God is omnipotent and omniscient. He knows what’s coming for us, and He has the power to stop it. But He doesn’t; He looks on, and He allows us to suffer. How is that just? I think it is because, in our pain, we discover ourselves. It’s only when we’ve been broken, when we’ve been stripped of the things we cherish, and the things we think define us, that we learn who we really are.
When Adam and Eve dwelt in the Garden of Eden, God gave them a life of plenty, and free of pain and death. And without suffering, they had no choices. They must have been incredibly bored.
The only act of agency available to them was to disobey the one rule God had laid down; that they must not eat the forbidden fruit. And so, of course, they ate it. What else could they do?
Do you think God, who knows all and sees all, was surprised when they transgressed? I don’t think God is ever surprised.
And that brings us back to today’s Torah portion. When God said He would spare Sodom if Abraham could find ten righteous men in the city, He wasn’t sincerely offering to reconsider His decision to purge the city. He knew there weren’t ten righteous men in Sodom, because He is God, and He knows everything.
God made that offer to show Abraham that the decision to purge the city was the right one. By going into Sodom and failing to find ten righteous men, Abraham saw the righteousness of God’s judgment. There was nothing in Sodom worthy of salvation, and the city had to burn.
There are two lessons to take from this story: We should never question God’s judgment, and we should try not to make Him angry. Although the destruction of Sodom took place in ancient times, the cities of the iniquitous still burn today. My great-great-grandfather Herschel Schatz bore witness when General Sherman put the torch to Atlanta in 1864. More recently, Allied bombers rained fire on the cities of Dresden and Hiroshima.
The lesson is clear: You can spite God for only so long, before your feet slip. The mistreatment of the Negro is an affront to the Lord, and someday soon, His patience may run out, and we may find that it is our day of calamity. We have got to repent. We have got to change. We have to be better than this.
Today, I am a man. God told Abraham that it takes ten righteous men to save a city from obliteration. I am going to try to be one. Let’s hope there are nine more.
44
2009
William was returning that afternoon to New York to resume his prestigious internship that everyone was so impressed with. But he hadn’t been back in town so close to the anniversary since he’d gone away for college, so he wanted to make a trip to the cemetery before his flight.
I didn’t want to go to the damn cemetery. I figured I’d be spending plenty of time there soon enough. But I’d pushed Rose to her breaking point with my recent antics, and it seemed unwise to start a fight about this.
So I found myself looking at my son’s grave for the second time in three days. It looked like every other grave. Being here was supposed to make me feel like I was close to him, but standing in front of the stone, he seemed just as far away as he did everywhere else.
My grandson had his arms crossed in front of him, and I could see he was blinking back tears behind his sunglasses. His mother stood behind him, twisting the hem of her sweater with her hands.
“The worst thing about the funerals here is the concrete vaults,” I said. “The water table is real high because we’re close to the river, so they won’t just let you put the box in the ground.”
“We know, Buck. We’ve seen it,” Rose said.
But for some reason, I couldn’t stop talking.
“So they’ve got to drop the wood box they put you in into this bigger concrete box, and then the colored boys who work for the cemetery lower this heavy concrete lid down onto it with cloth straps. Takes four of them boys to put it down there, and they’re strapping fellows. And then everybody has to shovel dirt onto the concrete.”
“Enough, Buck,” Rose said.
“Whenever I come here, that’s all I can think about. The sound of concrete grinding on concrete. And you don’t really return to the earth, I don’t think, when you’re buried in a thing like that. I reckon you just kind of molder in there.”
Fran started sobbing.
“Are you happy with yourself?” Rose asked me. “Was that really necessary?”
I stuck my hands deep in the pockets of the Members Only jacket, which I was still wearing even though it was pretty hot out. “You’ve been saying you want me to talk about what I’m feeling. I’m just trying to explain it.”
“This isn’t feelings you’re talking about. It’s just horrible.”
“I think so, too. That’s why I usually try not to talk about it.”
We stood there in silence for a few minutes. I looked at the little pile of rocks we’d put on the headstone and tried to remember what they were supposed to symbolize, but I couldn’t recall.
“Why did you name him Brian?” Tequila said. “I never heard of a Jew named Brian.”
“I think it’s an Irish name,” Fran said.
“That sounds right,” Tequila said. “Why did you give your kid an Irish name?”
“Brian was a friend of mine who died,” I said.
“A cop?” Tequila asked.
“No. He was in my unit. We went through basic together at Fort Benning, down in Georgia, and we were on the same landing craft when we hit Normandy. He was standing right next to me, and he caught one in the face.”
“So you named your son after him?”
“Sure,” I said. “Why not? He was a good guy. It was a fine name.”
“Didn’t your father die when you were young?”
“I was six.” I pointed in the direction of the older section of the cemetery. “He’s buried over there.”
“What was his name?”
“Arnold.”
“Why didn’t you name your son after him?”
“Because I didn’t want to have to think about my dead father every time I looked at him,” I said. “Are you going to name your son after your father?”
“No,” Tequila said. “I don’t want my son to be the Jewish kid with the weird Irish name.”
“You’re real charming,” I told him.
“You both are,” said Rose.
SOMETHING I DON’T WANT TO FORGET:
By the way, this is why I am called Baruch:
It means “Blessed.”
AUTHOR’S NOTE
My grandfather, Harold “Buddy” Friedman, died on October 8, 2013. He was 97. Buddy was a major inspiration for Buck Schatz, so I think readers of these books may be interested to know who he was.
Buddy was born in Memphis, Tennessee, and served in the Pacific during World War II. He worked as a traveling salesman for thirty years, and put two sons through graduate school. He was married to my grandmother, Margaret Friedman, for 72 years.
He was very generous with his time and devoted to charity. Well into his 90s, he was busy organizing a program to offer after-school tutoring to disadvantaged students, and badgering senior citizens at the Jewish Community Center into volunteering. But he would also make a point of letting you know if you’d gained five pounds since he’d last seen you.
My grandfather was a strong man, but nobody can be strong forever. He made his living on the road, and always took special pride in his cars. But, as his reflexes slowed, he had to give up his keys for his own safety.
Around the time he turned 90, he was still exercising regularly at the Jewish Community Center, but the last couple of years he was at a high risk of falling, and had to use a walker.
Pop-culture depictions of old age never seem to depict the price that people pay for longevity, the psychological burden that comes with burying everybody, the feeling of being imprisoned in a weakening body, the impositions on privacy and dignity that come with failing health, and the knowledge that things are likely to be worse tomorrow than they are today.
Buddy was a proud man who dealt with a difficult set of circumstances that
millions of people face, but which popular narratives tend to gloss over with shopworn clichés and cowardly euphemisms. It was because of him that I wrote these books.
ALSO BY DANIEL FRIEDMAN
Don’t Ever Get Old
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
DANIEL FRIEDMAN is a graduate of the University of Maryland and NYU School of Law. He lives in New York City. His first novel, Don’t Ever Get Old, was nominated for the Edgar, Thriller, Anthony, and Macavity Awards, and was optioned for film by the producers of the Sherlock Holmes movies.
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A THOMAS DUNNE BOOK FOR MINOTAUR BOOKS.
An imprint of St. Martin’s Publishing Group.
DON’T EVER LOOK BACK. Copyright © 2014 by Daniel Friedman. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.thomasdunnebooks.com
www.minotaurbooks.com
Cover design by Lisa Marie Pompilio
Cover illustration of old man by Matt Dorfman
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Friedman, Daniel, 1981–
Don’t ever look back: a mystery / Daniel Friedman. — First Edition.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-1-250-02756-6 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-250-02757-3 (e-book)
1. Older men—Fiction. 2. Ex-police officers—Fiction. 3. Jewish men—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3606.R5566D64 2014
813'.6—dc23 2013046987
e-ISBN 9781250027573
First Edition: April 2014
Don't Ever Look Back: A Mystery (Buck Schatz Series) Page 24