The Laws of Gravity (25 page)

A red bird landed on a feeder a few feet from the big window, and both men watched it for a moment.

“I’m sorry about all this, Sol, because I know you’re a good man and you’ve worked hard all these years, even if you don’t always keep up with the yard work. I hope you don’t feel like I’ve been bragging. I’d just as soon you keep this whole kidney donation thing under your hat.”

“Of course.” Sol pushed back his chair and stood up. “Well, thanks for the delicious cake—and the chat,” he said. “I’ll try to do a little better with the leaves, come spring.”

“That father—the cousin of the sick woman—he’s the one I feel sorry for. Talk about being stuck.” He mimed sitting helpless behind a steering wheel.

It occurred to the judge on his way out the door that he had been fighting traffic for the past forty years at least, and was more than a little weary of it himself.

The Last and Only Chance

The case was drawing to a close. Nothing new was showing up, or likely to. The plaintiff had trotted in the usual medical experts, and Nicole’s oncologist, wearing a bright purple tie, testified that the cord blood might do some good, might even be, in his words, “her last and only chance.” Sol watched the woman Nicole wince when he said this. She rested her thin, still-beautiful face in her hands as if it had no place else to go. The relentless stampede of witnesses for the defense had ebbed, and Sol thought the worst was behind them when Turock announced she had one last witness who wished to address the court, but they would need the judge’s permission to move on.

“And who might that be?” asked Sol.

“My son,” said Ari, who seldom spoke at all these days.

Nicole’s head came up.

“Since it is his cord blood, and he has an opinion on the subject, the least we can do is to let him speak,” added Turock.

“Does the boy want to address the court? Is this his own idea?” Sol asked.

“He says he does,” said Ari. “I have to believe him.”

“And his age is—”

“Eleven,” said Ari.

“Eleven. That’s very young.”

“He’s old enough to know his own mind,” Ari said stubbornly.

“And you,” Sol said, turning to Nicole. “You have a daughter, don’t you?”

She nodded.

“How old is the girl?”

“She’s eight.”

“Do you also want her to speak?”

“Absolutely not,” said Nicole. “That is the last thing I’d want, dragging her in here. No. No way.”

“Take it easy,” her lawyer said, putting his hand on her arm in a steadying way. “I promised we wouldn’t do anything of the kind.”

The judge turned to Turock. “You’re sure about the boy?”

She shrugged.

“We’re sure,” said Ari stubbornly. “Absolutely.”

“All right, then,” said the judge. “He can come in next week. He can speak to the court,
briefly
. But that will be a media blackout day. No press conferences, no leaks, no nothing.” He spoke directly to Turock. “Am I understood?”

“Loud and clear,” she said. She tugged at her short skirt, looking irritable. Perhaps she, too, was bored. Ready to win the case and move on to something more glamorous, more popular. Despite the efforts of the besotted Long Island reporter, the blood case had taken a toll on her reputation, tarnished a little of the pristine shine of her name. In future cases, Sol suspected, she would be making amends. Taking on the cause of some charity. Defending someone with no arms and no legs.

“All right, then,” he said. “Court adjourned until next week.” Out of habit, he lifted the gavel that was not even in his hand, and brought it down, which simply meant that he ended up slapping the side of his fist on the table, like Khrushchev.

“So,” said the rabbi. He was toting two giant shopping bags, made out of some woven material, the name of a local health food store printed in green on the front. Each bag seemed to pull him slightly off balance; he wobbled as he stood in the watery sunshine outside Abigail’s apartment. “How’s it going?”

They were in the midst of a February thaw. She and Rabbi Teddy Lewin were wearing matching rubber boots from L.L.Bean, Abigail noticed. Iris still rode in the front-rigged baby sack, but she was getting bigger, she sagged a little, and her booted little feet merrily kicked Abigail in the ribs. Sunlight was bright around them. A few foolhardy crocuses poked up their purple-and-white-striped heads.

Abigail gestured around at the sunshine, the snow disappearing into puddles. “The ice caps are probably melting thanks to global warming, but we, personally, are grateful for the warm weather.”

“I know what you mean,” he said. “Winter lasts twice as long as summer.”

“At least,” she agreed.

“So I see you’re not joining the bat-mitzvah group,” he said, shifting his weight again from foot to foot.

“With my mother, you mean? I just don’t have time.” She realized she was just standing there, apparently with all the time in the world. And didn’t her mother’s study group meet on Fridays, her day off? “I mean”—she
shifted Iris in her arms—“I honestly don’t have the focus right now. With Iris and all.”

“Bring her to Shabbat services,” he said. “Lots of children come. Babies, too. Nobody minds. It’s not that kind of congregation. It’s a nice way to end the week. We have cake and coffee right after.”

“It sounds nice,” she said.

Her voice and face must have looked wistful, because he said, “So come tonight. It starts at seven.” He put out his big hand and took Iris’s tiny, mittened one. “Iris, you are very welcome. Everyone has been anxious to meet you. Your grandmother speaks about nothing else.”

“All right,” said Abigail, convinced by Iris’s sudden wide toothless smile. “We’ll come.”

“Great!” he said heartily. “It’s a date.” Then he looked embarrassed. “I mean—it’s a deal.”

The judge and his wife were not at the Friday night services. But several of her mother’s cohorts recognized little Iris and rushed over to greet her afterward, to ooh and ahh over the baby and reproach Abigail for not having shown up at synagogue earlier.

Then they lined up, either for coffee and cake or to chat with the rabbi. The line to greet him was as long as the line for food—which meant he was extremely popular. There were several braided loaves of egg challah, with raisins and without. There was coffee cake and Danish, and juice for the little ones who ran around the room. Teddy made sure Abigail and Iris had something they liked to eat or drink, and then stayed by their side for the rest of the
oneg
. The congregants’ expressions went from amused to interested to something else entirely. Now they were scrutinizing Abigail, though they used Iris as a kind of prop, an excuse to draw nearer.

“How old did you say she was?” she was asked. “Which country? Have you had her converted yet? That’s very important, the conversion.”

“Happy to do it,” Teddy said. “It’s a simple ceremony—no trauma, no drowning, I promise.”

The group interrogation went on. “Where do you work? Where do you live? How old did you say you are?”

“I didn’t,” said Abigail, her father’s closemouthed child.

“Why don’t you join your mother in our bat-mitzvah group? Unless you’ve already been bat-mitzvahed?”

“As a matter of fact, I have,” Abigail said. “North Shore Synagogue.”

The elderly woman talking to her made a face. “North Shore,” she said contemptuously. “Ultrareform. But that must have been a long time ago. Now you can do it with intention, with full
ruach
.”

“Mm,” Abigail said noncommittally.

“Good girl,” the woman said, patting her hand and moving away. “And that Chinese baby daughter of yours looks like a doll. A real little China doll.”

She’s from Thailand
! Abigail wanted to call after her, but just then the rabbi closed his hand around her arm. She felt both irritated and grateful. She was a big girl, she could look after herself—which is what she nearly said when he offered to walk them home after services. It was dark, and bitter cold. He insisted. She demurred—then caught the look of disappointment on his face. He was only being kind.

“Fine,” she said. “If it’s really no trouble.”

“No trouble at all,” he said, his young-old face lighting up. “Just let me say my good-nights and grab my coat.”

“Take your time,” she said. “We’re in no hurry.” She walked up and down the synagogue halls, bouncing Iris gently in her front pouch. She did
not read Hebrew; the strange letters curled in red and gold. They strolled up and down, up and down, Iris blinking more sleepily.

The rabbi had pulled a navy wool watch cap on over his yarmulke, which made him look more like a college kid than a holy man. He wore a puffy blue down jacket that nearly matched hers.

“We dress a lot alike,” she said. “Have you noticed?”

He looked at the hem of her long dress, flowered and ruffled at the edges. “I don’t look as good in that dress as you do.”

At her front door—which in some sense was
his
door, she realized; the temple owned the whole apartment building—she invited him in for tea or coffee.

“Thank you,” he said. “I won’t stay long.” He took off his coat and wool cap—careful that his yarmulke was still in place—and hung them on the coatrack by the door. He hesitated, then untied and removed his boots as well, leaving them on the rubber mat.

She went down the hall to Iris’s little room, three of its walls painted pale pink, one a deep, vibrant rose. She slipped her sleeping daughter out of the carrier, changed her diaper, and put her into a fresh onesie, all without waking her. She came back to the kitchen with the monitor in her hand, sizzling static.

“Is that a walkie-talkie?” the rabbi asked. “I haven’t seen one of those in years.”

“It’s a monitor for the nursery. If Iris wakes up, I can hear her.”

“Right. Because she doesn’t have much to say on a walkie-talkie yet.”

“No, but I have a feeling she’s going to be a chatterbox.—Tea or coffee sound good?” she asked. “I can make hot chocolate, too.”

“I’ll have tea,” he said. “Herbal tea, if you have it. I don’t sleep well.”

“I can tell.”

He smiled ruefully. “I know. I look like a seventy-year-old man. Actually,” he added, “I’m only thirty-eight.”

“I’m thirty-two,” she said. “Which doesn’t feel very ‘only’ to me.”

He said, “Please don’t boil any water. Just hot water from the tap will be fine.”

She had taken the teakettle to the spring-water jug to fill it.

“Shabbos,” he said. “You’re not allowed to light the stove.”

She felt herself blushing. This was one of the hard parts of being a redhead—everything showed. “Right, sorry.—So. Why can’t you sleep?”

“Oh—the usual things. The past. The present, too, but mostly the past.” He waved, as if at invisible gnats. His broad shoulders slumped.

“How long ago did your wife pass away?” she asked.

He nodded. He looked away. “Actually,” he said. “I’m going to tell you something most people don’t know. My wife didn’t pass away. She left me four years ago.”

“Oh,” said Abigail.

“The wife of a rabbi—it’s almost a full-time job. And she already had a full-time job. Lawyer.”

“My father’s a judge,” Abigail said.

“So you understand the intensity, the long hours. And as the rabbi’s wife, you’re always expected to be
on
.—When I got hired here, the congregants misunderstood the situation, and I never corrected them. I think they prefer the idea of a widower to a divorcé, anyway. So when people ask me, ‘When did you lose your wife,’ I just say, ‘I lost her four years ago.’ Which is the truth. Jaidee knows the real story. The board of trustees, of course. But they like to keep things quiet.”

“I see,” Abigail said.

He traced his finger on the wood grain of her kitchen table. “When she and I met, I was a law student. Things took another turn. It was hard for her. My life is not wholly my own.”

“Whose is?” Abigail said. “At least you’re doing something useful with yours.”

“I don’t know about that—but thanks.” He looked straight into her eyes. “You manage to make me feel uplifted. I think it’s supposed to be the other way around. Do you always know the right thing to say? Or do you just know the right thing to say to me?”