ERIC GOLDEN

Standing in his front yard, Eric looked at each house around the Court. Who knew what really went on behind your neighbors’ closed doors? How well could you know other people, even living so physically close for years? Some days he felt like he barely knew his own wife, and clearly, he didn’t know Asher very well even though he considered the old guy a good friend.

He was not being a good friend. He should be by Asher’s side, offering support and unquestioning companionship, rather than avoiding him and gossiping with the neighbors. He should go there right now. Asher was probably alone, since his daughter was deep in conversation with the detective on the Circle bench. Eric waved at them as he walked by and climbed the steps to Number Two.

Asher opened the door before Eric knocked.

“I messed up,” Asher said, stepping back so Eric could enter.

That phrase again. Doubly surprising from the usually reticent old guy.

“What do you mean?” Eric asked.

Asher sat in Iris’s chair, another surprise. Eric sat in Asher’s chair, stared at the subtly patterned rug, and waited. The man looked awful; the dark circles always present under his deep-set eyes seemed to be growing deeper and wider, huge pools of gray sorrow.

“I did some bad things,” Asher finally said. “Iris found out about them, and now Lexi is finding out too.”

“What kind of bad things?”

“Things I had to do, to take care of my family,” Asher said. “I had to protect Iris from her friend who was destroying our future. The fifties were a dangerous time for Jews. I am responsible for Iris’s friend Harriet losing her job and going to prison. I ruined Harriet’s life, and now she’s dead. I was dishonest with Iris, and now she hates me.”

Eric didn’t know how to respond. He had never heard Asher speak like this, words tumbling out of his chest with such sad force. What was it about Iris’s disappearance that made his neighbors start revealing their long-buried secrets?

“I’m not a monster,” Asher continued. “I didn’t sleep easily after the things I did. Do I have regrets? Yes, of course. Would I do it again? I believe I would. Does that make me a bad person?”

Asher looked like he wanted to say more. Eric waited, but nothing more came. How could he make Asher feel less awful?

“You’re a Holocaust survivor,” Eric said. “Right?”

“Yes, as a teenager. A child.”

“Maybe that explains what you did? Because of what you lived through? Your fears about bad things happening to your family again?”

“No.” Asher sighed deeply. “You don’t understand. That’s why I should have known better. Acted better. Tikkun olam.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s Hebrew, means to repair the world. That’s what Jews are supposed to do. Not make it worse.”

Eric leaned over to awkwardly pat Asher’s shoulder. What else could he say? He had no vocabulary to respond to this kind of thing—in either Hebrew or English. He wished he knew the right words to offer comfort. But he suspected there were no words and no comfort available for Asher.

Asher stood up. “Thank you for listening. Please go now. I need to think. To remember.”

Eric walked to the door, then turned back. He touched Asher’s shoulder again. “I don’t blame you, for what you did.”

“I blame myself,” Asher said.