“It was those men, I think,” Mrs. Rosenthal said suddenly. “They came and frightened your mother. Your parents were gone the next day, like ghosts.”
“What men?”
“Some men in dark suits came to see your mother. I walked them up to your apartment.”
“Who were they?” Sam asked. His tapped his fingers frantically. Evie put her hand over his to stop him.
Mrs. Rosenthal shook her head. “They say immigration, which makes us nervous. Some anarchists are Jews. What if they think we are anarchists and throw us out of the country? The men, they want me to go away, but your mother says, ‘Anna must stay.’ She says my English is better—a lie. I could see she was afraid. They ask her questions: Was she getting along all right? How was the neighborhood? Any trouble to report? Fine, fine, all fine, she told them. It was all fine until they ask about you.”
“Me?”
“Sam?” Evie said at the same time.
Mrs. Rosenthal nodded. “How you were, if you were healthy, did you take after your father or were you more like your mother? Were you special?” She made a face. “This is a thing you ask a mother? Is her son special? I think your mother will talk for a week about how special you are. But no.” Mrs. Rosenthal worried her napkin in her lap. “This, maybe, I shouldn’t say.”
Sam had given up on charming Anna Rosenthal. “Please, Mrs. Rosenthal,” he pleaded. “I need to know what happened.”
After a deep, weary breath, Mrs. Rosenthal continued. “Your mother tells the men, ‘That little pisher weakling? He is sick and small, a disappointment. Not like me at all.’” Mrs. Rosenthal shook her head. “I was shocked. How could she say such a thing? You were her prince, Sergei. You brought her such naches. This was not the Miriam I knew, I can tell you.”
From what Sam remembered of his childhood, his mother had always doted on him, taken his side. Protected him.
“The next day, your mother and father left Hester Street for good without so much as a good-bye to anyone—only two weeks before my wedding! I try not to take it personally, but…” Mrs. Rosenthal trailed off, sipped her coffee. She handed the envelope over to Sam. “When that letter came… psssht, I was angry. I send it back.”
“But you don’t know what the letter said?”
“Anna Rosenthal does not snoop in private papers. But there is something. Miriam asked me to keep it. Come.”
From a corner closet, Mrs. Rosenthal took a box down from the shelf. “Just after the men visited, your mother gives something to me. ‘Anna,’ she tells me, ‘hide this in your house. I will come later for it.’ But she never did.”
Mrs. Rosenthal opened the box and retrieved a cookie tin. “It’s right that you should have this now.”
“I can’t thank you enough, Mrs. Rosenthal,” Sam said, taking the tin. It was all he could do not to rip off the lid right there. “Gosh, would ya look at the time? Golly, I wish we could stay longer, Mrs. Rosenthal, but we’ve got to get Lamb Chop here back to the radio station for her show.”
“But we’ll send you an invitation to the wedding,” Evie said cheerily as Sam edged her toward the door.
“You’ll come for Shabbos,” Mrs. Rosenthal called after them.
“We’ll Shabbos as much as possible,” Evie said as Sam practically dragged her from the apartment.
“How was I supposed to know Shabbos is the Jewish Sabbath?” Evie said as she and Sam boarded the nearly empty El back to Manhattan. “And it couldn’t hurt to invite her to a wedding that’ll never happen. Sam, is everything jake? You look like you just got off a roller coaster.”
“Evie, I didn’t know any of that about my mother,” Sam said as he watched the Bronx roll past the train’s windows.
Evie shook the tin gently. “I’m guessing it’s not cookies.”
Evie slid closer to Sam, who pried off the lid. Inside were two items: a file and an old photograph of a woman wearing a long plaid dress and holding a little boy’s hand.
“That’s my mother,” Sam said, staring at the sweet photo. “And that’s me.”
Evie giggled.
“What’s so funny?” Sam asked.
“You in short pants. And those are some chubby cheeks!”
“That’s enough of that,” Sam said, yanking the photograph away. He lifted the file, which was just a typed sheet. “Looks like a report.”
U.S. Department of Paranormal