Fertile Ground (22 page)

Sam was frowning. “You were followed twice, maybe more. It’s dangerous. Leave it to the police. Lisa.”

” “You shall not stand aside while your fellow’s blood is shed.” That’s in today’s pars ha she said, referring to the Torah portion.

“It doesn’t mean you’re supposed to risk your life.” He sounded almost angry. “It means that if you can save someone’s life without risking yours, you’re obligated to do so.”

“What if he’s still alive, Sam? I know the odds are against it, but what if he is? What if I can find information that will lead to his abductor?”

He sighed. “How can I argue with that. Lisa?” he said quietly.

“I don’t think it’s a coincidence, my coming to shul this Shabbos and hearing that commandment.” What had Paula Rhodes said—something about not believing in coincidence?

“There’s another commandment in this week’s pars ha that you probably found coincidental.” When Lisa looked blank, he said, ” “You shall love the proselyte as yourself.” “

“Really? I didn’t notice that.” She must have been preoccupied, thinking about Matthew. “What would Freud say, do you suppose?” He looked at her intently. “I’m having lunch with Rabbi Pressler and his wife—I know they’d love to have you. And you’d like them.”

“I don’t want to impose.”

“You won’t be imposing—they always have company.

And you can’t do any detecting today. Why eat alone in your apartment if you can have a pleasant lunch with new friends?”

She wasn’t up to sustaining hours of conversation, but the idea of being alone in her apartment dismayed her. She debated, then said, “Okay.”

The Presslers, without any prompting from Sam, invited Lisa for lunch. The rabbi—short, thin, and beardless—looked to be in his forties. His wife, Elana, a petite blond, looked younger—maybe. Lisa decided, because of her ponytail wig and her impish smile.

Lisa and Sam walked with the Presslers and their five children, ages four to twelve, to their one-story, pale apricot house on Glenville south of Pico, a few blocks from the shul. Inside, she followed the others through a small, adobe-tiled entry into a spacious, airy dining room painted a soft peach. She sat next to Sam and counted two extra place settings.

“Are you expecting someone else?” she asked Elana. She hoped she wasn’t taking anyone’s place.

“Not really. Benjie and I never really know how many we’re going to be for lunch. I’m glad you’re here,” she added, and smiled warmly.

Lisa’s father always brought home unexpected Shabbos guests—travelers who happened to be at shul; young men learning in nearby yeshivot, eager for a home-cooked meal. Her mother always received them warmly. Hachnasat orchim—welcoming guests—was an important commandment, her parents had taught her.

Lunch was delicious: a poached salmon appetizer, cold tongue and roast beef, assorted salads. The Pressler children helped serve. Even the youngest, a four-year-old boy, removed the silver wine cups from the table. During dessert, after singing several Sabbath zemirot, the children asked to be excused. Elana smiled and nodded permission. Lisa smiled, too, at the eager exit they made from the room.

“I’ve often told Sam I think he’s doing a real mitzvah, helping couples with infertility problems,” the rabbi told

Lisa. “Elana and I were distressed to read about the problems your clinic has been facing.”

“The uncertainty must be unbearable.” Elana shook her head. “For the doctors and the patients.”

“One of Lisa’s Orthodox patients hired a shomer to supervise the in vitro process,” Sam said, taking a piece of apple strudel. “It’s a good thing they did, and not just for Halachic reasons.”

She hadn’t told Sam about the computer records. With a pang she thought about the Hoffmans and how they were doing. Should she phone them tonight or wait until she had something to tell them?

The rabbi nodded. “At least this couple has peace of mind. And they must be reassured, knowing that their doctor isfrum and understands their concerns.”

Lisa wondered wryly what the rabbi would think if he knew that after a hiatus of eleven years, she’d been observant for less than a day.

“It’s amazing, all the new procedures researchers are coming up with.” Elana took a sip of water. “As a family therapist, I’ve seen the pressure infertile couples face. It’s especially difficult in Orthodox communities like ours, where everyone seems to be fulfilling the commandment to have children.”

Lisa thought about her own parents, about the years of anxiety and desperation they must have felt. “We recommend counseling, and we have a staff psychologist patients can talk to.” Not that counseling relieved the desperation.

“Barrenness isn’t a modern problem,” the rabbi said. “Sarah, Rebecca, Leah, and Rachel—the wives of our revered forefathers—were childless for years. They didn’t have in vitro, but they had intense prayer. It worked miracles.” He smiled.

Sam said, “Didn’t Rachel use something to induce fertility?”

“Dudaim. The word means jasmine, violets, mandrakes, or figs. Rachel asked her sister, Leah, for the du daim Lean’s son had gathered in the field. Leah refused,

but gave in when Rachel offered to give up her designated night with Jacob.”

“I’ve always felt so sorry for Rachel,” Lisa said. “First her father tricks Jacob into marrying Leah. Then she sees Leah having one child after another, hoping to win Jacob’s love, while she herself has none.”

” “Give me children—otherwise I am dead,” ” Rabbi Pressler said softly. “That’s what Rachel told Jacob.” “And he was angry at her.” Elana sighed. “He told her it wasn’t his fault that she didn’t have children—he’d sired children with Leah and his concubines. Rachel was afraid he’d divorce her.” She turned to her husband. “Benjie, tell them about that woman who came to you a while ago.”

The rabbi looked pained. “She and her husband have been trying unsuccessfully to have children for nine years. Apparently the problem lies with her. She wanted to know if it was true that he could divorce her if she was childless after ten years of marriage.”

Lisa frowned. “Can he?”

“According to Halacha, yes. Men have done it. Often after the couple divorced, they had children with their new spouses. But we’re talking about the exception, not the rule. Abraham didn’t divorce Sarah, though he never expected that she’d bear him a child. I know of highly revered rabbis who never had children—they didn’t divorce their wives. And nowadays there’s so much medical hope, and there’s adoption. Not that adoption is always simple.”

It was the perfect opportunity for Lisa to ask the questions she’d never asked, but Sam glanced at her and quickly said, “Yeah, Benjie, but Abraham had Ishmael, through Hagar, so he wasn’t childless. And from Ishmael came the Arabs. Talk about sibling rivalry.” He smiled and shook his head. Though she knew he’d changed the subject so that she wouldn’t feel awkward, she was disappointed.

The conversation turned to a discussion of the Middle East conflict, of the future of Jerusalem. The children returned to the table, and the rabbi led the after-meals grace.

Lisa was surprised to find that it was past three-thirty. Over Elana’s protests, she helped to clear the plates and stack them on the white-tiled kitchen counter.

“Thanks again, Elana. I had a wonderful time.” She was reluctant to leave—there was an almost palpable sense of serenity and harmony in this home, in the interaction among the rabbi and his wife and their well behaved, friendly children.

“We did, too. I hope you’ll come again with Sam, or by yourself.” She smiled. “Benjie and I adore him. So do the kids. He’s very special, isn’t he?”

“Yes, he is.”

There was nothing conspiratorial in the woman’s voice, nothing to suggest she was matchmaking. Still, Lisa felt awkward because she hadn’t mentioned that she was engaged, that her fiancd was probably dead. Yesterday afternoon, feeling betrayed by Matthew, she’d taken off her engagement ring and hidden it, in its original black velvet box, under a stack of sweaters in her dresser. Though Barone’s phone call had turned her anger into grief, she’d decided not to wear the ring this morning. She wasn’t sure why.

She didn’t want to end what had been a wonderful, normal few hours on a morbid note, but she felt guilty, as though now she was betraying Matthew. She hesitated, then said, “I don’t know if Sam told you the director of the clinic, the one who’s missing, is my fiance.”

“Yes, he did.” Elana’s words were a sigh. “He’s so concerned about you, and about your fiance, of course.”

“The police found blood in the trunk of his car.”

“I’m so sorry,” she said softly. She rested her hand on Lisa’s arm. “If Benjie or I can help, if you want to talk, promise you’ll call.”

Lisa wasn’t sure anyone could help.

Sam walked her home. “I know I don’t have he said when she protested. “I can use the exercise, and I don’t like the idea of your walking alone. Not that I think you’re in danger in broad daylight.”

She’d forgotten for a few precious hours that someone was following her, that she was in danger. She was a little annoyed with Sam for reminding her and told him so, half serious.

“It isn’t something you should forget,” he said sternly.

They took Glenville to Cashio, Cashio to Beverly Drive, then strolled through Beverlywood. The weather was pleasantly warm now, and she was in no rush to get home. They talked for a while—about the Presslers and the other people she’d met today; about Sam’s family (his younger sister lived in Pittsburgh with her husband and three children; his mother, a retired schoolteacher, and his accountant father lived in Brooklyn); about movies they’d seen, books they’d read. They didn’t discuss the clinic or Matthew or why Sam had never married, though she was curious. His legs were much longer than hers, and once in a while she had to remind him to slow down. Every few blocks they walked in a companionable silence she didn’t feel compelled to fill.

Since carrying anything when outside the home on the

Sabbath was forbidden, she’d left her key on top of the doorway molding. She panicked now—it wasn’t where she’d put it; she was sure someone had taken it—but when she ran her hand along the molding, of course it was there. Fear was making her paranoid.

Sam insisted on entering first—just in case, he told her. “My hero,” she said, smiling, but she was tense as she followed him inside and looked through all the rooms. Nothing seemed disturbed. The sliding glass door in her bedroom was barred and locked, just as she’d left it.

There were no messages on her answering machine. Barone probably hadn’t received any lab results. Sam had taken a can of Diet Coke to the dinette table, and she was filling a blue-and-white ceramic bowl with fruit when he asked to see the printout of Matthew’s “Notes” file.

“It’s on the desk in my bedroom,” she told him, not remembering until he returned, the papers in his hand, that the file contained Matthew’s comments about him. There was nothing she could do about it now. She watched him anxiously out of the corner of her eye. At one point he glanced in her direction, then quickly looked back down again at the pages in front of him.

She brought the fruit and two glass plates to the table. He’d finished reading and had placed the papers in the middle of the table, as if he wanted to distance himself from them.

“This doesn’t tell us much, does it?” she said, aware that he wasn’t looking at her. “I can’t see a connection between Chelsea’s murder and Matthew’s disappearance.”

“Me, either.” He sounded distracted. “Matthew’s right, you know.” He snapped off the tab on the can. “About me, I mean. I could pretend to be shocked or annoyed, but what’s the point? I don’t think this comes as a great surprise to you.” He was looking at her now, his gray eyes locked on her.

She felt her face becoming warm. “Sam—”

“It’s disconcerting, reading about myself in his journal, finding out that he knew how I felt, that it was so obvious. ” He shook his head and rolled his eyes in mock

despair. “I’m also embarrassed knowing you’ve read this, too.”

“Don’t be. I’m flattered, Sam,” she said softly.

“Flattered, huh? In my experience, that’s always followed by a ‘but.” ” He smiled wryly, recited a blessing, and took a long sip of soda. “I had the impression that something was happening between us. Am I wrong?”

She hesitated. “No, you’re not wrong. I like you a lot, Sam. I’m very attracted to you. But—”

“But it’s not the best timing, is it?”

“Not the best timing,” she agreed.

“Yeah.” He nodded. “This has a certain Cyrano de Bergerac parallel, doesn’t it? Just before Christian dies, he writes to his wife, Roxanne, telling her his good friend Cyrano is her true love. Just before Matthew disappears, he writes that your good friend Sam is in love with you.” He took another sip. “Of course, Cyrano kept the truth from Roxanne for years. Then again, Christian didn’t have a laptop.” He laughed lightly.

“And Roxanne didn’t have a printer.” Lisa was smiling, trying to keep things light, just as he was, but her face was tingling. “I’m sorry, Sam. If I’d remembered Matthew’s comments, I wouldn’t have let you read the printout.” What did psychologists say—that there were no accidents?

“In a way, I’m relieved that you know.” He took an apple from the bowl. “Listen, I was never jealous of Matthew—I thought you were out of bounds, religiously speaking. I was happy for you when you got engaged. I felt terrible when he disappeared.”

“I know that, Sam.” She had an urge to reach across the table and take his hand.

“Good.” He nodded. “Also, while I think you’re incredibly beautiful and sexy and funny and bright, and I’d like to pursue a closer relationship, I realize that’s impossible right now, and I’m willing to settle for friendship. Okay?”

“Okay.” She felt acutely relieved.

“Whoa.” He expelled a deep breath and nodded again. “Okay, then. How about some Scrabble?”

“Prepare to lose.”

She brought out the set, and they started playing. While she was waiting for her second turn, she got up and scanned the printout pages, which she’d moved to the kitchen counter.

“Done.” He looked up. “Why are you reading that again?”