A City Called July (20 page)

“On account of what?”

“On account of me being an operative in your employ.”

“Kogan, you’ve got more
chutzpah
than six deadbeats in Vegas with somebody else’s wallet. Get out of here before I throw you downstairs. Who’s Wally Moore in the first place, your friend or mine?”

“Okay, chief, I’m going, I’m going.”

SEVENTEEN

Debbie Geller lived in the biggest house on Francis Street, which was not much of a street apart from her place. It was too close to Welland Avenue’s heavy traffic ever to be a posh address, and the rest of the pebble-dash and frame houses with either open or closed-in verandas were closer to the beau ideal of the neighbourhood than Debbie’s overgrown Victorian monstrosity. The house sat crookedly on the street as though the street came by after the house had settled. The little bungalows running down the street made a rather smug comment about the proper way for a house to address the street it lived on. Debbie’s place was brick with elaborate wood trimming around the gables, porch and windows. On the left side, as I faced it, a tower ran two and a half storeys above the regular roof, looking like an octagonal bell with fancy round windows near the top, a widow’s walk and large gabled windows below that. The garden in front was kept from running off by a wrought-iron fence with pagoda-like red stone posts. On the front steps rested a blue plastic pail full of water and a sponge and towel.

I’d just come from Nathan Geller’s funeral in the small Jewish cemetery off Queenston Road. It was an orthodox service with the near relatives helping to fill in the grave by taking turns. I made sure I pocketed my borrowed yarmulka as I followed the small crowd back towards the parked cars. I saw my Ma and Pa, but I didn’t get a chance to talk to them. Debbie and Ruth stood close together. Sid stood farther away near the rabbi.

It was around three-thirty, still a rather dull Monday, with a chilly wind following from the cemetery as I washed my hands at the pail before going into the house of mourning. Wisely they had decided not to hold the
shiva
at Ruth’s. Recent associations would have prevented Nathan getting a fair send-off in that setting. You can’t throw stones through the windows on one day and then drop in to partake of the funeral-baked meats the next.

The crowd divided itself into family, arty types from out-of-town, and local friends of the family. The out-of-towners looked a little cowed at a
shiva,
but quickly found that there was plenty to drink. The locals, family and friends alike, descended on the refreshment table and consumed quantities of smoked meat, rye bread, pickles, potato salad, herring, smoked salmon and, for the old-timers, baked carp. A smoked turkey had been sliced and laid out, but I couldn’t get close. I saw a couple of hired hands with trays, but I was always too far away. Eating after a funeral is serious business. It’s a reaffirmation that the living are still living and the dead are out there beyond the pail and sponge on the porch. A tweedy arm reached under my nose and pulled back with a pickle. When I turned, I saw Pete Staziak taking a bite.

“Where do they get off calling these kosher dills, Benny?”

“You don’t see them called that anywhere that knows dills.”

“My old aunt makes dills like this and she’s as Jewish as your average Cossack.” He nibbled farther, advancing on his thumb. “They’re good, though, for commercial pickles.”

“Why don’t you make a pinch so I can get near what’s left of the pastrami? I’d do it for you, Pete, honest.”

“Trouble with you, Benny, is you’re always abusing your gut. I never saw anybody in my life eat as terrible as you do. You want to look after yourself or you’re going to get into trouble.”

“What are you talking about? I eat in the best restaurants in town. If they don’t know their business, what can I do about it?” A short fat man pushed between Pete and me, giving him an unfair time to reflect.

“Look, kid, you always order the same garbage no matter where you eat. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you when I couldn’t guess what you was going to order.”

“Well, if you mean that I don’t order meat …”

“Come on. I know it’s not the meat. You eat spaghetti, don’t you?”

“Sure, with tomato sauce.”

“And no meat in the sauce? Come on, Benny, I don’t buy the bit that you only eat kosher. What about that pig-out Savas arranged? There must have been every kind of strange meat on that table you can imagine.”

“We can’t eat cormorants or owls, you know. They’re out.”

“Glad to hear it. What about bats?”

“Only the kind with feathers if they have cleft feet and chew their cud.”

“Does that mean you can’t eat venison? Deer chew their cuds and have cloven hooves.”

“Well, you’d have to have a
shochet
who could throw a fast knife, I guess. Can you get near the turkey? Let’s move in that general direction.”

“Hell, Benny, I’m stuck. I can’t move in any direction. It’s lucky this coleslaw isn’t moving as fast as some of the other stuff.”

“Instead of feeding your face, Pete, why don’t you tell me what happened when you got them to compare the wound in Wally Moore with the wound in Nathan Geller, may he rest in peace?”

“I’m not feeding my face. I’m trying to look inconspicuous.” Pete grabbed at something on a tray. He landed one. I tried at the same time and missed. He stopped chewing long enough to grin at me. “The wounds could have been made by the same weapon. That’s all they’ll say. They are consistent with having been made by the same size and shape of blade. Make what you will of that.”

“‘Consistent’ is one of their words.”

“Yeah. Forensic people.”

“That way they can be expert witnesses and sit on the fence at the same time.”

“It’s like reasonable doubt, Benny They only want to say exactly what they know and no more.”

“I don’t see the connection with reasonable doubt, but never mind. Are you really worried about my health?”

“Naw, it just makes conversation. As long as you’re happy, that’s what counts. You know most of these people?”

“The ones from town I know. His artistic pals from out-of-town don’t light up any bulbs.”

“The tall guy with the long hair and beard is from
The New York Times.
Writes on the arts pages of the Sunday edition. I was talking to him and he says that Nathan was very well respected.” The man Pete was describing was working on a very stiff drink judging by the deepness of the amber in his glass. He was talking to a large woman with upswept hair and designer bifocals.

“A real loss to the art community,” I said.

“The guy from the
Times
said it was a good career move.” I heard a high-pitched laugh from across the room. It came from a member of the bereaved family. The
Times
man looked shocked, Sometimes cynicism’s not even skin-deep. A row of relatives sitting knee to knee with paper plates full of potato salad and smoked salmon didn’t even look up.

I moved through the crowd towards Ruth Geller. She was nibbling at a cocktail frankfurter on a toothpick with some blue cellophane trimming.

“Oh, hello,” she said, “I saw you at the cemetery. Did you ever meet my brother-in-law? Oh, yes, he was here last week. I mean at my house.”

“I was at the studio too,” I said, watching someone trying to slice more meat from the turkey carcass.

“In spite of everything, he was very dear. He cut himself fixing the windows.” She dabbed at her right eye with the knuckle of the hand holding the frankfurter. “Are you going to stay for the service?”

“I’m not much good at this sort of thing, but if you’re short of the tenth man for a minyan, I’ll come back.” Ten was the minimum number for a quorum in the holding of group prayers. In fact it was the minimum number for starting up a synagogue.

“But why are you doing this? You’re not part of this family? Do you think that one of us will tell where Larry’s hiding? Do you think he’ll come up from the cellar when nobody’s looking?” Ruth was looking for a place to deposit the empty toothpick. I took it from her; the least I could do, and added it to an ashtray with cigarette butts and chewed-up salami skins.

“Thank you, Mr. Cooperman,” she said, as though I’d just done something important. I guess she was still in a daze. Funerals are hard enough to take when you are unacquainted with the dear departed. “You said you’d seen his studio?”

“I liked what I saw. I’m not surprised that these out-of-town art critics or whatever they are came. Your brother-in-law made powerful figures.” I wasn’t happy with the way it came out, but I’d promised myself I’d say something along those lines to one of Nathan’s relations.

“‘You called here the other afternoon. I forget what it was you wanted,” Ruth said, making conversation.

“I asked you about that call I’d had from Nathan saying he’d heard from your husband. You didn’t by any chance talk to Nathan after that call, did you?” She switched her eyes from my face to the view over my shoulder. “We can talk about that some other time,” I added.

“I remember now,” she said. “Just before Debbie came back. No, I never spoke to Nathan about that call. It was probably like you said: something to put you off the scent.”

Debbie was wearing a black dress that both squared off her shoulders and made her look vulnerable. She was busy talking to one of the out-of-towners, with a tall drink in her steady hand. When her eye caught mine, she frowned, as though she never thought that an open society would ever include me standing in her living-room. It was the Welcome Churlish in anybody’s register, comparable to saying “How do you do?” while biting down hard on a noisy celery stalk. In cases like this I simply assume it’s not me personally who’s unwelcome, simply the profession I represent that’s unwholesome. I went back to the table and found an opening in front of the corned beef. There was a lot of plate showing through the cold cuts, so I took advantage of the circumstances, making a sandwich which included the possibility that I might not make it to the platter again before it was empty. I’d just taken a bite and had my mouth full when Debbie planted herself in front of me. I chewed my way towards being able to defend myself.

“Mr. Cooperman, I won’t say I’m glad to see you. I’ve tried to form the words, but they won’t come out. Never mind. This is my first
shiva,
and I hope it’s the last.”

“Me too. Why did
you
have it instead of Sid or the immediate family?”

“Always working, aren’t you?”

“Curiosity’s not confined to business hours. I just wondered. You don’t have to answer.” I bit into a black olive and found it had no taste to it. Debbie was rolling her glass between her long-fingered hands.

“Well, to be honest, Sid as the older brother should have had it at his place, but his place is the apartment that he rents as a convenience. In practice he lives with Pia Morley. Have you met her yet? I should think you’d get along. You know that Sid’s mother and father are dead. Over there’s a brother of my former father-in-law and next to him are the brother and sister of their mother. Did you imagine that Nathan’s death would tempt Larry home for the funeral?”

“The thought flickered in my mind, but it didn’t last. I can see why Ruth didn’t have it at her place.”

“Yes, that would have been something to see. It’s not a huge family, and most of it out-of-town and getting on in years. Is that your mother and father talking to my father, the man eating the piece of honeycake?”

“Right. I haven’t had any honeycake yet. You have all the traditional things.”

“Not my doing at all. You know that at a
shiva
things just arrive. I don’t even know who sent most of this stuff. It will be like this all week. Sid’s already put on his slippers.”

“Isn’t that a little awkward for you?”

“Not in the least. He won’t actually be staying here. Pia doesn’t understand about our ancient customs. She once saw a
mezuza
by somebody’s front door and remarked that she thought it was ‘cute.’ But I’ve tried to do what I could. I’ve covered the mirrors. But I hope nobody looks too closely in my fridge. There are some necessities of life that I won’t give up. And I’ll be damned if I’ll cover up the paintings. There are too many of them for one thing, and what a farce that would be considering what poor Nathan was.”

“I liked the work I saw in his studio.”

“Oh, he was going to be wonderful. I don’t want to think about it. Do you think you can get through traffic and get me a Scotch with a little water, Mr. Cooperman?” I nodded and tried braving the crowd. She wasn’t hard to take, Debbie, when she stopped sniping for a minute. The crowd thinned out as I got farther away from the food table. The bar was nearly deserted.

“Benny, this is a fine way to spend your afternoon!” It was my mother. I hadn’t seen her dressed up in a Paris Star suit for many months. One thing about Ma: she always knew when and whether a lady should wear a hat. I never saw her caught out. It must be radar or something. “I mean, Benny, did you even
know
young Nathan?”

“Ma, this week the Gellers’ troubles are my troubles. I’m sorry for their loss, and I only had a cup of coffee for breakfast. Have you tried the turkey yet?”

“You go around half starved, Benny”

“What about I come over for dinner tonight?”

“I think your father’s got a meeting.”

“Well, it’ll just be the two of us.”

“Benny, have some more of the turkey and I’ll see you Friday night as usual. At my age I don’t need first-of-the-week surprises.
Guess Who’s Coming to Supper
with Sidney Poitier I don’t need and you I can wait for.”

She disengaged herself from me and began talking to one of the older Gellers. The last I saw of her that afternoon was when I caught a fleeting glimpse of her in a corner conversation with the man from
The New York Times.

Sid Geller was standing at the makeshift bar. I asked the young man in a white coat and yarmulka to pour a Scotch for Debbie. Sid leaned over to me smiling sadly, “You can walk out of here, Cooperman, and go run up the flagpole at the Collegiate. I don’t want to see you standing there gorging yourself, you understand?”