Then explain it to me, Shoshana, exactly what did you mean? Because I thought I understood you perfectly,” Deidre answered furiously.
“This is not about us!” Shoshana shot up, facing her brother and sister-in-law. “It’s about them! About what Mom and Dad need. My God! He could go to jail.” Her hands shook as she reached behind her, groping for the chair. She slid back into it.
No one spoke.
“That… can’t… happen,” Kayla said, shaking her head. “It just can’t.”
Of everyone, she alone knew how untrue that statement was. It could happen. In fact, it happened all the time to all kinds of people, for all kinds of reasons; people who were guilty, innocent, or in between. Some people were just luckier than others, or had better lawyers, or dumber judges. If there was one thing she had learned at Harvard Law, it was this: Once you entered the halls of justice, you could get anything but.
At the top of the stairs, hidden from view, Abigail leaned against the wall, listening to the rise and fall of her children’s angry voices. As she listened, she looked at the family photos hanging on the landing: There they were gathered around each other at Josh’s Bar Mitzvah, their faces shining, Adam’s arm around Josh’s shoulder, six-year-old Kayla in Shoshana’s lap. Adam’s parents,and her own, seated in the center, elegant and not yet frail. The big smiles, the closeness of bodies arranged for a studio portrait. A unit. Unity. She stumbled, her shoulder brushing heavily against the wall, sending the framed photo crashing.
All the king’s horses, and all the king’s men, she thought, bending down to pick up the pieces.
8
“You are up? Already?” Abigail asked him sleepily.
“I want to get to the synagogue on time.”
She lifted herself up on her elbow, surprised. “Are you going to synagogue?”
Adam sat down on the side of the bed, reaching for her hand. “Yes, Abby, and so are you. You are going to put on your prettiest suit, and your smartest hat, and you are going to walk down the aisle and take your seat in the women’s section between Helen Silverstein and Joyce Mathias, just as you’ve done every Saturday for the past fifteen years. You are going to sing all the songs, and answer ‘amen’ as loudly as everyone else, do you hear me?” His hand closed gently over hers.
“They will all stare and talk behind our backs.”
He nodded. “And if we are not there, they will say worse things.”
She fell back into bed, staring at the ceiling. That was sickeningly accurate. “Please!”
He touched the top of her head gently. “Abby, I need you. I need you there, beside me.”
She lifted her head and threw off the covers. There was nothing else to say, was there? She stood unsteadily on the soft blue rug, her body out of proportion,the head weighing her down and pitching the rest of her forward. She opened her walk-in closet full of expensive clothes, flipping through the racks until she found a dark grey suit. Out of her hatboxes, she took a matching grey silk hat with a grey-and-white feather. It was really too elegant for mere synagogue attendance. But it certainly did send a very definite signal, a reminder that the Samuelses of Brookline, who lived in the beautiful corner house with the wide, manicured lawns, were still themselves.
He wore his best Brooks Brothers suit, a black pinstripe, with a gleaming white high-collared shirt and an apricot-silk tie. She laid her hands on his shoulders, brushing off nonexistent lint, wanting simply to feel their solid breadth.
“You ooze respectability and success,” she laughed, then added, more soberly: “My handsome husband.”
He kissed her hand, then cocked his head. “My lovely wife.”
They walked silently, arm in arm, down the tree-lined streets, their shoes scraping softly against the pretty piles of autumn leaves. It was a walk they had made countless times, but now they felt like tourists exploring a new country.
As they
“This is not about us!” Shoshana shot up, facing her brother and sister-in-law. “It’s about them! About what Mom and Dad need. My God! He could go to jail.” Her hands shook as she reached behind her, groping for the chair. She slid back into it.
No one spoke.
“That… can’t… happen,” Kayla said, shaking her head. “It just can’t.”
Of everyone, she alone knew how untrue that statement was. It could happen. In fact, it happened all the time to all kinds of people, for all kinds of reasons; people who were guilty, innocent, or in between. Some people were just luckier than others, or had better lawyers, or dumber judges. If there was one thing she had learned at Harvard Law, it was this: Once you entered the halls of justice, you could get anything but.
At the top of the stairs, hidden from view, Abigail leaned against the wall, listening to the rise and fall of her children’s angry voices. As she listened, she looked at the family photos hanging on the landing: There they were gathered around each other at Josh’s Bar Mitzvah, their faces shining, Adam’s arm around Josh’s shoulder, six-year-old Kayla in Shoshana’s lap. Adam’s parents,and her own, seated in the center, elegant and not yet frail. The big smiles, the closeness of bodies arranged for a studio portrait. A unit. Unity. She stumbled, her shoulder brushing heavily against the wall, sending the framed photo crashing.
All the king’s horses, and all the king’s men, she thought, bending down to pick up the pieces.
8
“You are up? Already?” Abigail asked him sleepily.
“I want to get to the synagogue on time.”
She lifted herself up on her elbow, surprised. “Are you going to synagogue?”
Adam sat down on the side of the bed, reaching for her hand. “Yes, Abby, and so are you. You are going to put on your prettiest suit, and your smartest hat, and you are going to walk down the aisle and take your seat in the women’s section between Helen Silverstein and Joyce Mathias, just as you’ve done every Saturday for the past fifteen years. You are going to sing all the songs, and answer ‘amen’ as loudly as everyone else, do you hear me?” His hand closed gently over hers.
“They will all stare and talk behind our backs.”
He nodded. “And if we are not there, they will say worse things.”
She fell back into bed, staring at the ceiling. That was sickeningly accurate. “Please!”
He touched the top of her head gently. “Abby, I need you. I need you there, beside me.”
She lifted her head and threw off the covers. There was nothing else to say, was there? She stood unsteadily on the soft blue rug, her body out of proportion,the head weighing her down and pitching the rest of her forward. She opened her walk-in closet full of expensive clothes, flipping through the racks until she found a dark grey suit. Out of her hatboxes, she took a matching grey silk hat with a grey-and-white feather. It was really too elegant for mere synagogue attendance. But it certainly did send a very definite signal, a reminder that the Samuelses of Brookline, who lived in the beautiful corner house with the wide, manicured lawns, were still themselves.
He wore his best Brooks Brothers suit, a black pinstripe, with a gleaming white high-collared shirt and an apricot-silk tie. She laid her hands on his shoulders, brushing off nonexistent lint, wanting simply to feel their solid breadth.
“You ooze respectability and success,” she laughed, then added, more soberly: “My handsome husband.”
He kissed her hand, then cocked his head. “My lovely wife.”
They walked silently, arm in arm, down the tree-lined streets, their shoes scraping softly against the pretty piles of autumn leaves. It was a walk they had made countless times, but now they felt like tourists exploring a new country.
As they
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