Like No Other (20 page)

“Wow, thank you,” I say, folding the bills over in my hands. My luck seems to be turning around, just in time.

D
evorah

S
EPTEMBER
15, 6:35
PM

H
ow do you write a letter that will break your family’s heart? Maybe there’s no good way to do it.

I’ve been sitting on my bed trying to write one for the past half hour, after suffering through a last supper that no one else knew was happening. I’d wanted it to be perfect, one last memory of togetherness before I confessed my sins, but instead my parents were late coming home from the store and we had to fend for ourselves, ordering in kosher pizza (which arrived with half the cheese pooled on one side and the other half a stretch of sad, bald dough), and Miri and Amos fought the whole time while Liya screamed in my lap and Rose cried quietly into a dish towel, not to mention that the tomato sauce gave Zeidy acid reflux, which we all thought was a heart attack for about three minutes. At least Jacob was on Shomrim patrol tonight, so he couldn’t be there—the sole bright spot of an otherwise disastrous meal.

I’m still wearing my school uniform, the clothes I’ll be wearing on the train, which I plan to take off as soon as we get to the beach. The first thing I’m going to do is put on a bathing suit (Jax said he’d borrow one from his sisters) and dip my toes in the ocean; I don’t care if it’s dark and the water’s freezing cold. In my overnight bag I have my toothbrush, face wash, hair elastics, a nightgown, a few pairs of underpants, the red Converse, and the first edition of
Little Women
that my mom gave me for Hannukah when I was thirteen. I stashed everything down behind the washing machine in the basement early this morning. I took the padlock off, too, so all I have to do to leave the house is get down the stairs from the kitchen without anyone seeing. And everyone has already retreated to their bedrooms, except for Rose, who’s rocking Liya to sleep in the living room. And she’s so tired, she should be easy to slip by.

You don’t have to do this
, I think as I stare at the blank notebook paper in my hand.
He loves you, and he’ll forgive you
. Downstairs, as if feeling my pain, Liya lets out a primal wail. I glance at my bedside clock. Only ten minutes left.

I abandon the letter for the moment and walk out into the hall in stocking feet, where I can hear Hanna and Miri talking in their shared room. I want to go in and say good night to them, but I’m afraid I’ll cry or act funny, and then Hanna will figure it out and try to stop me, and I can’t risk that, not when I’m so close I can almost taste the salt in the air. So instead I climb the stairs to the third floor, where my parents are huddled shoulder to shoulder in the cramped study, going over receipts. As usual, my mother is talking out loud to herself, while my father remains so stoic he could pass for a statue. I’ve gotten used to skipping the creaky top step during my late-night Facebook binges, but tonight I put all my weight on it, and my mother turns around with a tired smile.

“Hi, honey,” she says. “We’re a little bit busy right now. Can it wait?”

No!
I want to scream. But instead I say, “I just wanted to say good night.”

“Did you finish your homework?” she asks.

“Not yet,” I say. “I’m working on it in my room.”

“Good girl,” she says, adjusting her glasses and peering down at her calculator.

“Well, good night, then,” I squeak, trying not to let the lump in my throat give me away.

“Good night, love,” she says.

I realize that this isn’t the last time I’ll ever see my parents or anything, but I don’t know for sure that it’s not the last time they’ll truly love me. So I can’t help myself. I rush in and wrap them both in a tight hug, breathing in his stale cigarette smoke, her fading jasmine perfume.

“Please, Devorah, we’re trying to work,” my father says, patting my cheek without turning from his desk. “We’ll see you in the morning.”

I nod silently as the tears start to come, and run back downstairs before they have a chance to notice. Back in my room I grab my pen and paper and without even thinking, scribble out a farewell:

Dear Mama, Abba, Zeidy, Rose, Hanna, Isaac, Niv, Miri, and Amos (& Liya & Rivka & all the extended family)—

First of all, I love you all so much. Please know that. I’ve gone away, just overnight. There are a lot of things I’ve been questioning lately and I need to find the answers for myself, outside of the community. I know this comes as a shock and that you might be worried, sad, or angry that I’ve left without permission, and without telling you first. But I promise that I’m safe and that I’ll be back tomorrow night and will explain everything then. Again, I love you! Please forgive me.

Devorah

And then it’s time. I leave the note folded on my pillow and slip down the stairs with my shoes in my hand, my toes sinking into the thick living room carpet, to find Rose and Liya both finally sleeping, their faces flushed but peaceful in the glow of a Tiffany table lamp inset with red and purple dragonflies. I kiss them each softly and turn out the light. No one is there to watch me as I make my exit. And since I’m abandoning everything I love, I figure I might as well abandon something I hate, too. I peel off my tights and toss them in the kitchen garbage. And then I’m gone.

• • •

When I reach the bus stop, which is just a chipped plastic bench bolted into the concrete without any sort of cover, the street is all but deserted. The sun has just set, and Kingston Avenue is a long strip of indigo punctuated by streetlamps reflecting off dark storefronts. There’s a van idling on the corner, with a sleeping man in the driver’s seat, but that can’t be Jax’s car. I check and recheck the cars parked for fifty feet in either direction, but they’re all empty. A shiver runs through me; gooseflesh breaks out on my legs. What if he’s not coming? What if he had second thoughts, too, but unlike me actually listened?

An older man and woman pass by, pushing a stroller with a sleeping toddler slumped inside. They look so familiar that I instinctively turn to hide my face, just in case they recognize me. I can’t place them, though—are they friends of my parents? Do they go to our synagogue? It’s only when the baby stirs and the woman whispers, “
Gay shlafen
, Sal,” that I realize it’s the Silvermans. Ruchy’s parents—with her
son
. I watch as they turn the corner, and Ruchy’s father puts his arm around his wife. They look happier than my parents have looked in a long time, even with their “ruined” family, their errant daughter, and their illegitimate grandchild. I close my eyes and smile, thanking G-d for sending them across my path tonight. Seeing the Silvermans is exactly what I needed to give me hope that everything might work out for us. Not a fairy-tale ending, maybe, but not a cautionary tale, either. Just a regular tale of two young people in love.

I open my eyes again to see headlights round the corner on Montgomery; seconds later, a black Town Car pulls up to the curb. The door opens with a mechanical yawn, and Jaxon leans out, the sight of him filling me with a warm calm, like the pins and needles you get after coming in from the bitter cold without gloves.

“Your chariot, my lady,” he says with a big grin, and I climb in next to him on the ripped leather seats patched with duct tape, pulling the door shut behind me.

“You’re here,” I say, my eyes filling with tears of relief.

“Of course I’m here.” He takes my face in his hands. “I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”

“Me either,” I say, leaning into a kiss that erases every doubt from every bone in my body.

“Penn Station or Grand Central?” the driver asks from the front seat. Jaxon reluctantly breaks off and leans forward to answer, when suddenly I feel a rush of cool air. My first thought is that I must be extra sensitive without my tights. My second thought, more of an observation, really, like I’m watching this happen from a seat in an audience (“Where’s Annie, Mama? Where’s
Annie
??”), is that the door behind me is opening, which is odd since I’m sure I closed it.

And then I’m being pulled out of the car by my collar as Jaxon winces into the beam of a flashlight.

My feet scrape against the sidewalk as I’m pulled to standing, shocked and gasping for air. I’m staring into another flashlight now, held by the driver of the van I’d seen across the street—the man who was sleeping, or pretending to be. But it’s not just him. There are at least five men surrounding the car, all in matching black coats emblazoned with the insignia of the Shomrim.

“Hello, Devorah,” I hear Jacob purr into my ear. “And just where do you think you’re going?”

J
axon

S
EPTEMBER
15, 6:50
PM

T
he first thing I think is:
We’re getting carjacked
. East Flatbush is only a couple of blocks south, and it’s a hell of a lot sketchier than Crown Heights. I see Devorah get yanked out by the neck, and my heart stops, because whatever a hopped-up carjacker would want with her is something I’d rather die than think about. But then once my eyes adjust to the flashlight I can tell the guy pointing it at me is wearing a yarmulke. So the second thing I think is:
They caught us
. And it’s actually a relief, because at least now I know they won’t hurt her.

I feel the door behind me open, and two hands grab the back of my T-shirt, ripping it as they pull me out. My left leg catches on the door, and whoever’s holding me loses his grip for a second so that I come down hard on the asphalt onto my right shoulder. A searing pain shoots through my arm, and then I’m getting dragged again, forced upright with my hands behind my back, bound by the wrists by the same asshole who dropped me. I make a mental note to punch him with my left arm as soon as I can turn around.

There’s a screech of tires as the Town Car peels off, running the red light—not that anyone’s around to care, but then I remember that my duffel is in the trunk with my clothes
and
the keys to Ryan’s parents’ house inside, and I instinctively yell and jerk toward it, trying to run. A burly guy with thick eyebrows and a mole on his cheek shoves his flashlight inches from my face.

“Shut up,” he barks.

I can make out at least three guys, not counting Moley or my own personal assailant, who smells like he works at a restaurant, eau de grill smoke and grease. They’re all wearing matching black windbreakers, all with thick brown beards, none particularly jacked or anything—one guy even looks like he might be in his fifties. The only one I recognize is Jacob, who’s holding Devorah by pinning her upper arms at her sides. She looks terrified, and I feel hot anger flood my chest.

“We don’t want any trouble,” Jacob says. “We’ll let you go if you just get out of here and go back where you came from.”

“I come from Brooklyn,” I say, feeling my nostrils flare. “And get that thing out of my face,” I shout at Moley. He looks to Jacob, who nods, and I see stars as the flashlight shuts off abruptly. I can make out shuffling around, and when my vision adjusts I see that Jacob has handed Devorah off to Moley and stepped down from the curb. He’s standing a foot from me now, with his arms crossed and a scowl on his pinched little face.

“If you’re from around here, then you should know that this girl is not the girl for you,” he says, gesturing over at Devorah.

“Leave us
alone
, Jacob!” she cries. In the apartment above the bakery, a woman opens the window and peers out. In my peripheral vision, I can see passersby crossing the street to avoid walking close to us.

“How is this any of your business?” I ask, returning my attention to Jacob. But he ignores us both.

“There must be plenty of girls in your neighborhood,” he says, looking me up and down. “Girls more . . . like you.”

“What’s
that
supposed to mean?” I ask.

“You know what it means,” the guy behind me whispers, and I have to use every ounce of restraint not to whip my head back and break his nose.

“Listen, man,” I say to Jacob, trying to keep my cool. “I can appreciate your concern, but this is between me and Devorah. And I think she wants to go with me.”

“I don’t think so,” he says.

“Let us go, Jacob!” Devorah cries. “This is none of your business!” She tries unsuccessfully to wriggle free from Moley’s grasp.

“Could you have Cindy Crawford over there let go of her, please?” I snap. Moley looks confused. He clearly does not get the reference.

Jacob frowns and shakes his head. “I’m not about to return my sister-in-law to her kidnapper,” he says.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. I didn’t
kidnap
her.” I jerk my arms, trying to knock the guy holding me off balance, but he doesn’t budge.

“So you didn’t coerce her into an idling car against her will?”

“No.” He’s playing with me now, and I don’t like it.

“Jacob,
stop
,” Devorah says angrily.

“That’s what I saw,” the older dude says. “In fact, you pulled her into that car.”

“
Screaming
,” Jacob adds.

“Fuck you,” I shout. “This is not a kidnapping, man. We’re
together
. She’s my
girlfriend
.”

“Really?” Jacob smiles and bites his lip, scratching his chin. “That’s surprising to me.”

“Why’s that?”

“Because you’re a piece of trash,” he growls, getting up in my face. “And I don’t want you coming within ten miles of my family.”

I notice that my wrists have more wiggle room; my captor must be getting bored and losing focus. If I just wait one more minute . . .

“Too bad that’s not up to you,” I say. “Too bad you’re not a real policeman, and just some pathetic little neighborhood-watch Napoleon.”

“Oh, I’ll say whatever I want to the police,” he says. “After all, it’s your word against ours.”

“No, Jacob,” Devorah says, loudly but calmly, holding her head up, the stoplight casting her face into neon red relief. “It’s your word against mine. And I’ll tell them
exactly
what happened.”

“Shut up,” Jacob barks. “You lost the right to speak the minute you opened your legs.”

The guy holding me laughs, and I take the opportunity to deliver a swift kick to his shin with my right heel. He groans and lets go of my wrists, and without even looking I shoot my left elbow back into his chest.

“Don’t talk to her like that,” I say to Jacob, stepping forward and massaging my wounded shoulder. “We can do this two ways. One, we walk away and no one gets hurt. Two—”

“Jaxon, behind you!” Devorah shrieks, and I don’t even have time to turn before I feel a blunt object come down hard between my shoulder blades, sending fresh spasms of pain through my back and driving me forward onto my hands and knees.
Do these guys have billy clubs?
I wonder as I blink at the shimmering asphalt, but when Jacob shouts, “Turn them off!” I remember: Oh, right. Flashlights. And then someone steps on my back, and my chin hits the pavement with a dull crack that shudders through my skull.

My senses are dulled by the pain and Devorah’s screams, but I know I get pulled to standing again and put in another armlock, one I’m now too disoriented to escape. Moley and a tall guy with glasses, who must be the dick who pulled me out of the car, take turns punching me: in the jaw, on the side of the head, in the stomach, the chest. These guys aren’t fighters, so it could be worse, but I can’t defend myself except to turn my head, so instead of a broken nose I get a busted lip. I close my eyes as the coppery blood coats my tongue.

“What’s going on down there?” a woman’s voice calls out, high-pitched and anxious. The punches stop abruptly, and I crack an eye open to see the lady from the window upstairs, leaning out with a scarf covering her head.

“Call 911!” I yell, just as Jacob shouts, “Shomrim! We’ve got it under control.”

“Mmmmmmpppph!” screams Devorah, whose mouth is being covered by one of Moley’s wide hands.

Along the streets, more windows squeak open as other people stick their heads out to rubberneck, murmuring to one another in hushed, morbidly excited tones. Jacob frowns and shakes his head discreetly at the rest of the group.

“Don’t hit him again, not while they’re watching,” he whispers.

“
Fuck
you, man,” I gasp, and then I use all the strength I have left to jerk and flail, ignoring the throbbing in my arms and back, until I pull loose from the amateur lock.

I shove past Jacob, and I must look scary now—blood dripping from my mouth, shirt ripped, eyes red as an angry bull’s—because Moley drops his hands from Devorah before I even touch him.

“Come on,” I say, holding out my good hand. She just stares at me, her eyes frozen wide with fear.

“Get the cuffs!” Jacob yells.

“Come
on
,” I say again, grabbing at her arm, but Devorah doesn’t move.

“Run,” she says in a hoarse whisper.

“Not without you.” I hear a car door slam, then the jangle of metal on metal. I feel like I have the right—no, the
responsibility
—to not remain silent right now, but Devorah doesn’t seem to agree.

“Jax,
run
!” she screams, her voice cracking from the effort, her abruptly unfrozen face contorting into a red mask of pain.

And so, reluctantly at first, I do. I run. Then adrenaline kicks in, drowning out the pain, and I’m sprinting down the sidewalk as fast as my shaking legs will carry me, tripping and tumbling onto the pavement a few times but barely even feeling the scrapes. I run until my lungs burn and bile rises in my throat, until Kingston Avenue spits me out into the broad, leafy, familiar embrace of Eastern Parkway lit up by a thin sliver of yellow moon, and then I run across seven lanes of traffic against the light until I reach the other side, where I collapse against a scaffolding pole and dry heave onto the sidewalk. I keep waiting for my breathing to get easier, but I’m dizzy and gasping for air. The stars seem to spin overhead, vertigo turning the world on its side.

Am I dying?
The thought floats through my brain right before I throw up, but as I crumple to the pavement I realize that I don’t care what the answer is. She’s gone, maybe forever.

I might as well be dead.