“Sarah Chomsky.” She couldn’t keep from grinning back at him.
“Wow! You know, my mother is forever asking me when I will meet a nice Jewish girl and now, here you are, in the worst circumstances.”
“I’ve heard a version of that question, too. Do all Jewish mothers ask the same thing?”
“I guess they do, but for now, let’s get the business out of the way. Your boss over there told me to talk to you because you have been having some problems with a student who might have done this.”
“He said that? I didn’t even know he had heard . . .”
“What’s it about?”
“It’s not . . . not connected. There’s a new graduate student who latched onto me hoping that as a new professor, I would make friends with her. She’s done nothing except be underfoot too much of the time. I’ve referred to her as a stalker, but I meant it as a joke.”
“Her name?”
“Cassandra McGehee, but . . .”
“Several others have mentioned her.”
“Oh, that’s just because she made a fuss this afternoon over a departmental rule, and it’s still fresh in everyone’s mind. I don’t think she would go so far as to . . .”
Sarah stopped in mid-sentence as a truck swerved into the lot and screeched to a stop. Cassie jumped down from the cab and came running over. “Professor Chomsky! What’s going on? Oh, no, they got you, too?”
“Excuse me, miss. I’m Sergeant Cohen, and we're running an investigation here. Do you know something about this vandalism?”
“Only that somebody keyed my husband’s truck with an ugly phrase and he’s furious. He sent me back to campus because I hadn’t reported it. But I didn’t see the words on the door until I got home, and then I was still reeling from the shock . . .”
“Let me see.” He walked around the truck and stared. Cut into the door were the words WHITE TRASH. “Nasty phrase, but it's not personal. You’re number twelve in this incident. See the campus cop over there? Please report to him, give him your name and vehicle, and have him take a picture of the damage.”
He turned back to Sarah, only to realize she was staring at the girl. “Dr. Chomsky? Do you know her?”
“That’s Cassie McGehee. That’s what I meant when I said she is always underfoot. She turns up at the oddest places—like this. But at least it proves her innocence. She’s one of the victims, not the perpetrator.”
“Perhaps.”
“Perhaps? You still think . . .? Why would she key her own vehicle?”
“I’m trained not to jump to conclusions, Doctor Chomsky, but it's possible that she was trying to deflect our suspicions. I’ll leave you my card. Please call me at once if you think of anything else that might help us pin down what has happened here.”
Since it was growing too dark for further investigations that night, the police sent everyone home. Sarah felt drained as she checked her mailbox and let herself into the apartment. “Hi, Elijah,” she called and smiled when the kitten came bounding down the hall to greet her. “Sorry your dinner is late. Things were in a mess at work.” She dropped the mail on the kitchen counter and turned to the can-opener. “Will you forgive me if I fix you some Tender Tidbits tonight?”
As she turned, she glimpsed an unusual envelope amid the expected ads and store flyers. The addressee was Elijah Chomsky. “You have mail,” she told him. “Would you like me to read it to you? I'll bet it’s an invitation to visit your local vet.”
It wasn’t. The envelope contained a colorful Halloween illustration, and on the back was a brief, handwritten message: “Don’t forget. Halloween is coming, and I’ll be dropping by to get you. Be ready for a broom trip. Love, Your Witch.”
Sarah felt a chill, as if a cool wind had blown through the room. She shivered and pushed the card away. “Never mind, Elijah. It’s not important.” But it was, and she knew who had sent the message. Should she tell someone? But who would understand the implications? She reached for her purse and the business card Sergeant Cohen had given her, but it seemed too soon to be contacting him again. She decided to wait until morning to see how she felt about the Halloween greeting in the clear light of day.
A restless night’s sleep, during which she kept waking up to make sure that Elijah was still in bed with her, did nothing to relieve her anxiety. As soon as she reached her office, she dialed the number of the police station.
“I wonder if I might speak to Sergeant Cohen, or perhaps leave him a message?”
The operator chuckled. “You must have a sixth sense, miss. He just walked in the door. Here he is.”
She sighed with relief. “Sergeant Cohen, this is Sarah Chomsky. Something has come up, and I thought you should know about it.”
“Sarah! How nice to hear your voice. I hope this is not about more trouble. And please call me David.”
“All right, David. But it is more trouble. Or maybe you will think I have lost my mind. I don’t know which it is, and that’s why I’m calling.”
“Sarah. You’re rambling. Slow down. Tell me in one short sentence what has happened.”
“Elijah got a death threat.”
“Elijah? Who is that? I don’t remember . . .”
“Elijah is my cat.”
“A cat! Who sends death threats to a cat? The neighbor’s dog, perhaps?” She could tell he was laughing.
“See? That’s why I didn’t call last night, and why I am still dithering this morning. He’s a black cat. Several days ago Cassie made a remark about Halloween being dangerous for him. Now he has received a card signed by 'your witch,’ and it tells him that she will come to pick him up. Cassie’s the only one who would do such a thing, and I can’t help but see it as a warning to me.”
He was silent for a few moments. “Hang on a minute.” The phone crackled as if he had covered the receiver with his hand. “Miss Jones? What shift do I have on Friday? Great.” His voice returned to normal on the phone. “I’m back, Sarah. What are your plans for spending Halloween? Will you be going to Sabbath prayers?”
“No, I planned to attend the prayer service Saturday morning instead. I'll be at home handing out candy to trick-or-treaters as an act of charity Friday night. I even bought a bag of horrible looking Halloween candy to share with them.”
“Then how about this? Why don’t I come over and help with the little goblins? We can take turns answering the door and handing out the goodies. I'll guard the cat and help eat the left-over candy if nobody shows up.”
“You don't need to do that.”
“I know you didn’t ask, but it could be fun. I get off work at six and can be there quickly. Once the kiddies have quit showing up, we can watch an appropriate movie. Do you have a VCR?”
“Yes.”
“Great. I’ll bring the burgers and the movie. You furnish the soft drinks and popcorn. And in the meantime, quit worrying. Witches don’t fly until long after dark.”
“I'll have the Shabbat candles1 lit by the time you arrive.”
As promised, David knocked at Sarah’s door a few minutes after six o’clock. “Have to move quick,” he warned. “There’s a hobo on my trail, followed by a tiny witch and a dog in a ghost costume.”
Sarah was laughing as she took a bulging paper bag from his hands and shut the door behind him. “Um-m-m-m. Something smells wonderful.”
“Hamburger sliders from Billy Bob’s.”
“Where?”
“You mean you haven’t found Billy Bob’s? An old fellow. Makes the best burgers you ever tasted. His specialty is these little guys you can eat with one hand. They’re kind of like those Castle ones you can buy by the dozen, but he uses real ground beef, not canned meat paste. The only trouble with them is that he gives them random toppings. One will have onions, the next a pickle, then one with some grilled mushrooms or a sliced jalapeño. They’re all good, but you don’t know what you may find until you take a bite.”
“Russian roulette by burger?”
“Something like that. Her
e. Try your luck.” He handed her a small waxed paper bundle.
She opened it and took a bite. “Oh!” Her hand flew to her mouth. “I think I got the pepper.”
“Sorry. I’ll trade.”
“No, you don’t. Get your paws off my jalapeños. It’s wonderful. It just surprised me. And that goes for you, too, my greedy little friend.” She was laughing again as the cat leaped onto the couch and nuzzled her hand. “Meet Elijah, the cat who thinks he’s people.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, Elijah. I brought something for you, too.” David pulled a tiny catnip mouse from his pocket and tossed it across the room. The cat dived and caught it in mid-air, bringing it back in triumph. “He plays fetch? How do you get rid of him?”
“Don’t throw the mouse. Hand it to him so he knows he’s supposed to keep it.” This time, the cat carried the mouse to the hall, tossed it into the air, and then turned a somersault as he slid on the wood floor and attacked the mouse again. “That will keep him busy for a while.”
“I’m glad he likes it, and he’s a beautiful cat, but if I may suggest . . . With trick-or-treaters on the way, he will be safer if you can lock him up somewhere. Strange-looking little kids can frighten animals. Every year the 9-1-1 operators field requests for help from people whose pets have run away on Halloween.”
“Excuse me while I secure the bathroom for him.”
By the time she returned to the living room, David was already at the door holding the bowl of assorted candies and chatting with the costumed children.
“Where’s your pumpkin?” one of them asked. “You’re supposed to have a pumpkin outside to let us know you have candy waiting.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t have one, but I’m glad you knocked, anyway.”
“It’s OK. Just be sure you have one next time.” The little boy nodded, shoved a fistful of candies into his treat bag, and pranced off. For the next hour, Sarah and David took turns eating and answering the door. Later she would remember him stopping her and wiping a small dab of barbecue sauce from her nose. It had felt like a natural act.
When darkness had set in and the children had gone home, the two of them collapsed on the couch with cokes and a fresh bowl of popcorn. “What scary movie did you bring?” she asked.
“GhostBusters!”
“Perfect. I want to laugh tonight, not scream.” She freed the cat from his temporary prison, and he curled up on the pillow between them and went to sleep.
“Is that the same animal who was playing whirling dervish an hour ago?”
“Same cat,” she agreed, “but I think he’s drunk. That was a catnip mouse, wasn’t it?”
“Ah, so that’s how you make him behave? Indulge his addiction?”
“Guilty, but it works.”
“It seems to. I don’t think we have to worry about him taking off on a broom ride tonight.”
The movie kept them laughing, and when the popcorn ran out, they raided the remains of the Halloween candy.
“Look. There’s a Jolly Rancher. I call dibs on it.” David unwrapped it and began searching for another.
“You’re welcome to most of those awful things, but I claim the Milk Duds. They were my favorite when I was a little girl.”
“I think the Halloween threat is about over. And you, my dear, are looking as sleepy as your cat. I’ll take myself off now, so you two can curl up and get your rest.”
“It’s been a lovely evening, David. Thank you.”
“I’ve enjoyed it. Let’s do it again—and I don’t mean next Halloween. How about—say—next weekend? I’ll call you. Oh, one other thing. What are you doing about fixing your car? Do you need a recommendation on a body shop?”
“No, thanks. It’s already fixed. The college accepted responsibility and had a crew come to our back parking lot. They sanded and repainted all twelve vehicles. Their quick response impressed me.”
“Wise of them. And efficient, too. Did that include the truck that belonged to the student you all suspected of being the perpetrator?”
“Yes it did. It’s called ‘heaping coals of fire upon her head.’”
“Let’s hope she’s learned her lesson.”
Chapter Thirteen
Preconceptions
November 2008
And thus it began. At least once a week, Sarah would get a call from David, suggesting some activity they might do together—an art gallery exhibit, a little theater group’s new play, a football game, a new restaurant opening. All was well in their relationship. They chatted about their shared political views and celebrated Obama’s election. They talked easily, enjoyed one another’s company, and understood when one of them was too busy to meet. This was the relationship Sarah had always hoped for—one with no demands, few complications, and little drama.
Then why, she wondered, was she reluctant to see their friendship develop into anything more? He was, by every measure, a “Nice Jewish Boy”—what her mother had always wanted for her. He was self-supporting, reverent in his religious practices, devoted to his friends, respectful of his elders, well-mannered, soft-spoken, and handsome to boot. He even loved cats, so what was the problem? In her most private moments, she knew the answer, although it made her feel ashamed of her own brand of bigotry. She was Doctor Chomsky; he was Sergeant Cohen, the cop.
The issue came to a head for her when she could no longer avoid meeting his parents, who wanted to get a closer look at this “Nice Jewish Girl” with whom their son was spending so much time. The occasion was “A Taste of Our Town.”
As David explained, this festive evening was the highlight of the year for the local Chamber of Commerce, which sponsored the effort to raise needed funds for their Community Outreach programs. Local restaurants rented booths at the convention center and provided tastings of their most popular dishes. Other businesses donated services and goods to a silent auction display. And prominent local families paid for the privilege of tasting the samples and bidding on the donated objects. Through the funds the affair brought in, the Chamber could offer emergency help to families devastated by natural disasters, subsidize free lunches for children whose families could not afford the school lunch fees, provide shelter to battered wives, food and clothing to the homeless, and medical devices to others in need of temporary help.
“I have two free tickets,” David explained, “thanks to my father who is chair of the planning committee this year. That means we can enjoy all the frivolities, eat every sample, dance to the band, and laugh at the objects on the silent auction tables. You may only get a single bite of pie at one booth and a half a meatball at the next, but with over fifty restaurants taking part, you’ll get more than enough to eat. The only downside is that you will have to meet my parents and put up with their questions and general scrutiny. But they will also be busy that night, so we can avoid them most of the time.”
It sounded like an ideal solution to Sarah, and she agreed. She wore a modest but festive dress and heels that forced her to cling to David’s arm. After sampling several restaurant offerings, they took a rest break and settled into a small table in a corner. It was there that the senior Cohens tracked them down. A sophisticated woman with iron-gray hair and a spine to match approached David from behind and clutched his shoulders, pulling him into a more erect posture.
“There you are at last, my darling boy,” the woman cooed. “We were worrying that we had missed you. And this must be the fabled Doctor Chomsky, about whom we have heard so much.” The man standing beside her looked uncomfortable.
David bounded to his feet and placed an air kiss near his mother’s cheek. “We’ve been noshing1 about. This is a rest stop in our investigations. Sarah, I want you to meet my parents, Leonard and Miriam Cohen.”
Sarah rose and extended her hand. “It’s lovely to meet you at last. David has told me so much about his family.” She smiled and tried to make her eyes twinkle. “Will you join us?” she asked and then realized they were at a table for two. “Perhaps we can move
over there,” she suggested, nodding at a table with room for four. Feeling rather like a hostess in a bar, she led the way.
Their conversation remained stilted. Mrs. Cohen asked which restaurants they had sampled, and Sarah had to admit she hadn’t been paying much attention to the names. “Oh, but you must, my dear. One benefit of an evening such as this is learning to know which restauranteurs to patronize and which to avoid.” Trying to change the subject, Sarah remarked that she was eager to investigate the silent auction tables. Mrs. Cohen replied with an apology that the objects on offer were rather bourgeois.
David’s father, who up to this point had not spoken, now beckoned to a passing waiter. “Bring us four glasses of champagne, please. And put it on my tab.”
"Yes, sir, Mr. Cohen.” There. That had established him as a person of importance. He lifted his glass and nodded in Sarah’s direction. “In honor of our new . . . acquaintance.” Then he retired again behind his wall of silence.
Mrs. Cohen, however, was still going strong. “Has David thought to ask you what you are planning to do for Thanksgiving, Sarah? I may call you that, may I not?”
“Oh, please do, but I . . .”
“Mother, you have embarrassed the lady. I had not yet gotten around to that invitation. We are hoping, Sarah, that you might be free to have Thanksgiving dinner with us.”
“Well, I . . . It’s a bad weekend for me—an unforgiving stack of term papers to grade before the end of the semester. I plan to hibernate with a supply of red pencils.”
“Oh, but you must eat, my dear. Thanksgiving is not a Jewish holiday, but I find it a charming custom. Our cook does an excellent turkey. You must come. I insist.”
David’s face was flushing, but he struggled to keep his voice neutral. “It will just be a family dinner, Sarah, the four of us, plus my sister, her husband, and their little boy. And we will understand if you cannot stay through all the requisite football games.”
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