“Listen,” David said. He leaned across the table and spoke as quietly as he could while still being heard. “I’ve been a good soldier here. You guys wanted to change my face? Fine. Change my face. You want me to read five hundred books on Judaism? Fine, I’ll read the books. You want me to take tests? Write essays? No problem. Give me a number 2 pencil. You want to coop me up in solitary confinement in that house with that half-wit Slim Joe for six months, I grin and make it through. Now, either someone tells me what the plan is, or I bounce. And when I bounce, people get hurt. That’s all I’m saying.”
No one said anything for a moment, so David sat back, took a bite of his bagel, and chewed it angrily, or what he presumed Rabbi Kales and Bennie would see as anger, though really he chewed it with relief for finally speaking his mind (plus he could finally chew with actual purpose, which was a nice surprise). Whether or not he’d made the wrong play was a slight concern.
Both Bennie and Rabbi Kales seemed surprised, neither of them used to getting told what was what, but if there was one thing he’d learned in his life, it was that as soon as you let someone else dictate the terms of your survival, you are a dead man. That’s why even though he’d been part of the Family all these years, he still worked freelance and didn’t concern himself with whether or not someone got pissed about not getting a pinch of his take. If they wanted a bite, they could try to come and take it.
“Tell me something, David,” Rabbi Kales said, his voice perfectly calm, his whole demeanor at ease. “Do you understand what you’ve read, or do you just memorize?”
“I get what I get,” David said. “Some things, they just seem like weird stories that someone came up with after a meth run.”
Rabbi Kales took a bite of his breakfast — lox and onions, neither of which appealed to David, at least not in their raw form, seemed to be popular in the place, David noticing half the octogenarians had big slabs of the pink fish on their plates — and chewed for a few moments, his eyes still on David, everything about him placid. “Give me an example,” Rabbi Kales said.
This was all getting too strange. David had essentially threatened to kill both of the men sitting across from him, but neither seemed to take any offense. Back home, someone would already be dead. Nothing was the same in Las Vegas, not even the deli they were sitting in, which was like someone had cut and pasted a Chicago deli into the middle of the desert. Even David: sitting in a booth in a thousand-dollar suit making threats he didn’t even know how to make good on anymore. And now he was getting quizzed on sacred religious texts, as if he were a normal person, not someone who’d put, what, fifty people into the ground? Maybe more like seventy-five. Shit, maybe one hundred. He’d never kept count, had never tried, really, but he could see each of them. Remember all the details. Because that’s what he did. He kept that on file in his head, ready to be accessed at any time. It was his risk-management plan, knowing that the softest part of the windpipe is actually down by the clavicle, and that if you want to be humane, you press on the carotid artery for about thirty seconds and the guy will pass out first, and then you can break his windpipe without much struggle. But what was he gonna do now? Reach across the table and stab a rabbi in the throat with a butter knife? Suffocate him with his bagel and schmeer? And then kill a couple dozen senior citizens on his way out the door?
“Well,” David said after some more thought, “that Ezekiel is a piece of work. The Orthodox drop his vision of the Valley of Dry Bones into half their writings. I mean, that guy was a complete whack job of the first order, and yet every other book I’ve got in the car talks about him like he’s this creature of the divine. My opinion? He’s got dementia or schizophrenia. Not a level guy in the least.”
Rabbi Kales tried to stifle a smile, but it didn’t work. “Well,” he said, “you’re lucky that Temple Beth Israel is Reform. You won’t have to deal with much of that sort of thing.” He took another bite of his lox and onions, took a sip of tea, wiped the corners of his mouth with his napkin, which somehow made him look elegant, and then sighed. “You see these people in here, David?”
“Yeah, I see them,” David said.
“Do you know why they are all here?”
“I don’t know,” David said. “The bagels aren’t bad.”
“They’re here because it’s their community,” he said. “This is not the best food in the city. It’s not even the best bagel, you should know. But this deli stands for who they are, their traditions. This food I’m eating? It’s a connection to my father. In 1919, as a little boy, he was smuggled out of Russia, Ukraine, to be accurate, across the Black Sea to Romania inside a bag of potatoes, with his own baby brother in the bag beside him, dying. Can you imagine what that must have been like?”
“I’ve got some idea,” David said.
“You have no idea,” Rabbi Kales said, “because you’ve never been pursued for being born, for what exists spiritually and metaphorically in you. But all of these people here? They have the same ancestral stories, or, many of them have worse stories. The books you have? They have the same books. The food you’re eating? They have the same food. Ezekiel may seem to you to be insane, and maybe he was. But for everyone here, whether they know it or not, he is a witness to both the beginning and the end, and that is at least worthy of some respect. Sitting here, just to have a simple meal, is a connection to a collective history, much of it born out of misery that had nothing to do with any of them directly. You, you’ve had to accept the consequences of your horrible choices.”
“If you’ll pardon me,” David said, though he made sure he kept his voice down, “what about your horrible choices, Rabbi?” David knew enough about Jewish history through his reading to know that what Rabbi Kales said was absolutely true, but that didn’t mean he wanted the lecture, nor the sanctimony. “You’re sitting here, too, and you’re sitting with me and with Bennie, not your, uh, what is that word? Mish something or other.”
“Mishpocha,” Bennie said. “That’s the word you’re looking for.”
“Right,” David said. . and he suddenly felt undercut by Bennie, who, as it turned out, actually was Rabbi Kales’s mishpocha, at least through marriage. “That.”
“Your people shall be my people,” Rabbi Kales said. “I’m sure you’re familiar with that?”
Truth was, Jennifer had a framed print of that passage from Ruth in their bedroom, right under a photo of them on their wedding day, May 5, 1988. The memory of this suddenly paralyzed David, the realization — one he’d had several times — being that he was beginning to forget details of her face already. Not how she looked, but specific lines and moles and dashes of pigment, and how they both looked in that picture. He couldn’t conjure his own face anymore, either. And then a new level of sadness ran through him: He’d missed their ten-year anniversary. Rabbi Kales was right, that was the problem: This was all a consequence of his own profound mistake.
“You feeling okay?” Bennie said.
“I, uh,” David began, but he couldn’t say anything. All the tables surrounding them were filled not just with old people. . not just old Jews. . but old men and women, together. Staring at each other across their meals, kibitzing about their lives, their pasts, just the minutia of everyday existence. Couples. Old married people.