LITMIR.BIZ

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do, for dragging you into this mess.”

      Honey, the mess was created a long time ago, Decker thought. When a fifteen-year-old girl didn’t say no to her boyfriend—with either the sex or the marriage. Decker was never too sure which came first. Only that they must have had some love for each other because they ran off and eloped. Then, the good Rabbi and Rebbitzen Boretsky found their daughter and annulled the marriage. To rid themselves of any remaining evidence of the attachment, they sent Frieda off to Florida to have a baby …

      Decker said, “It won’t be so bad. I’ll go back to work and take time off at a later date. Maybe we’ll go to Hawaii—I know, we’ll even take the boys. Hire a sitter. Make them happy. Hotels have sitters—”

      “Peter, you’re rambling again.” Rina stood. “The family should be coming home any moment. Go upstairs, put on your pajamas, crawl into bed, and look sick.” She regarded his face. “You don’t even have to pretend, Peter. Go read and try to relax. I’ll bring you up dinner. Can you eat?”

      “Not at the moment,” Decker said. “But by all rights, I should be starved.”

      Rina walked over to the living-room window and pulled the drapes back. Families were filling the streets—men and women dressed in their finest clothes. Jewelry glittered from fingers, ears, and necks. “Services must have ended at some of the shuls. People are starting to head home. Go.”

      Decker went upstairs. He stopped midway and shouted down, “Maybe this is all for the better.”

      Rina agreed that it probably was. Decker knew she was placating him, but even so, her response made him feel a little better.

      A medley of voices said to Rina,

      I’m so sorry.

      Did you take his temperature?

      Can he eat?

      It must be jet lag.

      His work is so stressful.

      He should eat a little.

      Those planes are so crowded, everyone coughing into one air filtration system.

      Did you give him Tylenol?

      These flus come on so all of a sudden.

      Just a little soup.

      Rina parried the questions like an expert fencer.

      A minute later, Decker heard knocking on the door. Duo knocking. His stepsons, no doubt. But he asked who it was just to make sure. When they answered with their names, he told them to come in.

      They patted his cheek, held his hand, smoothed out the covers for him, asked if they could get him anything.

      He felt so damn guilty faking it. To make himself play the part with Strassbergian integrity, he thought about meeting Frieda Levine, meeting her parents, and his stomach legitimately churned.

      Sammy asked him if he’d gotten sick because he’d been obnoxious on the plane ride over. Decker assured him that was not the case. But the boy remained unconvinced. Sam was the elder of the two, hypermature and, like his mother, willing to tote the world’s problems on his back if he had a big enough knapsack. Decker kissed the boy’s sweaty cheek; to make him feel better, he told him to bring him up some tea. To make Jake feel equally useful, he told him to bring up some lemon and sugar.

      Jakey smiled: It was Rina’s smile. The kid was Rina’s clone. Sam had lighter hair, but was darker complexioned, looking like his dad. That must be hard on the Lazaruses, too.

      In a grave voice, Sammy suggested honey in his tea instead of sugar. Honey was more soothing, and after all, it was Rosh Hashanah. Honey was traditional fare for the holiday, symbolizing a sweet New Year.

      Decker said honey was a spiffy idea.

      After the boys were gone, he locked the door behind them, not wanting any uninvited guests.

      A moment later, the handle turned, a knock, and Rina said, “Peter, open the door.”

      “Yes, ma’am.”

      Rina came in. “Didn’t mean to sound like an army sergeant.”

      “You’ve been fielding those questions like a pro.”

      “Thanks.” She felt his forehead, then his cheeks, with the back of her hand.

      “Rina, I’m not really sick,” Decker said.

      “Oh,” Rina dropped her hand. “That’s right. What am I doing? I don’t know what I’m doing. You know, Peter, you actually feel a little warm.”

      “Life imitating art.”

      There was a knock on the door. The boys again, bringing up his tea.

      Jacob said to Decker, “Everyone wishes you a speedy recovery—a refuah shelema.”

      “Thank you,” Decker said.

      “Want me to eat with you?” Sammy offered. “You look sort of lonely.”

      The truth of the matter was that Decker would have loved the company. But he said, “No problem, Sam, I’m just fine. I know there’s a bunch of kids downstairs. Have a good time.”

      Sammy kissed his forehead. “You feel warm, Peter.”

      “I think your father has a little fever,” Rina said.

      “Rest,” Jacob said, kissing his cheek. “I’ll check on you later.”

      “So will I,” added Sammy.

      After the boys left, Rina said, “You want company?”

      “I’m okay.”

      Rina said, “You do look lonely. Downright needy.”

      “No, I’m really fine.”

      “Friggin fine?”

      Decker laughed. “No, I’m not fine at all. I want you to stay with me—”

      “Then I will.”

      “No, I won’t hear of it. Eat with your kinfolk …” He paused a moment, thinking: kinfolk. Except for her sons, Rina didn’t have a single blood relative downstairs. But he did. “Go eat with them. But if it’s no trouble, bring me up something to eat. My stomach’s rumbling.”

      “Will do.” She kissed his lips and left.

      Decker locked the door behind her, then crawled back into bed. He thought about it for a moment. Kinfolk. A mother, grandparents, five half brothers and half sisters. God knew how many nieces and nephews … He closed his eyes, felt any remaining energy drain from his body. He dozed until awakened by a hard rap on his door. It startled him and his heart raced inside his chest. Rina’s voice announced her name.

      Decker answered a groggy yeah and unlocked the door, then fell back into bed.

      “I woke you up.”

      He didn’t answer.

      “Peter, you look so wan.”

      “I’m just tired,” he said. Tired was the polite word. Fucked-up was the accurate description. But his olfactory nerve began to spark. He sat up and said, “What’d you bring me?”

      “All sorts of goodies.”

      She set plates before him.

      There was roasted rack of beef sitting on two bones, cooked crispy brown on the outside, juices sizzling and dripping. There was a separate dish of vegetables—browned potatoes with onions and green peppers, a carrot pudding topped with brown sugar and raisins, breaded cauliflower, steamed asparagus, zucchini in tomato sauce, a sweet noodle pudding topped with pineapple and macadamia nuts. And a traditional plate of sliced apples nesting in a pool of honey.

      Food, food. Copious amounts of food.

      “I think you’ll need a tray

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