The Ritual Bath (5 page)

“I’ll be careful,” she said.

“Look, I’m not telling you how to worship. The rabbi said you’re a widow, that you don’t like to walk alone with a man. But in my book, religion comes second to personal safety. I’m sure he can give you dispensation.”

Rina said nothing.

Decker knew he was wasting his breath. She wasn’t listening. Goddam Hollander and his fucking ball game! Decker didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want this case. It was going to dead end, and he’d have another unsolved rape on his hands.

But that was just part of it. Some force was sucking him into this place. He
knew
he’d be returning here in a professional capacity. And that worried him.

Rina sat at
her desk in the stuffy basement classroom and looked out at a sea of bobbing yarmulkes. Heads down, her students were busy scratching away at the test. She’d thought the exam would be challenging, but the kids seemed to be whipping through the pages in record time. It was getting harder and harder to challenge them, she realized with delight. It was a pleasure to teach such a bright group of kids. Her only major complaint about the job was the poor facilities. In the summer the room became a sauna, and the two large floor fans did little to mitigate the heat.

Her eyes returned to the open pages of the
Chumash
. She’d finished studying
parsha
—the biblical portion of the week—and was on the
haftorah
. Sunday was the new moon, so the reading would be the story of the friendship between David and Jonathan. It was one of Rina’s favorites—a tale of unswerving love and trust. She’d never had a relationship like that with anyone, including Yitzchak. Theirs had contained some of those elements, but
Yitzchak’s first and true love had been the Torah.

The rabbis had regarded his brilliant mind as a gift from God. He was their prize pupil, one of the few young men who was a real
tal-mid chacham
. They’d showered him with attention, but it had never gone to his head. He wasn’t interested in adulation, just in the acquisition of knowledge.

Rina had been astonished by Yitzchak’s intellect when they first met. He was a living, breathing genius, and she was willing to put up with his idiosyncracies for the privilege of being around him. He’d turned out to be a warmhearted man and a good father, but their relationship had always been a bit distant.

It was cruelly ironic that his brilliant brain cells eventually led to his demise.

Rina felt melancholia nibbling at her gut. She looked up from the text, and her eyes landed on the sandy-haired boy in the corner. His expression hadn’t changed since he’d entered the room. Usually one of the quickest thinkers, today he gazed at the chalkboard as if it contained some magic words of comfort. Yossie looked just like his father, Zvi, and his face bore the painful, numb expression that his father’s had last night. Rina was sure they hadn’t told him, but he knew. Oldest children always knew when something wasn’t right.

A few of the best students had handed in their exams. Rina would grade them, but really didn’t have to bother. She knew they’d be perfect. Soon the rest of the boys followed,
until Yossie was the only one left. He continued to stare blankly, not even moving when Rina was standing right next to him. She looked down at his papers and found them untouched.

“Yossie,” she said gently.

The glassy hazel eyes inched their way upward.

“Yossie, you’re having an off day.”

He nodded.

“Take the test home. I trust you. Finish the exam when you’re in better spirits.”

“Thank you,” he whispered.

He got up, stuffed the papers in his overloaded briefcase, and left the room.

Rina was the last of the trio to enter the room. She had last-minute chores before Shabbos and hoped the faculty meeting wouldn’t take too long.

Three times a semester she and the two other secular teachers got together to discuss the curriculum. She was the head of the math department—and its sole teacher. The men were the departments of humanities and physical sciences.

Matt Hawthorne taught history and English. He was a jovial man in his mid-twenties, a little on the short side, with a puckish face and dark curly hair. Quick with a joke, he got along extremely well with the rowdier boys.

“Want to close the door, Rina?” he asked her.

“I’d prefer to leave it open,” she replied au
tomatically. Hawthorne had a gleam in his eye. “You don’t want all the students to hear our trade secrets, do you?”

Rina sighed. It was an old story. Matt knew she left the door open for religious reasons, but insisted on teasing her about it anyway. Ordinarily she took it in good humor. Today she wasn’t in the mood, and the expression on her face reflected it.

“What trade secrets?” asked Steven Gilbert, coming to her defense. “Leave the door open. It’s hot enough in here without cutting off the little circulation we do have. Let’s get on with business.”

Of the two of them, Rina preferred Steve. They were both nice enough, but Steve was more subdued. He was older than Matt and her, in his middle thirties, balding and bespectacled, but with facial features that were still youthful. Like Matt, he was a public school teacher who moonlighted by teaching the yeshiva kids in the late afternoon, when the boys learned their secular studies.

They went through the meeting with choreographed efficiency.

“Shall we call it a day?” Rina asked when they were done.

“I’ve got nothing else to add,” said Gilbert.

Matt looked down. His eye suddenly twitched. It was a nervous tic that Rina had noted before.

“What’s the problem?” she asked.

“This has nothing to do with the curricu
lum, but I heard that something went on here last night.”

Rina hesitated a moment.

“What’d you hear?”

“Did a rape take place at the mikvah last night?”

“Where’d you hear that?” Rina wanted to know.

“Campus rumors,” Gilbert said. “Is it true?”

She nodded.

“That’s horrible!” exclaimed Hawthorne. “They said it was Yossie Adler’s mother.”

“Let’s drop the subject,” Rina said. “Suffice it to say that everyone’s alive and healthy.”

“Well, that’s good,” Hawthorne said. “You know, you can’t pick up a newspaper or turn on the news without hearing about the Foothill rapist. Then this happens—” Hawthorne stopped himself and looked at Rina through a fluttering left eyelid. “I’m doing a lot for your nerves, aren’t I?”

“It’s all right.”

But her voice lacked conviction.

“Listen, Rina,” said Gilbert calmly, “we know your being alone makes you especially vulnerable. If you need anything, feel free to give either one of us a call.”

“Thank you,” she replied. “If there’s nothing else, I’m going to be off.”

Hawthorne stood up and pulled out her chair.

“My, you’re chivalrous,” Gilbert said, his tone cool.

“My mama taught me well, Stevie.”

“Before I forget…” Gilbert searched through his briefcase and pulled out a few loose sheets of computer paper. “Take these home to your boys. They’re the programs they developed yesterday in Computer Club. I ran them this morning.”

“And they came out?” she asked, taking the papers.

“Of course they came out.”

Rina swelled with parental pride.

“Kids are born brighter these days,” she said. “But then again, they have better teachers.”

Gilbert acknowledged the compliment with a nod and stood up. The three of them remained motionless for an awkward moment.

“I’m glad you’re okay,” Hawthorne said to Rina.

“Thanks for your concern.”

“Do you want me to walk you home?” Gilbert asked.

“Thank you, but it’s really not necessary. After all, one can’t be overly paranoid, right?”

When neither one responded, she smiled weakly and left.

Though the synagogue had no assigned seating, people tended to sit in the same spot. Rina’s was in the front row of the balcony—the women’s section.

She saw Zvi davening, making him out very clearly though she was peering through a diaphanous curtain that hung in front of the upper level. He was at the podium, leading the
service, rocking back and forth as he moved his lips. To his right stood Yossie, looking lost, and his two younger brothers, poking each other mischievously.

Rina wasn’t the only one looking at Zvi. All the women who had used the mikvah last night were gaping at him. The “incident” was the topic of whispered conversation in the balcony. Rina couldn’t stand the gossip and speculation. Though they tried to engage her in conversation, she remained aloof.

She concentrated hard on the Hebrew text in front of her. Tonight, praying seemed especially significant, and she davened with renewed spirit. Truly, fate is in the hands of
Hashem
, she thought. But to help Him along, she’d take the detective’s advice and be very careful. Usually after services she and her boys rushed home, allowing her to complete preparations for the Shabbos meal. But tonight she waited for her guests, and they all walked together.

The dinner came off without a hitch. The table was set with her finest silver, china, and table linens and spotlighted in the warm glow of candlelight. The food was plentiful and superb. Everyone had a grand time singing and telling stories. Her children and the Kriegers’ each had a chance to relate their amusing incidents of the week, then her students gave a short
dvar Torah
—a Talmudic lesson. They ended with grace after the meal and more singing.

The festivities lasted until midnight. By the
time everyone left, her boys were overwrought with fatigue. Yaakov, the seven-year-old, was running around in circles singing at the top of his lungs. Shmuel, one year his senior, was break-dancing and singing an Uncle Moishy tune. Something about Gedalia Goomber not working on Shabbos Kodesh.

Rina kept her patience and calmed the boys down with a bedtime story and lots of kisses. She tucked them in, then headed for the kitchen. It was one-thirty by the time she’d finished cleaning up.

She crawled under the covers and immediately fell into a deep sleep.

In the wee hours of the morning she was awakened by a piercing scream. She shot up and ran to the boys’ room. They were fast asleep. She rechecked all the locks on the doors but didn’t dare peek out the window. Again, cries followed by scampering atop her roof.

The damn cats!

The house turned quiet—a suffocating quiet.

Rina trudged shakily back to bed. The adrenaline was surging throughout her body. Wide-eyed, she stared at the shadows on her wall until exhaustion overtook her.

“Eema could you
pin my
kipah
?” Shmuel asked.

Rina put down the paper and attached the big, black yarmulke to the soft, curly locks with four bobby pins. No matter how many she put in, the
kipah
would always fall off. Little boys, she thought, smiling.

“There you go, sweetie,” she said, kissing his cheek. It was damp with salty perspiration and as soft as butter.

He thanked her and ran off to play G. I. Joe with his brother. Last she’d heard, the Joe team was beating COBRA, capturing and disposing of the evil forces with no mercy. Rina’d always felt that kids judged much more harshly than adults. If it were up to them, all criminals would receive the death penalty.

She reopened the paper, and the article jumped out at her. She wondered why she hadn’t noticed it before. The Foothill rapist had struck again. Reading the article slowly, she saw Decker’s name in the second paragraph.

She closed the paper and sipped her coffee.
It had been nearly two weeks since the rape at the mikvah. The initial fright had abated, and life progressed as usual. The only differences were a dead bolt on the mikvah door and husbands walking their wives home after the ritual immersion.

But Rina was still worried. Oftentimes she’d walk home with the last woman to use the facilities, but that meant either coming in early to clean the mikvah from the previous night or finding someone to wait for her as she scrubbed the tiles. Recently she found herself getting careless, sinking back into the old bad habit of walking home alone. Several times she thought of calling the detective—sure she’d heard things outside—but hadn’t wanted to bother him. Besides, nothing had ever materialized.

Now, seeing his name in print, she wondered about the progress of the case and wanted badly to call him. But the house was too tiny for privacy, and she didn’t want her sons to overhear the conversation. She’d have to wait.

When it was time, she walked the kids to the yeshiva’s day camp. Upon returning home she picked up the receiver and immediately put it down. Perhaps it wasn’t the right time to call. With this new rape, he was probably up to his neck in work.

She fixed herself another cup of coffee and turned on the radio to a news station. It was a half-hour before the story came on. No details were given. Just another rape attributed
to him. She flicked the dial to off and thought to herself: Wasn’t she a citizen? Didn’t she pay taxes to support a police force? She had even voted against the tax cut that would have reduced police and fire services. With newly summoned determination, she dialed his extension. Besides, she was sure he wouldn’t be in.

To her shock he picked it up on the second ring.

“Decker,” he answered.

She was momentarily speechless.

“Hello?” he said loudly.

“Uh—yes, this is Rina Lazarus. I don’t know if you remember me—”

“Of course I do. What can I do for you, Mrs. Lazarus?”

“You must be busy.”

“Swamped.”

She felt foolish for calling. “I was wondering how the mikvah case was coming along. I realize it’s not as important as this Foothill rapist, but…”

She thought she heard him groan over the line. There was a pause.

“Frankly, Mrs. Lazarus, we have no mikvah case. Mrs. Adler never gave us any statement, so we have nothing to go on. The only way we’re ever going to find the perpetrator is if we catch him doing something else and he admits the rape as a by-product of the confession.”

Rina said nothing.

“Everything calm over there?” Decker asked.

“I hear a noise now and then. That’s all.”

“Someone walking you home at night?”

“Usually. We did get a lock on the door.”

“That’s good. Anything else I can do for you?”

“Not really.” She hedged, then said: “Suppose Mrs. Adler were to come in and give you a statement? Would that help reopen the case?”

“It would be a start.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” she said.

“Do that.”