Street Dreams (46 page)

“But you think it was him.”

“I knowed it was him. He ate in our kitchen for mebbe two months.”

“Did he ever talk to anyone?”

“Now, how would I know that? He never talked to me. Just ate his food and crawled back under the cracks. That’s where all
these people are from, Miss Cop. The cracks.”

“Do you have any idea where he might have gone?”

“Into another crack.”

“Any other shelters around here?”

“I thought you said you had a list.”

I pulled the slip of paper out of my purse and showed it to her, pointing to a specific address about five miles away. “This
was going to be my next stop.”

She shrugged. “It’s as good as anything I can help you with.” She stood up again. “I got business. You can let yourselves
out.”

As she walked back to the kitchen, I saw her shaking her head. I took Koby’s hand and laced his stiff fingers with mine. “C’mon,
big boy. Let’s get out of here.”

He didn’t answer me, and that was always a bad sign. Something ugly was brewing inside his brain, and if it was going to erupt,
I felt we should be in a safe environment. I pulled him back to the car—still there and still intact.

“Uh, you have the keys,” I told him.

He reached into his pocket and unlocked the doors. We got in and his autopilot took over, turning on the motor, pulling out
of the space, finding the freeway on-ramp. I gave him directions to the next shelter. He barely seemed to process the information.

He wasn’t kidding when he said he had “dark moods.” I’d gone through this before, and as requested, I had left him alone and
let him work them away. But today we were together and neither of us had an escape valve.

I said, “It’s over, Koby. Let’s move on—”

“
Pigs!
” he spat out.

“That’s why none of them are worth a second thought.”

“They call
me
a nigger?” He pointed to himself. “I am black. They are
niggers!
”

I blew out air. “I know it’s okay for you to use the N-word, but please don’t. We whites have a problem with it.”

“It is what they are! Ignorant swine!”

“At least, Cerise was helpful.”

“If she’d been white, you would have called her a bitch!”

“I’m trying to be charitable.”

“Your knee-jerk liberal roots are showing,” he growled out.

“Okay. She was a bitch! And the two boys were punks. But punks come in all colors.”

“But it has to be my own people to hurl such insults.”

“Not at all. Look, Koby, we’re spoiled. We hang out in Hollywood, where anything goes. I mean, just yesterday night when we
went to the Twenty-four/seven café at two in the morning, at one table there was that bull dyke pouring her heart out to a
drag queen. Then there was that Asian girl with blue hair talking to her leather-clad, pincushion white boyfriend with around
a zillion pierces. Then there was that Chasidic guy doing a deal with that porno producer—”

“We don’t know for sure he was a porno producer.”

“C’mon, he was something sleazy. The point is, we were the most conventional couple in the place. Yaakov, there are places
in the good old USA where I wouldn’t take you on a bet, and it’s not just the Deep South or rural Texas. It’s lovely areas
with pretty little homes and green lawns and posters in their windows that say, ‘The South shall rise again.’”

His jaw was still clenched. “Your bigots do not excuse my people’s stupidity!”

“No one’s making excuses. It’s just that stupidity comes in all colors, including the white liberals in the West Side. God,
Koby, you remember the party Mom gave for Alan’s birthday? The looks on the guests’ faces when they met you. Man, if their
smiles had been any more frozen, I could have chipped them off with an ice pick.”

“It wasn’t
that
bad.”

“Yeah, it was especially fun when Mrs. Hauser handed you her dirty wineglass and asked for another
chilled
Chardonnay, even though all the hired waiters were white, wearing tuxes, and carrying trays.”

He waited a beat before he spoke, taking in the memory. His eyes darkened. “Yes, that was uncomfortable.”

“Koby, you were
seething.
”

“She was very apologetic.”

“She was apoplectic!”

He pressed his lips together. “What does that mean?”

“‘Apoplectic’? It’s an old word for a fit … like a seizure. But now it means someone in a snit. And she certainly was in a
snit. In fact, she was horrified because the worst thing in
that
world is being ‘aware’ of color. And of course, they’re all
very
aware of color. They think it’s great that Jan raised a
liberal
daughter, but they wouldn’t want it for their own, believe you me.”

“They’d be even more horrified to find out you’re not a liberal.”

“On social issues I am.”

“You’re a
cop,
Cynthia. With cop ways of doing things and cop opinions.”

“Definitely. I have a big problem with anyone who breaks the law.”

“We’re in agreement. So that is why I don’t make excuses for those jerks.”

“I’m not making excuses; I’m just thinking this out. Even my dad, who truly adores you, even he had a reaction when he first
met you.”

“Your stepmother didn’t.”

I hesitated for just a moment. “I don’t want this to be construed as a criticism of Rina, because I think she’s a great person.
But to Rina, the world is divided into two categories: Jews and non-Jews. If you’re Jewish, you’re in; if not, you’re not.
You’re Jewish, ergo you’re in. She may be color-blind, but she has her standards. Sammy could bring home the most beautiful,
brilliant girl, and if she wasn’t Jewish, heads would roll.”

I exhaled and shook my head.

“We all do it … this us/them thing. With me, it divides between law-abiding citizens and felons. Even in your field, where
there isn’t supposed to be any bias, I bet biased decisions are made all the time. If a kidney is available, can you honestly
say to me that they consider a seventy-year-old in the same way that they consider a twenty-year old?”

“Maybe not.” He switched on the stereo, turning up the volume to drown me out. Ska with a booming bass line blasted through
the speakers of Rina’s Volvo.

I turned off the receiver. “Definitely not,” I continued. “Young people get preference, you know that. And why? Why is one
life worth more than another life? Now, suppose the seventy-year-old was a major cancer researcher and the twenty-year-old
had Down’s syndrome. Then who’d get the kidney?”

“Yes, yes, you prove your point, Cindy. You should be a lawyer as well as a cop. That way, you can
legally
defend your self-righteousness. Can we now
stop
talking and listen to some music?” Again he turned on the receiver full volume.

I sat back in my seat and looked at the roof of the car. We rode with the music blaring for about a minute until he abruptly
turned it off. The stillness was thick.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

I placed my hand on his knee and dropped my voice to a soothing lilt. “Yaakov, those two kids were punks. And you know how
I feel about punks. And I didn’t particularly like being thought of as your bitch for sale. But there’s this side of me that
says there’s something sad about them. Their self-esteem must be in the toilet, their images of themselves so low that they
can’t possibly conceive of a healthy, good-looking white woman falling in love with a black man who isn’t a pro athlete, a
badass rapper, a movie star, or her
pimp.
To them, it’s as absurd as a blue sun.”

He was silent. But then ever so slowly, a small smile played upon his lips. “You’re in love with me?”

I stared at him in amazement. “Um … let’s think about this. I spend every waking moment of my free time with you, and lots
of my nonwaking moments, too.” I tapped his temple. “Duh!”

He didn’t respond. We tooled down the freeway for a minute without speaking.

At last he said, “Every morning I say
Sha’charit
—prayers to God.”

“I know. Those little black boxes with the straps.”

“Yes,
tefillin.
” He licked his lips. “In the prayers, there is always
Shemoneh Esrei
—the silent devotion to God. You take three steps backward; then you take three steps forward and start. But before you step
forward … this is the chance for personal prayer, for personal requests.”

A small smile.

“I used to ask God for things—for money, for a raise, for a better position, for a new car at a price I could afford, to help
me win the lottery, to let me meet lots of loose women.”

I punched his shoulder lightly. “Did He help you out?”

“Not with the lottery, but very good with the women.”

I punched him again, but harder.

“Silly things.” He let out a laugh. “But now … now I don’t ask for things. I just say, ‘Thank you, God, for sending me Cynthia.’
That is it.” A pause. “I don’t tell God this at prayer time, but I do also say thank you to Him for giving me the privilege
of having sex with you—”

I broke up into peals of laughter. “That’s
terrible!
”

“No, it’s not!” He glanced at me with serious eyes. “I look at you and I say I can’t believe I am having sex with this incredible-looking
woman! All my friends are jealous, even if you are a cop. They think you look like a supermodel.”

“Oh please—”

“Except you have this big, beautiful, black-girl ass. Tight and round and—”

“You talk about my
ass
with your friends?”

He smiled sheepishly. “It comes up in natural conversation.”

I whacked him. “You’re awful.”

“Not at all.” He grew serious. “My friends make fun of me. They say I am moonstruck. They say I am pussy whipped. They say,
‘What has happened to you, mon? What is wrong with you … that you let a woman bring you to your knees?’ But what do they know?
They have never brushed their lips against yours. They have never felt your soft touch in the middle of the night. They have
never
held
you … body and soul united … lost in rich ecstasy that lifts even the most ordinary man to a momentary king. They have never
had a true union of
Kiddusha
—of holiness between two people who are destined, who are
bashert.
”

His voice had become a whisper.

“God has made this
shiddach
… this match. Only God could make such a match. I am …
hopelessly
in love with you, Cynthia Rachel Decker.”

I absorbed his words, trying not to cry, but I couldn’t hold back. My eyes watered up, but I managed to wipe them before tears
rolled down my cheeks. Waiting until I could find my voice, and when I finally did speak, I was choked with emotion. “I’m
hopelessly in love with you, too, Yaakov Elias David Ben Aaron Hako-hen Kutiel.” I leaned over and kissed his cheek. “That’s
quite a mouthful.”

“Blame my father.” He cleared his throat. “I think we have a long, long future together.” He tapped the wheel nervously. “At
least, that is what I want.”

This time, the tears escaped my eyes. We rode a few minutes in silence, both of us drinking in the moment. For twenty-eight
years, it had been just me, myself, and I. But now, in all honesty, I couldn’t remember what my life had been without him.
Being that dependent on someone was terrifying. Being that dependent on a man was utterly terrifying!

“If you have doubts, I will wait as long as you want,” he told me. “I only wish to make you happy.”

He had misinterpreted my silence. Still, I held back. “Be careful what you wish for.”

He didn’t answer. Disappointment crushed his face, darkening his expression. It was time to take the emotional plunge, a scarier
dive than I would have ever imagined. But if I blew it now, I knew I’d regret it for the rest of my life. I took a deep breath
and began to stroke his leg. “Yaakov, I have
no
doubts whatsoever. What you want is exactly what I want—a long future together … our
entire
future together actually. But I’ll tell you this. If you break my heart, I’ll kill you.”

He glanced at me. “Do you mean it?”

“Mean what? Spending the rest of my life with you or killing you if you hurt me? I mean both.”

At last his smile was large and genuine. “Now that sounds like the Cynthia I know and love.” He broke into musical laughter.
“Now I feel
so
good.”

I continued to caress his thigh. “These stupid people … it wasn’t the first time, and it won’t be the last.”

He shrugged. Light had returned to his eyes. “So we learn to live with ignorance.”

“Exactly. And let’s be happy it’s now and not fifty years ago. What the heck? Every relationship has sticky points.”

“Even relationships with God. Like Avraham Avinu and his ten trials.”

“Sorry,” I told him. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Abraham. His faith in God was tested by ten trials.”

“Oh, like Hercules?”

“Who is Hercules?”

“He also had trials.”

“He was Jewish?”

“Greek. Anyway, go on. What happened to Abraham?”

“Avraham lived when Nimrod was the leader of the civilized world. A sound ruler, but a cruel man. He did
avodah zarah
… idol worship. Avraham believed only in
Hashem.
Nimrod put Avraham through ten trials to test his faith in God. I forget all of them, only each one grew in severity, and
the last was trial by fire. Nimrod threw Avraham into a furnace.”

He stopped talking.

I said, “And I take it that God saved him.”

“Naturally. Otherwise there is no Bible.”

I waited for him to continue. But he didn’t. I giggled. “Is this a shaggy-dog story?”

“A what?”

“A shaggy-dog story—a story without a punch line.”

“No, not at all. I’m saying that if a relationship is strong, it survives anything. I think that is you and me.”

My hand was still resting on his knee. “I think so, too.” I moved my fingers to between his legs.

He gasped. “If you do that, I will crash the car. Already your father looks for a reason to shoot me. This will be his excuse.”