Grave Endings (12 page)

nineteen

Friday, February 20. 10:04 A.M. 3800 block of Huron
Avenue. A woman told officers her husband was
in the garage smoking narcotics with a woman she
didn't know. In the garage the officers found the two
practically sitting in cocaine residue. The other woman
said they had been smoking cocaine “in his religious
office.” The man said he had converted his garage
into an office and shrine devoted to “black magic.”
The two were arrested for possession of cocaine. Both
suspects had yellow teeth.
(Culver City)

THE EXTERIOR OF RACHEL'S TENT, A TWO-STORY STUCCO building on Palms south of Pico, was a darker shade of sand than I remembered. I found a spot in front but sat in my car. Almost seven years had passed since I'd been here, long enough to weaken the threads of memory, but I was reluctant to enter the building where Aggie had spent so much time.

I'd been inside Rachel's Tent only once, a month after Aggie had organized her desk and hung her diplomas on the terra-cotta walls of her first-floor office. Five months shy of twenty-three, she had been the youngest social worker at the facility. I'm sure the hiring committee saw in her what we all did: wisdom beyond her years, determination, compassion, a yearning to help others. In high school, while I split my time between my studies and my social life and fared reasonably well in both, Aggie aced enough AP courses to eliminate a semester at an all-women New York college, where she received credit for her year of Judaic studies at a Jerusalem seminary not far from the one I'd attended. She eliminated another year and a half by enrolling in the accelerated track of a piggyback program with a social work school.

By the time she was twenty-two and a half, she had a BSW, an MSW, and a job she had coveted. I had graduated from UCLA and was figuring out what to do with my BA in English and with my life, which hadn't followed the path my parents had anticipated. I envied her single-mindedness, the passion she invested in the many twelve-hour days her work demanded of her, her absolute faith in God and His laws that gave her a clear blueprint and, for the most part, an acceptance of whatever life brought her way.

She wasn't a saint. She had a wicked sense of humor and a temper for which she was constantly doing penance. “I need Yom Kippur every day,” she would tell me. She was intolerant of those less focused or efficient. She was enraged by injustice, dishonesty, and hypocrisy and quick to express her feelings. She worried about her weight and cried when the man she'd hoped to marry ended their relationship. But while I pined over Zack for more than a year, and other failed romances for months, Aggie was ready to move on after a few days.

“It wasn't
bashert,
” she told me. “God obviously has other plans for me.”

For a long time I wondered whether God's plans for Aggie had included having her murdered while she walked to the meeting hall.

Not
God's
plan, my father said. Man's plan. For God, time is a continuum with no past, no present, no future. He sees the video of your life, the beginning and the end. That's what predestination means, Molly. But God doesn't dictate people's actions. People have free will to choose between right and wrong, between compassion and cruelty, between good and evil. God knows what they will choose because He has seen the video.

The lobby of Rachel's Tent was large, with a domed ceiling painted an azure blue and the finish on the walls a textured pale yellow stucco. To my right was a reception area. I took a brochure from the stack, introduced myself to the youngish blond woman behind the teak desk, and told her I was writing a story about the agency.

“Monica Prince is our public relations person,” she said. “Or you may want to speak to the director.”

I opted for the director. While the receptionist checked to see if he was available, I crossed the entry and gazed at a mural of Rachel's Tomb—the way I'd seen it, before it had been enclosed by guard towers. In the foreground was the domed stone edifice. Behind the building, palm trees shot up from sandy mounds, their fronds scraping the robin's egg–blue sky. Off in the distance two camels trudged along under heavy loads.

Printed in large, deep blue letters against the background of sky were verses from Jeremiah, one of which the rabbi had recited at Aggie's funeral:

Rachel is weeping for her children.
She refuses to be comforted, for her children are gone.
Restrain your voice from weeping and
your eyes from tears
There is hope for your future.

A comforting message for the women who stepped into Rachel's Tent, I thought. But not for Aggie.

“Miss Blume? William Bramer.”

I turned around and shook the director's hand. He had a firm grip and a pleasant smile and clear blue eyes enhanced by the blue of the shirt he wore with a gray pinstripe suit. A few lines around the eyes and touches of gray in his wavy brown hair put him somewhere in his late forties to early fifties. I can identify every designer shoe, but I'm not great with ages.

“You look familiar,” he said. “Have we met?”

“I don't think so.” He looked familiar, too. From the formality in his posture and tone I decided he didn't go by “Bill.”

“Really? Because I'm almost sure . . . Well, it'll come to me.” He pointed to the mural. “The stones look real, don't they? I've never been to Rachel's Tomb. Have you?”

“A few times,” I said. “Years ago.”

“It's dangerous there now. A terrible shame.” He sighed. “Rachel is the universal mother. Everyone should have access to her resting place.” A second later he brightened. “So you're doing a story about us. Is it for
Los Angeles Magazine
? They expressed interest a while back.”

“That's one possibility.” Randy's funeral—that's where I'd seen Bramer. He was the one who had approached Creeley. I hoped he didn't make the connection. “By the way, who came up with the name Rachel's Tent? It's so appropriate.”

“That was my idea.” The director smiled, pleased. “As I said, Rachel is the eternal mother. She spans generations and embraces all nationalities. And the image of a tent is informal. There's something private and intimate about a tent, something comforting and cozy.”

“Unless you're hiking and it's raining.”

“Well, yes.” Bramer looked uncertain, then laughed. “I'm not a hiker myself. Why don't I give you a quick tour and you can ask your questions.”

We started with the ground-floor counseling rooms, all variations on the one he showed me, which was painted a comforting pale yellow and furnished with a chintz love seat, upholstered chairs, an area rug, and a desk with French legs.

“The idea is to create a homelike, nonthreatening environment,” Bramer said when I complimented him on the decor.

Also on the ground floor were a meditation room that served as a nondenominational chapel, a small exercise studio (“We offer yoga,” Bramer said), a recreation room, a kitchen, and a large cafeteria filled with square tables that seated four.

“In addition to group therapy, we encourage activities like bingo and trips to malls, parks, and movies, for example,” Bramer said. “The idea is to strengthen socialization skills. We teach developmentally disabled clients how to make a budget, how to market. Simple skills you and I take for granted.”

On the second floor were bedrooms and bathrooms that provided temporary shelter for women who were abused or homeless. Each suite was small but cheerful.

“We're open to women of any race or religion,” Bramer told me when we were in his office, which was decorated in masculine tones of gray and navy. “We treat prostitutes and judges, drug addicts and doctors, women who are homeless and those who shop at Barneys. We try to help homeless women achieve independent living and regain their dignity. We give victims of domestic violence tools to empower themselves. We teach pregnant women about prenatal nutrition and give them parenting classes and genetic counseling. If they don't want to keep the child, we can arrange for an adoption. As a matter of fact, Rachel's Tent began as a haven for unmarried pregnant women.”

Most of this I knew from Aggie, but I figured I'd allow Bramer the pleasure of telling me about his “baby.” “How long has Rachel's Tent been in existence?”

“It was founded nine years ago through a charitable trust set up by the Horton family. That's a picture of Mr. Horton with his wife, son, and daughter at the grand opening of Rachel's Tent.” Bramer pointed to a wall behind me. “He's the one standing next to former Mayor Riordan.”

I took a quick look at the photo, but from where I was sitting, I couldn't see much. “I think I've seen the Horton name in the paper several times and on the wing of a hospital.” I recalled seeing it at the funeral on the card accompanying the floral arrangement.

Bramer nodded. “Mr. Horton donates generously to many charities and organizations, but he has a special connection to Rachel's Tent. If you like, Miss Blume, I'll ask him if he'll meet with you.”

“Molly.” I smiled. “That would be great. Why the special connection to Rachel's Tent?”

“You haven't read Mr. Horton's autobiography?” The look he gave me was a mix of surprise and disapproval. “It's a remarkable story, truly inspirational. Mr. Horton never knew his father. His mother was unwed. She had no education, no skills, no job. She put him in foster care and disappeared. Years later he found out that she had died, hungry and homeless.”

Bramer paused—I think to give me an opportunity to acknowledge the tragedy of the woman's life, which I did. There's a Yiddish proverb that says the ugliest life is better than the nicest death, but this woman's life
and
death had been ugly. I wonder sometimes what it would be like to be born without the advantages I take for granted. A secure home, parents who provided material needs and education, comfort and advice, unconditional love.

“As you can imagine, Mr. Horton had a difficult childhood and adolescence,” the director continued. “Eventually he ended up in prison. But in prison he read books he'd never appreciated in high school, and when he was released he was determined never to go back. He found a job and turned a small business into an empire. And he never forgot his beginnings. He founded Rachel's Tent because he wanted to help women like his mother who had nowhere to turn.”

Bramer had spoken as though he was delivering a testimonial, but I had to admit it was quite a story. I couldn't help thinking about Randy Creeley, who had also been abandoned by a parent and had allowed that event to shape his destiny in a strikingly different way.

“Mr. Horton sounds like a remarkable man,” I said.

“He is. Every month he invites one of our clients to his home for dinner with his family. He wants to get to know the women, to encourage them, to show them that their lives have promise. And he's setting a fine example for Jason and Kristen. His children.”

A modern-day Daddy Warbucks. I didn't think Bramer would appreciate the comparison. And I wasn't sure whether being shown a grand home, which I assumed Horton lived in, was encouraging or daunting.

“What angle were you planning to focus on, Molly?”

Drugs, I thought. “I'd like to share success stories with my readers, stories about women whose lives have been changed by Rachel's Tent.”

“Without names, of course.” Bramer sounded wary.

“Of course.”

He nodded. “We get letters all the time from women who entered Rachel's Tent at a low point in their lives. Women with no skills, with nowhere to turn. Now they're happy, functioning, contributing to society, leading worthwhile lives.”

“You mentioned that you treat women with addictions,” I said, angling for my opening. “I read that someone who worked here died of an overdose last week.” I glanced at my notebook as if I had to refresh my memory. “Randy Creeley.”

Bramer frowned. “I didn't see anything in the
Times.
”

“I don't think it was the
Times.
I saw the link on the Web when I looked up Rachel's Tent,” I lied.

“Randy was a handyman and drove clients to activities and appointments,” the director said with reluctance. “But he hadn't worked here in almost a year. I attended his funeral yesterday. Very sad. Of course, we didn't know he had a continuing drug problem when we hired him.”

“Of course.” I didn't blame Bramer for distancing himself from Randy and his drug problem. “It's wonderful that you hired him, considering that he was an ex-convict.”

“So was Mr. Horton,” Bramer reminded me, his tone a light slap on the wrist.

I managed to look contrite. “You're right. I'm sorry.”

“Mr. Horton tries to help ex-convicts find employment so that they won't return to a life of crime. It's his way of showing gratitude to the person who gave
him
his first job when he finished serving his sentence.”

“So Randy was referred by Mr. Horton?”

“Or one of his assistants. The point is, Rachel's Tent is about giving people second chances, about compassion. It would have been hypocritical for us not to give Randy one.”

“In spite of his drug problem?”

Annoyance tightened Bramer's face. “His parole officer said he was clean. Randy attended Narcotics Anonymous meetings several times a week. That was a condition of his employment. He worked here for over six years, and I never knew.”

I nodded and threw in a
tsk
to show sympathy. “Do you think he was selling drugs here at Rachel's Tent?”

“Absolutely not.” Bramer leaned against the back of his chair. “We're getting off topic, aren't we, Molly? Unless you're doing an investigative piece on Rachel's Tent? Am I going to see myself on
Dateline
?” Underneath the humor was an edge of irritation.