Friday
After I did my shopping at the supermarket and was on the way home, I called Dan O’Malley, the police chief of my village. He and I know each other too well. He took my call right away.
“Ellie! Haven’t heard from you in a long time. You must be behaving yourself.”
I wasn’t sure how to reply, so I let it go. “Congratulations, Dan. I don’t think we’ve talked since you were promoted.” He’d been deputy chief for as long as I’d known him.
“Thanks. After twenty years, it feels good. Now, what can I do for you?”
“I was wondering if you could look up the final disposition of a case in Chicago for me.”
“Go on.”
“A man jumped in front of a subway train the other day, and I was there when it happened.” I made sure to phrase it carefully. “I was just wondering if the cause of death has been formally decided. Or will be.”
“I heard about that one. Didn’t know you were involved.”
“I wasn’t. I just happened to be there.”
“I see,” Dan said in a tone that clearly indicated he didn’t believe me. He was quiet. Then: “Let me see what I can find out. You wouldn’t happen to have the case file number, would you?”
“Sorry.”
“I’ll call you back. You still at the same number?”
“I am. Thanks a lot.” I disconnected.
A message from Zach Dolan was on my voice mail when I got home.
“Hi, Ellie. The work is—well—it’s turning out to be more complex than I thought. Whoever encrypted it didn’t use Voltage or DataMotion or other software that companies use on their networks. But I’m working on it. Just wanted to give you an update.”
I erased the message, wondering what Voltage and DataMotion were, but decided I’d rather check out the “workmen’s” license plates I’d punched into my cell. Unfortunately, I didn’t have time for either. My father, Rachel and her boyfriend, Q, and Luke were coming for Shabbos dinner, and I had to cook.
My family has handed down a secret brisket recipe for at least forty years that is out-of-this-world delicious. There are probably ten million other people who know about it, but calling it “secret” confers a special sought-after quality. You take a brisket, rub it with dry onion soup mix, baste it with ketchup, then pour a bottle of beer—Heineken works well—over everything. Some chefs insist it must be cooked in a plastic bag. I’m not rigid about that, but I do add carrots, onions, and potatoes during the last hour. Combined with matzo-ball soup, a salad, and my signature apple cobbler, it’s a surefire hands-down feast.
That evening Rachel, who more and more resembles my late mother, said the blessing over the candles, cupping the flame with her hands three times, then covering her eyes. Dad always says the Barucha over the challah, and I’m happy to bless the wine.
I dished out matzo-ball soup, which Rachel helped pass. Before we dug in, my father cleared his throat. “Before we eat this wonderful meal my daughter has prepared—”
I cut in. “You haven’t tried it yet.”
“Be quiet, Ellie,” he scolded. “I just want to say these dinners…these occasions with family and friends”—he nodded to Luke and Q—“are what life is all about. I am so grateful to have you all with me. I couldn’t ask for a kinder, more generous family.” He looked around solemnly, then broke into a grin. “That’s all. You may now—what is it you say?—return to your regularly scheduled programming.”
As requested, I kept my mouth shut, but I found myself blinking back tears. It wasn’t like my father to get sentimental. A bittersweet feeling swept over me. I was grateful my father was still alive and alert, but I was also aware how fragile life is, especially when you’re on the “back nine,” as Dad often says.
Luke seemed to understand what I was feeling and reached for my hand. I squeezed his in return. With the swell of conversation, the tangy aroma of the brisket, and the clink of spoons in the soup, I wanted to record this moment, keep it in my memory box forever. Apparently, Rachel had the same idea, because she whipped out her cell and snapped a few pictures.
“Oh no. Rachel, please don’t upload those to Facebook,” I said. “It’s a family moment.” Her thumbs clicked on her cell. “And my hair looks terrible.”
“Too late. They’re already up.” She grinned as if she’d beat me at checkers. Some things never change.
We were clearing the table when the phone rang. When I was growing up, my parents used to let it ring. “We should have peace and quiet at least on the Sabbath,” my father would say. But as his law practice expanded and clients called with emergencies, the custom lapsed. I never reinstated it. I picked up in the kitchen, expecting it to be O’Malley.
“Ellie, it’s Georgia Davis.”
“Hey. What’s up?”
“I just got a call and thought you should know. Zach Dolan’s office? In Northbrook?”
An uneasy feeling roiled my gut. “Yeah?” I said slowly.
“Zach’s okay. He wasn’t there. But some kind of IED just blew the place up.”