“That’s good,” the director said. “It’s hard enough teaching our students about hygiene, let alone sex. We just try to make sure that if sex happens, the women are not left coping with something they’re not equipped to cope with.”
“Do the women know what they’re doing when they have sex?”
Klinghoffner pursed his lips. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Is it consensual as opposed to forced on them?”
“Good Lord, I hope it’s consensual, although I suspect I know what you’re saying. The young women here … They’re not used to having control over their bodies. They’ve been told what to do all their lives. We have counselors here to help them integrate sex and health education.”
He looked away.
“We do not allow sex within these walls. But the few times I’ve actually caught a pair in the act, I’ve looked the other way in terms of punishment. I did take the parties involved aside and insist they get some couples counseling. For precisely the reason you stated. To make sure that nothing was forced.”
“And?”
“The parties were all right with the sexual relationship. But their guardians were not. A few times, I’ve had students pulled out of the programs because of it.”
I tried being charming. “And might you know any woman pulled out of the program because of having sex, say … within the last nine months? Maybe one with Down’s?”
“Not Down’s, although we do have students here with Down’s.”
“So you’re thinking of someone specific.”
Klinghoffner stalled. “I shouldn’t be telling you this.”
“The girl needs medical attention.”
“Yes, of course.” Klinghoffner drummed his fingers on the table. “We have a girl here. She’s been sick on and off for the last year. I haven’t seen her in a month. She lives with her sister.”
“Heavyset and very blond?”
He thought for a moment. Then he nodded.
“But not Down’s,” I said.
“No, she’s not Down’s. She has cerebral palsy, although that doesn’t tell you anything. It’s a garbage-can term. Her gross motor coordination is very, very poor. Her fine motor coordination is not as bad as you’d think by looking at her. She’s mentally disabled, no doubt about that, but she has skills. She can take care of herself—bathe, dress, go to the bathroom, even cook a little. And she can work a computer. She does some data entry for us. Quite good at it.”
I was quiet.
“A very sweet girl. Maybe a bit more subdued the last couple of months. I probably should have said something, but there are so many kids here.” Now he was upset. “They’re like children. They upset easily. Sometimes I miss things.”
“We all do.”
“Let me walk you back to reception. I’ll get you the address.”
“Thank you, Mr. Klinghoffner. You’re doing the right thing.”
“I hope so.”
I sat back on the couch and waited. I hoped I didn’t have to tarry too long, because “Beanpole Buck” had taken a real dislike to me. He glared at me over his piles of paper. I guess if I looked like him and was named Buck, I wouldn’t be too happy, either.
At last Buck spoke. “Find what you’re looking for?”
“Maybe.”
“If you tell me what you need, maybe I could help you out.”
A legitimate offer for help? I couldn’t believe it. Nor did I trust him.
“Thanks, but I’m okay.”
He stiffened. “Only trying to help.”
“I know. I appreciate it.”
Klinghoffner returned, ending the awkward moment. “Let me walk you out.”
He handed me the paper once we were outside and away from prying eyes. I thanked him again, and he left me at the curb. The name was Sarah Sanders. Her guardian was Louise Sanders, her sister.
They lived in the foothills of Hollywood.
I turned the address over and over in my hand. I really, really wanted to go to the house, but it wasn’t my place to be the primary interviewer. I was just too low on the food chain. At this point, all I could do was collect the data and give it to someone else to interpret.
Still, I didn’t call Greg Van Horn right away. I had a lunch date to keep. No sense in making decisions on an empty stomach.
10
Little Addis Ababa sat on the corner of Fairfax and Olympic—an incongruent disk of Ethiopian culture encircled by predominantly Jewish areas and establishments. On my way home from work, I must have driven by there dozens of times, but I never paid much attention. Now I observed with virgin eyes. I found metered parking on the street a few yards away from the ubiquitous Star$s. Catercorner to where I was standing was a block-long Jewish school called Shalhevet—grades six through twelve.
Standing directly across from me, Koby was dressed in black jeans and a long-sleeved coffee-colored shirt two shades darker than his skin tone. Several gold chains rested around a bare neck. He waved and so did I. After I traversed the heavily trafficked street, he greeted me with a peck on the cheek and a wide smile. He was carrying a large blue paper bag from The Gap.
“You look lovely,” he said. “Nice outfit. I like the scarf. It adds flair.”
“You look rather fetching yourself. I like the jewelry.”
“Sort of retro disco, no?”
“All you need is a gold razor blade to complete the image.”
“Yeah, then I really give the cops an excuse to pull …” He looked away and clenched a fist. “I don’t believe I say that!”
I laughed. “That’s all right. I would have pulled you over. Feel better now?”
“I am very stupid!”
“You are very honest.” I quickly switched gears, pointing to the school across the way, specifically to a lit candle painted on the wall. “Does ‘shalhevet’ mean fire in Hebrew?”
“Fire is ‘aish,’” he told me. “‘Shalhevet’ is flame.”
“My stepmother would love you. You should come to the house for Shabbat dinner sometime.”
“That would be great. I am free this Friday.”
My mouth opened and I shut it quickly. My foot was so far down my throat, it was in my stomach. “Uh, I’ll ask her. I don’t know her plans. …”
His laugh was good-natured, but tinged with embarrassment. Even through the dark complexion, I detected a rosy glow. “Again I speak without thinking. I am too anxious. Sorry. Whenever is fine, Cindy. You barely know me.”
If I reneged now, I’d be a chump. “No, really, it’s fine. I’ll ask her.”
“If you ask and she says yes, I’ll come. So I give you an excuse. You can always say that she said no.”
“I don’t need excuses, Koby, I have an open invitation.” Now it was a matter of pride. “You’re invited. I’ll tell my dad to tell my stepmother, all right?”
“If you still feel that way after lunch, I’d be happy to come.” He handed me the sack. “This is for you. I didn’t have a chance to wrap anything.”
I knew how late he had worked, and was touched by his thoughtfulness. “Thank you. How do you know my size?”
“I don’t. Look inside.”
I did, pulling out a pound of coffee and a round, spongy brown disk packaged in plastic. He took the coffee from me and opened it. “Special blend. Smell.”
“Hmmm. Cinnamon.”
“Better than the hospital cafeteria’s brew, no?”
“Much better.” I held up the plastic package. “What’s with the Frisbee?”
“It’s injera—Ethiopian spongy flat bread. It is made from teff— our special grain.” He placed the items back into the bag. “I give you food. For an Ethiopian, that’s a most precious gift.”
“I’ll bet.”
“I didn’t make a reservation. How about we walk around and see what looks good?”
I told him that sounded fine. We started down the busy street accompanied by vehicular noise pollution and the blare of rhythmic music coming fr
om the Lion of Judah travel agency and CD emporium. The block was a mishmash of retail outlets—Jewish thrift shops, a junkyard, discount stores, a cake shop, and, of course, the Ethiopian contingent. Within seconds, I cleverly surmised that the state colors were green, yellow, and red because at least five storefronts were emblazoned with stripes in those hues. Even the distant Shell station fit right in.
There were three restaurants, all of them having marquees in English as well as squiggles I assumed to be Amharic. There was a store that specialized in injera and exotic spices. Even through the closed door, I could smell the tantalizing aromas. There was a dress shop boasting organic fabrics with a white cotton smock in the window festooned with red, green, and yellow ribbons around the neck. The shelves around the clothes offered a variety of silver rings and crosses, lots of shell jewelry, and a whole host of primitive-looking dolls. Koby saw me staring.
“Do you want to go in?”
“No, it’s all right. Maybe later.”
“Here is Gursha. Would you like to try it?”
“Great.”
He opened the door for me and we walked in.
The place was small and homey with a chockablock decor. The wallpaper was a pattern of various animal footprints and served as a backdrop for posters of Ethiopia, a map of the world, and dozens of photographs of smiling patrons. The tables and chairs were constructed of hay-colored cane painted with red geometric shapes, the ensemble topped by large, fringed cloth umbrellas. A couple of men ate in a pseudostraw hut next to the window, dining a mano: eating with their hands. The hostess was thin and delicate, with a long nose and round eyes typical of other Ethiopians I’d seen. She glanced at me, then spoke to Koby in her native language. They carried on a short conversation. Then she seated us at a table and distributed menus.
“I told her we were vegetarians,” Koby said. “She assured me that they have lots of vegetarian specialties.”
“Here we go,” I said. “There’s a vegetarian delight for two. It includes yater alitcha—”
“Peas with spices.”
“Yatakilt alitcha—”
“Mixed vegetables with spices.”
“Yemiser wot—”
“Lentils with red-pepper sauce.”
“Collard greens—”
“Collard greens.”
I laughed. “Very funny. There’s baklava. Aha, something familiar. Let’s split that. Does that sound all right?”
“Yes.”
“Do you eat with your fingers like you do in Moroccan restaurants?”
“Very similar. The meal is served on injera.”
“The Frisbee bread.”
“Yes, exactly. You use the injera as your utensil and plate. You eat it as you go. Very little dishwashing.”
Again I laughed. The waitress came, looking askance at me and focusing on Koby. He ordered the food for both of us, but I ordered my own drink. After she left, I said, “I don’t think she likes me.”
“Could be because she’s shy and doesn’t speak English too good. Or it could be because you are with me and you are not one of us. In reality, I am not really one of them because I am Jewish.”
“A black Jew. Don’t make life too hard for yourself, Koby.”
“It is good to move in many worlds. Besides, I am what God made me. Just like the baby you found. Speaking of which …” He leaned over and spoke barely above a whisper. “I have good news.” His eyes were animated. “The baby … A preliminary genetic profile came back.”
I grew excited. “She isn’t Down’s—”
“Shhhh. I shouldn’t be talking to you about patients. Even babies.”
I nodded, then whispered, “So she’s normal?”
“Not exactly. She is what we call mosaic. That means she has some regular cells and some that are trisomy 21.”
“How does that happen?”
“Down’s is the result of the egg having an extra chromosome. Mosaic, the accident, happens in the second pass when the nucleus splits incorrectly.”
I nodded, but my face must have spelled confusion.
He said, “The union produces one zygote, yes. It splits into two normal cells. Then one of the normal cells splits incorrectly, making the body have half normal cells and half with trisomy 21—an extra twenty-first chromosome. What it means is the prognosis for her intellectual capacity is greater. She could be anywhere from retarded to normal.”
“That’s a long range.”
“True, but it’s still good news. This was unexpected, Cindy. Mosaic is very rare.”
My grin was real. “That’s wonderful.” My expression turned sober. “What does it say about her parents?”
“One of them could be Down’s, maybe not. We don’t know. The only thing I can tell you is that she has both white and black blood in her.” Our drinks came. “Enough of business. You know very much about me, but I know little about you. Tell me about your father and your religious stepmother and the rest of your family.”
I was momentarily taken aback. I had expected him to ask about me. Not to do so would have been rude. But I thought he’d start out with the usual: Why did I decide to become a cop? To ask about my family meant he was curious about me, not my profession. So I answered his question. I spoke about Rina and my father, about her influence in my father’s religious development. I segued to my mother and her current husband, Alan. Then I spoke about how I had grown up without any religious guidance, so it was a big shock when my father married my stepmother.
The service was slow. Normally, I’d be impatient, but I was yapping so much, I barely noticed. When the food finally came, I hadn’t even thought about the waiting time. The cuisine was piquant, not unlike Indian and Middle Eastern cuisine, but unique because of a sour taste from the injera. I couldn’t say it was love at first taste, but my tongue wasn’t complaining.
“What do you think?” Koby asked after a few moments.
“It’s good.” I tore off some injera and used it to eat the lentils. “Something really primal about eating with your fingers. Like when you were five and playing in the sandbox, getting your hands all dirty.”
“Enjoy.”
“Thank you. You’ve hardly said a word,” I remarked. “You’re a very good listener.”
“You’re very interesting.”
“Now that is bald flattery.” I hid my face behind my water glass. “I think it’s because you’re a nurse. You’re used to listening to people.”
“Of course. And you too, no?”
“Yes, that’s true. Ninety percent of what I do is listening to people.”
“I as well.”
“Even with kids?”
He thought about that. “With the small children … The small ones don’t talk much. You make games to get them through the procedures. We have on staff several psychologists who do this. When they are too busy, the nurses do it. The little girls play with dolls, the boys … They like to hit and punch. Boys always like to hit and punch. When they are sick and angry, they really like to hit and punch. I spend a lot of time dodging punches from very angry boys.”
“It must be hard being around sick children all the time.”
He shrugged. “Sometimes. But it is rewarding. Like your job?”
“Yes.” I nodded. “Like my job.”
Koby said, “I change the subject now. The word ‘gursha’ means mouthful, but it’s also a tradition that we Ethiopians do.”
“What’s that?”
“We share our food. That is why everything is served on one plate. If we have very good time, we feed each other.”
“What?”
He placed some spiced peas atop the injera and made a mini-sandwich. “Minhag Hamakom. That is Hebrew for the custom of the house. You must eat from my hands. Otherwise they think you don’t like me.”
“This is for real?”
“Look around.”
I did. There was a twenty-something Ethiopian couple across from us. He wore a T-shirt and jeans and had Rastafari
an curls; she had on a hot pink silk blouse and black stretch pants, and had her hair tied in a ponytail. She was indeed feeding her lunch companion with her hands.
“Okay,” I said warily. “As long as I get to feed you.”
“Of course. That is the point.”
As soon as his hands touched my mouth, I started laughing and instinctively backed away. But then I ate the proffered morsel, my tongue grazing his fingertips. I returned the gesture by feeding him injera wrapped around collard greens. He had the grace to take the food without being sleazy about it. But it didn’t matter. Feeling his lips against my skin set off my juices. Apparently, he felt something, too.
We locked eyes. Then I looked down. I knew I was red-faced. “It’s an icebreaker, I’ll say that much.”
His eyes were still focused on me. “I have good reasons for suggesting Ethiopian.”
I wagged a finger at him.
He scooped up some cabbage. “Here. We do it again. Second time is easier.”
He could have been talking about other things.
I took the food without protest, enjoying his fingers on my mouth. Then I fed him a chunk of pumpkin. He chewed, the tip of his tongue giving a brief swipe at the corner of his mouth, his topaz eyes having dilated so they looked nearly black.
I gave him a half smile. “Is it extra to rent a room in back?”
He burst into laughter. “Eating should be stimulating.”
“Stimulating, yes, not X-rated.”
Again he laughed. We ate a few minutes in silence, letting the air around us cool off. Finally, I sat up in my chair and let out a whoosh of breath. “I think I’ve had it.”
“It was okay?”
“It was terrific. It was more than lunch, it was fun. Thank you.”
“You’re very welcome. For me too. Coffee?”
“Sure.” I paused. “You drink your own coffee, right?”
He smiled. “Yes, you drink your own coffee … unless you make your own new tradition.”
“Thank you, I think I’ve had enough adventure for one day.”
Koby signaled the waitress and ordered for us in Amharic.
“You come here often?” I asked him.
“More in the beginning when I feel a little homesick. If I miss anything now, I think I miss Shabbat.”
Faye Kellerman Page 8