Chapter Twenty-Three
I turn over onto my side and blink at the time on my phone.
It’s a little past two in the morning. I smile as I think about yesterday and how much fun I had with Caleb, not just with the self-defense part of it, but afterwards too when I coached him through a few different dating scenarios.
We have a lot of fun together, and if he were a girl, he’d probably be one of my best friends.
Sadly, I have to go for my morning run solo today. Caleb left for the airport shortly after our self-defense class to meet with a politician client in Washington. I scroll through the selfies I made him take at the end of our class and laugh at some of the faces he made.
I startle at the sound of something crashing to the floor coming from the opposite side of the house. I freeze, blood pounding in my ears.
More rustling movement. Someone is in my house. And all I can think is, Caleb didn’t prepare me for this situation.
Adrenaline courses through me as I throw back the covers and glance around the room in search of a weapon. There’s a lamp, a chair, a desk, and pencil.
Think, Ashira, think.
What kind of idiot doesn’t keep a pair of nunchucks in her bedroom? Or at the very least, a butcher knife. I could call 911, but I’d probably be dead by the time the police showed up anyway, this being Brooklyn and all.
Which is why I grab my phone and call the shomrim, the organization made of Orthodox Jewish men on call 24/7, to help anyone who has an emergency. They exist in every major Jewish community around the world, and the best part about them is that show up fast.
“Shomrim, what’s your emergency?”
“Someone has broken into my house,” I whisper.
“What’s your address?”
I rattle off my address and stay on the phone with the dispatcher, peeking through my blinds to look out for my saviors. Barely five minutes later, a car screeches to a stop in front of my house, and two people race out.
With my heart hammering in my chest, I run to let them in. The two bearded men in yarmulkes and tzitzits tell me to wait by the door so that I can run out if I need to.
I huddle against the wall. My body shakes. How did someone break inside in the first place? Did I forget to lock my door?
A piercing scream cuts through the air. It’s a woman.
The bad guy is a woman?
“Get out of my house before I call the cops!” a familiar voice yells. Bernice.
A mixture of relief and irritation flood through my body in equal amounts. I don’t know how she managed to break in, but I suspect it involved snooping through my drawers and finding a spare key.
“I’m so sorry,” I call to the men, running to the kitchen.
“I didn’t realize that it was—” Whatever I’m about to say disappears as I slowly process the fact that there seems to have been a volcanic explosion in my pantry.
Shelves lie on the floor, broken bottles of wine and vinegar are scattered about the kitchen, colored shards of glass glinting from the morning sun.
A bag of sugar spilled out, along with a bag of flour.
A can of tuna fish rolls to a stop near my feet.
I bend down and pick up the can and place it on the counter. Then I look at my small, elderly neighbor in dirty sweats, trying to figure out what’s going on in that head of hers.
“I’m sorry, Ashira,” she says, flustered. “I-I couldn’t sleep. I wanted to bake chocolate chip scones for breakfast, but I didn’t have all of the ingredients, so I came here instead. But then I slipped on the stepstool and crashed into a shelf, and then it broke—”
“It’s okay. Are you hurt?” I ask, taking her hands and examining her. She has scrapes on her arms and there are already a few nasty bruises forming.
“I’ve got a first aid kit,” offers one of the men.
“Thanks.” I nod. “That’d be great.” I help her sit down, then grab her a glass of water as the man tends to her cuts. Bernice’s face doesn’t have its usual color. “Are you okay?” I ask, tilting my head. “Like, really okay?”
She barks a humorless laugh. “Am I okay? Look at me, I’m a mess.” She rubs her eyelids. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“It’s fine.”
“No, it isn’t.” She shakes her head. “The more time passes without my Saul, the more I miss him. Time doesn’t heal wounds—it makes it worse.”
“Grief isn’t linear, Bernice. And everyone falls apart at the one-year yahrzeit,” I say, as I realize it’s been nearly a year since Saul passed away. “It’s like an unwritten rule.”
“That’s over two months away.”
“You’re getting a head start, like the overachiever you are.” I pat her shoulder. “Now drink up.” I turn to the men. “Can I get you guys anything? Coffee or water or,” I glance out the window at the rising sun, “cereal and milk?”
They shake their heads and laugh.
“Coffee?” I ask, feeling like I have to offer them something for coming out here for nothing.
“I have some pastries too. Sit down and I’ll put some things on the table,” I say, tapping into the Jewish woman gene that compels you to feed anyone who enters your house.
These men must recognize that they’re not going to get away without eating something because they join Bernice at the table.
I step over various debris and turn on the coffee maker, then do my best to assemble a semi-normal breakfast for the kind volunteers.
“I’m sorry, Ashira,” Bernice says. “What a mess I’ve made.”
I wave my hand. “It needed a remodel, anyway.”
“Except you’re not handy. And you have no money,” she reminds me.
“Okay, no. Well, fine,” I huff and roll my eyes. “Not at the moment, but my business is going to take off soon.”
“The sad part is that she truly believes it,” Bernice says to the men.
“Of course I do.” I open the refrigerator and take out the milk. “You can accomplish anything if you work hard and don’t give up on your dreams.”
“Not always,” one of the men says. “I did everything I could to become an NBA player. I played for hours, every single day after school. I joined clubs. I trained for it since I was the age of twelve. And I was good. Really good.”
“It’s true,” his friend says.
“But by my thirty-seventh birthday, I gave up. I accepted the fact that I’d always be five-foot-six.”
I clap a hand over my mouth, trying to contain my loud burst of laughter.
“And five-foot-six,” he continues, ignoring my reaction, “is still too short to be in the NBA. No matter how good I am.”
“Oy vey,” Bernice says, shaking her head. “The delusion of your generation would be impressive if it wasn’t so very sad.” Luckily, the men seem to find that hilarious.
“By the way,” the other guy says to me, as I bring plates and napkins to the table, “if you want, I know a handyman who volunteers for chaverim. He could fix this for you, free of charge.”
“Oh.” I swallow, suddenly uncomfortable. “I don’t think I could accept charity.”
“Don’t think of it like that.” He shakes his head. “Think of it as a group of people who like doing mitzvahs. Otherwise, they wouldn’t volunteer. And it sounds to me like you could use a bit of help,” he adds gently.
“We’re interested,” Bernice declares as I bring a plate of pastries to the table.
“Ignore her,” I say firmly.
“You got a pen and paper?” the guy asks, ignoring me instead.
“I got it.” Bernice sticks her hand down her shirt and removes a notepad from her bra, then whips out a pen from her other cup.
Both men blush and look anywhere other than at the small woman at the table with them.
“It’s a bissel warm, but luckily it’s a cold day.
” She chuckles and slides the items across the table to the man.
“Bernice!”
“What? It’s good storage space.”
I briefly close my eyes and rub the lids. “Don’t worry,” I call to the guy, and open my drunk drawer. “I have something less gross you can write on.”
The man looks relieved when I shove an old receipt and pen at him. “Thank you.”
“Your generation is so squeamish,” Bernice comments, tucking the pen and pad of paper back inside her bra.
“I don’t think this is a generational issue,” I say to her.
“Here’s his number. His name is Shaya Rissman.” The man hands me the receipt and adds, “Just between you and me, if you gave him work, it’d be doing him a favor. He could use the distraction. His fiancée broke up with him a month ago and he’s been taking it hard.”
“Oh no. That’s awful.” But potentially wonderful for me. “Poor thing.”
The second guy nods. “He’s been a wreck.”
“Are you sure that doing backbreaking labor for free is going to help?” I say doubtfully.
“Shaya is happiest when he’s helping others,” the first man replies. “Trust me.”
I flip through my mental Rolodex of available women, wondering who I could set him up with. Rivka? Netanya?
“Well, you’ve come to the right woman,” Bernice says, putting a cookie on her plate. “Ashira is always looking for more men to add to her collection.”
“Okay, wait,” I say, laughing nervously, glancing at the men, “that sounds really bad out of context—”
“First there was the speed dating, then Bruce, and then of course, Caleb. Every day, it’s someone new. Who are you going to pick tomorrow?” she says, turning to me. “My dry-cleaning guy?”
“Don’t be absurd,” I mutter, “he’s married.” I turn to the men and open my mouth to explain when their cell phones emit an alarm in unison. Their eyes scan their phones with silent, solemn expressions. Within seconds, they’re on their feet and racing out the door.
“Thanks again!” I call after them. I tell myself not to worry that their last impression of me will be that I “collect men” but it’s one of those things that’s easier said than done.
I head back to the kitchen. It’s time Bernice and I had the conversation that’s been percolating in my head these last two weeks. I’ve got a feeling that it will evoke some strong emotions, but there’s only so much that this particular matchmaker is willing to put up with.
“Bernice,” I say, sitting down across from her. “Does the name Lenny Horowitz mean anything to you?”
Her head jerks up and she gazes at me with suspicion. “Maybe.”