name is Rivka Mendelssohn, but we’re hoping to get a little more information for the story. This is where she lived, right?”
As I am talking, his face changes. He begins to smile.
“Rebekah?” he says.
“Yes.” My hand is still extended, but he hasn’t taken it. He is just staring at me. I look at George, who raises his eyebrows.
“Sir?” he says, but the man doesn’t seem to hear.
“Are you working on this case?” I ask, letting my hand fall, embarrassed. “We’re just wondering if we can get a little information about Mrs. Mendelssohn. Is it correct that she was married to the Smith Street Scrap Yard’s owner, Aron Mendelssohn?”
“I am Saul,” he says. “Saul Katz.”
“Okay,” I say, writing down his name.
“I knew your mother.”
I look up from my notebook. “Excuse me?”
He steps forward, reaching out to touch my arm. I flinch. Who is this man?
“You look just like her.”
I drop my pen but can’t bend over to pick it up. I feel like I’ve been turned to stone. I know I look like my mother. I’ve seen pictures. We have the same wavy copper hair, the same heart-shaped face, the same long nose, the same hazel eyes. There is also, I’ve come to realize, a sexiness about us both that, at least as adolescents, made us seem older than we were. Part of it is easy to point at: we’re both stacked. I wore a C-cup before I got to high school. I’ll never forget the way the junior high boys gawked and stumbled when I came to the end-of-eighth-grade party in a bikini. I’d had to buy the two-piece because my top and bottom were totally different sizes. When he is reminiscing, my father refers to my mother, on that first day in the Strand, as a “bombshell.”
Saul steps back. “I’m sorry,” he says, but he’s still staring.
“Could you just tell us…” I’m too flustered to form a clear question and my stomach feels like it’s on fire. Is my mother about to jump out of the bushes? Have I become a participant in some kind of reality TV show? Is this like, Intervention for abandoned children?
I look at George, who, mercifully, takes over.
“We’ve been told the woman who lives here was found dead this morning. We’re looking for some information about her—age, marital status, that sort of thing.”
Saul slowly pulls his eyes off me and addresses George.
“She was married,” says Saul. “I’m not sure of her exact age.”
“Do you know the family?” I manage to ask. My voice is tight, like something has its hands around my throat.
“I do,” says Saul. “Though not well.” He is older than my dad, maybe fifty-five. He is not wearing a wedding ring.
I can’t think of the next question.
“Are you enjoying New York?” Saul asks.
I nod. I can’t bring myself to look at him.
“Your father said you were a reporter.”
“My father? You talked to my father?”
“We’ve kept in touch a little. He sent me an e-mail when you moved here.” He’s still staring at me, and his face has this almost-laughing look. The beer in my stomach is threatening to shoot up my esophagus. I am not prepared in the slightest for this situation. I wonder what George thinks. The last thing I need is him reporting my meltdown to the desk. I raise my eyes and stare Saul down.
“Is there anything you can tell me about Rivka Mendelssohn?” If he’s going to make me feel like a frightened child, I am going to pump him for every ounce of information I can. Fuck you. I am not my mother.
“I’m sorry,” he says, wiping a hand across his face. “It’s just … I’m sorry.”
“Age? Kids? I spoke with Aron Mendelssohn. Were they married?” Each word is difficult to say, but I am not going to let this man—or my mother—turn me into a mute idiot who can’t do her job.
“Yes,” says Saul. “Rivka Mendelssohn was Aron Mendelssohn’s wife. He owns the scrap yard. This is their home. I don’t know her exact age.”
“I knocked on the door and met a woman,” I
As I am talking, his face changes. He begins to smile.
“Rebekah?” he says.
“Yes.” My hand is still extended, but he hasn’t taken it. He is just staring at me. I look at George, who raises his eyebrows.
“Sir?” he says, but the man doesn’t seem to hear.
“Are you working on this case?” I ask, letting my hand fall, embarrassed. “We’re just wondering if we can get a little information about Mrs. Mendelssohn. Is it correct that she was married to the Smith Street Scrap Yard’s owner, Aron Mendelssohn?”
“I am Saul,” he says. “Saul Katz.”
“Okay,” I say, writing down his name.
“I knew your mother.”
I look up from my notebook. “Excuse me?”
He steps forward, reaching out to touch my arm. I flinch. Who is this man?
“You look just like her.”
I drop my pen but can’t bend over to pick it up. I feel like I’ve been turned to stone. I know I look like my mother. I’ve seen pictures. We have the same wavy copper hair, the same heart-shaped face, the same long nose, the same hazel eyes. There is also, I’ve come to realize, a sexiness about us both that, at least as adolescents, made us seem older than we were. Part of it is easy to point at: we’re both stacked. I wore a C-cup before I got to high school. I’ll never forget the way the junior high boys gawked and stumbled when I came to the end-of-eighth-grade party in a bikini. I’d had to buy the two-piece because my top and bottom were totally different sizes. When he is reminiscing, my father refers to my mother, on that first day in the Strand, as a “bombshell.”
Saul steps back. “I’m sorry,” he says, but he’s still staring.
“Could you just tell us…” I’m too flustered to form a clear question and my stomach feels like it’s on fire. Is my mother about to jump out of the bushes? Have I become a participant in some kind of reality TV show? Is this like, Intervention for abandoned children?
I look at George, who, mercifully, takes over.
“We’ve been told the woman who lives here was found dead this morning. We’re looking for some information about her—age, marital status, that sort of thing.”
Saul slowly pulls his eyes off me and addresses George.
“She was married,” says Saul. “I’m not sure of her exact age.”
“Do you know the family?” I manage to ask. My voice is tight, like something has its hands around my throat.
“I do,” says Saul. “Though not well.” He is older than my dad, maybe fifty-five. He is not wearing a wedding ring.
I can’t think of the next question.
“Are you enjoying New York?” Saul asks.
I nod. I can’t bring myself to look at him.
“Your father said you were a reporter.”
“My father? You talked to my father?”
“We’ve kept in touch a little. He sent me an e-mail when you moved here.” He’s still staring at me, and his face has this almost-laughing look. The beer in my stomach is threatening to shoot up my esophagus. I am not prepared in the slightest for this situation. I wonder what George thinks. The last thing I need is him reporting my meltdown to the desk. I raise my eyes and stare Saul down.
“Is there anything you can tell me about Rivka Mendelssohn?” If he’s going to make me feel like a frightened child, I am going to pump him for every ounce of information I can. Fuck you. I am not my mother.
“I’m sorry,” he says, wiping a hand across his face. “It’s just … I’m sorry.”
“Age? Kids? I spoke with Aron Mendelssohn. Were they married?” Each word is difficult to say, but I am not going to let this man—or my mother—turn me into a mute idiot who can’t do her job.
“Yes,” says Saul. “Rivka Mendelssohn was Aron Mendelssohn’s wife. He owns the scrap yard. This is their home. I don’t know her exact age.”
“I knocked on the door and met a woman,” I
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