I looked at my husband. “Jack, I’m serious. Let’s give it away—”
“Amanda—”
“Okay. We’ll keep enough for the girls’ education. Give them some motivation for doing well in school. But beyond that, I think I’ve hit upon a perfect solution. We weren’t hurting before. Why shouldn’t we share our good fortune?”
My family was stunned. No one spoke.
Finally, Beth said, “Dad, say something.”
Jack faltered. “Honey, I admire your nobility. But there’s no reason to be hasty. Besides, we’ve made plans for that money.”
“I know we’ve made plans,” I ventured on. “And Toni has made plans. And Beth has made plans as well. So whose plans do we listen to? And you know as well as I do that someone is always going to feel shortchanged. All the money has done is build resentment!”
Again the room fell silent. I could see desperation on my daughters’ faces.
Toni said, “Look, I know I’ve been selfish.” Tears were in her eyes. “I’ll do better, Mom. I really can do better.”
Beth started crying as well. “So can I. I’m sorry I’ve been so selfish.”
Jack winked and said, “I think you got the point across.”
But they didn’t understand. I wasn’t trying to get a point across. “Then you spend the money, Jack. Put it in your wine collection, give it to the girls, I don’t care. I don’t want any part of it—”
“Amanda, you’re being . . .” He looked at the girls, keeping his accusations in check. “As I stated before, I think your idealism is commendable. Giving money to charity is a fine idea. But that’s your idea. There are other people in this house. As you always said, we don’t make unilateral decisions.”
Beth said, “How about this?”
All eyes went to her.
“We give away some money . . . even most of the money. But let’s keep a little for fun.” She paused, then her eyes lit up. “I know who we can give the money to. The homeless guy we always see in the park. He could use some money, I bet.”
Jack stifled a laugh. “Yes, maybe we could give him a handout.” He turned to me. “If you’re serious about this giveaway program, what about the National Endowment for the Arts? With all the budget cuts, I’m sure we could fund something.”
“Art doesn’t feed people, Dad,” Toni said. “How about LIFE—Love Is Feeding Everyone? They feed poor people, Dad, including children. Best of all, it doesn’t cost them anything. They use expired but good food from supermarkets. All they need is people to collect it and distribute it. We could give them something.”
“You really want to feed people, just go downtown to Mission Street,” Jack said. “I’m sure we could supply some meals there.”
I put in my own two cents. “I like Children’s Hospital. So many sick kids. And even the healthy ones. They’re very poor. Their parents have to wait hours just to get seen.”
Toni said, “I hope we have enough money for all these good causes—and a little left over for fun.”
No one spoke.
Beth said, “Not that I mean to be selfish. But . . . does this mean I’m not going to get any new stuff? And what about Toni’s car?”
Toni sighed. “You know, I really don’t go many places without friends. I suppose I could . . .” Another sigh. “Save up for a car . . . like we originally planned.”
I said, “A car was promised to you. But it doesn’t have to be a new one.”
Toni nodded. “I agree. Anything that gets me to school and back is okay. Who needs a Jeep, anyway?”
She was disappointed but trying to hide it.
I said, “In answer to your question, Beth, yes, you will still get new stuff. You always did get new stuff. But we don’t have to spend as if we own the store.”
“About that fun money, Amanda?” Jack said. “There was this bottle of cabernet . . .”
“Oh, let him buy the wine, Mom,” Toni broke in.
“I’m not his mother. He can do what he wants.”
Toni said, “He wants your approval. Stop being so withholding and enjoy life!”
She was right. I said, “I love cabernet.”
“A bottle a year,” Jack announced. “I propose we put twenty percent of the newfound money into our savings, twenty percent in a fund for the kids’ education, ten percent for fun stuff, and the rest goes for those who truly need it. A great idea, Amanda.”
Toni said, “But Beth came up with the idea of keeping a little for fun. And a great idea it was.”
Beth beamed golden rays at her older sister’s approval. I smiled, too.
There were still things that money couldn’t buy.
SMALL
MIRACLES
“Small Miracles” was from a best-
selling anthology of everyday
coincidences that truly seemed directed
by divine intervention. My
contribution, reprinted here, shows
that I’m not only a mama lion when it
comes to my children but that I’m also
equally protective of my mother, Anne
Marder, who’s about five feet tall and
tips the scales at 100 pounds after a
hearty dinner. This story should have
been entitled: “You Mess with My
Mom, You Mess with Me.” In all
seriousness, this incident taught me a
lot about myself.
UNRELENTINGLY LOGICAL, I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN a math-science person. I graduated from high school in 1970 as a math major and went to UCLA, where I received a bachelor of arts in theoretical mathematics in 1974. Then, being a practical sort who aspired to employment, I entered UCLA Dental School and graduated with a doctorate of dental surgery four years later. At that time I fully intended to pursue a career as a dentist. One doesn’t usually attend dental school for self-actualization.
That was twenty-two years ago. And during those past twenty-two years, I’ve never picked up a drill—euphemistically known as a handpiece—nor have I scraped a single tartar-coated tooth. Instead, I am now a writer of detective fiction, choosing to explore the human condition instead of oral hygiene.
I couldn’t pinpoint the metamorphosis, but I am glad it worked out that way. I could list several factors that steered me toward mystery writing—a desire for justice, a suspicious nature, an overactive imagination, and, of course, a penchant for the bizarre. All of the above can be summed up by what transpired the day I nabbed a mugger.
On that particular morning, my then-four-year-old son—now a strapping lad of eighteen—had chosen to come down with a high fever and a burning sore throat. I suspected strep throat. My mother was at the house, lending a comforting hand while caring for my year-old daughter, Rachel. Rather than drag the entire crew to the pediatrician, I suggested that my mother take a walk with the baby to the corner bakery while I ran my preschooler to the doctor’s. It was a fine L.A. day—sunny but not too hot. Yes, I thought, a walk would be refreshing for both Grandma and baby. Not to mention the fact that the softhearted bakery lady was always good for a couple of extra cookies for my tyke.
Grandma, baby, and stroller left first. I followed a few minutes later, and I could see them easily about a half-block up. As I pulled out of my driveway, I noticed a car near them but on the opposite side . . . slowing . . . then stopping. A young man got out of the front passenger’s seat and started walking. And walking. And walking. Across the street from my mother and daughter, about twenty feet behind them.
But keeping pace with them.
I straightened the wheel of my automobile and shifted into drive. The car up the street was still there . . . creeping by . . . slowly.
And the man kept walking. Still across the way from my mother and child, still keeping pace.
That is odd, I thought. When I let someone out of the car, that person usually goes into a house. He doesn’t keep walking for a block or two.
I’m being paranoid, I decided. Neverthel
ess, this was my daughter, this was my mother. I drove down the street, pointedly behind the creeping car. And then it drove away.
Just like that.
And I felt a little better.
Meanwhile, the man across the street kept strolling aimlessly, not doing anything suspicious. I waved to my mom and she waved back. Then I drove off.
But something nagged at my gut.
I turned the corner, made a series of right turns, and circled around the block. Then I caught up with my mother, who was blithely ambling in the sunshine. Again we exchanged waves, although she did have a puzzled look on her face. It said, Why did you come back?
And the man across the street continued to keep pace with my mother.
Too much TV, I chided myself.
Too many detective novels.
I drove off. One block, then another.
But this was my daughter, this was my mother.
Again I retraced my route.
By the time I returned, my mother was down on her knees, her hand gripping her head. The stroller had been tipped over. My heart raced as I pulled over, screaming, “Are you all right?”
“He took my purse,” she shouted hysterically. Frantically, she pointed around the corner.
Again I asked if she was all right. Was the baby all right?
Yes, my mother answered. Despite the fact that she had two scraped knees from her fall, she was fine.
Anger coursed through my body. This was my baby, this was my mother!
With my son firmly ensconced in his car seat, I gave chase. Admittedly, not the brightest decision I’ve made. But I reacted rather than considered.
The French Connection it wasn’t. I was in a car and he was on foot, so I caught up rather handily. Leaning on the horn, I rolled down the window and screamed at the top of my lungs, “Drop the purse, you son of a bitch!”
“Son of a bitch!” my son imitated from the backseat.
But the sucker kept running. In retrospect, I think it was more in fear than in obstinacy. He pumped his legs hard and fast, racing with the wind. Chariots of Felony. But even Jesse Owens wouldn’t have had a chance against a V-8 engine. I kept honking the horn, shrieking at him to drop the goddamn purse.
“Goddamn purse,” my son aped.
Up ahead was a pedestrian. Two of them. I don’t remember much about them. Except that they were male and one of them was wearing a yellow plaid sport coat. I don’t know why that particular fact registered, but it did. And it was the one in the plaid coat who pulled out the gun . . . pointed it at the runner, and yelled, “Freeze!”
And the man froze.
Just like in the movies.
I jerked the car into a driveway, not really understanding what was going on.
Plaid Coat instructed the runner to drop the purse. “Drop it,” he shouted. “Drop it, drop it, drop it!”
The runner had that deer-in-the-headlights look on his face. He dropped the purse.
Plaid Coat told him to hit the ground.
Just like in the movies.
I bounded out of the car, spoke to Plaid Coat. I pointed to the runner, pointed to my mother’s stolen handbag, and angrily said, “That’s not his purse!”
Neighbors began filing out, offering to call the police. Which was kind of redundant.
Because Plaid Coat turned out to be an off-duty policeman who had been visiting his father, heard me leaning on the horn, and came out to investigate.
Now he took off his belt and began to secure the suspect. At that point I went back to my mother. She was upright and so was the stroller. I pulled the car over, loaded them both inside. Her palms were sore, her pants were ripped at the knees. But, as promised, both she and my baby were all right.
“He took my purse!” my mother sobbed.
“We caught him, Ma,” I said.
“You what?”
“We caught him. We have your purse!”
“Oh. That’s good,” my mother answered. “That’s very good.”
“Very good,” my son coughed from the backseat.
We returned to the scene of the crime, now thick with patrol cars. I explained my story as I held my baby, and my mother explained her story from inside my car. The uniformed police officers were amazed.
“We never catch these guys,” one of them told me.
My mother was required to come down to the station to claim the purse. It would be there waiting for her. The police needed only a couple of hours to process the paperwork.
“She can’t just take it now?” I asked. “Save us both a trip?”
“Nope. Evidence.”
“Fine,” I said.
They congratulated me. I took my mother and baby home. We were all pretty shaken, but life does go on.
I loaded my son back into his car seat and zipped him over to the pediatrician. A good move on my part.
Indeed, it was strep throat.
The SUMMER of
MY WOMANHOOD
“The Summer of My Womanhood” is
perhaps the most emotional piece in
the anthology. It’s about my father, who
died thirty years ago at the age of fifty-
three, and by the time I finished
writing this essay, I was engulfed by a
cloud of wistfulness. Dad owned a deli
and a small bakery, and I was fortunate
enough to work with him as a preteen
and teenager. In order to earn spending
cash, I often stood for hours behind the
counter helping customers. Of course,
my ultimate reward was spending time
with my dad, and as I remembered
him, my heart filled with treasured
memories.
MY FATHER WASN’T A DISTANT FIGURE IN MY childhood, but I certainly didn’t know him well. Like many men of the World War II generation, he worked excruciatingly long and hard hours, not for career fulfillment or self-enlightenment but in order to pay the mortgage on a Veterans Affairs-financed three-bedroom, one-bath house in the hot, dusty San Fernando Valley of Los Angeles County. My father was in the retail food business, not by default but by choice. His decision, especially since he came from a religious Jewish background in which education had always been prized, always puzzled me.
When World War II broke out, Dad was drafted. Instead of immediately being sent to Europe, he was deemed smart enough by the army to send to college. After two years of attending classes at Rutgers University, studying subjects that obviously excited him—he spoke about them well into my young adulthood—he was offered officers’ training. After declining the chance for advancement because it meant a longer tour of duty, he was shipped overseas and into the infantry. God must have shone His light on Dad, because he spent only two weeks in the front lines, though it probably felt like years. After the brief stint, he was reassigned to the medical corps. Trained as a medic, he desperately tried to save what the enemy was determined to destroy. After the war, Dad’s fluency in Yiddish made him invaluable to the army because he understood many of the languages spoken by concentration-camp victims. He would often translate for his superior officers, aiding in placement and relocation of those who’d survived the Nazis’ final solution.
When he talked about the war, it was not often and not very much. But I do remember what he told me. Yes, he revealed stories of the human atrocities, but he was much more intrigued by the ability of ordinary people to rationalize those horrors away, by the denials in Polish towns where the stink of the crematoriums could be detected from miles away. It affected his lifelong outlook. How could it not.
Honorably discharged from the army, my father did what most newly married men did back then: They took jobs not for their glamorous titles but because they needed money. Even though Dad had passed entrance exams to local law schools, he decided to skip three years without income in favor of immediate cash. My father became Oscar the Deli Man—following in the footsteps of his father, Judah (Edward) t
he Butcher.
I’m sure money had much to do with it. But after observing my father at work up until he died, I do think he was happy with his occupation. It was backbreaking toil, which involved but wasn’t limited to toting hundreds of pounds of meat, lifting cases of canned goods, shivering in walk-in freezers and coolers during the winter in stores with no heat, and putting in ungodly hours—from dark to dark. Sunlight was something that glared through plate-glass windows. But the money he earned was from the sweat of his own brow, and that was good enough for Oscar Marder.
As a small child, I was often put to bed before Dad came home. As an older child, I remember watching TV with him. He didn’t talk much except to ask me if I had yet guessed the plot of the latest Streets of San Francisco or, at the very least, the quarterly subtitles given after each commercial break during the hour show. Heart-to-hearts were nonexistent, but some sort of primordial communication—that of father and young daughter—did exist.
Dad staked out his claim by renting space in independent food markets. Usually, he ran just one operation at a time. Occasionally, he managed two locations. His booth consisted of a fresh delicatessen with all the traditional meats, cheeses, salads, and, of course, lox and pickled herring. He also took on a small bakery that catered and complemented items sold in a deli. His breads included loaves of soft yellow egg challah, caraway ryes, savory onion rolls, kaiser twists covered with poppy seeds, and oh, those aromatic fruit and cheese Danish and coffee cakes. Dad’s kiosk had everything needed for the perfect Saturday picnic or the in-law Sunday brunch. I loved the food, and I loved everything that went along with it. Because I loved my father.
When my older brothers reached double-digit age, they worked in the deli on weekends and helped our father out. When I was eleven, no such demands were made of me. This, of course, angered me. If Dad wasn’t going to require it of me, I’d simply require it of myself.
When I announced that I was going to work at the deli, Dad said that was fine, although I was sure it wasn’t fine at all. But that didn’t stop me.
The Garden of Eden and Other Criminal Delights Page 27