version of the Hebrew Bible are called the Apocrypha, the hidden or secret books.'
'Your father was a rabbi?' asked Rabbi Nathanson.
'My father was a Methodist minister in Dayton, Ohio,' said Todd.
Rabbi Nathanson, truly perplexed, looked to Lieberman for explanation and, finding none, said, 'Lieberman, I must press you for a decision.'
'Saint Bernards drool a lot. Even in movies. Can I have some ice cream?' Melisa said.
'Yes,' said Lieberman.
'I'll get some too,' said Barry.
Melisa and Barry hugged their father and hurried into the kitchen, closing the door behind them.
Todd made no move to leave, so Lieberman said, 'Todd and I have some things to discuss. So…'
'Open ye the gates, that the righteous nation that keepeth faithfulness may enter in,' said Rabbi Nathanson.
'Isaiah,' said Todd. 'Houses clear in their right are given children in all loveliness.'
'Numbers?' tried an obviously challenged Rabbi Nathanson.
'Aeschylus,' said Todd. 'Agamemnon.'
'Rov,' said Lieberman, 'I think you've been outquoted.'
'Ira, let's go home,' Mrs. Nathanson said, rising and moving around the table to touch the arm of her husband, who was desperately searching his memory for a quote- Maimonides, Eleazar, the Talmud, Franklin Roosevelt. Nothing came. He rose, and his wife reached up to button his coat.
'We'll talk tomorrow,' Rabbi Nathanson said as his wife led him to the door.
Lieberman followed, moving past Todd. He opened the door and ushered the Nathansons out into the drizzle. The tall, gangly rabbi stepped down the concrete steps, and his wife turned to whisper quickly to Lieberman.
'I'm so sorry. Ira has been… distraught.'
'Leah,' the rabbi called, moving down the narrow cement path toward the street.
Mrs. Nathanson turned and hurried to join her husband as gentle thunder echoed far away. Lieberman closed the door and turned back to Todd Cresswell, who was still facing the dining room.
'I was in the bath, Todd,' Lieberman said, moving into the dining room to face his son-in-law.
'I'm sorry,' Todd said. 'Abe, I'm… I'm agreeing to the divorce.'
Lieberman shook his head. Beyond the closed kitchen door Barry and Melisa were arguing about something.
'This doesn't surprise me,' Lieberman said.
'I didn't think it would. By nature all men are shy and…'
'No,' Lieberman said, holding up both hands. 'No Sophocles.'
'I was going to quote Euripides.'
'No Greeks,' said Lieberman. 'I'm having a long night You want to marry…?'
'Faye,' Todd said softly, glancing at the kitchen door. 'Yes.'
Lieberman nodded. He had met Faye Cunningham once when Todd had picked up the kids for a weekend. She was, as Lieberman remembered, a good-looking dark woman with an honest smile and large teeth. She was definitely older than Todd, and though Lieberman had been prepared to dislike her, he had found her pleasant and obviously in love with Todd.
'Abe, Lisa and I are too much alike,' Todd said.
'I know,' Abe agreed. 'It's a curse. It doesn't work if you're too much alike or too different from each other. The answer is somewhere in between.'
'You're joking,' said Todd, adjusting his glasses. 'I'm serious.'
'I'm dripping. You're serious.'
The kitchen door flew open.
Barry was holding a plastic bottle of Hershey's chocolate syrup over his head. Melisa was trying to reach it.
'Mom says she shouldn't have chocolate at night,' Bany said. 'It makes her wild and abstract.'
'Grandpa,' Melisa pleaded. 'The ice cream needs chocolate sauce. It's vanilla.'
'A little chocolate sauce, Barry,' Lieberman said. 'Vanilla ice cream without chocolate sauce is a tragedy.'
'OK,' said Barry, handing his sister the bottle. 'It's your call, but if she goes nuts, you tell Mom.'
'I'll tell your mother,' Lieberman agreed and the two children disappeared into the kitchen.
'They acted as if I were already gone,' said Todd, adjusting his glasses.
'I like Faye,' said Lieberman.
'Lisa and I are both tragedy,' said Todd. 'You understand? Faye is comedy.'
'I understand,' said Lieberman.
Lieberman had admitted it to no one but himself that Todd was, indeed, better off without Lisa. Though she was his own daughter, there was an air of martyred despair and seriousness about her that definitely came from generations lost in antiquity and the farmlands north of Kiev from which both Lieberman's and Bess's grandparents had come.
'Then you'll…?'
'Talk to Lisa, yes,' Lieberman agreed.
'And then I'll talk to her. I promise,' said Todd, allowing himself to be ushered toward the door.
'I believe you,' said Lieberman, opening the front door.
'Remember, Abe, it was Lisa who wanted some freedom, who walked out with the kids.'
'I absolve you, Todd. Go forth into the world and live a life of goodwill and self-fulfillment.'
'Abe, don't-' he began, opening the front door.
'I'm sorry, Todd. I'm tired. I'm hungry for a dozen Ritz crackers covered with chopped liver. I want to shave in a hot tub and do a crossword puzzle. I want 'The Henry Morgan Show' to return to radio. I want a new stomach, new knees, and everything to be the way it was in 1958. Is that too much to ask?'
'It can't be,' said Todd.
'I know. Good night. I'll talk to Lisa.'
Todd nodded, adjusted his glasses, plunged his hands into the pockets of his denim jacket, and hurried into the night. It was raining harder now.
He found them at the kitchen table working on white icecream mountains covered with syrupy chocolate. Abe Lieberman longed to join them.
'Can I count on you two to clean up and go to bed reasonably clean?'
'Can we watch television for an hour?' Melisa said, her nose dotted with chocolate. 'I have no trouble waking up in the morning. You know that.'
Barry looked at the ceiling, making it clear that he would not join this debate.
'One hour,' Lieberman agreed. 'You both watch the same thing. Upstairs. In bed. No fights. You hear your mother and the lights go out before she catches you. Deal?'
'Deal,' Melisa said.
'She'll tell,' said Barry.
'I won't,' Melisa insisted, jabbing her spoon into the softening mound of ice cream and chocolate.
'We'll see,' said Barry, looking exactly like his father.
'I'm getting back in my bath. Good night,' said Lieberman.
'Don't see Beethoven's Second, Grandpa,' Melisa said as he went out the door. 'It sucks.'
There were lights on in the Rozier house-not a lot of lights, but enough to suggest that the grieving Harvey Rozier was not swooning in bed a few minutes before ten.
There were no private security men on the door.
Hanrahan knew why he didn't like Rozier. The man was arrogant and his grief a fraud. That didn't make him guilty of killing his wife or hiring someone to do it. Many unlik-able people are innocent just as many a murderer is a decent individual. Still, Bill Hanrahan did not like Harvey Rozier.
He rang (he bell. A chime echoed. Pause. He rang again and heard footsteps coming down the stairs. Then the door opened and Harvey Rozier, barefoot, in pale jeans and a red Chicago Bulls sweatshirt, was glaring at the policeman at his door.
