by Una LaMarche
And then I’m being pulled out of the car by my collar as Jaxon winces into the beam of a flashlight.
My feet scrape against the sidewalk as I’m pulled to standing, shocked and gasping for air. I’m staring into another flashlight now, held by the driver of the van I’d seen across the street—the man who was sleeping, or pretending to be. But it’s not just him. There are at least five men surrounding the car, all in matching black coats emblazoned with the insignia of the Shomrim.
“Hello, Devorah,” I hear Jacob purr into my ear. “And just where do you think you’re going?”
Chapter 22
Jaxon
SEPTEMBER 15, 6:50 PM
The first thing I think is: We’re getting carjacked. East Flatbush is only a couple of blocks south, and it’s a hell of a lot sketchier than Crown Heights. I see Devorah get yanked out by the neck, and my heart stops, because whatever a hopped-up carjacker would want with her is something I’d rather die than think about. But then once my eyes adjust to the flashlight I can tell the guy pointing it at me is wearing a yarmulke. So the second thing I think is: They caught us. And it’s actually a relief, because at least now I know they won’t hurt her.
I feel the door behind me open, and two hands grab the back of my T-shirt, ripping it as they pull me out. My left leg catches on the door, and whoever’s holding me loses his grip for a second so that I come down hard on the asphalt onto my right shoulder. A searing pain shoots through my arm, and then I’m getting dragged again, forced upright with my hands behind my back, bound by the wrists by the same asshole who dropped me. I make a mental note to punch him with my left arm as soon as I can turn around.
There’s a screech of tires as the Town Car peels off, running the red light—not that anyone’s around to care, but then I remember that my duffel is in the trunk with my clothes and the keys to Ryan’s parents’ house inside, and I instinctively yell and jerk toward it, trying to run. A burly guy with thick eyebrows and a mole on his cheek shoves his flashlight inches from my face.
“Shut up,” he barks.
I can make out at least three guys, not counting Moley or my own personal assailant, who smells like he works at a restaurant, eau de grill smoke and grease. They’re all wearing matching black windbreakers, all with thick brown beards, none particularly jacked or anything—one guy even looks like he might be in his fifties. The only one I recognize is Jacob, who’s holding Devorah by pinning her upper arms at her sides. She looks terrified, and I feel hot anger flood my chest.
“We don’t want any trouble,” Jacob says. “We’ll let you go if you just get out of here and go back where you came from.”
“I come from Brooklyn,” I say, feeling my nostrils flare. “And get that thing out of my face,” I shout at Moley. He looks to Jacob, who nods, and I see stars as the flashlight shuts off abruptly. I can make out shuffling around, and when my vision adjusts I see that Jacob has handed Devorah off to Moley and stepped down from the curb. He’s standing a foot from me now, with his arms crossed and a scowl on his pinched little face.
“If you’re from around here, then you should know that this girl is not the girl for you,” he says, gesturing over at Devorah.
“Leave us alone, Jacob!” she cries. In the apartment above the bakery, a woman opens the window and peers out. In my peripheral vision, I can see passersby crossing the street to avoid walking close to us.
“How is this any of your business?” I ask, returning my attention to Jacob. But he ignores us both.
“There must be plenty of girls in your neighborhood,” he says, looking me up and down. “Girls more . . . like you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.
“You know what it means,” the guy behind me whispers, and I have to use every ounce of restraint not to whip my head back and break his nose.
“Listen, man,” I say to Jacob, trying to keep my cool. “I can appreciate your concern, but this is between me and Devorah. And I think she wants to go with me.”
“I don’t think so,” he says.
“Let us go, Jacob!” Devorah cries. “This is none of your business!” She tries unsuccessfully to wriggle free from Moley’s grasp.
“Could you have Cindy Crawford over there let go of her, please?” I snap. Moley looks confused. He clearly does not get the reference.
Jacob frowns and shakes his head. “I’m not about to return my sister-in-law to her kidnapper,” he says.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa. I didn’t kidnap her.” I jerk my arms, trying to knock the guy holding me off balance, but he doesn’t budge.
“So you didn’t coerce her into an idling car against her will?”
“No.” He’s playing with me now, and I don’t like it.
“Jacob, stop,” Devorah says angrily.
“That’s what I saw,” the older dude says. “In fact, you pulled her into that car.”
“Screaming,” Jacob adds.
“Fuck you,” I shout. “This is not a kidnapping, man. We’re together. She’s my girlfriend.”
“Really?” Jacob smiles and bites his lip, scratching his chin. “That’s surprising to me.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because you’re a piece of trash,” he growls, getting up in my face. “And I don’t want you coming within ten miles of my family.”
I notice that my wrists have more wiggle room; my captor must be getting bored and losing focus. If I just wait one more minute . . .
“Too bad that’s not up to you,” I say. “Too bad you’re not a real policeman, and just some pathetic little neighborhood-watch Napoleon.”
“Oh, I’ll say whatever I want to the police,” he says. “After all, it’s your word against ours.”
“No, Jacob,” Devorah says, loudly but calmly, holding her head up, the stoplight casting her face into neon red relief. “It’s your word against mine. And I’ll tell them exactly what happened.”
“Shut up,” Jacob barks. “You lost the right to speak the minute you opened your legs.”
The guy holding me laughs, and I take the opportunity to deliver a swift kick to his shin with my right heel. He groans and lets go of my wrists, and without even looking I shoot my left elbow back into his chest.
“Don’t talk to her like that,” I say to Jacob, stepping forward and massaging my wounded shoulder. “We can do this two ways. One, we walk away and no one gets hurt. Two—”
“Jaxon, behind you!” Devorah shrieks, and I don’t even have time to turn before I feel a blunt object come down hard between my shoulder blades, sending fresh spasms of pain through my back and driving me forward onto my hands and knees. Do these guys have billy clubs? I wonder as I blink at the shimmering asphalt, but when Jacob shouts, “Turn them off!” I remember: Oh, right. Flashlights. And then someone steps on my back, and my chin hits the pavement with a dull crack that shudders through my skull.
My senses are dulled by the pain and Devorah’s screams, but I know I get pulled to standing again and put in another armlock, one I’m now too disoriented to escape. Moley and a tall guy with glasses, who must be the dick who pulled me out of the car, take turns punching me: in the jaw, on the side of the head, in the stomach, the chest. These guys aren’t fighters, so it could be worse, but I can’t defend myself except to turn my head, so instead of a broken nose I get a busted lip. I close my eyes as the coppery blood coats my tongue.
“What’s going on down there?” a woman’s voice calls out, high-pitched and anxious. The punches stop abruptly, and I crack an eye open to see the lady from the window upstairs, leaning out with a scarf covering her head.
“Call 911!” I yell, just as Jacob shouts, “Shomrim! We’ve got it under control.”
“Mmmmmmpppph!” screams Devorah, whose mouth is being covered by one of Moley’s wide hands.
Along the streets, more windows squeak open as other
people stick their heads out to rubberneck, murmuring to one another in hushed, morbidly excited tones. Jacob frowns and shakes his head discreetly at the rest of the group.
“Don’t hit him again, not while they’re watching,” he whispers.
“Fuck you, man,” I gasp, and then I use all the strength I have left to jerk and flail, ignoring the throbbing in my arms and back, until I pull loose from the amateur lock.
I shove past Jacob, and I must look scary now—blood dripping from my mouth, shirt ripped, eyes red as an angry bull’s—because Moley drops his hands from Devorah before I even touch him.
“Come on,” I say, holding out my good hand. She just stares at me, her eyes frozen wide with fear.
“Get the cuffs!” Jacob yells.
“Come on,” I say again, grabbing at her arm, but Devorah doesn’t move.
“Run,” she says in a hoarse whisper.
“Not without you.” I hear a car door slam, then the jangle of metal on metal. I feel like I have the right—no, the responsibility—to not remain silent right now, but Devorah doesn’t seem to agree.
“Jax, run!” she screams, her voice cracking from the effort, her abruptly unfrozen face contorting into a red mask of pain.
And so, reluctantly at first, I do. I run. Then adrenaline kicks in, drowning out the pain, and I’m sprinting down the sidewalk as fast as my shaking legs will carry me, tripping and tumbling onto the pavement a few times but barely even feeling the scrapes. I run until my lungs burn and bile rises in my throat, until Kingston Avenue spits me out into the broad, leafy, familiar embrace of Eastern Parkway lit up by a thin sliver of yellow moon, and then I run across seven lanes of traffic against the light until I reach the other side, where I collapse against a scaffolding pole and dry heave onto the sidewalk. I keep waiting for my breathing to get easier, but I’m dizzy and gasping for air. The stars seem to spin overhead, vertigo turning the world on its side.
Am I dying? The thought floats through my brain right before I throw up, but as I crumple to the pavement I realize that I don’t care what the answer is. She’s gone, maybe forever.
I might as well be dead.
Chapter 23
Devorah
SEPTEMBER 15, 8:15 PM
The last time I was in my living room (only an hour and a half ago, my rational brain reminds me, but somehow it feels like days) it was the picture of peace, nothing moving in the gentle dark except Rose’s chest rising and falling beneath the sleeping baby curled on top of her.
Now, it’s a war room.
All the lights are on, and I’m sitting in the chair by the dragonfly lamp, flanked by Jacob, who doesn’t seem to trust me to move more than six inches on my own. His hand, the nail beds grimy with dirt (but not blood, oh no—he was just the sadistic director, standing by and watching as they beat him), rests on the chair arm to my left, his body conveniently blocking my path to both the front door and the stairway. Across from me, my father sits in his now-rumpled work clothes, his wide feet stuffed into beige slippers, taking up the whole couch as if his body has expanded with rage, like steam collecting under the lid of a boiling pot. In the kitchen, my mother is making coffee for Rabbi Perl, who like his name is almost perfectly round and translucent, the veins purple and blue under his elderly skin. After some impassioned debate that I was not a part of—but which involved many furious glances and gesticulations in my direction—my father called him at his home and got him out of bed to come and bear witness to my shame. Some others didn’t have to be called; over the shuffling in the kitchen I can hear subtle squeaks in the planks of the floor above that tell me Miri, Hanna, and Amos are listening from the landing, their faces pressed up against the smooth wooden rails.
“All right,” the rabbi says as he enters, his trembling hands clutching a ceramic mug emblazoned with the joke slogan I TANYA—the sacred Chabad text, not a woman. “Tell me what’s been going on.” Out of the corner of my eye I can see Jacob shifting from foot to foot. He must be beside himself that it’s not his place to speak first and that he, like everyone, must look to my father out of respect. Everyone, that is, but me. I can’t bring myself to meet his eyes.
“Our daughter,” my father says slowly, his voice thick with anger and fatigue, “has been seeing a boy.”
“What is the nature of the relationship?” the rabbi asks, lowering himself onto the love seat to my right. He’s not asking me. My opinion on the subject is not expected or required. For the first time in the presence of a religious elder, I feel no subservience, only a stab of defiant anger.
“I only learned of it tonight,” my father says, “But as I understand from my son-in-law, they have been secretly dating for some weeks, and she was planning on leaving on a trip with him this evening.”
“All without our knowledge,” my mother adds, choking back tears. Her hands fly to her face as she sinks into the couch beside my father, who bristles at the sound of her sobs. Jacob leans across to pass her a handkerchief.
“I assumed,” the rabbi says kindly. He turns to Jacob. “Tell me what happened tonight.”
“I was out on Shomrim patrol,” Jacob says soberly, “when I saw Devorah standing alone in front of Eliyahu’s Bakery. This was after sundown, so naturally I was concerned. A black car pulled up, and I watched her get inside. That’s when I decided to intervene, and I found her with the boy in question. In quite a compromising position.” Clearly he has been rehearsing his lines. I almost want to clap.
“I understand there was a struggle,” the rabbi says.
“Yes, unfortunately the boy lashed out at us violently, and we were forced to restrain him.” In a flash I see Jaxon down on the ground, a black boot driving into his back.
“That’s not true!” I cry. “The Shomrim hurt him first. They dragged us out of the car.”
“Quiet,” my father says threateningly.
“They punched him!” I say, hearing my voice rise hysterically but unable to control it. “He did nothing to them, and they beat him with his hands held behind his back!”
“That’s not true,” Jacob says. “But I’m sure it’s difficult for Devorah to tell truth from lies at this point.” He turns to my parents. “I told you she had a cell phone, didn’t I? Now do you believe me?” Then he smiles ever so slightly, relishing the moment, and I lose what little restraint I’ve been clinging to since I was brought home and forced into this chair, just one more in a series of waiting rooms I get to live in while other people dictate the terms of my freedom.
“You’re a monster,” I shout. “And you’re a liar, too!” I turn to face my parents, who look at me like I’m a frightening trespasser they’ve never seen before. “He knew about Jaxon from the beginning,” I say. “He saw us together. He threatened me and told me he would tell you if I didn’t stop seeing him.”
“Devorah, STOP!” my father yells, a cannonball boom that reverberates through the house. He collects himself and then fixes me with a steely stare. “What has happened to you?” he asks. “You are not the daughter I raised.”
“I found the letter,” my mother jumps in. “The idea that you would leave without talking to us first, that you would go to such lengths to hide, even when I gave you a chance to tell me—” She starts to tear up again. “I just don’t understand how you could disrespect us like this.”
“I’m so sorry,” I blurt, so upset and anxious that I trip over my own words. “I never meant to—I don’t want to hurt anyone. You have to believe me, Mama, I didn’t want any of this to happen. It just—” I feel hot tears cascade down my cheeks. “I’m still your daughter,” I plead. “I just didn’t know what to do.”
“You could have done anything but this,” my father mutters, raising a napkin to mop his brow.
Rabbi Perl holds up his hands. “Let’s all try to calm down,” he says. “Devorah, I’d like to hear from you now.” His eyes are wet and cloudy, the
lids above them papery-thin. “Is it true that you were planning on leaving the city tonight with this young man?”
I wipe at my eyes with the back of my hand. “Yes, but—”
He waves my explanation away. “Where were you planning on going?”
“It doesn’t matter now,” I mumble.
“Devorah!” my father barks. “Show some respect and answer the rabbi’s question.”
“Just Long Island,” I say reluctantly, as if it’s no big deal, and my mother shakes her head, looking like she’s sitting shiva after a death. Rabbi Perl nods encouragingly. It almost feels reassuring, but then I remember that it’s just his job to be a mediator. He wants me to trust him.
“Why Long Island?” he asks.
“There was a house,” I say. “His friend had a house we were going to stay in. Just for the night.” It all feels so far away now, a fading photograph in a family album that will never exist.
The rabbi coughs. “I’m going to ask you a very personal question now, one that may make you uncomfortable,” he says. “But it’s crucial that you answer honestly. Was your relationship with the boy . . . physical?”
Humiliation burns in my gut as I think of the moist warmth of Jaxon’s lips, and those moments in the basement when his hips pressed against mine as we lay tangled on the floor. I shake my head.
“Your legs are bare,” Jacob says disgustedly, and I glare up at him.
“I did nothing,” I say to the rabbi, hoping that he can’t see the lie pulsing in my lips. “I admit to breaking tz’ni’ut, but nothing . . . happened.” I can’t believe I’m alluding to sex in front of my parents and the rabbi who has known me since I was a toddler. I wonder if it’s possible to literally die of shame.
“So it wasn’t of a sexual nature,” he prods.
“No,” I whisper into my lap.
“There’s some good news,” the rabbi says, turning back to my parents, who remain rigid and silent.