The Ministry of Special Cases (3 page)

“I’m finally bringing home real money and now you want me to stop? But you don’t, not yet, do you? The line hasn’t been crossed.”

“It has for Pato.”

Pato stood in the doorway in his underwear. “I don’t want to do it anymore,” he said.

“And I don’t want him to,” Lillian said. “And I don’t want you to either. This time you find a body. Next time,” she said, “who knows?”

Pato slipped behind his father and went over to the stove. Kaddish turned and stared at him while he spoke. “So the police kill the rebels who would otherwise kill each other and terrorize us. It’s a tragedy for someone, but it’s not ours.”

“You saw him same as me. That wasn’t a rebel,” Pato said. “It was another kid. I’m telling you, they kill for no reason. Innocents shot dead.”

“His throat was slit, first of all. And second, if he was innocent, all the better if we keep at it. Let’s stay guilty and then we’ll be safe.”

“It’s not a joke,” Pato said. He shook the empty kettle and stuck it under the faucet. “Things are spinning out of control.”

“Jesus, what do you think out-of-control will look like if this isn’t it? The government is cleaning up and when they’re done things can only improve. You’ll see, safer is the way this country is heading. Safer—and you and your stupid friends better watch it—for those who don’t make trouble and keep their big noses clean.”

“You’re a fascist,” Pato said, setting the kettle on the fire.

“Good for me,” Kaddish said. He put out his cigarette and blew a cloud of smoke.

PEOPLE DIE EVERY DAY
, their houses burn down around them, they tumble from ladder and rooftop, swallow fat olives down the wrong pipe. They are also found murdered in many original ways. But a lot more people are afraid of a gory, violent, untimely death than manage to get themselves killed. This is how Lillian’s office made its money. She worked in insurance. People paid them premiums against their worst fears.

Lillian always found it disappointing when she was processing claims. It wasn’t about the money paid out, as none of it was hers. It was the inevitable emptiness in trying to replace property or human life with a company check. It was a sleight of hand that wasn’t. Everyone signed up knowing what they never seemed to understand: You don’t get anything back. The only thing fire insurance has ever extinguished is a nagging doubt. The house goes up in flames just the same.

She liked to think that she worried with an actuarial specificity, light on emotion and in proportion to actual occurrence. Lately she’d been worrying more and more. And that body—poor child—was simply too close to home. Lillian felt it was time for protection, real and solid to the touch. She wanted a policy of her own.

Lillian went into the kitchen and took a carving knife from the drawer in the counter. She pulled open the refrigerator and then the freezer
door inside—revealing the block of ice that had formed in the compartment within weeks of Kaddish’s bringing it home. When she’d told him, he’d said, “Broken means no ice. This is the opposite, it works too well.” And that’s how it had stayed ever since.

Lillian raised the knife and drove it into the thick knot of ice that left the freezer in a pucker. The blade cut frost. The tip buried itself a centimeter deep, and Lillian’s hand slid a fraction too far, nicking her palm.

She worked the knife free. She wrapped a towel around her hand and struck again, this time more carefully. She built up a rhythm, sent fissures through the block, and, with frozen fingers, pulled free loose chunks. Her knife palm burned from the friction, her other hand from the cold. Here and there a swirl of pink clouded the puddle on the floor.

“You can do better in a house full of chisels,” Pato said.

Lillian was startled to find him watching. She looked at her progress and said, “Fetch me your father’s tools.”

Pato sat at the table while his mother attacked the freezer, covering the floor with ice in quickly melting hunks. She didn’t stop until what she searched for was free. Buried in the back corner was a small square package wrapped in silver foil and abandoned with all the others when the ice had formed.

She ran it under water. Steam rose up. Ice crackled and slid away, the foil shining as if polished. Lillian peeled it back, revealing a tin, rusted at the lip, its sides bulging outward. She flipped the top. She squeezed hard so the tin warped further and worked out the thick wad of bills jammed inside.

“Best hiding place in the world,” she said. “Even before the freezer froze over.”

Pato stared.

“There are others in the apartment,” she said, and pulled another roll of bills from her pocket. “I’ve been to those too.”

She handed the money to her son.

“A fortune,” Pato said. He licked his thumb and started counting.

“A lot of paper. It’s not much in the way of money these days.”

Pato didn’t seem to agree.

“A secret,” she said.

Pato crossed his heart with a handful of money.

“I used to dream of buying you an apartment,” she said. “Since that won’t ever happen, the least I can do is buy you the door.”

They stood on a patch of cobblestones where the pavement had worn away and old Buenos Aires pushed through. At the end of the block, in front of a store with chandeliers in the window, two men unloaded Turkish carpets off the back of a truck, laying them out on the sidewalk. Otherwise the block was silent and the security shutters on the businesses pulled down. The storefront they were looking for was lifeless. “You’d think they’d have a decent door,” Pato said. Lillian had thought it was closed.

The interior, though, was a wonder. The whole place consisted of one giant room crowded with stock. The doors, cheaper, lighter, were stacked six and seven thick all along the walls and standing unbroken end to end. Lillian turned back to the entrance and for a moment could not tell through which one they’d come.

Looking up, Lillian and Pato found two-by-fours crisscrossing the ceiling and between them, lying flat and edge to edge, end to end, door after door after door. The lights in the ceiling were hidden by the stock below, and a cold blue glow lit the room. “This is a sensible place,” Lillian said. “Nondescript on the outside, asking no trouble, and all its flair packed neatly inside.”

Pato headed for the deluxe models on the far side of the showroom, where doors stood upright in their frames. Lillian followed him over and the manager made his entrance, stepping through the one Pato tested. He was a young man with straight hair to his shoulders and a handsome face gone ragged from drinking or drugs or a worry so great as to leave black lines under sunken eyes.

“Still looking,” Lillian said. The manager was already backing off, no pressure at all.

Lillian moved through the rows, sizing up. She opened and closed,
tapped against wood, pulled latches, turned knobs. When Lillian slapped her palm hard against a panel, the manager turned to her from his desk across the room.

“I’m ready now for help,” she said, and he made his way over. Lillian pointed out a lovely pine model with six windowpanes set in a delicate sash.

“Beautiful choice,” he said. “Elegant.”

“Flimsy,” she said. “An invitation. This is exactly what I do not want.”

Pato shook his head. “You can’t win with her,” he told the manager. “You can’t get the answer right.”

“I’ll try,” the manager said, fake eager.

“Then listen careful,” Lillian said. “No beauty. I don’t want anything designed with an eye toward the aesthetic, not a cent spent on rounding an edge or fastening trim. I want density. I want a door that won’t kick in, a hunk of wood that will not splinter. Give me something that will swallow a knock.”

“Security, ma’am. Is that what you’re after?”

“I put a lot of weight on doors.”

“Security is the rage. You’re not alone.” He said this in grave tones and then winked one of his receding eyes. “A woman like yourself needs to know she can keep the men from beating down her door.” The manager gave a sheepish look to Pato.

“I think the man is flirting with you,” Pato said.

“Do you see the things money can buy?” Lillian said. She put a hand to her hip, making a cursory acceptance.

The manager led them to a door in the last row. “How about this,” he said. “Not wood but steel.”

“Steel?” Lillian said. She honestly hadn’t thought of it.

He fanned out a stack of cards that hung by a chain from its knob. “Veneers,” he said. “Colors and styles. Black, white, brown, wood-grain. Your choice.” He let them drop.

The knob was industrial and oversized. There was no spring to its mechanism. It had to be turned, two, three times. Unscrewed. “An extra bolt,” he explained, pulling the door open. The lock was in the center of the door, the key in it. When it was turned, rods extended from top, bottom,
and sides. Sixteen dead bolts reached in four directions. “Four sets of four rods,” he said, “plus the bolt in the knob. All steel. A stainless steel cross with a lock for a core.” The manager turned the key and the bolts withdrew. The key was flat and grooved on both sides, a series of bumps and circles carved to its base. He handed it to Lillian. “No skeleton in the world to match this. And that lock can’t be picked. If you need an extra key, the locksmith won’t even make a copy without a registration card and ID.” He took a step toward Lillian. He turned and joined her in admiring the door.

“Impressive,” Lillian said.

The man slapped a hand against it. It did, indeed, swallow the sound.

“Security in these times is not cheap,” he said. “But”—and he winked at her again—“I could be convinced to jew the price down.”

“Well done,” Pato said. He laughed and clapped the manager on the back. “I think you just made yourself a sale.”

ABSENT A CORPSE
and absent any sign of its presence, it was hard to believe that the body had been there. Kaddish had agreed to check for the slit-throated boy on their way over the wall if he could have an extra stop of his own. It was against his better judgment and he wasn’t even sure why he’d negotiated, since he’d have dragged Pato along regardless. The two of them stood staring at the spot, and Pato again raised the flashlight to better light the stones nearby.

“What if it was still here?” Kaddish said.

“Then we’d bury him,” was Pato’s answer.

Kaddish thought they might as well bury themselves while they were at it but decided to let it pass. There was no need to worry over a solution to a problem that wasn’t. There was also no need for Pato to stand there, slack-jawed, trying to decide how sad he should be. “Our part in this misfortune is finished,” Kaddish said. “For once we get some good luck.” When Pato didn’t respond, Kaddish said it again, adamant. “Good luck—how else can we take it?” It was a shortsighted stance. Kaddish would soon be wishing for a time when there were bodies yet to be found.

Dropping down onto the Benevolent Self side, they went straight for the old oak and counted four rows past. Kaddish helped Pato step over a marker and then gave him a shove forward. He followed behind until
they reached his mother’s grave. Here lay Favorita Poznan, with a first name she’d hammered out from the Yiddish and a last name taken from her son. If Kaddish could offer nothing else in the nine useless years he’d had before his mother died, at least he’d had a name to give back. On Favorita’s left the madam, Bluma Blum, was buried. On her right rested One-Eye Weiss—though no one would know it from what was left of the inscription. Kaddish had already been.

Kaddish never learned the circumstances that settled his mother at Talmud Harry’s, and he never judged her for the sad work she’d done. As for Favorita’s seeing to it that she was buried a Poznan, Kaddish always assumed that long before the children of the Benevolent Self had thought to become ashamed of their parents, his mother had decided to protect her family from a disgrace of her own.

It wasn’t dishonor that drove Favorita to adopt Kaddish’s name. The moment she set foot on a ship bound for Buenos Aires, she knew word of her doings would never reach home. And if by some chance her family learned of her situation, it wouldn’t have surprised. While the ship was moored at Odessa’s port, Favorita stayed belowdecks, ignoring the last whistle. She pretended she hadn’t heard. This was the only deception she’d allowed herself; it was the one she needed to start her on her way. She went back on deck, intending to disembark and return to her family, and got there in time to see Russia recede. Favorita could still make out the local children, glistening like seals and diving from the piers.

It was irreversible now and she consigned herself to whatever waited on the ocean’s other side. Favorita made her way toward the front of the ship, toward her husband, who stood at the railing surrounded by his other nineteen wives.

He was a smooth-tongued and smartly dressed alfonse who’d gone from town to town with a satchel stuffed with marriage contracts and money, making promises and taking brides all along the way. He was right then busy tearing up those contracts and sprinkling
ketubas
, like confetti, out over the budding waves. So ended Favorita’s marriage, unconsummated and wholly unconsecrated. As for her status in Argentina, other papers had already been arranged.

With the aid of quick hands, low light, and countless pigeon heads, Favorita spent her first months at Talmud Harry’s marking the bed-sheets, a virgin for all who were willing to pay. She didn’t want to look at the men but always kept her eyes open. When she closed them she only saw home. Hardest for Favorita was the memory of her mother kissing her cheeks, saying good-bye to a daughter who’d sold herself to feed them, her mother who would die from the guilt of it and the necessity of it and from forever missing Favorita, who was then still called by her Yiddish name.

Home is what Favorita would see when she closed her eyes until the day she died; it is what she dreamed during daytime sleeps after working through the night. And as unwilling as she was to forget from where she came, she was equally unwilling to forget who she herself was. She held on to the good
midos
with which she’d been raised. She remained a moral girl, despite what her life had become. Favorita kept kosher as best she could and, if she wasn’t working, never missed a service at the Benevolent Self shul. When Kaddish was born to her, she wished what all mothers do. She wanted to provide better for her son.