“Frekki fooled me. She never said he’d be at Gruning’s.”
“Gruning’s! My god—you had ice cream with him?”
“I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t know what to do.”
“You should have told me the minute you got home. I’d have stopped this immediately. I’d have warned Frekki and her brother, if they ever, ever contacted you again, I’d have them arrested. That’s what you should have done. You can’t trust him, Miri. Don’t let that smile fool you, those eyes…”
“I don’t trust him. I don’t even like him. I never want to see him again!” This wasn’t completely true. She was curious about her mother and him.
“What bothers me is you didn’t tell me. You kept it a secret and now Frekki is asking for a meeting. I trusted you to go to the Paper Mill Playhouse with Frekki. I trusted you, Miri.”
“But, Mom, I didn’t know he’d be there.”
“What’s going on?” Henry called from the foyer. They hadn’t heard him come in.
“A situation,” Rusty called back.
Henry ran up the stairs two at a time and burst into the kitchen. “Mama?” he asked Rusty, and Miri could read the fear in his eyes.
“No,” Rusty told him. “Mike Monsky has surfaced.”
“Mike Monsky?” Henry said this as if they were talking about Frankenstein.
“And guess what?” Rusty said. “Miri’s met him but didn’t think she needed to tell me.”
Henry gave Miri a questioning look but Miri didn’t say anything.
“And now Frekki’s cooked up some mishegoss about getting together with a Rabbi Beiderman,” Rusty said. “To make a plan.”
“A plan?” Henry asked.
Miri handed him Frekki’s note.
Henry read it. “I know a good lawyer,” he said. “I’m sure he’ll advise us as a family friend.”
The lawyer, Gregg Bender, came over after dinner. He and Henry were old friends. They used to play basketball together at the Y. Rusty made coffee.
“She doesn’t want to see him,” Rusty told Gregg Bender, offering cream and sugar for his coffee and a plate of store-bought cookies. “Isn’t that right, Miri? Isn’t that what you told me?”
“I did say that.”
“There!” Rusty said. “You see? If she never wants to see him again why should we agree to have this meeting? Can someone please explain that to me?”
“Did you mean it?” Henry asked Miri. “Are you afraid of him?”
“No, I’m not afraid of him.” And no, I didn’t really mean it but how am I supposed to let you know that without Rusty going crazy?
“I understand how you feel, Rusty,” Gregg Bender said. “But this is about Miri’s future. As I see it, this could be an opportunity. Let’s say Mr. Monsky puts away a nest egg for her education—”
“I’ve already started a savings account for her education,” Rusty said. “Every week since I started working I’ve put something into it.”
“So have I,” Henry said, surprising Miri. “It’s not a lot but it’ll help pay for her tuition.”
“Thank you, Uncle Henry,” Miri whispered, afraid if she said anything more she’d start bawling.
“You see?” Rusty said to Gregg. “We have it all worked out. So why should we say yes to Frekki and her brother?”
“For one thing, to avoid this matter going to court,” Gregg said. “To keep it friendly.”
“Friendly?” Rusty gave a false laugh. “That’s a good one!”
“For another…” And now Gregg looked at Miri. “Because she has a right to know her father.”
“He is no father!” Rusty turned on her heel and headed for her bedroom. She slammed the door like a frustrated, angry teenager.
“This is very hard for Rusty,” Henry said.
Gregg nodded. “I imagine so.”
Miri wanted to say, What about me? Don’t you think it’s hard for me? But she didn’t.
—
RABBI BEIDERMAN’S HOUSE was on a quiet street in Maplewood in a neighborhood of pretty old houses with flowering trees and lawns that would soon be green. Daffodils and tulips were sprouting. Miri might have sat in the rumble seat today if Henry still had his old coupe. But he’d given that to Leah so she no longer had to take the bus to work and he drove a new Chevy. He’d gotten a good deal on last year’s model. Nobody wanted a maroon car. They passed a church as they turned onto the rabbi’s street. Wasn’t it strange for a rabbi to live near a church? The lawyer, Gregg Bender, was already there, parked in his car, waiting for them.
The rabbi was clean-shaven, dressed in weekend clothes, a tweed jacket over a blue oxford cloth shirt, no tie. She’d never seen a rabbi out of his robes. She’d never thought of a rabbi having a nice house on a nice street in a good neighborhood, wearing regular clothes, having a wife and kids. He welcomed them into a book-lined room with a sofa and four club chairs around a coffee table. Photos of his children at different ages were scattered around the room.
Henry made the introductions. “Glad to meet you, Rabbi,” he said, shaking hands. “I’m Henry Ammerman, this is my sister, Rusty Ammerman, my niece, Miri Ammerman, and Gregg Bender, our lawyer, who is here as a family friend.”
“Welcome to all of you,” the rabbi said. “I admire your work, Mr. Ammerman. Please, make yourselves comfortable. We have coffee and Danish. Miri, would you like a glass of milk or orange juice?”
“No thank you.”
Gregg Bender helped himself to a cheese Danish and a cup of coffee. Henry did the coffee thing, too. Rusty fidgeted with her pocketbook, pulling out a linen handkerchief, embroidered on one corner. She was probably hoping Frekki and Mike Monsky wouldn’t show up.
But as the church bells chimed ten times, Frekki strutted in arm and arm with Mike Monsky, and another man behind them. Frekki said, “Hello, Rabbi. I’m Frekki Strasser and this is my brother, Mike Monsky, and my husband, Dr. J. J. Strasser.”
Her husband, not her lawyer. Miri was surprised. She was sure Frekki would bring a lawyer. Miri tried not to look at Mike Monsky who was focused on Rusty, who was picking nonexistent lint off her skirt. Only then did Miri notice that Rusty was wearing her new peep-toe pumps and the pale-green sweater dress that made her eyes look even more green. Her hair was loose, down to her shoulders. She looked especially pretty, though tense and unsmiling, twisting the linen handkerchief in her hands. Frekki wore a stylish wool skirt and matching sweater set in spring colors—navy and white. Miri was almost sure it was cashmere. A matching silk scarf was draped around her neck. Miri wondered how she got the scarf to stay in place. Her doctor husband checked his watch, explaining he was on call and might have to leave early. He hoped they would understand if he did.
“Let me begin by stating the obvious,” Rabbi Beiderman said. “This isn’t an easy situation for any of you. Miri, you’re the one caught in the middle…”
Frekki interrupted. “She’s not caught in the middle, Rabbi. She’s the one who will benefit most from this arrangement.”
The rabbi said, “Emotionally, Miri is in the middle.”
Maybe this rabbi was smarter than she’d thought.
“Can we cut to the chase, please?” Rusty said.
“Rabbi, if I may…” Mike Monsky looked to the rabbi for permission to continue.
“Please…” the rabbi said, signaling for Mike Monsky to speak.
“We made a mistake sixteen years ago,” he began, looking directly at Rusty.
He was calling her a mistake? Did she really have to sit here and listen to this?
“But the result of that mistake,” he continued, “is a wonderful young girl who nobody in their right mind would ever call a mistake. I’m proud to call her my daughter.”
“She’s no more your daughter than I’m the Queen of Sheba,” Rusty said.
“She’s entitled to have a relationship with her father,” Mike said.
“You call yourself a father?” Rusty asked. “I can show you fathers—responsible, loving men who are there for their families.”
Henry leaned over and whispered something to Rusty. Rusty blew her nose in the linen handerchief.
Frekki said, “Nobody doubts you’ve done a wonderful job, Rusty. You’ve raised a lovely daughter. But you can’t deny her a father.”
Rusty’s face turned red. “I’ve never denied her anything.”
But the truth, Miri thought. She wished she could shout at them to stop, but then everyone in the room would look at her.
As if reading her mind, the rabbi said, “Miriam, would you like to speak?”
She shook her head no. But there was plenty she might have said, if she’d had the courage. I have a father, she’d say to Rusty. You might not like him but you can’t pretend he doesn’t exist. If you don’t like him you should have thought of that before you got into his Nash with the seat that turned into a bed.
Next, she’d look directly at Mike Monsky. You think you can waltz into my life now and everything will be okay? You expect me to trust you just because you and my mother shtupped a couple of times? Trust has to be earned. You know who taught me that? My mother! You’ve never taught me anything, not anything good, anyway.