Read Online 2 - Secrets: Ike Schwartz Mystery 2 by Frederick Ramsay - Free Book Online
Authors: Frederick Ramsay
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bitch. Unless he’d lost a step, Ike guessed the Lieutenant Governor was in for a rough patch.
“Good thing you didn’t run like I wanted you to, Ike. The business is getting dirty, I tell you.”
Three months ago, Abe had been furious with Ike for not taking on Bob Croft in the primary for Attorney General. Now, it seemed, all had been forgiven.
“I’m coming out to the farm, if that’s all right with you.”
“Fine, fine, you do that, Ike. Come for lunch. I’ll have Miz Kark fix us a stuffed ham.” Kosher was defined in a unique way in the Schwartz household. “Your Momma’ll be tickled to see you.”
Ike drove the six miles into the countryside to the farm that had been his home until he went away to college. His father never really worked the farm. He leased it out, but for his political career, “farmer” worked with the voters. Very few believed he actually farmed. For most folks in this part of the world, a Jewish farmer was as likely as a Baptist bartender, an oxymoron of enormous proportions.
Abe met him on the driveway, his expression serious.
“Now, Ike, I don’t want you to worry none, but when you visit your Momma, don’t be too surprised with what you see. She’s been sliding lately.”
“What did the doctor say?”
“Well, Ike, it’s like this. Three months, six at the outside. There’s nothing they can do. I asked about more chemotherapy, whether there wasn’t some new treatments. He said if I wanted to, I could take her up to Boston or the Mayo out in Rochester, Minnesota, but he didn’t recommend it. The cancer’s everywhere, Ike. We need to start practicing our goodbyes.”
Ike put his hand on his father’s shoulder. He held his gaze and saw the strain in his eyes. He patted him on the shoulder and turned toward the house.
“I’ll go see her now.”
He crossed the porch and entered the shadowy hallway that divided the old, turn-of-the-century farmhouse in half. His mother had been moved downstairs and ensconced in what would have been the Back Parlor in another age. The blinds were drawn and the room carried the scent of disinfectant and impending death.
“Hey there, Momma. How are you doing?”
“Is that you, Isaac?” Her voice sounded reedy thin, not the strong musical voice he knew. “Crank me up a little.”
“How are you?” He twisted the lever that raised the head of her hospital bed until she signaled to stop.
“Do you know what I dislike most about being a Jew?” she said. She wasn’t one. She grew up a Protestant, one of a long line of politically connected, wealthy members of a fading institution, the Baltimore aristocracy. But forty-five years earlier, when she fell in love with Abe Schwartz, a hayseed politician from the Shenandoah Valley, her society family cut her off, so she had declared herself Jewish. Aside from raising her only son in the faith, that declaration was as far as she ever got in her conversion, but she insisted it was all she needed. Her ancestor, the Right Reverend William R. Whittingham, the third Episcopal Bishop of Maryland, probably still rotated in his grave.
“Strictly speaking you’re not a Jew, Momma. You never converted.”
“Then strictly speaking, neither are you, Isaac.”
“Try telling that to all my redneck friends.”
She gave him a weak smile. “What I don’t like about being a Jew,” she continued, “is no afterlife. When I went to school with the nuns—you didn’t know we had nuns then, too, did you? They made heaven sound so good we all wanted to go right then and there. But now, I’ll have to wait, and I tell you, Isaac, I am tired of waiting.”
He took her hand and realized how much she had wasted away since he saw her last. He could feel the bones beneath her nearly translucent skin. “How about I talk to the new vicar at Stonewall Jackson and see if he can’t find a nice comfortable spot for you on the other side of the theological aisle.”
“Would you do that for me, Isaac?”
He
“Good thing you didn’t run like I wanted you to, Ike. The business is getting dirty, I tell you.”
Three months ago, Abe had been furious with Ike for not taking on Bob Croft in the primary for Attorney General. Now, it seemed, all had been forgiven.
“I’m coming out to the farm, if that’s all right with you.”
“Fine, fine, you do that, Ike. Come for lunch. I’ll have Miz Kark fix us a stuffed ham.” Kosher was defined in a unique way in the Schwartz household. “Your Momma’ll be tickled to see you.”
Ike drove the six miles into the countryside to the farm that had been his home until he went away to college. His father never really worked the farm. He leased it out, but for his political career, “farmer” worked with the voters. Very few believed he actually farmed. For most folks in this part of the world, a Jewish farmer was as likely as a Baptist bartender, an oxymoron of enormous proportions.
Abe met him on the driveway, his expression serious.
“Now, Ike, I don’t want you to worry none, but when you visit your Momma, don’t be too surprised with what you see. She’s been sliding lately.”
“What did the doctor say?”
“Well, Ike, it’s like this. Three months, six at the outside. There’s nothing they can do. I asked about more chemotherapy, whether there wasn’t some new treatments. He said if I wanted to, I could take her up to Boston or the Mayo out in Rochester, Minnesota, but he didn’t recommend it. The cancer’s everywhere, Ike. We need to start practicing our goodbyes.”
Ike put his hand on his father’s shoulder. He held his gaze and saw the strain in his eyes. He patted him on the shoulder and turned toward the house.
“I’ll go see her now.”
He crossed the porch and entered the shadowy hallway that divided the old, turn-of-the-century farmhouse in half. His mother had been moved downstairs and ensconced in what would have been the Back Parlor in another age. The blinds were drawn and the room carried the scent of disinfectant and impending death.
“Hey there, Momma. How are you doing?”
“Is that you, Isaac?” Her voice sounded reedy thin, not the strong musical voice he knew. “Crank me up a little.”
“How are you?” He twisted the lever that raised the head of her hospital bed until she signaled to stop.
“Do you know what I dislike most about being a Jew?” she said. She wasn’t one. She grew up a Protestant, one of a long line of politically connected, wealthy members of a fading institution, the Baltimore aristocracy. But forty-five years earlier, when she fell in love with Abe Schwartz, a hayseed politician from the Shenandoah Valley, her society family cut her off, so she had declared herself Jewish. Aside from raising her only son in the faith, that declaration was as far as she ever got in her conversion, but she insisted it was all she needed. Her ancestor, the Right Reverend William R. Whittingham, the third Episcopal Bishop of Maryland, probably still rotated in his grave.
“Strictly speaking you’re not a Jew, Momma. You never converted.”
“Then strictly speaking, neither are you, Isaac.”
“Try telling that to all my redneck friends.”
She gave him a weak smile. “What I don’t like about being a Jew,” she continued, “is no afterlife. When I went to school with the nuns—you didn’t know we had nuns then, too, did you? They made heaven sound so good we all wanted to go right then and there. But now, I’ll have to wait, and I tell you, Isaac, I am tired of waiting.”
He took her hand and realized how much she had wasted away since he saw her last. He could feel the bones beneath her nearly translucent skin. “How about I talk to the new vicar at Stonewall Jackson and see if he can’t find a nice comfortable spot for you on the other side of the theological aisle.”
“Would you do that for me, Isaac?”
He
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