

Chapter Fourteen

SERENA GRIPPED HER MOTHER'S ARM as they walked through the airport. She tried to remember the last moment she had held her father's arm in this way — it had been six months prior, and he had been making her a sandwich for the plane. He would not allow her to spend eight dollars on a bad sandwich in flight; he had a theory that the money somehow made it to the oil companies, as all money did. He wanted to separate from anything that had to do with the corruption of the nation; he wanted to lift them all away from it.

She felt her mother's fingers against her arm as they moved toward the security gate. “I'm fine,” Sophie said. “I really am. I'm thinking everything through.”

“I know you are,” said Serena.

They had reached the security gate.

“Do your work at the Temple,” said her mother. “Sweetheart. You've had a hard time. But I think you're doing something important.”

“Thank you,” Serena said; she stopped. Her mother stepped forward and held her. For a moment, Serena could not speak; she felt the precious rise and fall of her mother's breath under her ribs.

“I love you,” she said to her mother.

Sophie was silent for a moment and then said, “You, too.”

Sophie stepped out of her daughter's arms. Serena watched her as she walked toward security. Sophie stepped carefully out of her shoes and placed them in a plastic bin, and then she placed her blazer and earrings there as well. Barefoot, she walked through the metal detector and waited as the TSA crew inspected her baggies full of Cheez-Its. Then her mother slipped on her shoes, buttoned her blazer, and continued slowly toward the gate; Serena waited, the way she'd wait for her son, to be there in case her mother turned to say goodbye to her. But
her mother did not look back; she headed toward the gates, disappearing into the airport's gray light.

 

 

 

LATER THAT DAY, SERENA HEARD a rustling by her front door. When she opened it, she found a new flyer stuffed into the handle. Forrest was walking, with a military briskness, down the street.

There was a color picture of a noble-looking baby wrapped in a cloth. A halo had been drawn in gold ink over his head.

She thought of Zeb and the pennies, and her heart felt like a bomb. She knew whom she had to talk to about this. Her cell phone rang.

“I found you.” It was Betty. “Do you have the keys?”

“I got them,” said Serena. “Yesterday — ”

“Good. I'm glad we have them. The Temple's dividing. Pro and con. I've spread the word a bit. Leaked some documents.”

“Betty!”

Serena listened, carried along by Betty's excitement. Action. It sounded so clear and dramatic. But what were they supposed to do?

“Betty,” she began, “who are ‘they'?”

The landline rang.

“I have to go,” Serena said. She hung up and picked up the landline.

“I found you,” he said.

It took her a moment to recognize Rabbi Golden's voice.

 

 

 

SHE TOOK THE KEYS TO Betty's house. The guard gave her a map, but it was a joke; the slight variations in the design of the houses and the pristine lawns made every street look identical. The designer of the neighborhood seemed partial to three design motifs — either
Cape Cod, English Tudor, or antebellum mansion. The minimal differences in the structure of the homes, the enforced palette of the colors — peach, sky blue, lemon yellow, foam green — attested to the desire for order and immortality. It was a long ride through the gated community, but finally she found Betty's home. She stood outside the arching doors, which seemed large enough to accommodate the entrance of a basketball player. It was the first time she had seen Betty when she did not look as though she was about to give a PowerPoint presentation; Serena was startled by Betty's naked face, and she looked surprisingly pale, both younger and older, her eyes rimmed with lavender skin.

“Smart girl,” she said. “Thank you.”

Serena looked into the house. The foyer was a buttery yellow; there was artwork by Chagall on the walls. Some tall, fuzzy branches were placed artfully in a slim vase in the corner. The air held the sweet scent of a peach.

“This is the house that canapés built,” smiled Betty, holding out her arms. “Come in.”

Serena stepped inside. “How did you do this?” she asked.

“Crispy chicken bites. Bleu cheese and iceberg mini salads. Apricot Gruyère tartlets . . . ” She was buoyant. She touched Serena's arm. “Marketing, honey. I listened to what clients wanted, I gave them 110 percent — ”

“No, really,” said Serena, wanting to know something else, something larger. “What did you do?”

“You believe. You create your product. You make sure they know who you are. You stand up and say hello.” She paused. “What kind of work did you do?”

“Speechwriting. For corporations.”

“Did you really? I hate words.”

“They're nothing to be afraid of,” said Serena, “You just get specific. You think about what people will remember. You make sure to be short, sweet. When you sell something, anything, you think about how everyone wants to be included.”

Betty was regarding her. She patted the box of keys. “What should I say about these keys?”

Serena looked at the box. “These aren't just any keys. They're not
just keys to the Temple. Pick one up. Look at it. They're keys to who we are.”

“I like that. Go on.”

It was blather, ridiculous, but she could whip it out: “They are keys to how we define ourselves at Temple Shalom. There's one for each of us. You can turn it the right way, the wrong way.”

Betty had tears in her eyes. How far could she go with this? Serena remembered the joy she felt when she finished her first speech for Earl Morton, the slightly unleashed sensation of glee, like she was tumbling down a hill; it was the airy, careless joy that she could really say anything at all, that she could, by stringing together a few phrases, fool others into believing in their accomplishment, confidence. How powerful she felt to merely say anything and have it seem true.

Now she heard her words and winced.

“What doors do they unlock?” asked Betty, her eyes alarmingly curious.

“They unlock . . . ” She paused; yes, she was going to say it. “They unlock the doors to our hearts,” said Serena, and closed her eyes.

Betty clapped her hands. “More!” she said, stepping into her living room. Large glass windows overlooked the plain that was the golf course. In the far distance, Serena could see tiny figures standing, occasionally swinging clubs over the flat, unnaturally green grass.

“Maybe you could write for me someday. What I could tell my waiters before they head out to serve guests at a wedding. Or what I could tell an anxious client. I have a budget for this. I sometimes don't know what to say.”

“That seems hard to believe,” Serena said.

“We need to preserve our community,” said Betty. “It is small but a lot goes on. The Hadassah does free eye exams at the local schools. The children come for religious school and learn about, um, Jewish topics. The doors open for services. And now some of the people I sit across the aisle from are not speaking to me. My friends. They think this is a frivolous crusade, but it is important! We have to take care of each other.”

Serena was startled; Betty's pure gray eyes were free of everything — of
condescension, of pity, and, briefly, of need; they merely acknowledged her presence.

“Yes,” Serena said.

Betty offered a tour of her professional kitchen, samples of the fig and sheep's milk cheese tartlets she was trying out. It was soon time to go. Serena had another meeting. She drove out of The Orchard, past the guard, through the gates, and back into the main streets of Waring. She had not told Betty about the other appointment she had made.

 

 

 

THE RABBI'S APARTMENT COMPLEX APPEARED empty; the unemployed and rootless did not hang out on the balconies this season. It was late November, and there was a moist chill in the air. The pool was empty and seemed bereft with no one trying to copulate in it; the water was glassy and gray.

Serena paused at the door, suddenly nervous, wondering why she had come here. Who was he? Was this all somehow a terrible mistake? She remembered how she had felt being escorted out of the Pepsi building, how everyone had been afraid to look at her, how the secretaries had turned away; she had been erased down to this one thing: a criminal. No one wanted to see her as anything else. Now, she was gathering information. She was trying to give him a chance, and she also wanted to walk with him into the Southeast North Carolina Jewish Community Center, walk into the building of glass, of light, which he had seen with a precision that no one else here had.

Inside her pocket, she clutched the flyer tightly in her hand. The door flew open after she had knocked several times. The rabbi wore a wrinkled T-shirt and gray sweatpants; his face was gray, unshaven. His eyes were rimmed with red.

“Mrs. Hirsch,” he said. “Sorry. Thank you for your help yesterday. I needed help, and I didn't know who to call. Just getting my papers together. A pleasure to see you.”

She hesitated for a moment, but it was some sort of apology; he seemed to want to make amends. He held out his hand. She shook it.
His smile dazzled in a curious way; it looked as though he had used whitening strips on his teeth.

“This is where you're working today?” she said.

“I cannot enter the Temple office,” he said. “The phones. They ring. Off the hook. I can't bear to hear them.” He held open the door. “The disciples can come by here to see me today.” He laughed.

In his apartment, there was the soft smell of rotting bananas and the sugary, meaty odor of fast food, curtains that allowed in a thin tangerine light.

“You need anything?” he said, suddenly. “Tea, coffee, water, Mountain Dew?”

“I'm fine,” she said.

“Oh.” He looked at the landscape of the living room, trying to see it through her eyes; it occurred to her that he had no idea how anyone saw him. He had no gauge at all. He quickly tossed some magazines from the couch onto the floor. “Sit!” he said.

She perched on a foldout chair.

He sat down on the tattered couch. “Why are you here?”

“Well,” she said, bringing Forrest's flyer out of her pocket. She handed it to him; his hands looked slender, almost frail, as he held it. “How are you doing?”

He laughed, a bitter sound. “How do you think?”

“We want to solve this,” she said, leaning forward. “There must be a way — ”

“Right, right, right,” he said, rubbing his face. “Solve this. Tell me something new.”

She did not have a solution, or she did not think any of her suggestions would be what he wanted to hear. There was quiet for a moment as he read the flyer. He laughed.

“Just make us disappear!” he said. “That old magic trick. In the guise of holiday spirit. Old story. Ancient.”

She was relieved, for a moment, by his tone, the clarity of it, the way he said just what she felt.

“What do you think?” she said. “Is this legal?”

“Oh, you can call the ACLU, separation of church and state, the whole shebang,” he said. “But you don't need to. You have me.”

He leaned back. He was himself, and he wanted to help — she could go to the meeting herself, she could stand up for a more inclusive holiday season, but here it was, the most holy action, perhaps: an offer to help her out. The rabbi sat there in the spangled light coming through his thin curtains.

“We'll convince them, Serena. We will.”

He stood up, went into the kitchen, and returned to the living room holding a can of Red Bull. He popped the can and began to drink it. He was quiet for a moment; he seemed to be thinking.

“You know what the fine men and women of the military would say,” he said. “Put it in the amnesty closet. Put your contraband there. What soldiers stole from other solders, illegal weapons, et cetera. That's what we need to do. Give the Temple an amnesty closet. People put their little complaints there and walk away.”