Flirting In Cars

  Zoë gritted her teeth, not sure what pissed her off more: that her father’s concept of religion meant that he still wouldn’t acknowledge her out-of-wedlock child, or that her mother visited Maya on the sly, instead of confronting her husband and saying, You’re in the wrong here, not me. “There are Jews everywhere,” said Zoë.

  Her mother made an impatient noise. “I mean our kind of Jews.”

  “I have no idea, Ema.” For Zoë’s parents, born in Iraq and raised in Israel, their kind of Jews were fellow members of the Bene Naharayim synagogue, who lived in houses that looked like theirs, both inside and out, listened to the same Middle Eastern singers, and vacationed in the same Miami hotels. When they visited their extended families in Israel, the Gorens would run into their Queens neighbors at the corner store, and laugh at the coincidence.

  Before the shame of her daughter conceiving out of wedlock, Rivka Goren had spent most of her time worrying that her eldest child would marry a Jew whose family came from Eastern Europe. Zoë’s mother concluded her ritual litany of regrets with what she considered her first mistake: allowing Zehava to attend Hunter instead of the religious girls’ yeshiva.

  “Ema,” said Zoë now, interrupting, “even if I’d gone to the yeshiva, I wasn’t going to marry a nice Iraqi boy. And can you really tell me you’d want me to be like Aviva? She won’t even eat in your house anymore.” Zoë’s younger sister, Aviva, had married an Israeli whose parents also came from Iraq, and the two of them had moved to Jerusalem and become deeply religious. Zoë wasn’t completely surprised. Her little sister had always been extremely nervous in any situation that did not have clearly defined rules, and Judaism, which was rife with commandments and injunctions, was the ideal refuge for an obsessive-compulsive.

  “I’m very proud of the life Aviva’s made for herself.”

  Zoë remembered how her old landlady had boasted to all her friends that she had an internationally renowned journalist living in her spare bedroom. “Ema, I know you’re incredibly proud that your younger daughter sits at home all day with six kids, but does it mean anything to you that I’m a working journalist? People pay me to read my analysis of what’s going on in the news.” Oh, God, thought Zoë, two minutes of talking with my mother and I start making petty comparisons with Aviva. What am I, thirteen? She started to apologize, but before she could begin, her mother heaved a deep sigh.

  “What do you want me to say, Zehava? That I’m proud of you, too?” Her mother paused. “You’re a very intelligent girl, but to be living on your own with a child, having to support yourself…it’s not what I would choose for a child of mine.”

  “Well, it’s what I’ve chosen for myself.”

  Her mother clucked her tongue in disapproval. “So you’re happy out there in the wilderness?”

  “Yes,” said Zoë, because to say anything else would be to admit defeat.

  “Then what can I do? I wish you a happy and a healthy new year.”

  “Thank you, Ema.”

  “There’s your father,” her mother said in a very different tone of voice, and then the connection went dead. Zoë imagined her father, tired from a long day of engraving Hebrew inscriptions, sad-eyed kittens, and images of Jerusalem’s Western Wall on glass and crystal awards, windows, and plaques. Benjamin would glance at Rivka, knowing that his wife had gone against his wishes and called their fallen daughter, but pretending ignorance. Zoë supposed it was a form of acceptance, a minor act of kindness.

  But he had barred his home to her, as if Maya were a contagious disease and not his own grandchild, and for that Zoë would never forgive him. And while her parents might have thought she’d abandoned her religion when she changed her name and left Queens, it was only after Maya’s birth that she’d stopped going to synagogue.

  Zoë slammed the phone down in its cradle, her heart pounding. She was damn well going to find a way to go shopping today, if only to ensure that while guilty Jews the world over refrained from taking food or water, she’d be washing down a bacon sandwich with a glass of milk.

  Eight

  T here are days, Mack thought, when a man is better off not getting out of bed. But there he was, standing in the doorway of the town diner, and now he had to walk in and sit himself down, even though his ex-girlfriend was sitting at a booth with Jim fucking Moroney. He made his way to the back of the diner the way he’d been taught to move through potentially hostile crowds in Iraq; relaxed arms, steady eyes, the barest trace of a smile and a nod.

  “Hello, Jim,” he said as he passed his boss. “Jess.” Moroney had the grace to look a little uncomfortable, his fleshy face brightening over his plaid shirt collar. Jess, on the other hand, gave him a strange little smile, as if she were enjoying his discomfort. Hell, maybe she was; Mack sure as shit couldn’t imagine why else a woman would be attracted to Jim Moroney. Not that the man was bad-looking, but his jaw was so flabby it looked like it was melting, and he had to be at least fifty, he’d been married at least twice before, and he had grown daughters, one of them the same age as Jess.

  At the counter, Deanna gave him a sympathetic smile as she poured him a cup of coffee. She’d been a friend of his sister’s, plump even in junior high, but fifteen years of serving all-you-can-eat Thursday-night buffets had turned Deanna borderline obese. She wasn’t self-conscious about her weight, though—she simply dressed her big body the way she decorated the diner, with cheerful bad taste. Today, she was wearing a long black-and-orange shirt under her apron, and her earrings were plastic orange jack-o’lanterns. “Need a menu, Mack?”

  “Nah, I got it memorized.”

  “Wish I could say the same for the new short-order cook. Hang on a sec, will you? I’ll be right back to take your order.” Deanna lifted the hinged section of the counter and turned sideways to maneuver herself through, setting her earrings to swinging wildly. “Jeez, I think this was wider yesterday.”

  With Deanna gone, Mack sat on his stool, his back itching from self-consciousness. Behind him, he could hear snippets of their conversation:

  Jess: So there’s definitely going to be a reassessment?

  Moroney: That’s the way it looks, I’m afraid.

  Jess: Aw, jeez, Jim, it’s getting so no one local can afford to live around here.

  Moroney: Well, now, don’t you worry. There’s some good money going to be coming in to Arcadia. We got some developers interested in building up a little shopping mall back of the post office—a restaurant, a gourmet market, even some clothing stores. There could be some nice job opportunities.

  Well, Mack thought, that explains all the interest in Moira’s horse farm. The conversation wasn’t what you’d call flirty, and Mack’s shoulders loosened a little. Maybe all Jess wanted was some tax advice from the town supervisor. The town diner wasn’t exactly a romantic setting, but it was the place where all the real political decisions got made. Moroney and his band of merry crooks might attend the monthly meetings at the town hall, but everyone knew they’d already voted in private, over Deanna’s early-bird special of meatloaf or pork chops, $6.99.

  Hell, they probably paid for the damn food out of the town budget.

  Deanna came around the counter, her cheeks flushed from hurrying from the back of the restaurant.

  “What can I get you?” She refilled his cup, then took a deep breath, pressing one hand to her chest as if she were a little winded.

  “I’ll have the corned beef and eggs.” Without thinking, he reached out and took Deanna’s fleshy wrist in his hand.

  “Hey, what’s all this about?”

  Mack smiled up at Deanna, his two fingers pressed to her pulse. “Making Jess jealous,” he said, glancing over at the wall clock.

  “You ask me, that girl’s an idiot if she’s choosing him over you.”

  Mack paused, calculating Deanna’s blood pressure. “Maybe I need my value reassessed.” He noticed that her wedding ring was cutting into her finger, and that her flesh was still white where he’d pressed into it. “How??
?re you doing these days?”

  “Busy. No time to be holding hands with a customer, even one as cute as you.”

  “Any chest pains? Pains in your left arm?”

  “No, Mack. Stop worrying, I’m not having a heart attack, I’m just a little out of shape.”

  “Look, it’s probably nothing, but you should know that women don’t always feel pain before a heart attack. Sometimes they just have some swelling in the feet and ankles, or dizziness and shortness of breath.”

  “Aw, terrific. Thanks for sharing that with me. No, you’re right, I guess I should get checked out.”

  Deanna cocked her head to one side, her jack-o’-lantern earrings swinging. “You know, I never would have expected you to become a medic. I thought you were all about machines.”

  “The body’s kind of a machine. Besides,” he admitted, “it was more of a rush. Blood and guts, fight the clock to get somebody stable enough to move.” Not the only reason he’d chosen the course, but one of them.

  “Okay, speedy boy, you about done now? I got customers waiting.”

  Mack pressed his hand closed over hers, keeping her with him. Her skin was clammy. “So you think it’s more than business?” He tilted his head to the side, indicating the booth where Jess and Moroney were sitting.

  Deanna took another deep breath, and this time, he could feel her pulse slow. “Oh, I don’t know, Mack. Probably not. I mean, look at them, they don’t exactly look like a couple, now, do they?”

  Maybe not, but in Mack’s experience, the less you liked an explanation, the likelier it was to be correct. “Just in case,” he said, “could you act like I just said something really charming and funny, and you find me incredibly attractive?”

  Deanna gave his hand a squeeze before sliding her fingers from his. “I’ll do that, right after I bring you your corned beef.” She disappeared off into the kitchen, and Mack took a sip of his coffee. On the wall was a mounted display of old Matchbox cars. He remembered that ambulance, a back loader with doors that really opened, and the little yellow Corvette. He wondered if he still had them somewhere, in a box, and where all his old childhood stuff would go if Moira sold the house.

  Behind him, Mack heard Jess laugh.

  Jess: Oh you do, do you?

  Moroney: Not as much as I used to.

  Jess: Well, would you do it with me?

  No way, thought Mack as he kept his eyes glued to the Matchbox cars on the wall. It’s just too obvious. She knows I’m listening, so she’s making it sound all suggestive, but really they’re talking about measuring her driveway or checking her property borders.

  He heard them standing up, both of them laughing now. Moroney had an irritating, nasal little laugh. “Bye, Deanna,” said Jess. “Mack.”

  He gave her a wave. Moroney came up behind him. “Hope this sits all right with you, Mack,” he said, lowering his voice. “You know me, I’m not a man to stab a friend in the back.”

  Well, shit. If it was an act, it sure had Moroney fooled. “I’m relieved to hear that. I’ll tell Pete, too, in case he starts worrying you might be after his girl. Course she’s pushing eighty, but what’s age but a number?”

  Moroney sighed. “Come on. It’s not like I snuck around and stole her from you.”

  “It’s not like you could,” Mack muttered into his coffee cup.

  “Mack, don’t be an asshole about this. If you’re an asshole, I’m not going to be able to keep you on the payroll.”

  Mack swiveled around on his stool so he was facing his boss. “Gee, thanks for spelling that out, Jim. Now I can really weigh my options—poor asshole or brownnoser with a job.”

  “For Christ’s sake, I’m trying to be adult about this.”

  Mack laughed, and it sounded unpleasant, even to himself. “Oh, I get it. You’re trying to be adult, and Jess can be the little girl?”

  The punch took him by surprise, which was stupid, really. He flew off the stool. His head hit the side of the counter going down, and for a moment, Mack saw a few spangly lights, just like in the cartoons. Who could have guessed the chubby bastard had it in him?

  “What the hell is going on here?” Deanna came out of the kitchen, carrying his corned beef and eggs. She looked at Mack, then over at Moroney. “Christ almighty, Jim, what did you go and do that for?”

  Moroney set his jaw. “He was asking for it.”

  “You sound like one of my kids. And you, Mack! What the hell do you think you’re doing, picking fights in here?”

  Mack struggled to sit up. “I’m all right, nobody rush to my side or anything. I’m fine.” He touched the side of his head. “A little bloody, maybe, but fine.”

  Jessica walked over to him and knelt down. He liked the way her hair looked today, all silky and smooth, but that bright blue sweater she had on really brought out the unfriendliness in her eyes.

  “I suppose you think I should be flattered by this.”

  “I’d settle for sympathetic. Or just disgusted by your current choice of boyfriend.” He touched the side of his head and winced. “Are you actually dating him, Jess? As in, removing clothing and getting sweaty?”

  She didn’t blink. “Remember when I said you were acting like you were seventeen, Mack?”

  “I think I recall it.”

  “This is what I’m talking about.” Jess stood up and walked over to Moroney.

  “Hey, I don’t know if you were watching, but he hit me.”

  Moroney turned to Jess. “I am genuinely sorry this had to play out like this. You know it was not my intention.”

  Jess put her hand on Moroney’s beefy shoulder. “I know.”

  Mack, who had finally gotten to his feet, made a disgusted noise. “By the way,” he said, raising his voice so it carried to the other side of the diner where Moroney and Jess were standing. “Just in case there’s any confusion about the matter, I quit.”

  “Fine with me,” said Moroney. “That way, I don’t have to pay you any unemployment.”

  “In that case, I don’t quit. I’m fired.”

  Moroney shook his head. “I wanted to cut you some slack, seeing as how we’re both army vets, but you just crossed the line, son.”

  “Both of us vets,” Mack began, the burn of anger back in his chest, like something he’d swallowed but couldn’t force down. But Deanna came up behind him before he could find out what he was going to say next, slapping an ice pack on the side of his face. “Ow,” he said. “What was that for?”

  “You want to pick another fight? Take it outside.”

  Mack dropped the ice pack on the counter. “What do you say, Moroney?”

  Moroney shook his head. “I don’t want to hurt you, Mack, but if you try to take this further, I will call the cops.” While Mack was digesting the unfairness of this threat, the older man opened the door for Jess. She turned and looked back over her shoulder.

  “Don’t expect me to feel sorry for you. You did this to yourself.”

  “That may be so, but at least I’m through kissing up to Jim Moroney.”

  Jess made an exasperated sound and flounced out. Moroney followed her, sending Mack a last, pitying look. “You just shot your own self in the foot, Mack.”

  Asshole. Mack sat back down on his stool as the door slammed shut behind them, the bell giving an incongruously cheery little jingle. He inspected the gash over his right eye in the mirrored surface of the napkin dispenser. It was probably going to leave a small scar, but he didn’t feel like the long drive to the emergency room to get stitches. Man, he could just imagine the ribbing he’d get.

  He glanced over at Deanna, who looked both pissed-off and worried. It seemed to Mack that he’d seen that expression on his sister’s face a few times. “You feel dizzy? Sick?”

  He shook his head, then wished he hadn’t. Ouch.

  “Well, you should. You realize you’re out of a job, right?”

  “I did notice that, yes.”

  Deanna sighed. “And was it worth it? Just to get your tw
o cents in? It’s not like you scored any points with Jess.” She paused. “Mack? Hello? You’re not even listening to me, are you?”

  He looked up. “Sure I am.”

  “Well, fine, then.” She poured him a fresh cup of coffee.

  Mack took the coffee cup in his hands. “You know what burns me, Deanna? All this ‘we’re both war vets’ shit. Guys that talk like that? They’ve never seen any real action.” Mack dropped his voice an octave. “ ‘Yes, Mack, I was a manly man in the army, with other manly men.’ But you know what? Mortar comes down, it flattens the manly and the not so manly, and you can’t really tell which guts belonged to the brave infantry guy and which slipped out of the pretty-boy reporter. And you know what? Maybe you wind up flat on your ass from the blast, and the soldier who drags you to safety is a little eighteen-year-old farm girl from the Midwest.”

  Deanna made an exasperated sound. “That’s enough of that, Mack.” She pointed at a table with three little blue-haired ladies. “Do you really think they need to hear all this?”

  Mack felt his face heat up. “Sorry about that, ladies.”

  “That’s all right, son,” said the blue hair on the left. “This is the most interesting breakfast we’ve had since Nancy here announced that her grandchild was black and that we had to get used to it.”

  “I still don’t think it’s right, girls fighting in the army and getting themselves killed,” said the little old lady with tight white curls.

  The smallest little old lady banged her fist on the table. “Well, then, I’m not sure it’s right for boys, either.”

  Deanna looked sideways at Mack. “If they get to breaking things,” she said, “I’m putting it on your bill.”

  Nine

  A fter making one last call to Betsy’s Friendly Taxi Service and learning that Betsy had just gone into a nursing home, it took Zoë over an hour to find a cab that would take her into town. The first two companies were based forty minutes away in the city of Poughkeepsie, and the third in the equally distant city of Kingston, and were booked all day. The fourth car service was located in the nearby town of Rhinebeck, but the driver said he was heading into the city to do an airport run. He suggested planning her trips to town at least twenty-four hours ahead.