Day of Atonement. Faye Kellerman

Rina said.

      Technically, he hadn’t converted. His biological mother had been Jewish, which made him Jewish according to Hebraic law. But having been adopted in infancy, he considered himself a product of his real parents—the ones who had raised him. And they had brought him up Baptist.

      “You’re a doll, Peter,” Rina said. “A wonderful sport. I’ll make it up to you.”

      Decker felt a tightening below his belt. “I’ll keep you to your word.”

      She kissed the tip of his nose. “Want more coffee?”

      “No, thanks,” Decker said. “Maybe I’ll take a walk. Want to join me?”

      “Wish I could,” Rina said. “But there’s still a slew of work to do in the kitchen.”

      “Have fun.”

      “You, too. Bundle up. We’re having a weird cold spell. Enjoy, Peter.”

      Yeah, Decker thought. He’d just have himself a ball.

       2

      He always hated this time of year.

      The holidays.

      It reminded him of fish.

      Fish was real big this time of year, especially fish heads. Yum-yum, fish heads. And then there was ground-up fish—everyone wanting to make gefilte fish.

      No carp, just white and pikefish.

      Just whitefish.

      Just carp.

      Just carp and pikefish.

      Can you put in some bread crumbs?

      Can you put in an onion?

      More onion.

      Less onion.

      No onion.

      Fuuuuuuucccckkkk you.

      Carp were disgusting fish, smelling like garbage. They were bottom feeders so they ate a lot of shit. You are what you eat.

      Open up carp and hold your nose. Finding all sorts of gunk inside them. Grit and sand and dirt and lots and lots of worms, especially if they’d been fished out of polluted waters. Sometimes he’d find pop tabs or bottle caps. Sometimes green bottleglass.

      If he really hated the old lady, he’d grind the glass up with the fish.

      A crunch delight.

      Fuuuuuuccccck you.

      Piss on the holidays.

      They also reminded him of the family.

      Piss on the family.

      The holidays. They were supposed to inspire fear, but for him, all the prayers and shit were just simply … shit.

      Last year on Yom Kippur, he woke up and ate a cheese sandwich.

      Old God didn’t strike him dead like they said He would.

      Then he jacked off.

      God didn’t strike him dead.

      Then he went out and drank a few beers, cussed with the guys, whistled at the chicks. Just hung out.

      God didn’t strike him dead.

      Then he had a pepperoni pizza for lunch.

      God didn’t strike him dead.

      Then he rented a porno video and whacked off again. Two times. Man, he was a stud.

      God didn’t strike him dead.

      Why should God strike him dead?

      He was God.

      Or something close.

       3

      The streets of Boro Park vibrated with an air of urgency even though most of the local businesses were closed for the day. Black-clothed men marched along the avenues, middle-aged ladies toted sacks of groceries, picking up last-minute forgotten items. Young married women wrapped in winter coats were swept along with harried grace. Some wore woolen caps, but most wore wigs—the common look being locks of straight hair that fell to their shoulders, the ends curving inward, a modified pageboy. The pink-nosed women pushed loaded-down strollers along the walkways, their progeny bundled in layers of blankets to the point of near-invisibility. Decker didn’t know if it was the unseasonable cold or what, but everyone was hauling down the streets as if fighting to make a curfew.

      He stuck his hands in his overcoat pockets and told himself to slow down. He had nowhere to go, nothing to do. He tightened a tan cashmere scarf around his neck. It had been a gift from Rina—a waste of money since L.A. weather rarely necessitated scarves. But he knew she’d spent a lot of time picking it out so he wore it whenever he could. On his head was a skullcap instead of a hat. In most circles, the yarmulke would mark him as Jew. Here a mere yarmulke marked him as a “goy.”

      So be it. There was only so much changing he could do and he’d be damned if he became one of them.

      He thought about Rina, about how much she had eased up. She’d become calmer when they were around other Orthodox people, had stopped making excuses for his mistakes of ritual ignorance. Instead, she’d shrug them off as if they were no big deal. Infinitely better than that nervous little laugh she used to let out every time he made a faux pas.

      Lord, they were different. A year ago, they were having problems and Rina had to get away from him, had to escape. Out of all the places she could have run to, she chose Boro Park.

      It amazed him.

      It was a small community, easy to get a feel for. The numbered streets were residential—rows of small brick houses, each one with a modicum of individual trim, but collectively they were hard to tell apart. Landscaping was kept to a minimum—small patches of brown lawn, denuded trees, not one hint of color from flowers or shrubbery. Maybe that wasn’t a fair assessment. Eastern foliage was deciduous, stripped by cold weather. He’d been judging it by L.A. standards, where the grass was green all year long. Rina had told him these homes could go for a million or more. Even with an Angeleno’s jaundiced eye, he was astounded.

      He took a deep breath, his nostrils tingling from cold and the smells leaking from steamy kitchen windows. Every now and then, shouts could be heard—a mother scolding her children, a spat between husband and wife, a slamming door. The town didn’t seem to place a premium on privacy. Couldn’t possibly survive if it did, the houses built on top of one another.

      New York—crowded and crowding. Everyone hemmed in. Decker longed to elbow the city in the ribs.

      Give me some room, Mama.

      The avenues seemed to be the business districts, storefronts gazing down narrow strips of bitten asphalt. The shops sold products that served the special needs of the community.

      IZZY’S HATS; HOLIDAY SPECIAL FOR REBLOCKING. The place was nothing more than an aisle with racks of black hats.

      ROCHEL’S SHAYTELS—this time the racks were full of wigs, as if some scalper had hit the mother lode.

      CANNERY ROW—a store devoted to kosher dry and canned goods—all of the products certified by the Union of Orthodox Rabbis. This building was two-storied, the second floor occupied by Mendel the Scribe.

      That’s what the upstairs window sign said—MENDEL THE SCRIBE: KETUBAHS AND GETS.

      Wedding certificates, divorce certificates. Mendel was a man for all seasons.

      Next to CANNERY ROW was GAN EDEN—the Garden of Eden. This outlet sold only fruits and vegetables. Inside was one long gondola covered with a thick plastic tarp. A handmade sign stood atop the tarp like a flag on a ship, announcing a sale on