8
“Peter’s going to be late,” Rina said to her parents. “He said to eat without him. You want to get the boys, Mama? I’ll start serving supper.”
Magda Elias turned to her husband. Though she had lived in America for almost thirty years, she still spoke in an off-the-boat Hungarian accent. “You get the boys, Stefan. I’ll help Ginny with supper.”
The old man didn’t answer.
“Stefan, do you hear me?”
“What? What?”
“Peter isn’t going to make it for dinner, Papa,” Rina said. “Can you call the boys to the table?”
Stefan slapped the paper down on the armrest and hoisted himself out of the living-room rocker. “Everything’s okay?”
“Everything’s fine. He’s just working on a new case.”
“What kind of a case?”
“A family disappeared. An Israeli diamond dealer.”
Her parents waited for more.
“That’s all I know,” Rina said.
“Akiva’s looking for a family?” Magda asked. “I thought he was in murder now.”
“Maybe he thinks they were murdered, Mama.”
“Will he be home tonight, Ginny?” her father asked.
Rina smiled to herself. Her parents called her Regina—Ginny—which was her English name. And for some reason, they called Peter by his Hebrew name, Akiva. Maybe Peter sounded just too goyishe for them.
“Of course.” Rina turned to her mother. “Do you want an apron? I don’t think grease does well on silk.”
“This old thing?” Magda pinched the fabric of her blouse and let it drop.
Again, Rina held back a smile. It was a game with Mama. A way to amass compliments without looking needy. The woman was always dressed perfectly. Yet Mama had always been approachable even when Rina was a sticky-fingered child.
“Come into the kitchen,” Rina said. “Let me get you an apron.”
“If you insist,” Magda said. “Stefan, get the boys. Let’s eat before the baby wakes up.”
Rina came back to the dining room, holding a baking dish filled with spinach lasagne. She placed it on a tile trivet, and a moment later, her sons shuffled into the dining room. They plopped themselves down on the chairs after ritually washing their hands and breaking bread. Their long legs sprawled under the table. Rina looked at their pants cuffs—short again. Each must have grown another inch in the past month. The boys were generally good-natured except when they were tired.
Which was all the time.
Between the pounds of homework the school loaded on and the hormones of burgeoning adolescence, they were a cranky lot. Thank God for Peter—a stolid island of refuge in a sea of emotional turmoil.
Sammy adjusted his yarmulke and poured himself a glass of lemonade. “Wow. Lasagne. Is it dairy, I hope? I don’t want to be fleshig.”
“It’s dairy,” Rina answered. “Why don’t you want to be fleshig?”
“I want to eat a milk-chocolate candy bar.”
That’s a reason? Rina thought.
Magda brushed sandy-colored hair away from the boy’s brown eyes. “Think you would like to say hello to your omah?”
Sammy scooped up a double portion of lasagne and looked up at his grandmother. Her sentence came out “Tink you vould like to say hello to your omah?”
“Hi, Omah.” He stuffed a forkful of lasagne in his mouth. “Hi, Opah.”
“Hello, Shmuel,” Stefan said. “How are you today?”
Sammy smiled through a mouthful of noodles. “Okay.”
Stefan spooned a portion onto his younger grandson’s plate. “And how’re you doing, Yonkie?”
The younger boy smiled, pushing black hair off his forehead. “I’m doing okay. Thanks for the lasagne, Opah. Take some for yourself.”
“I will,” Stefan announced. “I love lasagne.”
“He eats my lasagne like candy,” Magda said.
Rina brought in a salad. “You make delicious lasagne, Mama.”
Magda blushed. “I’m sure yours is twice as good.”
“I’m sure it isn’t,” Rina said, smiling.
“Where’s Dad?” Sammy poured salad dressing over a mound of lettuce. “He’s never home anymore.”
“Yes, he is, Sammy,” Rina said. “He’s on a new case. Whenever he starts a new case, he has to put in extra hours.”
“He works too hard,” Magda stated.
“He’s on Homicide, Mama. It demands long hours.”
“How can he work with so many dead people?” Magda said.
Stefan said, “He doesn’t work with the dead people, Magda. Only the live ones.”
Rina laughed softly. Her father was serious. “Have some green beans, Mama. They’re Italian cut.”
“I’ll take some green beans,” Jake said.
“Certainly,” Magda said. “They’re good for you.”
“Who was whacked?” Sammy asked.
“Whacked?” Rina said. “Is that how they teach you to talk in yeshiva?”
“That’s how Dad talks.”
“No, he doesn’t.”
“Yes, he does,” Sammy insisted. “He talks like that to Marge all the time. Just not to you.”
It was true. Rina said, “No one was murdered. A family has disappeared.”
“Israeli diamond dealer,” Stefan said.
“Anyone we know?” Jake asked.
“I don’t think so,” Rina answered.
“Isn’t your friend who’s coming out married to a diamond dealer?” Magda asked.
“Honey?” Rina said. “Yes, she is.”
Sammy looked up from his plate. “Who’s coming out?”
“An old friend of mine and her kids—”
“Great. I’m going to lose my room.”
“Hospitality is a mitzvah, Sammy,” Rina said. “I’m sure they taught you about hachnasat orchim somewhere in your yeshiva education.”
“How long?” Sammy turned to his brother. “Pass the beans, Yonkie.”
Jake gave his brother the bowl. “They can have my room, Eema. I’ll move into the attic.”
“You will not move into the attic. Your father hasn’t put in the heater and we don’t even have a decent staircase up there yet.”
“So I’ll be careful and use double blankets. I like it up there. It’s quiet and I have a view.”
“It’s a perfect solution,” Sammy said. “Please pass the lasagne, Omah.”
Magda placed another portion on her grandson’s plate. “Anyone else like as long as I got the