“Hush!” says the woman. “Go play with your sister.”
Shaindy makes a dramatic and ugly whining noise, but seems to know she has tried her mother’s patience as far as she should, so she takes her sister’s hand and lumbers toward the bin of toys.
“They’re very cute,” I say.
“Thank you,” she says, smiling at the compliment. “Some days I think so, too. You are a friend of Pessie’s?”
“No. I’m actually a reporter from the New York Tribune.”
“You wrote the article? Everybody is talking about it!”
“Oh?” I say. “Did you know her well?”
“Yes, of course! We live next door. Levi thinks someone killed her?”
“He’s not sure. But he wants the police to look into it.”
“Her sister Rachel said it was a horrible accident. She slipped in the shower! My husband said they should sue the landlord. These apartments are very bad. But that is not true?”
“I don’t know for sure,” I say. “Did you happen to be here that day?”
“Yes,” she says. “The girls both had the flu.”
“Do you remember anything odd? Like, a car or a truck you hadn’t seen before?”
“I did see a truck, yes. I came out from the bathroom and when I walked past the front window I saw them circle at the end here and then drive off.”
“Them?”
“Two men. Goyim.”
“Did you recognize them?”
She shakes her head. “They were from the heating company, I thought. Everyone is having trouble with the heat. The basements are flooding all the time when it rains. Pessie complained that the landlord kept sending people who told her nothing was wrong, even though she knew something was wrong. I thought maybe she called someone outside the community to fix it.”
“Was there a decal or a sign on the truck?”
“I don’t remember seeing one, but there could have been. I was running back and forth from the kitchen to their bedroom all day. You have children?” I shake my head. At least she didn’t ask if I was Jewish. “They were very sick.”
“Do you remember anything else about he truck? The color? One of your neighbors got the license plate number. I guess she thought it was suspicious.”
“Yes? Who? Mrs. Silver? She thinks everything is suspicious.”
“Where does Mrs. Silver live?”
The woman points to the apartment above Pessie’s. “Pessie and I, we are a little more modern. Mrs. Silver wouldn’t let a goy rake her lawn. She thinks everyone outside the community is a thief or a rapist. Her children are grown now and they don’t see her.”
“Maybe I’ll knock on her door and see if she’s home.”
“I don’t see her car.”
“Is there anything you can tell me about Pessie? What was she like? You said she was a little more modern?”
“Pessie was very smart. Most of the women in Roseville just follow what their husbands say, but Pessie did things her own way. And you know what I liked about her? She did not gossip. The women here, they talk talk talk talk. Always talking. But not Pessie. Some people said she thought she was better than everybody, but I don’t think so. She did not need to be Miss Popular. If she had something to say, she’d say it. But she didn’t just go on and on like some people. I think she struggled.”
“Struggled?” I ask, scribbling as fast as I can: most wom rose follow husb say, but P things own way. didn’t gossip. mos wom talktalk; not need miss pop; if had some to say say it.
“She had been engaged before Levi,” says the woman, lowering her voice. “I don’t know the story, but I think the young man broke it off. There were lots of crazy stories. Like I said, talk talk talk. It must have been very hard for her. She asked me once, when she was pregnant, how long it took for me to love my husband. I told her that I knew I loved him when our Shaindy was born and he was so gentle with her. He kissed her little toes! She said she hoped that the same thing happened to her. She said she and Levi slept in different rooms, but she knew that when the baby came they would have to share because they only had two bedrooms.”
“That’s sad,” I say.
The woman shrugs. “Love is not everything. There are different kinds of love.”
“Do you know if she was still in touch with the ex-fiancé?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “I didn’t think it was right to ask.”
“I’ve been told his name was Sam Kagan. And that he left the community.”
“Could be,” she says. “My husband and I are not from Roseville. I grew up in Pennsylvania. Asher came here for his work in… Oh! You should go to Pessie’s work. Something happened there, a week or two before she died, I think. She didn’t want to talk about it but I heard there was a big scene.”
“Where did she work?”
“She did the books at the women’s clothing store in the shopping center. Go there.”
“I will,” I say. “I’m Rebekah, by the way. Can I ask your name?”
“I am Raisa. But I do not want to be in the newspaper.”
“Okay,” I say. “Could I just call you a neighbor?”
She considers this. “Don’t write about the bedrooms.”
“No,” I say. “Of course not. I just want to be able to give people a sense of who she was. You said she didn’t gossip. And that she did things her own way.”
“Yes,” she says. “That is fine. Have you spoken to Levi?”
“I have,” I say.
“Poor man,” she says. “Pessie said he was a very good husband. Very patient and understanding. What a shock it must have been to him! If you see him, please tell him we are thinking of him and Chaim.”
Raisa gathers the little girls and takes them inside. Once she closes the door, I climb the steps to the apartment above Pessie’s. I knock several times, but there is no answer. The blinds are closed in Pessie and Levi’s apartment, so I can’t even try to peek in. Before I leave, I snap a photo of the building with my phone. I don’t think I have enough for a follow-up yet, but just in case, I’ll have art.
The shopping center Pessie worked in looks like a typical big-box supermarket, until you get up close. Posted at all three entrances are big signs: PLEASE RESPECT OUR MODEST DRESS CODE: NO SHORTS, NO MIDRIFFS, NO BARE FEET. The old me would have gawked at this sign. I probably would have made a big show of taking a photo and posting it to Facebook with some snarky remark, maybe even gone back to my car and dug around for some sandals to walk in wearing, just to see what would happen, just to show all these strangers that their rules are sexist and stupid and that I’m better than them. But I don’t feel like doing that today. Let them have their dress code, I think.
The first floor of the center is a grocery store, and according to a sign just inside there is a women’s clothing store, a boys and girls clothing store, a wine and liquor store, a toy store, and a Judaica shop upstairs. A woman with a crooked wig and a walleye stands at the main entrance holding a plastic bag. The man walking in front of me drops a dollar in and she barely registers a response. Her gaze remains in middle distance. The grocery area appears bustling, but upstairs is quiet. I follow a long, wide corridor to the back where I see a sign that says LADIES LINGERIE. A bell rings when I walk in. The store is crowded with racks of long dresses: crushed velvet and rayon and sateen, mostly black and dark blue or green or purple, some with a lace overlay or a bow or smocking at the neck. High collars and long sleeves. Two women are deep in conversation as they stand between racks of seemingly identical black mid-length skirts. Both women wear scarves around their heads, their hair presumably tucked beneath. I find another woman in the lingerie section, which consists entirely of apparel in three colors: black, white, and flesh-toned. Long old-fashioned cotton nightgowns, girdles and shape-wear, nursing bras, and full-coverage panties.
“Excuse me,” I say to the woman, who is tagging boxes of panty hose. “My name is Rebekah. I’m a reporter for the New York Tribune. I was just speaking with one of Pessie Goldin’s neighbors and she told me that Pessie used to work here.”