by Andrew Kane
Mr. Arthur Rothman, the lawyer, had introduced himself to Joshua in the prison conference room the morning after the killing. Rothman was short and stocky, sharply dressed, with thick salt and pepper hair, deep brown eyes, and a cleft in his chin. “You’re mother’s employer, Alfred Sims, has asked me to look into this case and see if I can represent you,” was the first thing he said.
Rothman placed his briefcase on the table, removed a legal pad and some other papers, and took a fancy black fountain pen from the breast pocket of his three piece, charcoal-gray suit jacket.
“I don’t need any lawyer,” Joshua stated, “and I don’t need favors from some white guy just because my mama works for him!”
“I suppose you’re planning on defending yourself,” Rothman responded.
“No I ain’t. I did what I did, and that’s that. No two ways about it. I don’t need a trial or a lawyer. I’m ready to go to jail.”
Rothman leaned over the table and brought his face closer to Joshua’s. He lowered his tone to a whisper and responded, “Oh yes, I understand, you want to be a martyr. You killed your girlfriend’s daddy, and now you feel bad about it, so you want your just desserts. You want to take what’s coming to you, so you’ll feel like a man, and your girlfriend—wherever she is—will think you’re a man. And when you get out—if you ever do—the two of you can march into the sunset, and everything will be okay because you’ll have paid your debt.
“Well, let me tell you a few things so you understand. First, nobody is going to send you away for nearly the amount of time you’ll need to purge your conscience. And you know why?” He hesitated, observing Joshua’s dumbstruck expression, then continued, “Because nobody gives a shit! See, in this world, when one black guy kills another black guy, everybody’s happy because there’s one less black guy. What they really want to do is give you a medal or something, but instead they’ll send you away for a few years so it looks right.
“Now, I’m here only because my friend, Alfred Sims, asked me to be. It isn’t exactly my hobby defending kids like you. If you really want me to go, I will, but just realize that whether you want a lawyer or not, the court’s going to appoint one, probably some idiot public defender with an overgrown caseload. He’ll likely get you two years in some juvie pisspot like Spofford and you’ll be out by your eighteenth birthday, not exactly a lifetime if you get my drift. So if you’re planning on being a martyr, you better find another way.”
Rothman saw that he had Joshua’s attention. “See, I think probation is a definite possibility here. First, the guy you killed was a first class dirt-bag, and everybody knows it. Second, according to the facts I have, it’s pretty clear you killed him in self defense.”
“That ain’t true!” Joshua responded. “I went there to kill him. I could have left him on the floor. He was still breathing, but he was out cold. I didn’t have to do it.” He felt his body tremble as he spoke. Tears welled up in his eyes. “I murdered him,” he muttered.
Rothman looked into Joshua’s eyes, placed his hands on Joshua’s shoulders, and said, “Listen kid! He attacked you first, and that’s what matters. As for these thoughts you had in your mind, I suggest you keep them to yourself! Like I said, nobody gives a shit. That is, nobody, except your poor mother. And I’m sure it would destroy her to see you go to jail.
“I don’t know about your girlfriend. No one’s seen or heard from her, and I wonder if anyone ever will. But your mother, I’m sure she would like you to let me do my job. So why not keep a lid on all this talk about being guilty, and I’ll keep you posted.”
Without even waiting for a reply, Rothman quickly gathered his papers, stood up, and walked towards the door. The guard opened the door for him.
Joshua contemplated Rothman’s point. Nobody gives a shit! He couldn’t argue with that.
Rothman stepped out into the hallway, and as the door was about to close, Joshua called his name. The guard held the door as Rothman peered back into the room. Joshua stared at the lawyer for a second, hesitating. Rothman looked at him impatiently.
“Do what you have to,” Joshua said.
CHAPTER 18
Rachel Weissman sat pensively at the dinner table.
“Rucheleh, is something bothering you?” her father asked.
Her mother also looked concerned.
Rachel knew she couldn’t hide her feelings from them much longer. She would have to say something, but what?
“No Papa, everything is fine. I’m just worried about my finals in school.”
“Well, no need to worry. You’ll do just fine,” her mother reassured her.
They resumed eating.
“Well, there is something,” Rachel said.
Hannah and Isaac looked at her. They had been suspecting for a while that there might be an issue concerning boys. Hasidic girls usually started dating at sixteen in order to marry young and have lots of children. Soon it would be time to contact the matchmaker. They wondered if Rachel was anxious about that.
“I mean, it’s no big deal,” Rachel continued, “it’s just something I would like to do and I’m not sure how you will feel about it.”
Isaac looked at Hannah, then back at Rachel. “Vell, ve von’t know how ve’ll feel until you tell us vhat it is.” He always spoke gently, and at moments like this, it only made things harder.
“Well,” Rachel began hesitantly, “I saw Doctor Schiffman from the hospital. You remember her Mama?”
Hannah nodded.
“Esther and I were just taking a walk and we happened to pass the hospital,” Rachel continued, figuring that a small “white” lie was harmless.
“What were you doing in that part of the neighborhood?” Hannah asked, her tone more acerbic than the rabbi would ever have been.
“We didn’t even realize where we were. We were just walking, and got so involved in conversation, next thing we knew we were in front of the hospital.”
Isaac and Hannah didn’t completely buy it, though they did know that when Rachel and Esther were together, the two girls often seemed as if they were in another world. They kept silent, awaiting the rest of the story.
“Then, you wouldn’t believe it,” Rachel continued. “Doctor Schiffman just happened to be coming out as we were passing. She remembered me and said hello. She offered us a ride home because it was getting late.”
Rachel saw that her parents were growing impatient. She went on, “Well, in the car, Doctor Schiffman asked us about school and all. I told her that science was my best subject. One thing led to another, and she ended up inviting me to visit her at the hospital. You know, watch her work, help out, stuff like that. She said I could officially become a volunteer.”
“Did she make the same offer to Esther?” Hannah interjected.
“No, I suppose not.” Tentative. “I mean, she probably would have, but I guess she saw that Esther wasn’t interested.”
“I suppose she did,” Hannah responded.
Rachel was hoping her father would offer something, but he was still digesting it all. That was his way.
“Well, there isn’t anything wrong with volunteering at the hospital; it’s a mitzvah to visit the sick, isn’t it Papa?”
“Yes, Rucheleh, bikur cholim is a great mitzvah,” the rabbi answered. “But volunteering in a hospital is something else, no? It vould take time avay from your studies, yes?”
“Oh, Papa, I promise it wouldn’t. You know how good I am about my studies. I wouldn’t let anything interfere with them. And soon it will be summer…”
“But you have plans for the summer,” Hannah interrupted. “You’re going to be a counselor in the Beis Rivka day camp.”
“But I’ve been going there since I was five. Can’t I do something else, something new?”
Regardless of how reasonable it sounded, Rachel knew she was asking for something that was unusual for a Hasidic girl. There was no way it would sit well with Isaac and Hannah. All her life, they’d shielded her from Gentiles and Jews who we
ren’t Orthodox. That was their job, as dutiful Hasidic parents, to protect her from the “poisonous” influences of the outside world. And now she wanted a piece of that world, however small. There was no telling what she would see.
Isaac and Hannah looked at one another, neither appearing enthusiastic.
“Okay,” the rabbi said, “but under vone condition!”
“Yes Papa, anything.” Excitement.
“Before you start, I vant to speak vith this Doctor Schiffman.”
Rachel had expected as much. Her father needed to make sure that Doctor Schiffman was aware that there were certain things that a Hasidic girl shouldn’t be exposed to, medicine or not. “I’m sure Doctor Schiffman would love to meet you, Papa,” Rachel responded, avoiding eye contact with her mother.
Rachel had won this little battle. The rabbi had no idea that this was only the beginning, but Hannah suspected otherwise. She knew Rachel differently than Isaac did, the way that only a mother could know a child. She had sensed Rachel’s discontentment in the past—whether from Rachel’s fascination with science and other secular subjects, or her relationship with Esther Mandlebaum—and it had often given her cause for concern. She had overheard the girls making fun of the Hasidic boys. Until now, she’d dismissed it all as the playful musings of adolescents, and had believed that her daughter would one day come to value the piety of the young Hasidic scholars, many of whom would be lining up to take her hand in marriage. But now Hannah wasn’t so certain. Now, she was frightened.
Hannah could hide her feelings from Isaac, but not from Rachel, who was as perceptive about her mother as her mother was about her. The two women looked at one another, each understanding exactly what the other was thinking. And even Isaac’s naiveté wouldn’t last very long.
It was three-thirty, a half hour after school had let out at the Hewlett Bay Academy. Doctor Harold Goldman sat at his desk, finishing up paper work, eager to enjoy the beautiful spring afternoon with his five mile run. Goldman ran three times a week, religiously, even in the dead of winter. He only relished it, however, on days like this.
The other two afternoons, Mondays and Wednesdays, he spent seeing private patients in an office he sublet from another psychologist in the nearby town of Hewlett. He looked outside his window, and thanked God it was Tuesday. This was no day to be cooped up with patients and problems.
He was just about finished, ready to go, already in his shorts and T-shirt, when someone knocked on his door. He answered, “Yes,” wondering who was still in school at this hour. He thought it was probably one of the teachers working late, coming to discuss a student. This occasionally happened when he stuck around too long, but he knew how to deal with it. A few words, maybe a joke or two, and “We’ll talk it over tomorrow, at lunch or something.” He could be quite smooth when necessary.
The door opened, and so did Harold Goldman’s mouth when he saw his visitor. “Oh, Mrs. Sims,” he reacted, unable to contain his surprise. “Please, come in, take a seat.” Harold Goldman had met Evelyn Sims only once, at a family conference about Paul. He sensed then, as he did now, that she was a deeply troubled woman.
Evelyn anxiously sat herself down. By the look on her face, Harold Goldman knew that his run was cancelled.
There was a brief moment of silence before Evelyn said, “I’m sorry to have barged in on you like this.”
“Oh no, it’s quite all right. What can I do for you?”
“I’m not sure, really. I just… I’ve been feeling like I need to talk about things.”
Goldman looked at her curiously. She seemed different from when he had last seen her, and very much unlike the person Paul had described. But it was always this way in Harold Goldman’s business, people ended up being other than expected. He wasn’t surprised.
“It sounds like you’re not certain why you’re here, but you feel you should be,” Goldman observed.
“I suppose that’s it.” Tentative.
“Well, what are these ‘things’ you want to talk about.”
“I don’t really know. I’m sorry, maybe I shouldn’t have come,” she said more definitively, rising from her chair.
“Wait, please sit.” He indicated the chair.
She complied.
“I know this is hard for you, but if there’s any way I can be of help, I’d like to.”
She looked directly into his eyes. “You know, I’m not as terrible as you probably think I am,” she said sadly, her hands trembling.
“I don’t think…”
“Please, don’t lie to me, Doctor Goldman. I’m not a stupid woman. I won’t be placated.”
Goldman kept silent.
“I just want to explain things; I need to explain things.”
“Do you feel it’s your fault that Paul left?” Goldman asked.
“Of course it’s my fault! Everything is my fault! I’m the boy’s mother after all, whose fault could it be?”
Goldman was taken aback. “I guess you could say that, but there are other ways to look at it.”
“I’m a very unhappy woman; I suppose you already know that.” Tears were forming in her eyes.
Goldman nodded.
“I know that’s a poor excuse, but it’s the only one I have.”
“Maybe it’s not as ‘poor’ as you think.”
Evelyn thought about that. “My husband,” she began, then hesitated. She wasn’t sure how far she should go with this man, this stranger who knew so much, yet so little, about her life. “My husband cheats on me,” she said, not completely aware if the words had really come out. She’d suspected for years, but had never voiced it.
“You’re certain?” he asked sympathetically.
“Certain,” Evelyn reflected, “that’s a funny word. I suppose I’m not exactly ‘certain,’ but I’m pretty damn close. Call it—intuition.”
“Based on?”
“Based on years of knowing the man I live with.” She became pensive again. “It started in the beginning of our marriage, maybe even earlier. He was in the war and all, and I guess it did something to his head. Or maybe it was his mother; she’s something else. I’m no expert like you, but I’ve heard that war and crazy mothers can screw up a man’s head.”
“They most certainly can,” Goldman said with a faint smile. He didn’t want to interject too much; he wanted her to tell her story.
“Well, we had what I suppose was a normal sex life, at least in the beginning, but after a while, it happened less often. It wasn’t long before he lost interest. I thought he was impotent; at least that’s what I wanted to believe. I guess I just couldn’t accept that he didn’t want me anymore. He started coming home late in the evenings, working on weekends, and things like that. A typical scenario, I know, but I was too stupid—or stubborn—to see it.” Evelyn removed a tissue from her bag and dried her eyes. “You’re the first person I’ve ever told this to.”
“It’s a difficult thing to admit, even to yourself.”
“Yes, I suppose it is.”
“Tell me, Mrs. Sims…”
“Please, call me Evelyn. After what I’ve told you, I think it should be okay to call me Evelyn.”
“Yes, of course. Well, what I was going to ask—and I don’t intend to be callous—but what I wanted to know is why you’ve come to see me? Why am I the one you chose to reveal this to?”
“That’s a good question. I guess it’s because I needed for you to know that there was another side to the story, that I wasn’t simply a monstrous mother who tortured her son. I’ve had a horrible marriage, I’ve felt worthless, dejected, and things that I cannot even find words to describe. I was desperate, I was—I am—miserable, and I took all of it out on Paul. I know that. I was unfair to him,” she said, sobbing, “and now I’m paying for it.”
“Paying?”
“I’ve lost him, haven’t I?”
“Again, you might say that, but there are other ways to look at that too.”
“Like how?”
“
Like, perhaps you weren’t as ‘monstrous’ as you think, and perhaps you haven’t lost Paul at all. You can still build a relationship with him.” Goldman waited for a response, but there was none. “Look Evelyn,” he said, leaning toward her, “Paul has his problems, but he also has some things going for him. First, he’s smart, smarter than most kids his age, and when he’s interested in something, like Judaism, he really gets focused. He’s basically a good kid; he’s not into drugs, crazy music, or breaking the law. I’d say, on the balance, you didn’t do too badly.”
She considered his words. “Yes, you do have a point, Doctor Goldman, but it’s hard for a mother to look at things that way—‘on the balance,’ as you say.”
“It is hard, I concede, but it’s the truth. Just as it’s important for you to give me a complete picture of yourself, it is helpful to have a complete picture of Paul. You only see your disappointments, and because of that, you blame yourself. You’re making the same mistake with Paul that he makes with you.”
“Perhaps.”
Goldman would have preferred a more affirmative response, but this was a start.
“I guess I’ve taken up enough of your time, Doctor.”
Goldman smiled. “I hope I was helpful.”
“You were,” she responded. “I think I needed to hear myself say a few things.”
“To get them off your chest?”
“Yes, you could put it that way.”
“Listen,” he said as he opened his desk drawer, “if you ever feel that you want to do this again, here’s my card.” He handed her the card with the address and phone number of his private office.
Evelyn took the card, appearing appreciative of the gesture. In a more cynical moment she might have suspected him of drumming up business, but no such thought crossed her mind. She trusted him, though she would probably never avail herself of his offer. She had said what she’d come to say, and that was the end of it. She’d harbored no illusions that her confession would ease her remorse, and left Harold Goldman’s office feeling much the same as she had upon entering it. Nothing was different, and in her mind nothing ever would be. She simply lacked the strength to change; otherwise, she would have done so years ago.