THE NIGHT AFTER the conversation with Sarah, doubting I’d ever again breathe free of Levi’s “ache of incompleteness,” I lay in bed and Sarah’s soul smell, the ethereal perfume I inhaled that first night and for so many years after, infiltrated my brain like the swift kick of ether. She still lived inside me, and I knew I had to see her soon.
Especially after Matt called me the next morning with news about the new issue of The Star. They’d offered us big money to give them an exclusive interview. We’d refused. They sent spies everywhere and found Sarah. The latest issue featured an unflattering photo of Sarah snapped by the same parasite who handed Sarah her summons. The picture caught her in her sweats, hair askew, with no makeup, rushing out of the gym, which ran in their paper alongside the headline: “Sarah Roberts Atones Up.” They mentioned Prescott, printed another photo of the massacre and interviewed people who worked in the gym. Damn smart of her to get the hell out of there.
In the following two days, Matt fixed everything in person, no phones, faxes, or emails. He exercised his talents and maneuvers with shvartz-gelt with both the rabbi and cemetery director. He made all my arrangements under the pseudonym of Philip Nolan, including reservations at a small hotel on 84th and East End Avenue.
I made it clear to Ludovicci-Lint that there would be no Sarah deposition any time soon. At some point Sarah might talk with her but never to Karpstein, Forman. Her voice implored that Sarah would make a brilliant witness. “No way,” I insisted. She sounded displeased, and not altogether convinced, I thought, when I told her I still didn’t know the date for the unveiling, and since legally, though it was rare, I could be deposed over the phone from India, I was considering that option. She agreed that all the magazines, not just the Enquirer and Star paid lackeys to scour court records, computer databases, and hired informants to search for our names. After this conversation, fed up with her manufactured sympathy, I crossed her off my need-to-know list.
Then, all arrangements in place, I called Sarah.
“Safe to talk?”
“After the Star article, probably not.” Her voice sounded arch and defensive, but that wasn’t what I meant and she knew it. “You see it?”
“Heard from Matt.”
“I look like shit.”
“Fuck ’em, Sarah, really. Anyway, how’s this? The first week in January. It’s all set if you give the go-ahead.”
“Good.” I heard the tension drain from her voice. I imagined her posture relaxing, the stiffness in her spine giving way to hope without the need to pretend courage.
I explained the details. No need to explain that she shouldn’t tell anyone, including Romey, until the last possible second. We decided not to invite anyone else.
“Ask Matt to book me a room there, too.”
Neither of us mentioned staying together.
“Just you?”
“Yes, my mother can stay elsewhere.”
So, it was settled.