The Big Nap

by Ayelet Waldman

  “Did she tell you she had plans to go somewhere? Maybe ask your advice about where to go?” She seemed embarrassed to be asking these kinds of questions of a total stranger, but persisted. “Did you give her any money?”

  “No. She didn’t ask for my advice or tell me anything. She didn’t even let me pay her. I was expecting to pay her today.”

  I felt guilty for keeping Yossi’s existence a secret, as though I were lying. Before I had kids, when I’d only had the experience of being a daughter. I would naturally identify with the children in any given situation. I’d only had the experience of being a daughter. As soon as Ruby made her appearance in the world, I switched camps: Parents are always right, and even if they’re not, you should listen to them anyway. But these particular circumstances were something altogether beyond the realm of normal child-parent conflict. An arranged marriage seemed, to me at least, to be almost barbaric. It was as though Fraydle’s parents were offering her to the highest bidder. Her theoretical right to turn down the match certainly didn’t seem to have much real effect. I could absolutely understand it if she had sought refuge in the arms of Yossi, the mysterious Israeli. I would have done the same. I wasn’t going to turn her over to the parents she had run from.

  “Did she maybe use the phone from your house? Did she call someone? Or meet someone?” her mother asked.

  “I’m sorry I can’t help you,” I said firmly. I couldn’t bring myself to tell an outright lie, but I felt fine about evading the question. Then I felt a stab of guilt. The poor woman was obviously distraught, just as I would be if Ruby had run off.

  It occurred to me that if I could find Yossi, he might be able to either lead me to Fraydle or pass her a message. I could tell her to call her parents, to let them know that she was okay. “I’ll tell you what,” I said, “why don’t you let me ask around the neighborhood, and if anyone has seen her, or has heard anything, I’ll let you know.”

  She looked at me for a moment, perhaps sensing that there was something I wasn’t telling her. Finally, she spoke. “Okay. You ask around.” She took a piece of paper from a pad on the table and wrote down her number.

  “Mrs. Finkelstein?”

  She glanced up quickly. “Yes? You thought of something?”

  “No, it’s not that. But have you called the police? Do they know she’s missing? You should file a missing persons report. They’ll start looking for her.”

  “No! No police!” someone shouted. I jumped, startled, as did Fraydle’s mother and all the other women in the room. I turned in the direction of the booming voice and saw Fraydle’s father standing in the doorway.

  “This is a family matter,” he said, shaking a finger in my direction. “We don’t need any help from your police.”

  “Fine. This is your business. But if you really want to find your daughter—”

  “Our daughter is no longer any concern of yours. Thank you for your help. You may go now.”

  I looked at him, astonished by his rudeness. “I wasn’t particularly eager to come here in the first place,” I reminded him. “You ordered Sarah to bring me here.” The women looked nervously at one another. They’d probably never heard a woman speak that way to their formidable rabbi. I rose from my chair and swept across the kitchen to the adjacent room. I held out my arms to Mrs. Tannenbaum, who gently handed a sleeping Isaac to me. I walked back across the kitchen to the doorway, where Rabbi Finkelstein stood, blocking my way out. “Excuse me please,” I said.

  He moved out of the way and I walked quickly to the front door and strapped Isaac into his stroller. One of the congregation who’d been silently watching my exit, a tall, broad-shouldered boy of no more than eighteen, with smooth cheeks that had obviously never needed the ministrations of a razor, held the door open for me.

  “Thank you,” I said. He blushed a deep red in reply.

  Five

  MY temper cooled as I walked home, and by the time I’d dragged the stroller up the stairs to my front door I no longer wanted to knock the rabbi upside the head with a Honey Baked Ham. I did my best to put myself in his shoes. What if Ruby had run off? Wouldn’t I be crazed with worry? Wouldn’t I be ready to tear apart anyone who might have helped her? In my jeans and Madonna T-shirt I probably looked to Rabbi Finklestein like the personification of the evils of contemporary Los Angeles culture. If he only knew how unattractive my life must have seemed to Fraydle. Sure, I get to wear what I want and marry whomever I want, but when push comes to shove, I’m still an exhausted mother in unbecoming old clothes married to an invisible husband. Not entirely unlike her own mother. What was the difference, really? It occurred to me that one major difference between Fraydle’s mother’s life and my own was that she raised her kids with the help of scores of friends and relatives, all of whom piled into her kitchen to provide support in times of trouble. I was pretty much on my own.

  I plopped Isaac into his Exersaucer and piled a bunch of teething rings and toys on the tray.

  “Keep yourself amused for a minute, will you, kid? Mama’s got to do a little detective work.”

  Just how was I going to go about finding an Israeli named Yossi? The only Israeli I knew was my father’s cousin’s son Amos, and he lived in Houston and drove an ice cream truck. I was actually contemplating calling him, when it occurred to me that my best friend, Stacy, styles herself as Los Angeles’s expert on everything. It couldn’t hurt to try her.

  Stacy is one of those fabulous working mothers who manage to bring home the bacon and fry it up in a pan, all the while wearing a pair of Manolo Blahniks. She’s a high-powered agent at International Creative Artists, the most prestigious talent agency in Hollywood. She has a kid in elementary school who not only plays soccer like every other kid in the United States but is also a math whiz and creates elaborate trigonometry programs on his home computer, just for the fun of it. And Stacy is gorgeous. Her blond hair is always perfectly done in whatever is the style of the moment, and her nails are polished with what I swear is the same nonchip substance they use to paint the space shuttle. Sometimes it’s hard to remember why she’s my best friend. She’s so put together that she makes me feel as though I just waddled in, unwashed and clad only in a black plastic garbage bag, after a year of living in the basement of a doughnut factory. But I love her.

  “Stacy Holland’s office.” There was a new, chirpy little voice answering her phone.

  “Hi. What happened to David?” Stacy went through assistants like pantyhose.

  “Um, he moved on. Can I help you?”

  “This is Juliet Applebaum. Is Her Highness around?”

  “One moment please.” I heard a rustling sound. “Oh, yes, Mrs. Applebaum. I’ll put you through.”

  The phone went silent for a minute.

  “Juliet! How are you?” Stacy shouted.

  “New assistant?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You have another new assistant.”

  “Why? Was she rude? Hannah, get in here!” Stacy bellowed.

  “No! She wasn’t rude. God, Stacy. The poor kid. I just didn’t recognize her voice, that’s all. You’re a goddamn tyrant!”

  “Never mind, Hannah. Go back to your desk. So, darling, is there a reason for this call or are you just experiencing some free-floating hostility?”

  I laughed. “No, there’s no reason, really. I just was wondering if you have any bright ideas on how I might track down an Israeli named Yossi.”

  “Yossi who?”

  “I dunno. I only have his first name.”

  “Juliet, that’s like asking me if I know a guy named Juan from Mexico. Every other Israeli is named Yossi.”

  “Well, how many of them can there possibly be in Los Angeles?”

  “I read somewhere that the INS estimates that there are three hundred thousand Israelis living in the Los Angeles basin alone.”

  “Jesus Christ! Who’s back home fighting the Arabs?”

  “I haven’t any idea. Why are you looking for this guy? Did h
e sell you a bum stereo?”

  “No, nothing like that. I think he’s my baby-sitter’s boyfriend and she’s kind of disappeared. I’m trying to track her down.”

  “Oh, no. Oh, God no,” Stacy moaned.

  “What?”

  “Need I remind you that last time you did something like this you ended up riddled with bullet holes?”

  “Don’t exaggerate. Anyway, I’m not investigating a murder. I’m just trying to track down a runaway girl.”

  “Whatever. I refuse to be a party to this masochistic nonsense. Find your Israeli yourself.”

  I blew a raspberry into the phone.

  “Nice, Juliet. Pick that up from Isaac, did you? Try the air-conditioning companies.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “For your Israeli. Try calling air-conditioning companies. Andy and I just had a new air-conditioning system installed. We had four companies come out to give estimates and Israelis ran all but one. Apparently they have a lock on the industry.”

  “Why does that happen?” I asked.

  “Why does what happen? Israeli air-conditioning installers?”

  “And Indian motel-owners, and Ethiopian parking lot attendants. Does one person go home and say, ‘Ibrahim! Ganesh! Come quick to America, they have a Motel 6 shortage!’”

  “Juliet, I’m going back to work. You might be able to while away the hours pondering that and other metaphysical questions, but I have to put my nose to the grindstone.”

  “Okay. Grind away. Thanks for the help. I knew you’d know where to start looking,” I said.

  “Ciao, kiss kiss,” she said, and hung up the phone.

  There were five pages of air-conditioning contractors. At least a third of them had names like Uzi’s, Jerusalem Air, and Givati. Did it really make sense to call one hundred air-conditioning companies on the off chance that they might have someone named Yossi working for them, who might then turn out to be the same Yossi that knew Fraydle? I decided to try the first ten names and see what happened.

  Just as I began to punch in the first number, Isaac started to fuss. Almost relieved at the interruption of what would surely prove to be a futile exercise, I scooped him up and settled down in the rocker. He nursed, voraciously as usual, and I pondered my dilemma. My search for this Yossi was beginning to feel like looking for a needle in a haystack—or, rather, a sesame seed in a bagel factory. I was contemplating my next move when I heard an explosion coming from the nether regions of my little baby boy. At almost the same moment I felt something wet spreading across my lap. I leapt out of the chair and, ignoring Isaac’s angry shrieks, rushed into his bedroom. Laying him on the changing table, I looked down at myself. My jeans were soaked through across the thighs. And they didn’t smell pretty.

  “Oh, for God’s sake, Isaac,” I muttered as I peeled off his overalls. “Some leakproof lining.” The child had managed to produce enough poop to drench not only his diaper, but the shirt that snapped over his bottom, his overalls, and me. Swearing under my breath, I stripped him naked and dropped the filthy clothes onto the floor. He wiggled energetically while I wiped him up. Finally, realizing that the world didn’t hold enough baby wipes to clean that mess, I picked him up and marched to the bathroom. I pulled off my own disgusting clothes, turned on the shower, and stepped in, holding Isaac in my arms. He startled a bit as the water hit him, but I fixed the showerhead so that a gentle spray rained down on us. Within moments, Isaac was giggling delightedly and lifting his head to the spray, opening his mouth to catch drops of water. I grabbed the soap and scrubbed both of us down, holding his slippery body in a viselike grip.

  “Hey, this is fun, isn’t it?” I said.

  He burped in reply and snuggled up against my chest. He suddenly seemed to notice that he was in close proximity to his favorite things in the world and he began rooting around for a nipple. I stood there for a while under the warm water, holding Isaac while he nursed. As I held his silken soft body close to mine, I felt genuinely happy. Happy to be a mother. Happy to be standing in the shower with such a delightfully sweet baby. So much of being a parent is about managing, or disciplining, or getting from point A to point B. Sometimes I wonder what the point of having children is if one spends all one’s time as a parent trying to herd them in the direction you need them to go, or keep them quiet or, even better, asleep. It’s even occurred to me that I’d be better off with a battery-operated infant that I could play with for an hour or so each day and then toss into the closet when I got bored with its company. And then one of those sweet but rare moments happens, and I remember why I did this in the first place.

  Finally, and reluctantly, I turned the water off and bundled the two of us into warm towels. As I dressed him, I noticed that Isaac actually seemed to be nodding off. Gingerly, I picked him up and tiptoed over to his bassinet. I laid him down and backed out the door. Miraculously, he slept.

  “All right!” I punched a fist into the air and cheered, soundlessly. And then I remembered Ruby. I ran into the kitchen and looked at the microwave. I was late. Five minutes late. And I hadn’t even left the house yet. I rushed over to the phone and called the preschool, praying that there would be someone who would answer the phone.

  “Hello, Beth El Nursery School.”

  “Hi. Hello. This is Juliet. Ruby’s mother? I am so sorry, but I completely lost track of time. I’m still home.”

  “Hello, Juliet. Why don’t I check if there’s someone here who can drive Ruby home for you.”

  “Could you? That would be just wonderful. Thank you so much.”

  The teacher was back within a minute or two.

  “Juliet, everything is fine. Jake’s mommy lives over on Fairfax. She’s says you’re right on her way home. She’ll take Ruby for you.”

  “Thank God. Thank you. Wait. Wait a minute. A car seat. Ruby needs a car seat!”

  “Not to worry, dear. We have one here for just these occasions. Just make sure you return it tomorrow at drop-off.”

  “I am so sorry. Thanks so much.”

  “Not at all. Not at all. Goodbye, dear.”

  “Bye bye.” Bye bye. I sounded like a flight attendant—a stewardess on Bad Mother Airlines.

  Six

  I took advantage of the half-hour before Ruby got home to do the laundry and call some of the air-conditioning companies. Three of the ten I tried had guys named Yossi working for them. Only one company receptionist would give me a physical description and it didn’t match Fraydle’s boyfriend. I couldn’t remember much about how he looked, but I was fairly certain he wasn’t six foot three and blond. The other two people I spoke to who acknowledged the presence of at least one Yossi agreed to pass a message on. I didn’t have high hopes that if, by some miracle, the message actually got to the right man, he would call me. After all, if it was the right Yossi, and if he did know where Fraydle was, he was presumably helping her hide out. Why would he ever help a stranger locate her?

  After exploring my ten dead ends, I decided to skim through the list and give it one final shot. My eyes stopped short on the Y’s. There, under air-conditioning contractors, was the name “Yossi Ya’ari, Lcd. Contractor. I quickly called the number. It rang twice.

  “Allo?” The line was full of static and I could hear what sounded like cars driving by. A cell phone.

  “Hello, can I speak to Yossi, please?”

  “This is Yossi.” The man spoke with a thick Israeli accent; it sounded sort of like a cross between Brooklyn and Kuwait.

  “Hello. Hi. Um, are you by any chance the Yossi who is a friend of Fraydle Finkelstein?”

  “Fraydle? Who?”

  “Fraydle Finkelstein?” I was barking up the wrong Yossi tree, clearly.

  “No. I don’t know any Fraydle.”

  “Okay, thanks for your time.” I was about to hang up when something occurred to me. “Listen, I wonder if you can help me.”

  “Yes?”

  “I was just wondering if you might know of some place that’s popular with
Israelis. You know, like a restaurant or bar?”

  “Why? You want maybe to find a handsome Israeli man? You don’t need a bar; you need me!”

  I laughed politely. “I’m trying to track down a young Israeli man named Yossi.”

  “I am not so old, only sixty-two! Is that good enough for you?”

  My polite laugh was getting stiff. “No, I’m looking for a specific Yossi, around twenty-one or twenty-two years old.”

  “Not me. So sad. Listen, where does this Israeli live?”

  “I’m not sure, but maybe around Hancock Park.”

  “Near Melrose?” he asked.

  “Possibly.”

  “Try Nomi’s on the corner of Melrose and La Brea. It’s a restaurant. Every Monday and Wednesday they have there music from Israel. Very popular with the young people. Maybe you can find him there.”

  “Thanks! Thanks so much, Yossi.”

  “I hope you find your Yossi. Wait, one minute. You are not from the INS?”

  “No. No. Nothing like that.”

  “Good. Try Nomi’s. Maybe you’ll find him.”

  I hung up the phone just in time to hear a horn beeping in front of my house. I ran down the stairs and out the door to find Ruby being extracted from a Mercedes four-by-four. The woman who was helping her out was obviously Jake’s mom, but I couldn’t for the life of me remember her name. She was wearing leggings, a matching sweatshirt and a pair of cross-trainers. She’d clearly just finished a workout. I glanced down at my decidedly un-aerobicized body and sighed. Someday I would find the energy to exercise. Maybe.

  “Thanks so much!” I said. “I’ve just had the most ridiculous morning. I can’t believe I forgot to pick Ruby up!”

  The woman began to speak, but I couldn’t hear a word she was saying. Ruby’s indignant howls drowned her out.

  “You forgot me!” my daughter shrieked. “You forgot me! You are a very very bad mama!”