The Ritual Bath

12

The total was more than Rina had expected, eight dollars over budget, but she carried an extra ten in another part of her wallet for emergencies like this one. She handed the crisp bill to the checker, who snapped it in her hands.

“Fresh off the press,” the woman said, placing it in the register.

Rina smiled, held out her hand for the change, then stuffed it in her purse hurriedly. Wheeling the shopping cart out of the market, she began the long walk back to her car. The lot was emptier now. When she’d arrived earlier in the morning, there hadn’t been a space on the paved area. She’d had to park in a dirt extension full of broken glass and hope that her tread-bare tires would remain intact. The shopping cart was hard to push; a wheel was stuck, and it was loaded down with bags of groceries. She gave the thing a hard shove and something kicked in.

She couldn’t understand how she’d run so afar from her budget. Maybe she was having more company for Shabbos than usual, or perhaps her boys and their friends were eating more. Certainly, her appetite had decreased ever since the mikvah incident. She’d lost four pounds, and her curves were beginning to angulate.

Stopping in back of her battered Volvo, she flipped open the trunk. It was full of junk: old sand toys that the boys hadn’t used for years, newspapers that had yellowed with age, torn paper bags, and an empty juice bottle. She pushed the trash aside and began to load the groceries, but upon hearing sharp footsteps, stopped abruptly and looked up.

There were four of them-punk kids. Teenagers with greasy long hair, glassy eyes, and wise guy smirks. They were dressed similarly-jeans, black T-shirts emblazoned with images of Satan, scuffed up Wellington boots. The one who approached her was of medium height and build, with a weak chin and blond fuzz for facial hair. She had seen him before but had always avoided direct confrontation. Now he was giving her a lecherous smile that showed yellow buckteeth. His left arm sported a tattoo of a knife in a heart, and from his right ear dangled a gold hoop. He pulled out a cigarette and offered her one.

“No, thank you,” she said quietly.

Her eyes scanned the area for signs of life. In the distance was a woman with two small children.

“Can I help you load those bags, Miss?” the kid said. “Miss Jewey. Miss Kike. Miss Kikeyikey?”

The other three started to giggle. Rina attempted to ignore them and go about her business, but the punk encircled her arm with grease-stained fingers and yanked her away from the open trunk. Still gripping her tightly, he pulled off the kerchief she was wearing and let out a hoarse laugh. His breath was strong and stale.

“You’re a cutey, little Miss Jew bitch. Those big blue eyes…Nice black kike hair…Where’s your purse, honey?”

He took the bag off her shoulder, but released her arm.

“Let’s see what you got in your goody bag,” he chuckled. “Oh, boys, will you look at this.”

He pulled out her two dollars.

His comrades hooted with delight.

“I don’t think a rich Jew bitch like you would mind makin’ us a little loan, would you? Plenty of bread where this came from. Just gotta spread those nice legs for that rich fucker husband of yours and your purse magically fills up, don’t it.”

She gave him a hard, impassive stare.

He stuffed the bills in his pants pocket.

“Lookie here. What do we got? We got pictures. These two tykes your little ones?”

She said nothing.

“More little kike tykes.” He clucked his tongue. “You fuckers are taking over the world, ain’t you? First you take our money, now you move in our town and act like you own the place…”

He pulled the photos out of the plastic sheaths, tore them into pieces, ate one, and scattered the rest.

“She got any Jew dope in there, Cory?” One of them asked the leader.

“Nah, you don’t want Jew dope. It’d make your nose hang down to your cock.”

The punks howled.

“What else you got, honey? You got a pen. A nice one. Gold. Only expensive shit for you Hebee Jebees, huh?”

His eyes scrunched up and he moved his lips as he read the inscription.

“To Rina.” He looked up at her. “With love from Yizjack?”

“You people have dumbshit names.” He tossed it to one of his friends. “How fucking sweet! Little Jackshit gave you a pen!”

He searched further and pulled out a small pocket prayer book.

“What the fuck is this? Looks like a secret code to me. You some commie spy, rich bitch Hebe lady?”

He took out a knife and began slicing the pages. Rina’s eyes became wet with fury.

One of the others peered into her shopping bag, pulled out a bottle of club soda and started shaking it rapidly.

“Hey, man, I’m kinda hot. Are you kinda hot, Cory?”

“Man, I’m real hot,” he snickered. “I’m hot to trot with Jew baby.”

“Hey, maybe this’ll cool you off.”

He unscrewed the top and let out a gush of carbonated water, drenching them all in the process. The boys doubled over in laughter, having so much fun that they decided to repeat the procedure. After they’d emptied all the bottles, they moved on to the other groceries. Cory, clearly the leader, threw each of his friends an egg.

“I’m hungry.” He grinned. “How ’bout you, honey? You want some scrambled eggs?”

He cracked open the shell and emptied the contents in her trunk. The others elected to throw theirs against the car.

Cory belched out loud, filling the air with rancid fumes.

“Hey,” he said, “I heard egg in the hair was real good for split ends.”

He cracked an egg on her head. She stood there frozen and let the goop ooze down her face and neck. She wiped yoke from her eyes and waited for the next assault, trying hard to retain details of what was happening.

“Don’t take it personal, honey.” He cracked an egg over his own head and the boys followed suit. “Is this what you people mean by an egghead?”

An older man strode up. He was in his middle fifties, but solidly built, and appeared to be in good shape.

“Why don’t you boys beat it?” he said fiercely.

“Why don’t you knock it off, you old fart, before you get your motherfucking skull bashed in?”

The man took a swing at the punk, but the boy easily ducked the punch. Rina tried to run away, but was grabbed by Cory. The other three pounced upon the man at the same time. She screamed and Cory cupped a dirty hand over her mouth.

“Don’t waste him,” Cory shouted, holding Rina tightly. He was incredibly strong. “Not yet anyway.”

He leaned his back against the car and pulled Rina to his stomach, grinding his pelvis against her rear. Nausea surged through her gut. Two of the boys grabbed the man, pulled him upright and managed to restrain the writhing figure in their arms. He let go with a bellow, turning red as he struggled futilely in the boys’ grips.

“You fucking asshole,” the boy said as he landed a punch on the man’s nose. Immediately, out poured bright red blood.

Rina cried out again, and the boy stuffed a filthy headband in her mouth. She gasped and started to gag.

“You be a good little bitch, and I’ll take it out.”

He pulled out the piece of cloth. She spat and screamed again.

A moment later they all heard sirens.

“Cops!” Cory yelled.

Rina took advantage of his diverted attention and stomped hard on his instep. As he yelped in pain, she spun around and knee dropped him. Cory recovered quickly, but not fast enough. Though his friends had managed to flee successfully, he found himself surrounded by patrol cars and cops. Overcome by panic, he pulled out a knife, grabbed Rina and brought the blade to her throat.

“Police officer! Freeze!” a cop shouted, pointing a gun. “Drop the knife! Drop it! Drop the knife! Drop it!”

Cory knew he was finished. He felt his bladder relax and a warm stream trickled down his leg. He obeyed, and the steel fell onto the asphalt, bounced, and landed with a clunk.

“Hit the ground,” the officer screamed at the top of his lungs. “Hit it! Hit the ground! Hit it! Hit it! Hit the ground!”

The boy fell to his knees, and three uniformed officers charged at once. They read him his rights while handcuffing him and kept the boy flat on the dirt, facedown, as they conferred in a huddle.

Rina watched the whole thing in a daze. Though her heart was thumping against her chest and her breathing was shallow, she felt tranquilized. The images were fuzzy around the edges, lines and angles indistinct.

A policeman walked over to her, tapped her gently on the shoulder, and she jumped.

“Are you in need of medical attention, ma’am?”

She stared at him. His lips moved, his eyes blinked, his chest heaved, but he wasn’t real. He was an automaton-an escapee from Disneyland.

“Huh?”

The robot repeated the question.

“I’m…I’m all right,” she stammered.

She turned around and saw the man with the bloodied nose deep in conversation with another officer. The policeman-robot with whom she was talking was young. Very young. Twenty at the most. His badge had a number. His name tag said “Folstrom.”

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Yes, I’m fine,” she said, trying to regain composure.

“Would you like to tell me what happened?”

The kid took out a pocket pad.

Not this again. Uh uh. No way. She wasn’t going to talk to this kid. She was sick of talking. She was sick of the police.

“I want to go home,” she announced.

“Ma’am, I realize that you’ve just experienced quite an ordeal, but we need to talk to you.”

“I don’t want to talk to you,” she said forcefully.

“Ma’am, we need your cooperation-”

“The hell with my cooperation!” she screamed hysterically. “I cooperated enough with you people over the last month, and it hasn’t helped with the noises outside, has it?”

The young officer looked at her quizzically.

“Forget it,” she snapped.

An older man walked over to them. He had a hard chiseled face and cold blue eyes. His tag identified him as Walsh.

“How are you feeling, ma’am?” he asked her in a mild voice.

“I don’t want to give a statement.” Her voice had become shrill. “I want to go home. Do you mind? I’ve been through enough. I want to go home.”

“Ma’am, why don’t you rest here a moment or two? Try to calm your nerves. Would you like something to drink?”

“No,” she answered quietly. “I want to go home.”

“What’s your name, ma’am?”

“Rina Lazarus. You can get the exact spelling from Detective Decker.”

“Peter Decker?” Walsh asked.

She nodded.

“You’re a friend of his?”

“Yes.”

Walsh took his junior partner aside. “Let’s call Decker and make it easy on ourselves. He’s working Juvey anyway. One more case won’t kill him, and he’ll be more likely to get something out of her than we will.”

Folstrom looked angry but didn’t say anything.

“Call up the station and find his unit number,” Walsh said. “I think it’s 16- 552.”

Folstrom complied but was steamed. Why didn’t Walsh give him a chance with the lady? He could have gotten the information. He could have handled her.

Walsh went back to Rina. “We’re calling up Detective Decker now. Would you like to wait and talk directly to him?”

She nodded wearily. “Can I sit in my car?”

“Go ahead. If you want anything, you might as well ask. You may be here for a while.”

She touched the crown of her head.

“I’d like my kerchief back,” she said.

“Did the kid use it in any way as a weapon against you? A gag, a whip, an object of strangulation-”

“He just pulled it off my head.”

“When?” the officer asked.

Rina looked at him. “I’ll tell Detective Decker. Can I have the kerchief?”

“What’s that garbage in your hair now?”

“An egg.”

“Boys do it?”

She nodded.

The policeman gave her a sympathetic look. “We may need the scarf as evidence. I’m sorry. Detective Decker should be here shortly.”

They still had Cory spread-eagled on the ground when the Plymouth pulled up. Decker got out, glanced at the punk, waved to Walsh, and went over to the Volvo. He knocked on the windshield, and Rina got out of the car. She took one look at his face and tears started to flow.

The hell with religion, he thought. He threw an arm around her shoulder protectively, and she sobbed against his chest. He hugged her tightly and stroked the back of her head, noticing it was wet and sticky.

“You’re all right, Rina,” he soothed her. When she had calmed down, he asked: “Did they physically hurt you in any way?”

“I’m fine.” She pulled away from him and wiped her eyes, amazed at how relieved she was to see him. “That one,” she said, pointing to Cory, “pulled a knife on me. But I didn’t get hurt.”

Her hand drifted to her neck.

Decker’s eyes clouded with fury.

“You’ve been through the wringer,” he said with feeling.

“Peter, I’d like to go home. The boys will be back from camp in less than twenty minutes.”

“Did you make a statement?”

She shook her head.

“Briefly tell me what happened. I’ll get an official statement from you later. All right?”

She nodded and related the incident as quickly as she could.

“Rina, we’re going to need the car and its contents for evidence. Eggs, empty bottles, the whole bit. This is going down as an assault with a deadly weapon and possibly an armed robbery, so I’d like photos and good detailed notes. I can have one of the patrolmen drive you home.”

“That’s fine.” She hesitated, then asked: “Do you need a photo of the egg in my hair?”

“Goddam assholes,” he muttered. “No, I saw it. I’ll record it. Look, don’t say anything about this to anyone at the yeshiva. At least keep it under wraps until I’ve talked to you officially. And it’ll be a while before I’ll make it over there. I’m swamped with work. It’s the heat. Brings out all the roaches. And for some reason, this week they’ve all been juveniles. The three of us have pulled so much overtime, we’re ready to camp out at the station.”

He took a long drag and blew out a wisp of smoke.

“I’m sorry, Peter.”

Her words rang in his ears, and he shook his head and laughed.

“Will you listen to me? You’ve been threatened with a knife, and I’m prattling on like some five-year-old brat. I’m the one who should be sorry.”

She gave him a reassuring nod.

“I’ll try to be at your place by nine,” he said.

“I’ll be at the mikvah by then.”

“Tell you what. I’ll pick you up there and walk you home.”

She knew what the others were going to think, but too bad. She told him to be there around ten-fifteen.

“How’s the new guard working out?” he asked.

“Fine.” She laughed shakily. “At the rate I’m going, I think I’ll hire her as my full-time bodyguard.”

Decker smiled, but he was beginning to think that that might not be a bad idea. He loaded her into a police car, and she rode away, thankful the kids hadn’t been there.

“Call a transport vehicle, Doug?” Decker asked Walsh.

“One should be here in about an hour. Must be a hell of a busy day.” He turned to his partner, Folstrom. “Chris, you know Pete?”

“I don’t think we’ve ever met.” The young cop extended his hand.

Decker shook it and regarded the rookie. “You’re the kid who tried to bust me for running a light,” he said.

Folstrom smiled back, but his cheeks had turned pink.

“Don’t worry about it.” Decker grinned. “The only people who drive like that are assholes and cops. And sometimes it’s mighty hard to tell the difference.”

“The girl’s from Jewtown?” Walsh asked.

Decker winced at the reference, which now seemed like a racial slur.

“Yeah.”

“Was she involved in the rape case over there?”

“As a witness, not as the victim.”

“You think there might be a connection?” Folstrom asked.

“Who knows?”

Decker related Rina’s version of the incident to the officers. When he was done, he asked: “You boys have any details to add?”

“Her side of the story jibes with the good Samaritan’s,” said Doug.

“Poor guy,” said Folstrom. “He saw the boys rousting the girl and tried to help out. All he got for his efforts was a bloody nose.”

“He’s fucking lucky that is all he got,” Walsh said.

“And the kid pulled a knife on her?” Decker asked.

Walsh nodded. “By the time our unit arrived, the other three punks had fled the scene, but this little prick had a knife at the girl’s throat.”

“Why didn’t he split with the others?” Decker asked.

“Seems the little gal from Jewtown had the presence of mind to kick him in the balls. It held him back, delaying his escape time considerably.”

Decker broke into full laughter. Good for Rina, he thought.

“She didn’t tell you that?” Folstrom asked.

“Must have slipped her mind,” Decker replied. He stared at the prone figure on the ground until he placed a name with the face. Cory Schmidt. A bad apple. He’d had a few minor dealings with the kid in the past-disturbing the peace, loitering, malicious mischief. The punk was preordained to fuck up big, and this time he had. He walked over to the boy and gently poked the kid’s side with the tip of his shoe.

“Hey, Cory,” Decker said. “What’s happening? Looks like you pissed in your pants.”

“Fuck off, Decker. I wanna lawyer.”

“I am a lawyer.”

“I mean a real lawyer. Not some goddam pig.”

“You’ll get a lawyer. You’ll get a lawyer and your parents, too. We’re going to make sure you’re well protected. Then all of us are going to sit in a little tiny room that’s hotter than hell and talk for a long time. Doesn’t that sound like a shit load of fun, Cory? Almost as good as getting blasted on snowflake.”

“Fuck you, dick.”

Decker resisted a very strong urge to kick him and went back to Walsh.

“I have an appointment with the phone company right now,” he said. “Some girl out there knows something about the Foothill rapes, and I’m going to catch her if she calls me again. Have Marge Dunn do the first relay without a lawyer and without the parents. See if we can wear the kid down. Break his confidence. Just delay the whole thing for an hour at the most. I don’t want to trample on Miranda, just lightly step on its toes.”

He took out a pocket-sized notebook and began to scribble furiously.

“I should be back around one. Make sure he has counsel by then, and try to get a parent down there. His parents are both unemployed alkies, so it may be hard to get them off their butts, but at least make an attempt to contact one of them. Don’t let the little prick slip out of out hands until I’ve talked with him.”

“Think he’s involved with the rape at Jewtown, Pete?” Walsh asked.

“I’m sure he’s one of the vandals. Don’t know about the rape.” He folded the top cover over his note pad and looked up. “But I’m going to find out.”