Deceive and Defend

by Marilyn Cohen de Villiers

  ‘Shlomo, calm down. Sit down.’ Carol could feel her stomach churning. She wanted to kick herself. Why on earth had she done something as stupid and amateurish as to let this drug-addled sociopath think she was accusing him of anything? You would think that after twenty-five years’ dealing with the community’s misfits and miscreants she’d have known better than to provoke him.

  She did know better, but she was not quite herself this morning. She’d been hoping for an early morning email from George, and it hadn’t arrived. And the day had just gone downhill from there. That dreadful story in the Daily Express about Tiffany Horwitz—Tiffany Zaldain—had upset her more than it should have. It couldn’t possibly be true. She’d been at the party at the Silverman home. She really hadn’t had the time but she’d felt obliged to go after Yair Silverman had made a point of inviting her.

  ‘You’ve been so good to Zivah, you absolutely must come and see for yourself how well she is managing and settling in,’ he’d said.

  She’d tried to refuse, citing her piles of work and process reports, but eventually she’d agreed. Zivah had pointedly ignored her, turning her back when greeted, but Carol had had a good time all things considered and the food was delicious. She went out so seldom because going anywhere in the area or doing anything involving the Jewish community usually meant she’d run into at least one or two of her former, or current, clients – and then, to preserve their privacy and confidentiality, she’d have to ensure she avoided them. Which wasn’t always easy when you were at the same function or standing in the same queue at Pick ’n Pay. But that all looked like it was going to change soon. Hopefully.

  Yair had welcomed her warmly, shown her around and taken her upstairs to see Zivah’s suite which, she had to admit, was quite spectacular. She’d also seen Tiffany but hadn’t made any effort to speak to her, leaving it up to Tiffany to decide whether she wanted to acknowledge her former social worker. Tiffany had been in fine form – as tarty and vivacious as always. She hadn’t looked pregnant, but then Tiffany had always been voluptuous and exceptionally proud of her ample cleavage. Carol had heard that her nickname around the Chev—and even in high school—had been ‘Tits Tiffany’. There had also been no indication, at least as far as she had seen, that Yair and Tiffany were engaged, but Carol had left early because she really had to send George a nice, long email. Perhaps the engagement announcement had been made later.

  It was upsetting to think that poor Tiffany was dead. It was extremely unsettling to believe that someone may have killed her. Tiffany had been a bit wild, a bit selfish and wilful, but she was harmless. And, Carol admitted wryly, Tiffany had been far too much of a narcissist to do or to have done anything that would have caused herself harm. Carol found it exceptionally difficult to believe Yair had had anything to with it as the newspaper seemed to imply. She could be wrong—although she very seldom was—but perhaps he was more like his father than she’d imagined. She was a good judge of character. In her career, she’d dealt with dozens of sociopaths, psychopaths, compulsive liars, drunks, drug addicts, shysters, frauds and general mental cases—the dregs of the earth—and she was right about them every time. Almost every time. She’d never had the impression that Yair was anything but the nice young man he appeared to be, despite his awful childhood. Most young men in his position would have washed their hands of their intellectually challenged, damaged little sister, but Yair had visited regularly and called at least every second day to ask about her progress. It was extremely admirable. He was a little like George in that respect. But still. There was something... something about that family. All of them. Something she had never quite been able to put her finger on. Which wasn’t surprising, given their unfortunate history.

  She’d read the Daily Express story several times. It was so upsetting. Perhaps because she liked Yair. However, that was no excuse for her to act unprofessionally and all but accuse Shlomo of selling the microwave oven and everything else for drug money.

  She forced herself to keep her voice under control as she tried to calm her second-most disliked client.

  ‘Shlomo, if you don’t sit down, I am going to have to ask you to leave,’ she said.

  ‘Are you throwing me out? You can’t throw me out. I have an appointment with you. One hour. That’s what I’m entitled to. You said our sessions are for one hour to talk about what I need to talk about. But you don’t listen. You won’t listen. You are...’

  ‘Everything okay in here? Carol? Shlomo?’

  Relief washed over Carol as Russell, the only male social worker in the department, appeared in the doorway. Shlomo had been Russell’s client for years, but when the new Chevrah protocol had been introduced and client benefits had started to be more strictly linked to responsibilities and acceptable behaviour—such as, in Shlomo’s case, keeping himself and his subsidised accommodation clean and not using drugs—he’d insisted on changing to a female social worker. Russell had warned her that Shlomo probably thought he’d have a better chance of bullying a woman.

  ‘But he doesn’t know you, does he Carol?’ Russell had said, handing over Shlomo’s thick file with palpable relief. ‘Be firm with him and you’ll be okay. Like all bullies, he’s a coward so he’ll back down if you stand up to him. Just leave the door open when he comes.’

  ‘I prefer to close the door for client sessions – even men. It’s important for privacy, and confidentiality,’ Carol had responded in what she knew her colleagues called her ‘yes ma’am’ tone.

  ‘Suit yourself. But unless you suffer from an impaired olfactory nerve, your sessions with Shlomo will be open-door meetings. That I can guarantee.’

  Carol had disagreed. She’d had smelly clients before, often the elderly whose personal hygiene was not as fastidious as it once had been. But Shlomo’s odour was distinctive: a big, brass tuba against the delicate piccolo scent of her other malodorous clients.

  She had lasted ten or fifteen minutes of her first session with Shlomo, turning her head this way and that in a desperate attempt to breathe air that was at least bearable. But then, as he’d leaned towards her and yawned, she had no longer been able to control herself. To her eternal shame, she’d fled from behind her desk and bolted, gagging, into the corridor. Thereafter, the door had stayed firmly open and today Carol was thankful that it was, and that Russell had heard the altercation. It was clear Shlomo felt cornered and threatened. Perhaps she had pushed him too far.

  ‘Shlomo, you know the rules. No drug test, no money. You heard what Carol said. And no amount of threats or swearing will change that. If you don’t like it, you can leave,’ Russell said, then stepped hastily out of the way as Shlomo thundered out of the office threatening colourfully to report them both to the Chev director, the police and the social workers council.

  ‘Thank you for stepping in,’ Carol said stiffly, reaching behind her for the can of potpourri air freshener which she sprayed liberally around the office.

  ‘No problem. I wanted to talk to you anyway. Have they found the missing drugs yet?’

  ‘How on earth would l know?’

  ‘Because you always know everything. But, if you ask me, they’ve been taken by one of the addicts—or the nurses—and sold. They’d fetch a good price on the black market.’

  ‘Oh for heaven’s sake, Russell. Do use what little brain you have. How much do you think a few tranquillisers are worth? And what about the blood pressure meds and the insulin and the stuff for poor old Bernie Sacks’ gout? I really don’t think there’s much of a black market for those, do you? If you ask me, one of the carers or cleaners was just more careless than usual.’

  “I suppose. Hey, have you heard about Tiffany Horwitz?’

  Russell plopped down into the chair vacated by Shlomo and looked at her expectantly.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, shifting impatiently. ‘It’s tragic.’

  ‘Do you think Zivah was in the house when it happened, poor kid?’

  ‘Probably. Where else would she have been? She has
a beautiful apartment all to herself upstairs on one side of the house.’

  ‘Have you seen it?’

  ‘Of course.’ Carol flushed as Russell’s bushy eyebrows rose. ‘I went yesterday, even though it wasn’t my weekend on duty.’

  ‘Oh, so you went to the party then?’

  ‘I was obliged to go. Yair insisted and I used the opportunity to check Zivah’s accommodation. Then I went home. Honestly Russell, I don’t have time to sit and gossip.’ She waved a hand at her case files.

  Russell stood up. ‘Why did you have to check her accommodation? Didn’t you think the Silverman mansion would be suitable?’

  ‘No, I just wanted to ensure Zivah would be safe.’

  ‘Really? Or were you just being nosy?’’

  Russell’s cheeky grin infuriated Carol.

  ‘Look, her sister entrusted her to our care, and it is our job to ensure that she is well cared for, regardless of where she lives. Now, I believe you were on your way out?’ She picked up a folder and glared at Russell.

  ‘Okay, I’m going. Hey, what do you think is going to happen to her now?’

  ‘Zivah? Why should anything happen to her?’

  ‘Well, if her brother killed his fiancée like it said in the Daily Express, little Zivah Silverman is likely to be sent back to The Lodge and your tender care,’ he smirked.

  Carol’s heart dropped. Trust Russell to make her day immeasurably worse.

  Chapter 8

  Carol

  Carol glanced at the clock on the wall above the doorway. One hour to go before she could leave the office. By then, everyone else would have left already, but of course, none of them was diligent – particularly the young ones. Most sneaked out at ten to, or even quarter to four. She saw them, flitting down the corridor without a care. So unprofessional. Her stomach growled. She’d missed lunch again, but there really wasn’t time to eat. She leaned back in her chair and massaged her neck. She could feel a headache coming on, probably a migraine, but she wouldn’t—she couldn’t—allow herself to succumb. Not when she still had two sets of process reports to complete.

  Her cellphone pinged and her heart soared. An email had just arrived on her Gmail account. It had to be from George. At last. She fought the urge to open it. If she did, she’d never finish her work. No, she’d let it stay there, unread, waiting for her to get home and savour it over a small glass of that nice Chardonnay she’d bought on special at Pick ’n Pay.

  She pulled the next case file towards her and glanced at the name at the top right hand corner. And groaned. Zivah Silverman. What was it about that girl? She was harmless. Quite harmless. And the child had had a dreadful life, poor little thing. But...

  Carol looked hopefully at the last remaining file. Shlomo. After today’s drama, she would have to relegate Shlomo to the bottom of her least-favourite-client list. If she chose to write up Zivah’s file first, it would give her more time to mull over how to frame the altercation with Shlomo without appearing totally unprofessional. And anyway, Zivah’s file should have been written up last week after their termination session, before the girl went off to her life of luxury in her brother’s mansion. It wasn’t like Carol to procrastinate, but there had been something—something distinctly odd—about that encounter. Or perhaps not.

  Her cellphone pinged again. Her hand closed around it. She’d just take a very quick peek – just to see that it was indeed an email from George. But she wouldn’t read it, not yet. She had far too much work to do.

  It was from George. She could read his greeting:

  ‘Hello Carol, how are you doing today and how was your night?’

  She couldn’t resist. She had to read on.

  How are you doing today and how was your night?

  I hope you had a lovely night?

  i am sorry i couldn't contact you last night ,I had some very bad experience on the site as i really do not trust the on line dating any more.

  My apologies for replying so late but i was really taken aback by the incidence on Zooks.com that i had to take time out and process all this.

  Carol frowned. Oh dear. George must really be upset. His spelling and grammar had deteriorated considerably. But perhaps he was sending this email from his cellphone. She also found it a little difficult to send perfect emails when typing with one finger on a tiny virtual keyboard. At least he’d responded to her last message – the one she had finally decided to sign with her real name. She’d pondered long and hard before doing that. Until then, she’d been so cautious about revealing anything too identifying about herself. But George’s messages to her seemed so genuine; and he was such a kind man. That’s what had attracted her to him from the start. The first time she saw his code name, or user name, or whatever the correct term is for the name you want people to call you by when you sign up for online dating. AwfullyKind. She’d just known that anyone who chose a name like that had to be special. And he had such a kind face too—not handsome, just sort of comfortable, lived-in, perhaps even ordinary with a bit of a potato nose—the kind of man who might actually want to get to know a plain, middle-aged woman like her. And he had. He did.

  She smiled to herself when she remembered his first message, on the Zooks.com website. She had been startled to get the notification that she had a message at all. It wasn’t her first of course. Over the weeks since she’d taken the plunge and signed up, she’d had a couple of smiles, usually from odd-looking younger men who were obviously out to find an older woman who was desperate for sex without strings, and who called themselves ‘Milo’ or ‘CleverBoy’ or ‘Randy’. Then there were the desiccated old farts, bald, tattooed and double-chinned, who had cut-and-pasted their profiles from a ‘how to write the perfect online dating profile’ website. All their profiles stated that their ideal date was a walk on the beach – despite the fact that they lived hundreds of miles from a beach in Johannesburg, or Boksburg, or Centurion. How clichéd was that! But George—or AwfullyKind as she still sometimes thought of him—was different. His profile was so genuinely... genuine, and his ideal first date was exactly what she had written for her profile: get to know you over a coffee. And his message to her – she loved reading it. Not a silly smile, or a ridiculous heart symbol and then nothing. No, he’d taken the trouble to actually write to her. ‘Hello Gorgeous,’ he’d said. ‘You have such a beautiful smile...’

  Carol couldn’t resist. She clicked on the Zooks.com app to open his original message, the one that had made her realise how different he was. She wanted to savour it once again. She stared in shock: ‘Uh Oh. This user is no longer a Zookser’. Her heart plummeted. What did that mean?

  She quickly clicked back to his email:

  ‘...and i have decided to continue communication with you as you are the only one that i got contact with by email and i don't intend to go back to the site again or any more either so i am having faith that i might actually get lucky .’

  Carol leaned back in her chair, closed her eyes and breathed deeply as relief surged through her. He was still interested in her! Only her. That’s why he had removed his profile. Perhaps she should remove her profile too. Or perhaps she should just wait and see if George really was the one. Although she was 99.9 percent sure he was. She opened her eyes and glanced at the clock on the wall. Damn. It was already half past four. She desperately wanted to read the rest of George’s mail, and she had so much to ask him. But it would just have to wait until she got home.

  ***

  Sighing deeply, she opened Zivah’s file and glared at her scribbled notes, which although detailed—she always tried to take down as much of her clients’ words as closely to verbatim as possible—were almost indecipherable. Irritated at this indication of sloppiness, she was forced to acknowledge that she really didn’t need her notes to remind her of that unfortunate session.

  She put the closely-written pages into the bottom drawer of her desk, locked it, and pondered how to frame this process report. Now that Zivah was no longer a resident at The Lo
dge, there was a chance that she could be assigned to another social worker – and if she was, that social worker would go through her entire case file and all her process reports. Carol would die before she’d allow any of her colleagues to discern how easily Zivah—a girl with a sub-par IQ—was able to manipulate her, a highly-qualified, respected social worker with years of experience. It was not only unprofessional, it was humiliating.

  She sighed again and replayed that final session in her mind. It had started as sessions with Zivah always did, with a prickling on the back of her neck and looking up from her computer to see the girl framed in the doorway, staring at her, not moving, not saying a word. Just appearing there, silently, like an apparition with enormous eyes, such a pale blue as to be almost colourless. Creepy. But this time Carol’s unease had been tempered by relief, because this was their termination session. Only sixty short minutes and Zivah would be out of her life, hopefully forever.

  ‘Zivah. Come in,’ she’d said, as she always did.

  Zivah slid into the orange plastic chair, folded her hands in her lap and stared at the floor. As always, she was dressed in a long white skirt and long-sleeved white blouse. Her blonde hair was pulled back from her pale face into a ponytail. Carol had asked her once, at one of their early sessions, why she always wore white.

  ‘Daddy said I should.’

  ‘But don’t you think a bit of colour would brighten...’

  ‘Daddy said I should wear white.’

  ‘I’m sure your father didn’t expect you to wear white every day.’

  ‘Daddy said I should. He said I looked pretty in white.’

  ‘You are pretty, Zivah but you’d be pretty in pink or blue or red – any colour. You are a very pretty girl.’

  Zivah’s thin little voice rose an octave. ‘Daddy said I should always wear white.’ The big blue eyes darkened. ‘Daddy knew what was best for me. Daddy loved me. Don’t you tell me he didn’t. He loved me. He loved me more than anyone. He told me. He loved me. He loved me. He loved...’