Chapter 4

Tepel, Garfield, and Hawkins sat on the rim of a lake near Tuxedo Park. Hawkins couldn’t believe that he was going into the water. “Ah,” Garfield said, “the moon . . . it’s time.” He wrapped his cardigan tightly around his thin chest and passed the bottle to Hawkins. Hawkins took a deep swallow and while the other two watched, he took off all his clothes. The wind pimpled his skin and he hugged himself. Tepel stared at his body in the light of the moon, and Hawkins sucked in his belly and flexed his breast muscles without meaning to.

Tepel grinned. “Now, there’s a golem killer,” he said, holding the bottle.

“Pretend we’re not here,” Garfield said gently. He handed Hawkins the comb and shook his head as he looked at the tight curled hair on his chest and at his crotch.

“All of it,” Garfield said. “Every strand. I hope it doesn’t hurt too much.”

It didn’t. The pulling made his skin tingle. It felt good in a way, and by the time he was done he was no longer cold and going into the black water in front of him didn’t bother him anymore. He handed the comb back to Garfield, then realized that some of his hair was still in it, and that the comb was covered with oil from his skin. But Garfield didn’t seem to mind. He pulled the stray hairs out of the comb’s teeth, and put the comb, oil and all, back in his pocket, looking at Hawkins, first his face, then his body.

“You’re a wonderful-­looking man,” he said. “I envy you. Go in to your chest, then duck down, and when you come up, say ‘Blessed are You, O Lord our God, King of the Universe, Who has kept us alive and sustained us and enabled us to reach this significant moment. Amen.’ ”

Hawkins repeated it, then slid down the muddy bank to the edge of the water. It was so cold it made his ankles ache, and he dreaded to think how it would feel when that water hit his balls. But he kept going steadily away from the shore toward the center of the moonlit lake. Because the bank was mud, he expected the bottom to be, too, mud and slime. But it was firm, a little rocky in places, but mostly solid ridged sand. A few feet out, he turned. Garfield and Tepel watched; the moonlight hit the brandy bottle. Tepel smiled and waved, and Hawkins went on. His genitals shriveled, and he thought all of his skin under the water had, too; then he was belly deep, then chest deep, and he ducked all the way under the water. He came right up, blowing, freezing, his teeth chattering. He thought he’d do anything not to go under again, and a wind came up across the lake and hit his wet skin. But the part of him that was underwater didn’t have any feeling and he stood still, water dripping off his hair down his neck and back, and he said the brocha Garfield had taught him, twice, and when he finished, he ducked again, and the water closed over his head, black and opaque like the water in the tarn he’d read about in a ghost story when he was a child. He came up and saw the men. Garfield was standing watching him, the moon was higher, and even though it was only April, he thought he heard some kind of insect buzz near his ear, and he ducked again. This time he stayed for a while, until all of him, neck, cheeks, nose, scalp, was used to the cold; then he stood up and waded to shore. He was exhilarated and he felt young and full of energy. He knew the moonlight was shining on his skin and hair and he wished Rachel could see him. Garfield nudged Tepel so he could watch their champion come out of the lake.

Garfield said someone had to go to the mikveh with her—to satisfy the ritual, he’d said. She had no sister and her sister-­in-­law hated her. She couldn’t ask Golda, because Golda would insist on knowing why, at her age, she was suddenly running to the mikveh, and Rachel didn’t want to lie about this. That left Kaye Kahn.

Kaye Zeren Kahn had been her best friend when they were young. Kaye had smoked pot and made love to a man before anyone else. Her grandfather and Rachel’s grandmother had come here on the same boat, from the same village. He had been a draper, first on Grand Street, then with his son in Washington Heights. The Cloisters was almost next door, and Kaye would take Rachel there on Tuesdays to sit in the herb garden and listen to medieval music. Rachel would close her eyes and breathe in smells from another century . . . rosemary, hyssop, galingale, thyme. Kaye took her to the Kettle of Fish in the Village to pick up men, and she taught her how to use Tampax. Kaye would go to the mikveh with her.

She called Kaye, then drove North on the Hutchinson River. Leah fell asleep and Rachel drove in silence to the Port Chester exit.

Kaye lived three miles from the Parkway and when Rachel got to the end of her long curved drive, Kaye was waiting for her with the front door open. They hugged, and Rachel saw tears in her friend’s eyes.

“The breakfast nook,” Kaye said. “It’s the only part of this barn I can stand.” She had tea ready and poured whisky into it, then sat down across the table from Rachel.

“What’s this shit about a mikveh?”

“Talk to me first,” Rachel said. “Where’s your husband?”

“At a medical meeting in Hawaii, fucking his secretary. My sons are at Deerfield, strictly for the goyim, and my mother’s in a retirement home half an hour away playing gin with an old cocker who used to live on 187th Street. I know your news. Adam’s dead and you need a mikveh. What for?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“You’ve come all over corrupt?”

“I have to go and you have to go with me to make sure my hair doesn’t float.”

Kaye raised her hand to her mouth in shock. Her four-carat diamond flashed in firelight.

“That’s insane.”

“Will you do it?”

“Without knowing why?”

Rachel didn’t answer and Kaye took her hand.

“Tell me, Rache. What can be so secret?”

Rachel stared at her friend.

“I have to kill a golem,” she said softly, “and I must be free of any taint to do it.” Kaye stared at her. “I have to walk seven times around a clay monster saying Michael backwards, then rub out . . .”

“Okay, okay,” Kaye said, “you can’t tell me. Where’s the mikveh?”

Rachel blushed. “I thought you’d know.”

“Terrific. That’s really terrific. Where do I find a mikveh in Westchester, not to mention Fairfield County.”

The women looked at each other; Leah walked uncertainly across the floor, fell next to the work island, and screamed. Rachel ran to her, picked her up, and hugged her. Kaye watched every move.

“Rachel, are you in trouble?”

It was worse, she was in danger, and all at once she connected what she’d seen at Willa’s house with what might happen to her tomorrow. She held Leah close and stared into the fire. Would it smash her head like it did Willa’s, or would it tear it off completely? “Oh my god,” she whispered, while Kaye watched. “Oh my God.”

“Rachel, please. Tell me,” Kaye said.

“I can’t. But you have to help me anyway. Please, oh please . . .”

“I’ll find a mikveh,” Kaye said.

They almost missed the driveway for the Temple Ben Zion mikveh in Armonk. There were lights in the building, and Rachel heard voices. They walked into the lobby as two women came out with their wet hair covered by damp silk scarves. They were putting on diamond rings and replacing earrings and bracelets. Their clothes were stylish and their faces looked fresh even though they weren’t­­­­ young. They stopped when they saw Rachel and Kaye and Leah, and nodded shyly.

“Some crowd tonight,” one said.

“We’re new,” Rachel told them. “I . . . we . . .”

They both waited.

“I’m not sure what to do,” Rachel said. They looked at each other and she expected them to say something smart and rush away. But the older of the two, who was wearing a bright orange, loose-­fitting dress, asked gently, “Are you a convert?”

“No,” Rachel said, “I’m Jewish. I have to be purified, that’s all.” A sudden case of corruption, she thought, smiling at the women.

The women looked at each other.

“She’s Rachel Levy,” Kaye said quickly, “and she’s driven all the way from Long Island. She needs help, so . . . help. What can it cost you?”

The older one smiled and said in Yiddish, “Only a little time,” and led them through a door at the far end of the lobby and down a long hall lined with cubicles covered with flowered drapes. Rachel thought of the thing waiting behind another flowered curtain, and she had to stop because the fear that first brought tears to her eyes now paralyzed her.

“Are you all right?” the older woman asked. Rachel nodded and followed them. They passed an open door and through it Rachel saw a pool that looked like any swimming pool, but there was no chlorine smell. Wonderful, she thought. If that thing doesn’t kill me, I’ll die of typhoid.

She held open a curtain on one of the cubicles for Rachel. “Take off all your clothes,” she said. “There’re clean sheets on a shelf, wrap yourself in one. Do you have a fine comb?”

“I have a plain comb.”

“A fine comb’s better. You can use mine.” She fished a tortoise-­shell comb with tiny teeth set close together out of her purse and handed it to Rachel.

“Thank you . . .” Rachel hesitated.

“I’m Judy Wise,” the woman said. “Comb out your hair,” she said, then blushed. “All of it. You understand.”

Rachel nodded.

“Take off your jewelry,” Judy went on, “even your wedding ring. Nothing can come between you and the water, no tangles in your hair, Band-­Aids, nail polish. Nothing. Cut your nails,” she said, and handed Rachel a small nail clipper. Rachel nodded again and went into the cubicle. She stripped, hesitated, then took off the gold mazuzah. She held it for a minute, then put it in the pocket of her skirt. She pulled the fine comb through the thick hair on her head and the thinner hair on her body. Then she covered herself with the sheet and went into the hall where the others waited.

“Now take a shower,” Judy said, nodding at another door.

When Rachel came out, Judy looked at her. “Just you under the sheet?”

“Just me,” Rachel said.

Judy nodded at Kaye. “She stands on the side. Take off the sheet, go to the middle of the pool, spread your legs, let your hands and arms hang loose, fingers open, and sink all the way into the water. Come up and try to feel joyous,” Judy said softly. “Then say ‘Blessed are You, O Lord our God, King of the Universe, Who has made us holy with His commandments and commanded us concerning immersion.’ Can you remember that?” Rachel nodded, but Judy made her say it twice. Then she said, “Duck two or three times, to be sure.”

Of what, Rachel wondered, but she didn’t ask.

“I’ll watch the baby,” Judy said, and Rachel and Kaye went through the door and into the room with the pool. Three walls and the floor and pool sides were light blue tile; the fourth wall was sliding glass doors all fogged up, and the ceiling was a skylight. The room was lit by spots hung from beams that crossed under the skylight. Condensed steam ran down the walls, and even though the big room was empty, they heard noises all around them coming through the door and windows. A few women talked, and laughed, one hummed out in the hall, someone turned on a hair dryer. The water heaved a little, the surface was gray and oily-­looking and Rachel thought if it was dirty she couldn’t go in, ritual or no ritual, but the water was so clear she could see the white grout in the blue tile of the floor. It wasn’t warm, it wasn’t any temperature at all, and as she walked to the center of the pool, the gray turned to light blue, then darker blue, until the lovely clear color was all around her and the water just covered her breasts. She held her breath to duck. The voices stopped and someone turned off the hair dryer. The humming kept on . . . la, la, something. She didn’t know the tune, but she’d heard it at weddings when she was young.

She closed her eyes and sank down until she sat on the bottom of the pool. The water went through her hair to her scalp and into her ears. She opened her mouth to let some down her throat, choked, and came up blowing water. She faced the mist-­covered glass doors and said the brocha. She sat down in the water again and this time she opened her eyes. Reflections flashed across the tile sides of the pool. She looked up, the lights overhead undulated, the whole thing was a light show, and something like joy did overcome her. She felt light, thin, beautiful. She was still young, she was in love, and he loved her. They’d get married. . . . She came up fast, shedding water in the light, and in a loud, clear voice over the singing she said the brocha again and went under one more time. This time she knelt on the tile, felt it press into her knees, and she whispered, making bubbles, “Please, God, don’t let me die tomorrow.”