Street Dreams (5 page)

The elevator dinged.

Abruptly, his expression turned pensive. “Such sick children, Cindy. So weak … knocked out. It’s all so unfair.”

The doors opened.

He shrugged himself out of it. “If I can bring a bit of joy to them, I say, why not?”

K
oby carried the coffee
as we walked to an orange plastic table sided by four blue molded chairs. Because of the late hour, the kitchen was closed,
but there were still some prepackaged cold sandwiches—slices of something pink covered by wilted green stuff—for the truly
famished. Drinks were also available. We sat across from one another. He had taken off his head covering, exposing a close
cut of tight black curls.

“When I came to America from Israel, I was lucky because I came with a skill.” Large, thin fingers wrapped around a paper
cup. “Otherwise I end up taking parking tickets at the booths at LAX.”

I nodded.

He sipped black coffee, then said, “You see, many of the ticket takers at the airport are Ethiopian.”

“Oh.”

“So I was making a joke.” A pause with a raise of an eyebrow. “Not so good one.”

I felt myself smiling and quashed it by drinking my coffee. It was very acrid. “So how long have you lived here … in the U.S.?”

“Eight years. First I moved from Ethiopia to Israel in 1983 before Operation Moses. I was eleven. Things were very bad for
my people after Haile Selassie was deposed. Ethiopia became Marxist country and not friendly to Beta Yisrael. They outlaw
our practices. Sometimes they torture our elders. Then came the drought. My mother died shortly after childbirth with my sister.
Then we begin our trek through the Sudan. By then, we were all sick with starvation. I lost another younger sister, but four
of us siblings survived—my two older brothers, Yaphet and Yoseph, my younger sister, Naomi, and me. In Ethiopia, my father
was very respected
qes
—a priest. He knew
Orit,
of course, which is our Torah, but that is in Geez or Amharic. But my father also knew Hebrew
Chu-mash,
and this is very, very unusual. He only knew because his grandfather was Yemenite Jew who came to Ethiopia in 1900 and brought
with him Hebrew books including
Chumash.
So I have a little
Mizrachi
in my blood. My father tells me it is from my great-grandfather where I get my light eyes.”

“I noticed.” Under the fluorescent bulbs, they were sauterne. “They’re lovely.”

“Thanks.” His smile was shy. “I trade you my eyes for your gorgeous red hair.”

I smiled back. “Thank you. Just be careful what you ask for.”

“Indeed.” He took another sip from his cup. “Bitter tonight. Must be dregs. Anyway, my great-grandfather’s last name was Yekutieli.
It became Kutiel.”

“So you have family in Yemen?”

“No. They all move to Israel in 1950s in Magic Carpet when Israel takes Yemenite Jews. My brothers and I actually know some
Hebrew when we go to the Holy Land. Most Beta Yisrael have to learn. As sons of a
qes,
we were started on
Orit
at two, because in our culture it is the
qes
who reads
Orit.
I pick up languages very quick. By bar mitzvah—which was new custom to us, by the way— I had most of
Orit
and
Chumash
memorized, although I forget much of what I learned. My brothers too.”

“That’s amazing,” I said. “What about your sister?”

“The girls learn
nothing.
They obey their husbands, keep house, and have babies. Maybe make a little pottery to sell in the marketplace. But, of course,
they give the money to their husbands.”

“Now you’re baiting me,” I told him.

His smile was playful. “It all changed when we settle in Israel. My little sister embraced liberation very well. Still, she
must thank my father. Now there are about seventy thousand of us in Israel.”

My eyes widened. “Seventy
thousand?
I had no idea.”

“Have you ever been?”

“No.” I felt my face go warm. As if by failing to visit the Holy Land, I betrayed my ancestral heritage. “One day, I’ll go.
My father went about ten years ago. My stepmother lived there for a while with her first husband.”

“Your stepbrother’s father.”

“How’d you … Oh, yeah. The one who’s also named Yaakov. We call him Jake or Yonkie.”

“And he is your only sibling?”

“No, I have a half sister named Hannah and another step-brother, Sam. The boys are much younger than I am. They go to college
back east. Hannah is ten—the baby.”

He nodded. “My entire family lives in Israel now. My brothers are officers in
Zahal
—the Israeli army. My sister is also a nurse and lives in Tel Aviv with her family. My father remarried an Ashkenazi woman
whose husband had been killed in Lebanon. Batya had four children with her first husband. So for a while we were ten in a
very small apartment. Then she became pregnant by my father and they had twin girls. But by that time my brothers and my three
stepbrothers had moved out, so there was more room. A year later, I move out at seventeen to do
Meluim
for three years.”

“‘Meluim’?”

“Army service. After that, I decided to be a nurse. From the army, I already knew the skill. I just needed the book learning.
I did an accelerated course and was out in two and a half years with a B.S. in nursing, and a job.”

“So you kind of paved the way for your sister.”

He thought a moment. “Yes, I think so, although in Israel many Ethiopians learn nursing. She is the nurse with a nice, clean
office job. My father was very mad at me for becoming a nurse. As a Kohen, I am not supposed to be near dead bodies. My stepmother
said if I don’t respect the
Kahuna
—the priesthood—at least be a doctor.”

“That sounds like a Jewish mother.”

“Yes, Batya is a very Jewish mother. In the end, I follow my heart and my parents make peace with me. I am the youngest son
in the family … very spoiled. They don’t stay mad. It is good that I am aware of death. If a baby codes on my shift, I do
everything
to revive that infant. Of course, the best way not to get a code is to be very watchful. I am very, very watchful.”

“Dedication is good,” I said, throwing back his own words. He smiled at the recognition. “You have a master’s in public health.”

He regarded his badge. “That was four years ago. First the hospital sent me to get a master’s in nursing for one year. They
get more federal money if their staff has degrees. I come back and do exactly the same things, except now I have more letters
after my name. And I got a bump in salary, so that part was good. Then I think I want even more money, so I do the M.P.H.
at state university for another year during the day and work at night. The M.P.H. is for hospital policy, so I get an administration
job. And the work does pay better, but it is so
boring.”

I smiled.

“Oh my goodness, Cindy, it is one meeting after another. I go out of my mind. I last six months; then I say forget it and
go back to nursing.”

I inwardly smiled, flashing to my own parents. My mother had expected more from my father than just a cop’s salary. Dutiful
man that he was, he went to law school, passed the bar, then set up shop with my maternal grandfather, doing wills and estate
trusts. He also lasted about six months. “You had no trouble getting your old job back?”

“Yes, I have problem because now Marnie has been promoted to my old position. I let her be in charge as long as they don’t
cut my money. They say okay because with nurses, there is always a shortage, especially if you have degrees and specialties.
I am a critical-care nurse. I specialize in pediatrics because I like to help the children. In Ethiopia, they do nothing for
the children and the babies. We were the last to be given food. We were the first to die.”

“That’s horrible,” I exclaimed.

“It is cruel, but it has to be that way.” His eyes darkened as they intensified. “If the parents starve, who will take care
of the children? Who will work? If the mother goes hungry, how can she nurse? You need working adults to keep the family going.”

“I don’t know, Koby. It goes against everything I was taught. But I’ve never lived in a subsistence economy.”

“Baruch Hashem,”
Koby stated.

I couldn’t help myself. I laughed.
Baruch Hashem
was an expression that Rina used all the time. It meant “thank God” in Hebrew. To hear those words uttered by a black man
was simply incongruous.

Koby smiled. “You know what that means?”

“Yes. I’m not a total Jewish ignoramus.” I sipped coffee, then made a face. I had forgotten it was so bad. “Do you like working
here?”

“At Mid-City Peds, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Yes, it is a very, very good hospital. And the doctors care so much. Why else would they work in an inner-city hospital?
As for me, I love the little babies because they represent life. I love life. It is easy to love life after seeing so much
death.”

“I can certainly understand that. It must be nice being around something so pure, especially after seeing the worst in human
beings.” I thought a moment. “But I’ve also seen lots of heroics, too. In my job, you see both extremes, and often side by
side. Like tonight. Someone abandons an infant in a garbage dump, leaving her for dead. Then, by accident, a man hears a cry,
and the next thing we know, she’s alive and well.”

“God had different plans for her. I hope you find her mother. Postnatal women need care.”

“I hope so. It’s such a shame because she had options. If she had dropped the infant off in front of a police station or at
a hospital, she wouldn’t have committed any kind of crime. And even now, if she gives herself up within seventy-two hours,
she’ll escape prosecution. We have laws that protect desperate women.”

“I’m sure she does not know the law. Or maybe she was too scared.” His pager buzzed. He looked down at the number, then back
up at my face. “I must go back to work. I would like to see you again, Cindy. Would that be possible?”

I looked at him, making the quick mental calculations about his age based on what he had just told me. He looked younger than
thirty-two, but then again, people say I look younger than twenty-eight. “What did you have in mind?”

“Dinner is always nice.”

“When?”

“You tell me.”

I flipped through my mental calendar. “Friday night?”

He winced. “I am not
shomer Shabbat.
I do drive much to my father’s disapproval, but I don’t usually go out Friday, except maybe a
Shabbat
dinner.”

“I understand. Look, I work evening watch. Nights are hard. How about lunch?”

“Lunch would be fine. How about Wednesday? I don’t start here until six in the evening.”

I didn’t start work until three. I told him that Wednesday would be fine. “Let’s meet at the restaurant. That way I can go
straight to work afterward.”

And it avoided giving him my phone number or e-mail address.

He seemed tickled. “Perfect! Have you ever had Ethiopian food?”

“Never had the pleasure, but I’m adventurous.”

“Meet me on the corner of Fairfax and Olympic—southeast corner—at twelve, maybe?”

Little Addis Ababa. It was only a block or two in length, but it was in striking contrast to the Jewish area around it. “Twelve
it is. Any vegetarian dishes in your cuisine?”

“Many. You are vegetarian?”

“Not strictly, but most of the time.”

“I am kosher and the restaurants are not. So I will eat vegetarian, too.”

His pager went off again. I stood and so did he. “It was really nice meeting you, Koby.”

He laughed. “You sound shocked.”

“Not shocked.” I shrugged. “It was just … unexpected.”

“That’s when it is the nicest,” he said, beaming. “It was lovely meeting you, Cindy. I look forward to Wednesday.”

He turned and walked hurriedly out of the cafeteria. He moved with grace and confidence, a man clearly comfortable in his
own skin.

The streets held scant traffic and I made good time, catching all green lights down Sunset Boulevard. This was my district,
and out of habit, I slowed at the hot spots—the pay phones used by the hookers at the pimp motels. Still some foot soldiers
out at two in the morning, but nothing too heavy. Poor girls were shivering, wearing microminiskirts and tank tops with only
thin shawls to warm their bare shoulders. They teetered as if drunk, but it could have been the ultrahigh platform shoes.

I thought about my upcoming date. There were three immediate things in Koby’s favor: He didn’t appear to be a psycho, he was
employed, and he seemed genuinely nice—more interested in
me
than in my
profession.

Civilian guys usually split into two camps—those intimidated by female cops, and those obsessed with the fact that I carried
a gun. The only men who truly didn’t care were those involved with the Job—other cops, DAs, PDs, probation officers, private
detectives, and bail bondsmen. Those dates usually dulled very quickly because after we talked shop, there was nothing else.
It wasn’t anyone’s fault. The Job was consuming, and those of us immersed in it often forgot that there was a whole other
world out there.