Half the Blood of Brooklyn

– Axler, Axler, what did you do to the car?

– It’s nothing, it’s some Bondo.

– Look at it, it’s a cavern. It’s a crevasse. That dent, it’s an abyss in the fender. You can’t fill that with Bondo.

– You pull it out, you put some Bondo in there, you sand it and you primer it and paint it and it’s as good as new.

– What are you talking about, new? It’s not like new. It’s ruined. Look at it, look at it. How did this happen?

– We hit his van.-You hit his van? This is what comes of driving on Sabbath. Accidents. God’s judgment on you.

– It wasn’t God. We drove into him on purpose.-On purpose? You did this to my Cadillac on purpose?

– And I wasn’t driving. Rachel was driving. -Rachel drove the car? You steal my car and you give it to Rachel and you tell her to drive it into a van?

– I didn’t steal it.-Didn’t steal it? You call it what, when you don’t ask to take my car and you take it and you let someone else drive it and you wreck it? You call that borrowing?

– Ma, please.

The big old lady raises her hands, turns and walks into the house.

– Yes, of course, you have things to do. What business of mine is it what you do in my house or how you stole my car and what you did to smash it up? Do what you have to do.

Axler watches her with his hands on his hips.

– Fuck.

He kicks the crumpled fender of his mom’s car.

– Fuck.

He looks at me lying between the two cars on the concrete garage floor.

– Are you smiling at something?

I don’t say anything, my mouth still being gagged by leather straps.

He points.

– Get that off him.

Someone cuts the straps around my head.

I work my jaw, but I don’t bite anyone.

Axler looks at me again.

– I asked were you smiling at something?

I tongue a thick scab at the corner of my mouth.

– Naw, I wasn’t smiling at nothing.

– Good.

– Just kind of surprised.

He pushes his hat to the back of his head.

– About what?

I look at the door into the house where his mom disappeared.

– About how all those Jewish mothers jokes are so dead-on.

He starts kicking my face.

OK, figure talking about someone’s mama is never a good idea.

– Axler!

He stops kicking my face.

– Papa.

Through the blood in my eyes I see the man in shirtsleeves who has come out of the house, a wreath of dark curly hair around the bald spot not quite covered by his yarmulke, a book in his hand, index finger tucked between pages to mark his place.

He looks at me and Stretch on the floor. He looks at the blood-spattered young men shifting from foot to foot. He looks at the ruined fender of his wife’s car. He looks at his son and rubs his forehead with the back of his wrist.

Axler opens his mouth.

His father holds his hand out.

– No. Not now.

He points at Stretch and me.

– Cover their heads and bring them to the temple.

He looks at the fender again and shakes his head.

– Your mother’s car, of all things.

Harm is already in the temple in an ankle-length skirt, loose blouse and headscarf, sitting erect on a bench. Vendetta’s head is in her lap, the healing bones back inside her skin.

Across the aisle with the other men, I shake my head, trying to do something about the itch under the small circle of black felt they pinned to my hair.

I look at one of the young men that bracket me.

– Buddy, could you scratch my head?

He looks at his partner. His partner shrugs. He looks to the altar where Axler and his father stand in front of the arc, whispering.

– Rebbe?

Axler’s father turns.

– Yes?

– He wants me to scratch his head.

The Rebbe pats the top of his own head.

– A man with his hands tied has an itch on top of his head and asks you to scratch it for him. This needs a Rebbe to tell you what to do?

The kid raises his hand toward my head, hesitates, looks again at the Rebbe.

The Rebbe throws his arms up.

– Scratch. Scratch. Give the man some relief.

The kid scratches my head.

The Rebbe watches.

– You’re from Manhattan?

My head stops itching. I move it out from under the kid’s hand.

– Yeah.

Axler steps to his father and starts whispering again and his father waves him off.

– Axler, I’m talking to the man. Where in Manhattan?

– He’s from the Coalition.

The Rebbe looks at Stretch.

– Did I ask you?

– You don’t gotta ask me, I’m telling. I’m the only one in this room knows the guy’s story.

– Except the guy himself, of course.

Stretch snorts.

– Like he’s gonna tell you. Like the guy’s from the Coalition and he’s gonna tell you what he’s doing here.

The Rebbe comes down the aisle, stops next to my bench.

– The Coalition, is that right?

I don’t say anything.

– You didn’t hear the question?

I shift, try to find a way of sitting on the bench with my wrists and ankles bound that doesn’t make the hole in my thigh throb or my ribs grate or my face ache.