A Town of Empty Rooms (25 page)

“Betty. Honey. Where are the spare keys?”

“The what?”

“They're going to lock us out. Serena. We're spreading the word. No more secrets. Everyone needs to know. I've been getting calls. The head of the religious school just resigned. She said, and I quote, ‘He is wonderful with the children. How dare you harass that great man?' The head of ritual practices quit. She says it 's a witch hunt. The people need to know, Serena. No one knows where the spare keys are. They 're going to lock us out.”

“Betty,” said Serena, in the falsely authoritative voice she used to reassure her children, “no one's locking anyone out.”

“We can't wait! I'm afraid that there will be members taking sides. Honey. Do you know where they are?”

“In a box on the top shelf of the filing cabinet — ”

“Can you find them and bring them home? For safekeeping? I may sound paranoid, but things are going out of control,” said Betty. “Counting on you.” She hung up.

Serena stared at the phone.

“What?” Serena's mother asked, looking up.

She glanced at her mother.

“We're going to work,” she said.

She was apprehensive of bringing her mother to the Temple, but now she had two reasons to go there: to help out the apparently
paralyzed spiritual leader of the synagogue, and to find the keys to prevent people — Who? Him? Other congregants? — from locking each other out. How had she landed in the middle of this chaos? She stared at her mother, wondering how she could explain any of these situations to her. Her mother got into her car. The day was brighter now, the clouds breaking apart across the silver-blue sky.

“Where are we going?”

“ The rabbi needs his coffee.”

“Can't he get it himself?”

She paused. “He's a little distracted right now. I'm the only one who knows where it is.”

Somehow, this had the effect of impressing her mother. They drove. Her mother delicately ate some of the peanuts out of the packets she had swiped from the airplane. The air had a peculiarly swampy texture, being both cool and thick.

Serena drove to the Temple. She wondered if Dawn remembered the fear in the house the morning she became ill. She heard everyone wake up, early, around five, Dawn had a temperature, and at first it was nothing. Then it began to rise — 102, 103, 104. Her father decided they had to take her in.

It was eight in the morning, and they hit traffic on the 405. Dawn's temperature went up: 105. When they got to the emergency room, there were two heart attacks in process, and it took twenty minutes to get Dawn into a room. Serena remembered her father banging on the doors, yelling at the staff to hurry. He was sure he knew what was wrong with her and the doctors didn't; they had to get her fever down.

For two days after the fever broke, they thought she was fine.

She didn't realize that Dawn's leg was paralyzed until two days later; her father did not believe that either. She remembered him standing in his nurse's outfit beside her bed. “It's temporary,” he said to the doctor, standing, arms crossed. “Weakness. I've seen this, Doctor.” She remembered the casual way he made this statement, and she noticed the doctor's face flinch, as though her father had taken some liberty that she did not then understand.

The doctor's tone had been sharp. “No,” he said. “You don't know. You're wrong.”

Her father had stiffened and assumed the same posture as the doctor, trying to absorb his authority. The doctor began to talk about rehab and strengthening her sister's other leg, and her father could not listen; he paced around, running his hand through his hair. “How did this happen?” he yelled at the doctor. “You didn't work fast enough. This is your fault! Yours!”

He sat beside her sister and held her hand; he could not look directly at the leg. “You can do anything,” he said to her; she lay in the bed, sipping milkshakes. “You know that? You are Dawn Hirsch, the great Dawn Hirsch, and this isn't going to stop you. I promise that.”

He had driven to the hospital fast enough to cool her down, to keep her from seizures, to keep her from further harm. But her father was ashamed, deeply, that he could not have brought her back intact, perfect; he could not bear to look when Dawn came home with a walker, for she was one person he had not been able to save. When she returned home, he sat down with her and with the walker; he tried once to teach her how to use it.

“Let's try it,” he said. “Grab the edge and stand up.”

Dawn grabbed the silver handle and slowly raised herself up.

“Okay,” he said. “Take a step. One. Two.”

Dawn started; he stood beside her. His large hands gripped the bar beside hers. Dawn's knuckles flushed white; she took a step. Another. Her father nodded; it was taking all of his energy to keep his expression engaged and neutral. He lasted about three minutes. Then Serena felt his hand on her shoulder.

“Serena,” he said, and he looked bereft; his eyelid twitched. “Show your sister how to use this.”

“Me?” she asked.

“I know you can do it. I'll pay you fifty cents.” He vanished into the garage.

She was proud at first that he had asked her to teach her sister how to walk. She told Dawn to sit on the couch and demonstrated the walker, zooming across the living room. Then she hovered by Dawn, watching her sister grip the walker. Her sister's right leg hung beside her, motionless. Serena did not know what to do other than direct her like a traffic cop. To the right. More to the left. She was afraid Dawn
would pitch forward, and of course, Dawn did, and Serena grabbed her arms and slid her hands back on the aluminum bar again. Dawn, to her surprise, listened to her. Her sister already had a core of determination; she gripped the walker and stepped forward and turned right or left or wherever Serena suggested. “Good,” Serena said, in a teacherly, high-pitched voice; it was a pleasure to use this voice, to assume knowledge of this thing, walking, to hold knowledge of anything at all. After a week, Dawn could move along with the walker, and then, a few months later, with a cane. She watched Dawn tilt across the lawn, not the way she used to, but with a strange lightness, and then a speed that relieved Serena and frightened her.

And later, when she tried to advise Dawn of the best way to hold her cane, the best way to put her foot down, Dawn looked at her with her clear golden eyes and said, regally, “I know.”

 

 

 

THE CAR STOPPED IN FRONT of the Temple. Her mother got out and gazed at the building. The gold doors were bright in the midday sun. Her mother looked disappointed, perhaps, that this was not the Eiffel Tower. But she said nothing as they headed in. Serena heard a rustle in the back, and the rabbi stepped out.

“You're here,” he said, hurrying forward. “Serena Hirsch.”

Both she and her mother stopped at the sound of her name. He said it hoarsely, rather beautifully, like a plea. Serena was startled by the silence, which seemed to affirm the fact of chaos, not peace, as usually there was the swish of the Xerox machine or the clatter of a Hadassah member's heels; now there was nothing.

“Who is this?” he said. His eyes glinted. “New member?”

“This is my mother, Sophie,” said Serena, suddenly wary. “Mom, this is Rabbi Golden.”

The rabbi reddened as though embarrassed by a sudden thought. “Your mother,” he said. He reached out and firmly grasped Sophie's hand.

The phone rang, piercingly. Once. Twice. Three, four times. It stopped.

“Pay no mind,” said the rabbi. “I don't know if it's a supporter or . . . well.” He looked at Serena. “So. Tell me. Where is it?”

He seemed childish standing there. She led him to the kitchen and opened a cabinet over the stove. There were several red packets of French roast coffee. He stood, rubbing his hands, while she took one down and handed it to him. “There you go,” she said. “Remember. It's over the stove. Here.”

He clutched the bag of coffee tenderly, as though it were a baby. “Okay,” he said. His hands trembled. He walked over and absently placed the bag of coffee on the counter. He seemed to have no intention of brewing it into actual coffee. She understood that he had merely wanted someone to drop by.

His office had the sharp odor of an animal. His desk was neat, organized in a way she had never seen before. Papers were stacked. Serena's mother had wandered over. She looked into his office, the vast gallery of photos of him, shaking hands like a diplomat.

“Why don't you know where anything is?” Sophie asked. “Aren't you the rabbi?”

He blinked. He turned his gaze toward her, alert.

“I know where God is,” he said.

“And where is that?” asked her mother, crisply.

The rabbi opened his mouth and shut it. Serena was surprised; she had never seen him appear shy.

“You'll have to come to my service and listen,” he said, in acquisition mode. “Friday night, seven-thirty — ”

“I don't go,” said Sophie, waving her hand away.

“That 's what people say,” he said, “until they hear me — ”

“Well, it's all — I don't know. Somewhat ridiculous, anyway,” said Sophie, her voice heavy with a combination of bitterness and woe. “No offense. I don't know why.”

The rabbi stepped back, as though stung by something in the air. His face was pale. His eyes darted past them, longingly, to see if anyone else was coming through the doors.

“Well,” said the rabbi, “I have a lot to do. Did you know that? A lot. So, goodbye.” The phone rang again. He looked at it. “Stop it! Shut up! Shut
up!
” he said to it. He looked at Serena. “That phone. It's not my
job to answer it. I don't want to know who's — Can you just answer it?”

He was tapping his foot, waiting.

“Not today,” said Serena, startled, “But I'll be in — ”

He whirled around. “No!” he cried. “Not toda-aay. Not todaaa-y,” he said. “Where the hell is everyone?” he asked. “Does anyone care about this place? Am I the only one?” He stared at them. “Fine!
I'll
keep the doors open. Thank me. The fools. People are dying! Maybe not here, but somewhere! I'll be here. Here!” He looked as though he wanted to continue, then he turned, strode quickly to his office, and slammed the door.

Serena felt something flash in her, a plain of hot metal. “Rabbi!” she said to the door. “What are you doing?”

She went over and knocked on the door; it remained shut.

She turned to her mother. “What happened?” asked Sophie, blinking.

She wanted to get out of there. She had to find the spare keys. She walked swiftly into the office, took the box off the filing cabinet, removed the keys, set the box back on top of the cabinet. The question that occurred to her was, Why would anyone now want to get in? She clutched the keys and slipped them into her pocket.

“Let's go,” she said.

They walked out into the sunlight and got into the car. She looked at her mother.

“What was
that?”
she asked, to the air. Sophie slipped into her seat.

“He's an idiot,” said Sophie. “Drive.”

 

 

 

SERENA NEEDED TO PICK UP the children at their respective schools in an hour, and Sophie wanted to talk about what had just happened. She wanted to continue on the subject of Rabbi Golden. She would only refer to him as “that man.”

“What does that man do there?”

“He is, well, the rabbi, Mom.”

“That man certainly seems to love himself. All those photos.”

“He has those, but usually he's alone — ”

“That man should answer his phone. He should — When is Dawn coming to get me?”

“You're going to take a plane back Monday, and she'll meet you at her house then.”

Sophie's voice was rising in a way that was familiar; Serena felt like she wanted to duck, to dodge her tone, and she thought, again, of her father. Serena remembered how he was gifted with the ability to sleep deeply, no matter where he was or the amount of time he had been awake. His shifts as an emergency nurse were variable, so he slept odd hours, and sometimes he would wake up not knowing where he was. Her father was a man who needed to be loved in public ways, with song and dance routines on his birthday, with large, loud gatherings, with long, detailed toasts, but sometimes he woke from his sleep angry and puzzled by his relative prosperity, shouting at the jacaranda blooming pale purple on the sidewalks, at the cheerful guise of civilization that was Southern California.

 

 

 

 

THEY PICKED UP RACHEL AND Zeb. “Your grandmother's here!” said Serena, cheerfully presenting their grandmother to them, whom they had not seen in several months. They looked at Sophie suspiciously, as though she were a stranger, which in some ways she was. This fact pierced Serena. Sophie knelt; she tried to hug first Rachel and then Zeb.

“Hello, darlings,” she said, and the children looked at her, let themselves be embraced, looked at Serena as though trying to identify what emotion they should have toward her mother. Serena knelt down, helping them hug her back.

They went to the house. “What are we doing now?” asked Sophie.

“I don't know. The kids are tired. Do you want to play with them?” she suggested, with hope.

Zeb and Rachel now wanted to present extended accounts of what they had experienced that day. “Manuel threw up,” said Zeb. “It got on
Keisha's shoes. We had to put our heads down in art. Mr. Stone said we couldn't do art, but Mrs. Johnson's class did. I had popcorn chicken for lunch — ”