Peep Show (25 page)

Silence.

I step back onto the sidewalk and gaze up at the window. It's impossible to see in her window from here. From the street it's worse, the tree blocks the building to the roof. Maybe I should climb the tree, go through the window?
I move up to press the button again, holding it this time. “Hello? Is Miriam there? Please answer me if it's you. Hello, hello?”

I feel water being squirted on the back of my leg. There's the boy with his gun, standing next to an older, bearded man. “Who are you looking for?” says the man.

I recognize the tiny, slump-shouldered rabbi, the holy man, the one who came to the house so long ago for my mother's
sheitel
ceremony. He has two helpers with him, each holding one of his elbows.

“I'm looking for Miriam,” I say.

“Miriam,” he says. “I am here for Miriam. She is in apartment
Bet
. Push it. Push the button.”

I do, I push it. “Helloooo? It's me again. I'm with other people now,” I say into the box.

Silence.

One of the rabbi's helpers tries it. “
Shalom aleichem?
Miriam?” he says. Still no response.

I look back at Sarah and she's pointing at something above and mouthing words I can't hear. I think she's pointing at the tree. I see a branch about five feet from the trunk and so many more, another three feet above it.

“Maybe I can get up there,” I say.

“Why would you do that?” says the holy man. “Wait, we'll push it again. She's expecting us.”

It takes all my strength to hook my foot on the lowest branch.

“Don't,” the rabbi says. “We'll push the button.”

I slither my body high enough to get my stomach onto the tree.

“No, no, no,” I hear Sarah yell, as my arms slip and I smash my chin on the bark. I jump down with a scrape and look back at Sarah, who's shaking her head.

“Excuse me,” I say to the rabbi. “Would you please tell Miriam I was here. I'm her son. Tell her daughter, Dena, that her father is gone, he passed away last week. He was her real father, the father who raised her. And he loved her. His name was Martin Arbus.”

“No, no.” He is waving his finger now. “What is your name?”

I look back at Sarah, who is still trying to tell me something. “My name is David.”

“David.
You
must tell her this,” he insists. “You. No one else.”

I nod, look into his watery eyes. “I am not a Hasid.”

He looks up at the sky, as if to God, and then back to me. “So what?”

When I break into a smile, he does too, and the trillions of wrinkles around his face all splay and deepen.

“Push the button again,” he says. “Tell her Rabbi Liebersohn is here to see Dena.”

“Dena?”

“Yes. And tell her I don't like to wait.”

I step up there again, glancing back at him before pushing it. “Mom?”

Silence.

“Yes?” It's a weak voice, my mother's voice.

“It's your son, David.”

“Tomorrow,” she says, and I can hear the wobble in her tone. “Today is not a good day.”

The rabbi motions for me to push it again.

“Mom?”

“Tomorrow,” she says. “Come back tomorrow.”

“David!” Sarah yells. She's pointing again, and now I see she's pointing to the window above.

I step back to the sidewalk. My sister. My sister is there. So beautiful, so happy. She laughs at the sight of me, wipes her eyes. “Stay right there!” she says, and disappears from my sight.

Now from the spot where Debra had been, I see my mother, tentative, glancing down at me, tentative but eager.

“Rabbi Liebersohn is here,” I say, waving to her. “Come on down. He doesn't like to wait.”

The Portland Museum of Art
Portland, Maine
June 5th–August 30th

I
WANT TO THANK
my children, Henry and Ella. Thanks for loving me the way you do, and for making me feel so fortunate when I see you each day. Thank you to Mom and Dad and David and Elaine. I am very grateful to all of you. Amy Gash, you're the only editor I'll ever need. Your trust in me made all the difference. Thank you, Amy. Thanks to Sonia Pabley, Elisabeth Scharlatt, Kathleen Caldwell, Debi Echlin, Rabbi Barry Friedman, Stephen and Carol Schulte, Carolyn Hessel, Lynn Carey, Ed Delaney, Jason Headley, Chuck Adams, Laura Girvin, Alexandra Machinist, Adam Braff, Shoshi Braff, Zach Braff, Michelle Braff, Jagger Braff, Lara Brodzinsky, Jessica Kirson, and Jennifer and Peter Gelman.

I love you, Wife.

Also by Joshua Braff

The Unthinkable Thoughts of Jacob Green

Published by
A
LGONQUIN
B
OOKS OF
C
HAPEL
H
ILL
Post Office Box 2225
Chapel Hill, North Carolina 27515-2225

a division of
W
ORKMAN
P
UBLISHING
225 Varick Street
New York, New York 10014

© 2010 by Joshua Braff.
All rights reserved.

Photograph credits:
chapter 4
, PhotofestNY;
chapter 10
, PhotofestNY;
chapter 14
, Superstock Inc.—Getty Images;
chapter 15
, Jerry Berndt—Getty Images;
chapter 18
, Andreas Schlegel—Getty Images;
chapter 19
, Julian Wasser—Getty Images; all other photographs courtesy of the author.

This is a work of fiction. While, as in all fiction, the literary perceptions and insights are based on experience, all names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA IS AVAILABLE.

E-book ISBN 978-1-61620-010-7