The Mourning Sexton

by Michael Baron

  “Does that makes you happy?” Shifrin had asked.

  “It makes me happy if it makes you happy.”

  Shifrin smiled. “Then let's both be happy.”

  The old man turned his attention to the television program, which appeared to be a rerun of a show called The Wonder Years. A show, Hirsch thought to himself, about memories. Ironic. They watched together in silence, Hirsch on the bed, Shifrin in the easy chair.

  During a commercial break, Shifrin turned to him. “Have you seen her?”

  “Who?”

  “My Judith.”

  He sorted through possible responses. “No.”

  “She's been a good wife to me.”

  Hirsch nodded.

  “I've not always been an easy man to live with. You may find that hard to believe, sir, but it's true.” He frowned. “Where could she have gone. Have you seen her?”

  “I haven't.”

  Shifrin pulled up the left sleeve of his robe and glanced at the back of his wrist, as if he expected to see a watch.

  “Hard to keep track,” he mumbled, more to himself. He let the sleeve slide back into place.

  Something on the television caught his attention, and he settled back in his chair to watch. Hirsch waited a few minutes and then stood up.

  Shifrin turned to him, puzzled. “So soon, Mr. Hirsch?”

  Hirsch was heartened by Shifrin's use of his name. Pockets of memory were still intact.

  “I'll come back next week, Mr. Shifrin. And then next month, when we set up the endowment for Judith's internship, I'm sure there will be a nice ceremony at the law school. You'll be a guest of honor.”

  “Guest of honor?” he repeated, pleased. “At my age, eh? Will Judith be there?”

  “She'll be there in spirit.”

  “Ah, well.” He appeared to think it over, and then he nodded. “If you see her, Mr. Hirsch, be sure to tell her I love her. Would you do that for me?”

  Hirsch nodded. “I will.”

  “I've not always been an easy man to live with. You may find that hard to believe, sir. Still, I have always loved her. You be sure to tell her that.”

  Those words echoed in Hirsch's mind as he gazed now at the dark house. The nursing home visit had been just one more downer in a week of downers that began on Monday afternoon, when an exasperated Jumbo Redding had called to tell him that he wouldn't be able to retrieve any of Judith's e-mails. He'd been working on the problem for more than a week, trying to figure out what had happened to all of the e-mails in the system prior to June 12 of last year. Eventually, by snooping around in related government networks, he'd been able to piece together the answer. A nasty computer virus struck the district court's computer network on June 7 of last year, causing the system to crash within hours. The feds flew in an information technology SWAT team from D.C., who determined that the virus had entered as an infected attachment to an e-mail, which had replicated itself at an exponential rate by grafting itself onto e-mails throughout the user network. The tech guys tried several cures before taking their drastic final step on June 12.

  “Dumb bastards purged every goddamn e-mail in the system. Every last one. I'd like to know who the hell was running that operation? Homer Simpson? I wish I had better news for you, Rebbe, but it looks like the damn memory for those years is just gone.”

  More missing memory. Of course.

  And then yesterday afternoon, Rosenbloom's longtime secretary Evelyn had hurried into Hirsch's office, closed the door, and leaned back against it.

  “Oh, David,” she'd said, fighting back tears, “please go help Seymour.”

  He had hurried down the hall to Rosenbloom's office, where he found him at his desk, head down. For one terrible moment, Hirsch thought he was dead, but then he saw that his shoulders were shaking.

  “Sancho,” he said, closing the door behind him.

  Rosenbloom looked up, eyes red, face contorted.

  Hirsch understood immediately. “Again?”

  Rosenbloom lowered his head.

  Hirsch found a blanket to place over his lap and quickly wheeled him out of the office. He got him home to his apartment and helped him remove his urine-soaked clothing, clean himself up, and put on fresh clothes. He tried to get him back to the office, but Rosenbloom refused to go. When Hirsch said good-bye, Rosenbloom was slumped in his wheelchair in front of the picture window.

  It was the second time in as many weeks that he'd lost control of his bladder—both times during heated telephone calls with opposing counsel.

  The first time, Hirsch had tried to cheer him up by making light of it. “Now that's what I call getting pissed off, Sancho.”

  And Rosenbloom had smiled that time, in spite of himself.

  But not this time.

  What had never happened since his toddler days had now happened twice in two weeks. The second time made it different. Hirsch knew, and he knew that Rosenbloom knew, what incontinence signaled. Hirsch had read up on multiple sclerosis. He had learned that it was a disease that progressed in starts and stops, with the victim descending from plateau to plateau, sometimes slowly, sometimes abruptly.

  Twice in two weeks signaled an abrupt descent.

  Twice in two weeks meant adult diapers from now on.

  Twice in two weeks meant worse symptoms were edging closer. It meant that a remarkable life force known as Seymour Rosenbloom was starting toward the exit. It meant that a powerful light in Hirsch's world was beginning to dim.

  All in all, a lousy week.

  He tried to be upbeat about the resolution of Judith's case, but he'd been through too much over too many years to match Dulcie's enthusiasm for the settlement agreement. The money was okay, but as Abe Shifrin made clear that morning in the synagogue parking lot last December, it wasn't about the money. The endowment for the internship was certainly worthwhile, although he knew that it was mostly eyewash for Peterson Tire, a way for the company to get some added public relations bang for a modest buck. Better than nothing, of course, but he'd been around long enough to see through the vanity of trying to buy immortality with your name on an endowment or a building.

  The expression of sorrow was even less meaningful. Sorrow without responsibility. Lots of people were sorry about Judith's death. Peterson Tire's expression was little more than a Hallmark sympathy card pulled off the rack and sent three and a half years too late. Worse yet, as Hirsch suspected, it was probably a sympathy card from a party that had little to do with her death.

  But, as he reminded himself again, it was a settlement agreement. A compromise. Nothing more, nothing less.

  Ironically, there was plenty there for a decent publicist to spin into gold. The settlement money, the endowment, the expression of sorrow—the mix had all the makings of a David and Goliath story for some credulous reporter.

  Even Rosenbloom had mentioned it, pointing out that a well-placed blurb could be a nice career boost. “With a real David in the role of David. Could be a helluva way to let the world know that you're back on top.”

  Alone in the car, Hirsch shook his head. He had had enough press releases for one lifetime. He'd been famous, and he had relished the perks. And then he'd been infamous, and suffered the consequences. And during his years in prison, reading and rereading Jumbo's copy of Meditations, he'd learned a lesson from Marcus Aurelieus. He'd copied it onto a sheet of paper and taped it to the prison wall. And when he left, he took it down from the wall and folded it up and put it in his wallet. He still carried it with him, even though he'd long since committed it to memory:

  The man whose heart is palpitating for fame after death does not reflect that out of all those who remember him every one will himself soon be dead also, and in the course of time the next generation after that, until in the end, after flaring and sinking by turns, the final spark of memory is quenched. Furthermore, even supposing that those who remember you were never to die at all, nor their memories to die either, yet what is that to you? Clearly, in your grave, nothing; and e
ven in your lifetime, what is the good of praise—unless to subserve some lesser design? Surely, then, you are making an inopportune rejection of what Nature has given you today, if all your mind is set on what men will say of you tomorrow.

  But what exactly had Nature given him today?

  Maybe the settlement agreement was all he would ever achieve for Judith. Maybe this was it.

  The end of the line.

  He gazed at the front of Abe Shifrin's house. The streetlights barely illuminated the small front porch. From where he sat, the porch seemed almost a stage set. He could imagine the scene. Almost see it. First night of Hanukkah. It would have been dark then, too. Dark when Judith stepped up to the porch. He could almost make out her small figure in the dim light. With her armful of containers, including one with homemade latkes and one with applesauce. He could see her take a deep breath and reach for the doorbell, her finger hesitating just a moment before pushing the buzzer. She moved back two steps. Waiting in the dark, her breath visible in the cold air. The porch light came on. The front door opened. There they stood, the two of them, staring at one another from opposite sides of the storm door—the father grim, the daughter with a tentative smile. Seconds passed. No words. No gestures. And then the father stepped back and closed the door. The porch light went off. Judith standing there. Standing there alone. A lone silhouette in the dark, head lowered.

  Hirsch closed his eyes and rested his forehead on the cold steering wheel.

  CHAPTER 35

  The men rose for the Aleinu, the final prayer before the mourner's Kaddish. Pinky Green had described it as the national anthem of Judaism, a prayer thanking God for giving the Jewish people a unique destiny. Tradition teaches that the author of the Aleinu was Joshua himself, who composed it shortly after leading the Hebrews across the Jordan River and into the Promised Land.

  The men bent their knees in unison and bowed as they chanted,“Vah-ahnach-nu koh-reim ooh-mish-tah-cha-vim ooh-moh-deem lif-nay melech . . .”

  We bend our knees and bow, and acknowledge our thanks before the King of Kings . . .

  The minyan was smaller this morning. Only eleven. Sid Shalowitz, a member of the Alter Kocker Brigade, was back in the hospital for more heart tests. One of the two regular Friday volunteers, Jerry Tennenbaum, was missing. Jerry was an occasional handball opponent of Hirsch's, and they'd played a match last night. In the locker room afterward, he told Hirsch that he wouldn't be at services in the morning because he was on a 6:15 A.M. flight to Detroit. Hirsch had done the head count before going to bed and confirmed that there'd be at least ten for the morning service.

  He glanced back. The last row on the other side of the aisle was empty, as it was most mornings. Staring at the far back seat, he thought again of that morning last December when he'd turned to see Abe Shifrin sitting there. He remembered the distracted look on Shifrin's face, the prayer book closed on his lap. That was the last time Abe Shifrin had attended a morning service at Anshe Emes.

  The prayer ended. The men took their seats.

  The rabbi led them in the recitation of the short reading between the Aleinu and the Kaddish—a passage composed of snippets from Exodus and Proverbs and Isaiah. Hirsch followed along in English as he moved up the aisle toward the podium:

  Do not fear sudden terror, or the holocaust of the wicked when it comes. Plan a conspiracy and it will be annulled; speak your piece and it shall not stand, for God is with us. Even till your seniority, I remain unchanged. Even until your ripe old age, I shall endure. I created you, and I shall bear you. I shall endure, and I shall rescue you.

  Mr. Kantor tipped his hat. “And a good day to you, Gabbai. I shall see you tomorrow morning bright and early.”

  Hirsch held the door for the old man and then followed him out of the shul. Mr. Kantor turned left toward the handicapped spaces in front of the building. Hirsch turned right toward the parking lot, his mind already shifting from religious to legal mode, from prophets to profits, from chapter seven of Leviticus, with the bloody ritual of the guilt offering touched upon that morning by Rabbi Saltzman, to chapter seven of the Bankruptcy Code, with the bloodless ritual of the debtor's offering to be touched upon later than morning by Judge Crane.

  His stride slowed as he looked up. Standing at the end of the walkway was his daughter Lauren. The chilly April breeze ruffled her curly red hair. She had on a cable-knit sweater, jeans, and suede clogs. Her hands were in the front pockets of her jeans.

  His delight was tempered by a rush of anxiety. He scanned the parking lot as he started toward her, looking for, well, for anything that seemed suspicious.

  Nothing.

  “Hey, Peanut,” he said, trying to stifle his concern.

  She smiled. Peanut had been his nickname for her going all the way back to nursery school. He called her that until the day they led him off to prison.

  “Hi, Big D.” Her nickname for him.

  “What are you doing here?”

  “I asked Professor Lorenz if there was something else I could do to help with your case. She said she didn't think so.” She shrugged. “I just wanted to make sure.”

  He glanced around again. “Do you have a few minutes? We could get some coffee, maybe a bite to eat?”

  Her smiled broadened. “Sure.”

  She followed him in her car to Companion Bakery in Clayton. He got them each a cup of coffee and a pumpernickel bagel. Just like old times, he thought as they carried their trays to an empty table. They had been the pumpernickel pair. Lauren's older sister and her mother preferred poppy seed. He remembered those Sunday morning runs to Pratzel's bakery—milling in front of the display cases with the other dads, nodding at a familiar face, exchanging a few words with an acquaintance, waiting for his number to be called, picking out his mixed dozen (four pumpernickel, four poppy seed, four sesame), and then heading back to the smell of fresh coffee and the sight of his beautiful wife and his pajama-clad daughters waiting in the breakfast nook for their daddy.

  As Lauren spread cream cheese on a bagel half, he explained to her that the case was basically settled and thus there was nothing further she could do—or that anyone else could do, for that matter.

  She looked up at him with those earnest blue eyes. “I think it's terrific what you did for that poor girl.”

  “Dulcie is working out the final terms. She gets the credit.”

  “That's not what she said, Dad.”

  He felt a pang when she said Dad.

  Hirsch sipped his coffee and watched his child eat her bagel. He wanted this to be a special time, but he couldn't hold back his unease. Ever since spotting those headlights in his rearview mirror, he'd worried that he'd become a danger to his daughter and to Dulcie. He'd talked to Dulcie about it. He'd called her, in fact, the same night of their kiss in the parking lot. He'd told her his concerns and explained that they should avoid any non-lawsuit–related contact until after the settlement had been approved and consummated. She'd accepted good-naturedly, telling him that his advanced years were rendering him hopelessly paranoid.

  Rosenbloom told him the same, although in coarser language, when Hirsch explained why he felt they shouldn't go to Dulcie's house for the seder. So instead, the two men celebrated the first night of Passover at Rosenbloom's apartment. They did so in strict accordance with Rosenbloom's Rules, which included a reading from Don Quixote in lieu of the Four Questions; a tasty selection of Spanish tapas and a seafood paella instead of the standard gefilte fish, matzo ball soup, and overdone brisket; a full-bodied Paternina Tempranillo Rioja from Spain in place of the Mogen David Concord Grape; and a ceremonial fourth cup of wine poured in honor not of the Prophet Elijah but of Don Miguel de Cervantes Saavedra, whose grandfather Rosenbloom claimed was a converso who'd secretly practiced Judaism after escaping the flames of the Spanish Inquisition.

  But now the settlement was approved. The funding would be complete by the end of next week. The defendants were supposed to wire the $120,000 settlement payment into a court-sup
ervised trust account by Tuesday, and Peterson Tire was scheduled to deliver the $50,000 check to the law school in a special ceremony at the end of next week, by which time the school's lawyers would have finalized the paperwork for Judith's endowment fund.

  And the investigation was dead in the water. He'd been up late last night paging through his notes, trying to figure out a new angle. He'd failed. There was no new angle. Judith's deleted e-mails haunted him. They were the key, the secret map through the forest, and they were gone forever.

  “It's so sad about her father,” Lauren said.

  “Pardon?”

  “Mr. Shifrin.”

  Hirsch nodded. “He has no one left.”

  “He has you.”

  “That's not much.” He took a sip of coffee, wanting to change the subject. “Tell me about you, Lauren.”

  He listened as she told him about her apartment and her roommates and her classes and her plans for the future, which didn't extend beyond her summer clerkship with a Chicago legal foundation that specialized in family law. It was a conversation he'd dreamed about for years. Nothing epic. Nothing dramatic. Just the two of them talking about everyday things over coffee.

  She glanced at her watch. “Whoa. My Con Law class starts in eight minutes.”

  He walked her to her car.

  She turned to him. “Well.”

  “Thank you, Lauren.”

  “Sure.”

  “I mean it. This is the best breakfast I've had in more than a decade.”

  She giggled. “Oh, Dad.”

  “The case will be over soon. We'll get together after that. I'll have you over for dinner.”

  “That would be awesome, Dad.”

  He kissed her gently on her forehead. “I love you, Peanut.”

  “I love you, Big D.”

  He waved to her as she drove off.

  All those years, he thought as he turned on the ignition and put the car in Reverse.

  All those years, and what had the two of them ever really done together? What experiences had they actually shared as father and daughter?