Joshua: A Brooklyn Tale (48 page)

Connie looked eagerly at Joshua, making her position clear once again. But Joshua was still reticent. It all reminded him of a psychology experiment he’d read about in college involving a rat and a piece of cheese. The rat and the cheese were in the same box, only the floor between them was electrified.
Poor
rat
, Joshua thought,
nearly
died
just
for
a
bite
. “Sounds tempting,” he said.

“All you have to do is say the word, and the job is yours. You don’t have to worry about any competition, you’ll be unopposed.”

“The Jews don’t plan on putting anyone up for it?”

“A deal’s been worked out. They realize that they’re already ‘over-represented,’ so to speak. They don’t want to make waves, times being what they are and all.”

Joshua wondered what kind of deal had been struck, but it wasn’t his place to ask, at least not until he decided to accept the offer. “There is
one
thing,” he said, faltering, “that I have to know.”

Marcus waited, his eyes saying,
Go
ahead,
ask
anything,
we
have
nothing
to
hide
.

“Why
me
?”

Marcus had anticipated the question, of course, but feigned surprise. He paused for a second, mulling over his prepared answer one last time, then said, “Well, for starters, your reputation in the community is solid.”

“With some.”

“Yes, with some,” Marcus conceded. “Look, Joshua, you and I are a lot alike. You’re from Lewis Avenue; I’m from Bedford Avenue. Your mother worked her bones as a maid; mine washed dishes at Dubrows. We both came up from the gutter and made something of ourselves, so I respect you.”

Joshua was discomfited by how much Marcus knew about him, but realized he’d been foolish to have expected otherwise. Men like Marcus always did their homework.

Marcus continued, “Now, I know that you have your ways, that you haven’t always seen eye to eye with some of my, let’s say, ‘associates,’ but that doesn’t mean shit in the scheme of things. Thompson and Williams are essential for what they do: making noise and making the people aware of what’s happening. If you don’t agree with their methods, so be it, but at least they’re exposing the problem.”

Joshua nodded.

“The community board is something different,” Marcus continued, “or at least it should be. It needs to become a forum for discussion and negotiation, and that’s where you come in. You have connections in the Hasidic community; you know those people and how to deal with them. That’s why
you
.”

“You give me too much credit. I only worked in the synagogue for a while as a kid.”

“You underestimate yourself. I understand you single-handedly saved two Hasidic girls by fighting off a gang of Micks.”

“That was a long time ago, and your account is a bit exaggerated,” Joshua said, looking down at his leg, then across at Connie. She was also surprised at how much information Marcus had.

“Exaggerated or not, that’s the perception. And I don’t need to tell you how important
perception
is in Crown Heights.”

Joshua agreed. In fact, he was starting to think that he might have rushed to judgment about Marcus. In public, Marcus seemed to be just another rabble-rouser, but in truth he was simply a politician. It was all part of the game, and Joshua was hesitant to become a player.

The waiter came and took their orders. Connie went for a salad, as usual. Joshua had been noticing how wonderfully she’d been doing on her diet, looking better and better each day. He figured she must have liked Marcus more than she let on.

Marcus went for veal scaloppini, and Joshua got the calamari. And another scotch on ice. He needed the drink, and didn’t mind working up the tab for Marcus. It was the least he could do.

The waiter left, and Marcus took Connie’s hand, thanking her for her “patience.” She simply smiled. Joshua smiled too; there was much Marcus had to learn about his partner.

“So,” Marcus said to Joshua, “you will at least think about it, won’t you?”

“No,” Joshua said. “I’ll
do
it.”

CHAPTER 55
 

Rachel Weissman stood in the shower, hot water raining down and easing her body’s tensions. She closed her eyes, capturing the tranquility, escaping the sight of her nakedness and its subtle reminders of age and time. At thirty-five, she had a handsome and shapely figure, yet
she
couldn’t see it. She focused on petty, inconsequential changes, her reality marred by disappointment, and loneliness.

Her life had amounted to selling dresses, living with her mother, and spending a few evenings each week with a man she loved but would never have. Both she and God had made quite a mess of things, she reflected.

In the beginning, just after her divorce from Binny, there had been a few suitors. Older divorcées or widowers, leftovers who had already fulfilled their obligations of having children. She had tried, but her manner had often been unpleasant. She couldn’t stand them, or herself for being where she was. Soon, the
shodchin
stopped calling.

Rachel thought about her father. It had been a few years since his death, and at times like this, she thought it was just as well that he not see her this way.

Yet, despite everything, she had remained a “religious” woman. She still prayed daily, and continued to cover her hair although she was no longer married. And while the latter may have been anathema to her, it was a dictate of the community in which she had chosen to continue living, the very community from which she had so often felt rejected.

She attended the synagogue every Sabbath with her mother, and showed strength in facing the hordes of married young women with their strollers. This, despite the fact that her childlessness would always haunt her.

In truth, the only thing Rachel had to thank God for was her mother, her sole lasting companion in life. They had grown to be as sisters, and Rachel’s secrets from Hannah had dwindled over the years. Hannah knew everything, including things she might have preferred not knowing. Yet, when all was said and done, Hannah didn’t, and couldn’t, judge her daughter.

Rachel’s thoughts returned to the moment as she ran the bar of soap over her body, her eyes still closed. Her flesh was soft and supple, her mind stirred from the soap’s sweet aroma. She imagined Joshua there with her, caressing her slippery skin with his hands. She had allowed herself such fantasies in the past, though not too often.

She slowly slid her hand up the inside of her thigh, dreaming it was
his
hand. She opened her mouth to gasp, as her other hand started caressing her chest. It all seemed so real, as real as it would ever be.

Her hands took over; her thoughts ran wild. The hunger and craving could no longer be contained. She began to pant, and tried to keep herself from groaning, fearing her mother or a neighbor might hear. She couldn’t fight it; she needed to let go and scream. But then, suddenly, she stopped, her pleasure thwarted by a pervasive sense of dread.

She struggled to catch her breath as the pit of her stomach became flooded with a wave of anxiety unlike anything she’d ever known. She stared at her hands, then touched her left breast once again, as she had before. She rubbed and pressed, but this time not for pleasure. And then she felt it, a small but definite lump that she had never felt before.

She wondered how long it had been since the last time she touched herself this way. Maybe four months, maybe less. She couldn’t recall. Her mind was dazed, consumed by fear.

Was this another punishment, she wondered, more payment for her iniquities? Or was it really nothing, a product of her imagination to assuage the guilt of this most recent indulgence? She felt herself again, kneading her hands around the breast, hoping to discover that it had all been in her mind. Only, it wasn’t.

The call came about two weeks later, from Doctor Marcia Schiffman. The news wasn’t good. Biopsy results revealed a malignant mass. Schiffman insisted that Rachel and Hannah come in person to discuss the options.

Rachel’s first reaction was disbelief. How could she have breast cancer at her age? But Schiffman explained that it wasn’t so uncommon, especially among Jewish women of Eastern European origin. In truth, Rachel had already known this, and had heard of other such cases in the neighborhood. Only she didn’t want to know it now.

Marcia Schiffman had long ago abandoned her Brooklyn practice for the glamour of Park Avenue and the prominence of the Mount Sinai Hospital. She had lost touch with Rachel over the years, but had made sure to send her an announcement when she first joined the new practice. Rachel had taken the card and placed it in a drawer, hoping never to need it. She had continued to see Doctor Silver, the ob-gyn who had handled her pregnancies, for her usual medical needs, which had been negligible since her final miscarriage. Yet, the moment she felt that lump, she knew that it was Marcia Schiffman, her old friend, whom she wanted.

Schiffman’s practice was still internal medicine, and while she was no expert in the treatment of cancer, she was now well-connected in one of the world’s finest hospitals, and would be able to guide and coordinate Rachel’s care with specialists of her choosing. She was glad Rachel had come to her; she had always felt something special for Rachel. And that was what made her task all the more difficult the morning Rachel and Hannah awaited her in her office.

Schiffman stood outside her office door, Rachel’s chart in hand, took a deep breath, and entered. “Sorry I kept you waiting,” she said, barely looking at Rachel and Hannah as she walked behind her desk. “It’s been a madhouse around here all day.” She fidgeted for a moment, then settled in, looked up and tried to smile. “So, how are you?”

Rachel, assuming Schiffman was addressing her, skipped the social amenities and said, “You tell me.”

Schiffman began nervously thumbing through the chart. It bothered her to see her own hands shake, to display even the slightest amount of distress in front of a patient. She was an old pro, and had dealt with thousands of sick people over the years. Yet, she couldn’t deny it, there was something very different about this one. “Well, as I said on the phone, the lump is malignant, and we’re concerned that it seems to have grown rather quickly.”

“Quickly? How do you know that?” Hannah asked.

Schiffman looked at Rachel. “Well, you told me that you didn’t feel it there at least four months earlier, maybe less, right?”

Rachel nodded.

“And suddenly, it’s there. That’s pretty fast, as far as things go.”

“So what can we do about it?” Rachel asked.

This was the part Schiffman had been dreading. “Well, our first concern in situations like this is the possibility of the cancer spreading. Whatever we do, we have to try to contain the malignancy. I’ve consulted with two specialists in the hospital on your case, and they are both in agreement that the safest and most thorough course of action would be a total mastectomy.” Schiffman felt her lips quiver as she spoke those final two words.

Rachel was stunned. “How could this be happening?” she heard herself ask.

Tears began falling from Hannah’s eyes.

Schiffman stayed silent, thinking about what she had just said. Delivering bad news was an inevitable part of her job, yet she had never been so affected by it before. Perhaps because she had remembered Rachel as a young girl filled with passion and spirit, and had stood witness over the years as Rachel’s hopes receded, one after another. The erosion of a life once so fraught with promise, and now this, the greatest blow of all—it was too much for anyone to bear.

Schiffman thought about her own life, the things she’d neglected while relentlessly pursuing her professional career. She had been divorced for years, and was certain that Rachel had noticed the missing ring, though they hadn’t discussed it. She had no children, few friends, and hadn’t gone out on a date for over five months. All the prestige and success in the world, yet no one with whom to share it. It was during moments such as this when she wondered if it had all been worth the price.

“Do you know what the prognosis is?” Rachel asked, using a clinical term she remembered from her days working in the hospital.

Schiffman was surprised by the question that most patients would have been afraid to ask. “It’s hard to tell at this point. During the surgery, the surgeon will examine the lymph nodes and have a better idea as to what extent, if any, the cancer has metastasized. We’re hoping that it hasn’t, that it’s self contained.”

“And what are the chances of that?”

Hannah was growing uneasy with Rachel’s questions, but tried not to show it. To her mind, some things were better off not known.

“It’s possible,” Schiffman answered. “More than that, I can’t say.”

Rachel lowered her head.

“I’m sorry,” Schiffman offered, visibly fighting off tears.

Rachel raised her head, looked at Schiffman, and said, “Don’t worry, I’ll be all right.” It was as if she were talking to herself and allowing the others to listen in. She took Hannah’s hand. “Don’t worry, Mama, everything’s going to be okay.”