Secret Light (9 page)

miracle has occurred there
, shocking them utterly. “You can’t think I’ve never seen this

game before. I am a man of the world,
kleine Mädchen
. There are so many lovely Jewish

girls in Los Angeles who want me to play dreidel with them, I don’t have time for them

all.”

“
Uncle Rafe
,” Karen practically squealed. “You know how to play?”

“I will tell you a secret. Can you keep it?”

“Yes.”

“I am going to take all your matches, and then you will have none left to light the

Hanukkiya tomorrow night.”

“Uncle Rafe.” Rachel gave him a shove, and he nearly fell over. Mooki bounded

over to protect him from the little girl, and chaos ensued.

He and the children played valiantly for wooden matchsticks. The youngest child

there, a little boy named Stephen, occasionally had to be stopped from scratching them

together or on the flagstone floor and lighting a fire.

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Despite Rafe’s boasting, it seemed Karen was destined to make off with most of the

spoils. After a lengthy battle where matches changed hands with no arguable

conclusion in sight, Rafe was saved by Mooki, who had apparently tired of Schatzi and

decided to hurl herself into his lap for a nap.

“All right.” Rafe’s legs were asleep, but he had to rise and face the pins and needles

or simply accept a tablecloth over his head and maybe hold up a lamp or a dish of

candy for the rest of his life. “I am going to go see what the grown-ups are up to. Split

up my matchsticks between you. You’ve utterly vanquished me.” The children barely

waved good-bye before they dived on his winnings.

The dining table had been laid out with so much food it fairly buckled beneath the

weight of it all. Cold chicken, turkey, and brisket, several types of salads: mixed bean,

wild rice, and macaroni among them. There were boiled red potatoes and vegetable

dishes with pungent, garlicky spiced dressings. Noodle kugel with raisins, plain noodle

kugel, cinnamon
bobka
, and halvah.

He ate as large a meal as he dared and afterward smoked a cigarette on the patio,

holding Mooki in his arms and talking shop with the men from work. It was a pleasant

evening all around, and when he finally clipped on Mooki’s leash and left, he felt as

good about things—about himself and his place in his world—as he’d felt in a long

time.

He gazed back at the Golds’ house before he keyed the Buick’s ignition. From inside

his car there on the darkened street, he could see the girls through the front window

still tearing around happily, well past their bedtime.

He watched them in wonder.

They were growing up in their traditions. They sang songs in Hebrew and Yiddish.

They played with their dreidel. They shopped openly for challah and Shabbat candles.

They kept a mezuzah on the door. There were plenty of reasons to be afraid in their

world—even more reasons to want the very enticing Hanukkah bush that made their

mother frown—but they were happy.

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They lived without constant fear.

Imagine, Papa und Mutti. This is the world in which I live.

* * * *

car together, and Mooki stood on the back porch, waiting patiently while he removed

the rather large bag of food Dorothy Gold had pressed on him as he was leaving.

“We shall eat very well for the next week,” he was saying when something dark

emerged from the shadows.

He whirled on pure instinct as a hooded figure swung something in a great arc.

Whatever it was whistled through the air as it came crashing down on him. Pain

exploded on his back between his shoulder blades and knocked the breath from his

lungs entirely.

“
What
—” Rafe jumped again, this time fueled by panic and rage. More blows fell,

sharp, quick jabs and longer swings. With each strike, pain started with a
thud
and

caught his skin on fire. His assailant lifted his weapon over his head, and—sheiβe—

bore down on him. Whoever it was, he meant to bring it right down over Rafe’s head.

At the last possible second, Rafe lifted his arm to block the blow.

The bones in his forearm cracked audibly beneath tremendous force. Rafe fell to his

knees with an appalling, high scream and rolled out of the way of another blow. He

scrambled to get beneath his car. The next swing caught the door of the Buick, denting

the brand-new green surface badly. Mooki went mad barking and ran toward them.

Rafe kicked out with his feet, tripping up his attacker and giving himself time to scoot

farther away—giving himself a second to think.

“
Fire
!” he screamed with every ounce of his remaining strength. His neighbor’s

bedroom lights went on, and the window shade rose with a flutter. As the window

opened, he called again, “
Fire, fire
!”

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Mooki leaped up and up like a tiny dog high jumper. She clamped onto his

attacker’s arm with a gut-wrenching snarl, growling and biting, and Rafe’s assailant,

whoever he was, howled in pain. In the light pooling on the driveway from Rafe’s

neighbor’s bedroom, Rafe could see droplets of blood scatter as the bastard shook

Mooki like a rag doll. Eventually, she lost her hold and flew—literally hurled through

the air until she hit the cement porch steps.

“I called the police; they’re on their way right now,” Rafe’s elderly neighbor, Ed

Kastner, called out the window. Even though his voice shook, it was loud and angry as

well as scared, and the man beating Rafe froze. “You leave him alone. I’m coming out

right now with a
shotgun
.”

Thank God
. Thank God for Ed and his inability to sleep deeply. Rafe had listened to

him complain about it enough times, but he would never grow impatient again. The

footsteps of Rafe’s assailant clattered down his driveway and ran off. After a few

seconds, a car could be heard, starting up, roaring away with its tires screeching. Rafe

didn’t give a damn what happened to that man at all. He didn’t care whether the police

caught him and put him in jail or whether he went off to become queen of the Rose

Parade.

Rafe only had eyes for Mooki.

Rafe crawled because that’s all he could manage. He used his good arm and his feet

to ooze along the ground to where he’d heard Mooki’s last excited
yip
before the

sickening crunch of her body as it hit the concrete stairs. When he got to her, he used his

good hand to stroke her fur as gently as he could. She whimpered when he touched her.

Alive.

Mooki was still alive.

“Ah, Hündchen. Bitte… Libeling…” Sobs wracked Rafe’s body, and he had no idea

how long it was he stayed there like that, one hand on her fur and the other hanging

limply by his side. Ed had donned a dressing gown and hurried from his house. He

stood over Rafe, wringing his hands, asking if there was anything he could do.

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“The vet, bitte.
Please
.” Ed leaned down and listened while Rafe sobbed out what he

wanted. “In the kitchen, under the phone on the wall.
The vet
. Call the vet and tell him I

will bring Mooki. Now.
Please
.”

“Rafe.” Ed helped him to sit up—next to Mooki—on the stairs. “You’re in no

condition to drive. You probably need a doctor yourself.”

“No.”

“I’ll go and call the vet, Rafe; I’ll call him. But we’ve got to get you both some help.”

Lights flashed as a cruiser pulled up in front of Rafe’s house. Ed flagged them down

and led them to where Rafe sat on the steps, afraid to cradle Mooki in his lap—afraid to

move her at all—should it hurt her more. He’d never felt so helpless in his life, and that

was saying something.

“Mooki.” Rafe put his head in his hands and sobbed. “
Jesus
. What has happened to

us?”

In the end, after a brief interview with the police, Rafe called Dorothy—beautiful,

dog-crazy Dorothy—who was still up tidying her house after the party. When she

pulled into the driveway in her stylish Chevy sports coupe a half hour later, she’d

brought a baby basket of sorts, padded with blankets. Together, they gingerly lifted

Mooki into the thing and took her to Dorothy’s veterinarian, Dr. Wycker, who had

assured her he’d be waiting when they got there.

Rafe rode silently beside her in the passenger seat—Mooki in her basket between

them—ignoring the pain of his body, ignoring the rapid beating of his heart and his

inability to get more than one brief, shallow breath at a time. Ignoring everything but

the slight rise and fall of Mooki’s fur-covered chest and the tiny, whimpering cries she

made every time they moved.

“Don’t you worry, Rafe,” Dorothy said, glancing over at a red light. “Dr. Wycker is

the best. He’s a miracle worker.”

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“Fine,” Rafe said tonelessly. He was all cried out and in pain and unable to think

past the next shallow breath of his best friend. “Thank you so much for this.”

His best friend
. She’d taken on someone ten times her size to protect him. He’d never

wanted that. If he’d wanted protection, he’d have gotten a guard dog—a Doberman. He

was supposed to protect
her
, not the other way around. Nausea enveloped him.

“As soon as Dr. Wycker has Mooki in hand, we have to see to your arm.”

“Ja.”

“You’re
schvitzing
.”

“I know.”

“You’re probably in shock, honey.”

“I know. As soon as I know Mooki will be all right…”

They took off again, and Rafe closed his eyes. From behind his eyelids, he could see

the passing lights, streetlights, stoplights—the lights of all the oncoming cars. They

became a blur, as did the motion of the car itself. His arm throbbed, his chest was tight,

and his head spun dizzily, as though it were attached to his shoulders by the thinnest

thread of Christmas-tree tinsel.

“
Ich habe solchen Schiss,
” he said—
I’m so scared
—before he passed out entirely.

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Chapter Eight

December 12, 1955

Ben rang the bell at the front door of Rafe’s place and was surprised when an

elderly man answered, grinning through tobacco-stained teeth.

“I’m Ed”—the man held out a hand for a no-nonsense handshake—“from next

door. I’ve been helping out while Rafe gets his bearings. You here about the attack?

Helluva thing. First the garage and now this. This used to be a nice neighborhood.”

“I thought I’d follow up…”

“That guy jumped Rafe right out from the bushes. Didn’t take anything or

nothing.”

“It seems to have been an unusual situation.”

“Don’t I know it. I hope you catch the bastard.” Finally Ed backed up enough that

Ben could see into the living room. He spotted Rafe in his wing chair, dozing with his

feet up on a hassock.

Ah,
damn
. Rafe’s arm was splinted and wrapped in a thick white dressing, and his

face was so pale it was nearly gray. Dark shadows lay like smudges below his eyes. His

cheeks looked hollow. Maybe it was the light that made him look lifeless, but all the

same, it turned Ben’s stomach.

Lashes, long as a showgirl’s but so light they were barely noticeable most of the

time, fluttered open to reveal the startling, clear lake blue of Rafe’s eyes. Next to him, in

what looked to be a bassinet of some kind, lay Mooki. She slept soundly, the center

mass of her body wrapped in white bandages like some hairy Egyptian mummy.

“Ben?”

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“I heard you had some more trouble here Saturday night.”

Rafe nodded. He had to reach across his body with his left hand for a glass of water

on the table where his pipe and ashtray usually sat. The motion caused him to grimace

in pain.

“Here.” Ben gave Rafe his water, and then he transferred the small end table from

the right side of the wing chair to the left without asking. “That ought to help.”

Rafe drank deeply, then put the glass down. “That’s perfect, thank you. I wonder

why I didn’t think of that.”

Ben grinned. “Sometimes it takes a second pair of eyes.”

Rafe let his head fall back. His eyes were bleak with pain. Ed brought Ben a chair

from Rafe’s dining room and placed it adjacent so they could talk. Ben gave him a nod

to thank him.

“Someone attacked you outside? Next to the porch?”

Rafe nodded again. “I’d just gotten out of my car. He was hiding in the shadows.”