Art Hellyer was joyfully announcing the next string of oldies on the radio as Lieberman turned the corner on Birchwood and drove around the back into the alley.
The rain had stopped, and there was a heavy, cold Chicago spring chill as Lieberman got out of the car, found the right key on his chain, and opened the garage. The garage door had ceased subservient cooperation more than a decade ago. It grew more reluctant with each opening. Weary from Chicago heat, cold, and rain, it simply wanted to be left alone. Normally Lieberman honored that wish, but there were a few nights, like tonight, when it was either park two or three blocks away or try to wake the dying door. Lieberman struggled, pulled, heard the impatient humming of his car engine behind him. Trying to lift with his knees and protect his back, Lieberman coaxed and pampered as the door reluctantly began to slide upward with a rusty squeal.
No more, Lieberman decided. He would not park in the garage again. He would fill the garage with junk from the closets. It was either that or fix the door, a challenge he did not even give serious consideration.
It was late, later than he liked, a little after eight. A little talk with the kids before they went to bed, some contentious banter with his daughter, something to eat-but what? — and then to the bedroom with Bess if he didn't get a call.
Abe opened the porch door, crossed the few feet to the back door. He heard the loud, confident baritone voice the instant he opened the door. The voice sounded familiar. Abe kicked off his shoes and placed them on the sheet of newspaper laid out next to the door. The aroma of cooking brisket filled the room. I'm undone, Lieberman thought.
'No doubt, none whatsoever,' the man's voice pontificated from beyond the closed kitchen door.
'Well…' Bess answered.
Abe had crossed the kitchen, opened the door, and met his wife's eyes. She and the man were seated at the dining room table.
Bess was five years younger than Abe Lieberman. On a bad day she looked fifteen years younger. On a good day she looked like his daughter. She was Abe's height, dark, and slender. Not a classic beauty but a Lady, a lady with a capital L. She wore her curly dark hair short and she had the most beautiful and distinctive soft voice Lieberman had ever heard. Bess's father had been a butcher on the South Side, but Bess, now the president of Temple Mir Shavot, carried herself as if she had come from generations of successful bankers.
'Oh, Abe,' she said looking up at him. 'I was hoping you'd be home. You know Rabbi Nathanson?'
There was something in Bess's voice that made it clear she needed support or rescue.
Rabbi Ira Nathanson of Temple B'nai Shalom, south of Devon, rose and held out his right hand. In his left hand was an envelope. Rabbi Nathanson was a tall man, four or five years younger than Lieberman. His shoulders sagged and his dark face and heavily bagged eyes had given him the nickname among the children of Rabbi Camel. The rabbi was wearing a dark suit and tie and a grave look.
'We've met,' Lieberman said, taking the rabbi's large hand in a firm shake. 'Three years ago. Member of your congregation, Isadore Green. Missing person.'
'Ah,' said Rabbi Nathanson, standing back and shaking his head with his hands folded in front of him. 'Never found. May the Lord have taken him to his bosom.'
'Amen,' said Abe, looking at Bess for guidance. It had been Lieberman's conclusion that Isadore Green had simply run away and was probably alive and well in Gallup, New Mexico, or some point even farther west.
Bess shrugged.
'Coffee, Abe?' she said. 'More coffee, Rabbi?'
'Later,' said Lieberman, joining them at the table. 'Where are Lisa and the kids?'
'Todd took the kids to a movie, Die Hard 3 or 4 or something. Lisa's working late.'
Alone at last, Lieberman thought, loosening his tie and looking at Rabbi Nathanson, who had nodded to indicate that more coffee would be welcome. Bess moved toward the kitchen.
Nathanson opened his mouth to speak but Abe stopped him with, 'I'll be right back,' and headed for his and Bess's bedroom.
In the bedroom, as he did whenever he came home, Lieberman opened the drawer of the night table on his side of the bed, using the key he always wore around his neck.
He put his.38 and holster into the drawer, closed it, and locked it with the key, checking to be sure the drawer was indeed locked. Then he returned to the dining room and the waiting visitor.
'Let me explain,' said the rabbi, folding his hands on the table, 'as I did with your wife, who, I would like to add, is doing a monumental job as president of Mir Shavot during the move to the new synagogue. Monumental.'
'Thank you,' said Lieberman, also folding his hands on the table.
Bess came back with the coffee pot and poured more in the rabbi's cup. The rabbi nodded in appreciation and returned his steady eyes to Abe's face.
'Rabbi Wass, your rabbi, indicated in conversation that you were planning to move, to be closer to the new synagogue site,' the rabbi said in a near whisper, as if this were very confidential information.
' 'Planning' is a little strong, Rov,' Lieberman said, looking at Bess across the table. She shrugged to indicate she had nothing to do with spreading such a rumor.
'Well,' Nathanson said, 'it may come as no surprise to you that congregation B'nai Shalom is seriously considering a move to this neighborhood to serve the older Jewish community, those who cannot easily move to the north with you, and to serve the young Russian immigrants who are coming to this area in ever-growing numbers.'
It was not Lieberman's place or desire to contradict the rabbi, at least not till the man came to the point. Rabbi Camel had the reputation of delivering meandering sermons in which the point came late and was usually missed by the congregation. The older Jews in Lieberman's neighborhood were dying off, moving in with their children in the suburbs, or lounging in Florida high-rises if they could afford it. Some Russian immigrants were moving in, but the vast majority of those moving in were Asians and Indians and a few upwardly mobile Hispanics. The neighborhood change was the primary reason Temple Mir Shavot was moving thirty blocks north.
'We may build,' Nathanson said, holding up one hand and then the other, 'or we may buy a suitable edifice. It is unfortunate that the building you are abandoning has been sold to Chinese Christians.'
'Korean,' Bess corrected.
The Koreans, Lieberman knew, had made the best offer and Bess, Rabbi Wass, and the building committee had decided that the Korean Baptist Church and its leader Reverend Kim Park were conservative, honorable, and far better than the only other offer that they had received, from Kenehay Exporters, a group that Lieberman labeled after one phone call as being engaged in 'dubious' enterprises.
'My wife…' Nathanson went on.
Lieberman pointedly looked at his watch. Bess frowned at her husband's manners and Rabbi Nathanson seemed not to have noticed. He was launched. There was no stopping him.
'My wife, Leah, and I have sold our house. The children, Larry and Rachel, are off at college. Rachel is at Brandeis. Larry is finishing dental school, University of California.'
'That's wonderful,' said Bess. 'Isn't it, Abe?'
'A blessing,' said Abe.
'Expensive,' sighed the rabbi. 'But for your children…'
'You make sacrifices,' Bess concluded.
'So you sold your house,' Lieberman prompted.
'Sold our house, where we had loved, nurtured, and raised a family,' the rabbi went on. 'Sold and moved into a condominium.' 'That's nice,' said Bess.
'We hate it,' Rabbi Nathanson said forlornly. 'No history, no character. We hung our paintings-you've heard of the priceless painting of the Torah we have, the one done by Hammasha of Jerusalem?'
He looked at Bess and Lieberman, who nodded slightly, neither knowing about this famous artwork.
'Well, it does not hang well in the apartment,' he said sadly. 'A cold museum no matter what effort my poor Leah puts into it. But this house…' He looked around the dining room and into the living room. 'This house has a history, a family, the aura, if you win, of Jewish culture.'
Lieberman nodded knowingly, sure that the aura was in part a failure to invest in new furniture for more than fifteen years plus the brisket simmering in the kitchen.
'Thank you,' said Bess. 'You sure you don't want coffee, Abe?'
