“What happened? What, what happened?”
“Somebody came over here two days ago and put the hurt to Sol. This morning somebody broke in and choked Fanny till she was dead.”
“That’s terrible. My old friend. My old friends.” The little man took the opportunity to sit upon the bottom stair.
“Who are you?” I asked.
“Minor,” he said. “Zev Minor. I’m from Estonia. Like Sol and Fanny’s families.” He looked down at the floor and shook his head. Then he looked up and asked, “Could I have some water or something?”
“Yeah, come on.” I gave him my hand to help him stand and led him into the kitchen.
There was an unopened pint of peach schnapps in the spice cabinet. I poured a shot into the bottom of a water glass. Mr. Zev Minor took the glass gratefully. With both hands he poured the pink liquor down his throat. He closed his eyes against the burn and then opened them again to look at me.
“Excuse me,” he said, “but who are you?”
The right question at last.
I put the bottle down next to his glass and said, “My name’s Paris. I’m a friend’a the family’s. They asked me to come stay with Fanny after Sol got hurt.”
“But you say she’s dead?” Zev asked in a mildly accusatory tone. Again the right thing to say. “And where are Morris and Gella?”
“She’s with the police, helping them to find out what happened to Fanny after her husband dropped her off here,” I said, answering both his question and his accusation at the same time.
“Sol is alive though?”
“He got stabbed. He’s in the hospital.”
“Stabbed, choked,” Minor said, rolling his eyes from side to side. “This does not happen to good Jewish people. How can it happen?”
“I know what you mean. They were both good people as far as I knew them. Real people, you know? I mean if Fanny said it, then it was true, no lie to that.”
A light shone in Zev Minor’s eyes. A light that told me he knew what I meant. It brought us together in lamentation.
“I don’t understand. Why did they attack Sol?”
“I don’t know,” I said, only partway lying.
“Didn’t he say? Didn’t he tell you?”
“He was stabbed. Bad. Unconscious in his hospital bed.”
“Coma?”
“I don’t know about all that. His eyes are closed, at least that’s what Fanny said, and he ain’t talkin’.”
“I would like to see him,” Zev said. He took the bottle and poured another small shot. “Maybe I can do something.”
I saw no reason to keep Sol’s hospital a secret from a family friend. He was a mild old man who didn’t push or seem worried about hidden bonds. And so I felt bad when saying, “They had him at Temple, but then they said that he was transferred. I don’t know if it was because of his wound or for safety.”
Zev’s eyebrows knitted a fraction of an inch again. He stared at me long enough to ask himself a question and answer it, and then he nodded. He downed his drink and then stood up.
“If you see Morris, tell him to call me,” he said. “Tell Morris and Gella both how sorry I am. It’s so sad. It’s more than sad.”
He walked heavily toward the front door. I followed him, feeling guilty, like I had knocked somebody down and then kicked him for no good reason.
At the front door I said, “Mr. Minor.”
“Yes, Mr. Paris?” I could tell by his voice and his eyes that he was expecting me to give him a way to call Sol.
“Do you have a number I could give Gella and Morris?”
The expectations died in Zev Minor’s eyes, but he didn’t seem bitter.
“Morris knows my number by heart,” Minor said. “Don’t forget to tell him that I called and how sorry I am. Tell him that I
