Читать книгу In the Name of God - Stephen J. Gordon - Страница 8

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The Sanford Stein Day School was located just outside the Beltway in the northwest part of town. In fact, you could see the school from the highway. It was a sprawling, yet modest campus with lower school and middle school wings, a gym, and well-maintained ball fields.

I parked my Jeep next to the basketball court, grabbed my Monopoly box and a navy blue backpack, and headed toward an overhang-protected main entrance. As I approached the curved sidewalk near the entry doors, I thought about the school’s descriptive name. It was a “Day School,” a private Jewish school that taught a traditional general studies curriculum, complemented by a Jewish Studies program that included Jewish History, Hebrew Language, Bible, and other classic texts. I was never quite sure what the “Day” in “Day School” meant. I did know that this school was culturally in the middle of the Jewish spectrum, a Conservative tract that kept many of the traditions and was dedicated to community service.

I walked up to the main doors, two pairs of steel-framed glass and checked my watch: 8:15. My second period class would begin at 8:50. I shifted the Monopoly box from my left hand to my right and tried the closest door. The handle wouldn’t budge. Thanks to terrorism and concerns for general safety, entry doors, it seemed, were always locked. To the side was an intercom and I pressed the call button.

Looking through the glass door into the lobby, I could see the main office diagonal from me, about twenty feet to my left. The receptionist sat at her desk behind a sliding glass window. From where I stood, she appeared to be in her early fifties with an older Mary Tyler Moore look about her. She reached below her desk and the lock buzzed open. I crossed a well-polished tile floor, past a huge mural depicting smiling boys and girls, and over to the receptionist who had slid open the glass partition.

“I’m Gidon Aronson. I’m subbing in the Middle School this morning.”

“Yes, Mr. Aronson, it’s good to see you again.”

“Thanks.” I paused a moment. “It’s Janice, right?”

“That’s pretty good. I’m impressed,” she said smiling.

“I always remember the important people.”

She laughed. “Do you remember how to get upstairs?”

“I do. It’s where I put my keys that I can’t remember.”

“They’re probably with mine somewhere.”

I waved and headed down a blue and yellow corridor and around a corner to a staircase. In moments, I was on the second floor and rounding another corner. As I walked past a door on my right marked “Teacher’s Lounge,” I noticed that my heart rate seemed to have picked up. Twenty 7th graders whose regular teacher was away. What was there to be nervous about, right? Give me an assassin in a crowded banquet hall any time. Oh, relax. I knew what I wanted to do; I just needed to get into class and start rolling. I continued past wall mounted displays of student art — multi-colored cubist paintings that looked Picasso-esque — and down to the Middle School office. The door stood open.

The reception area was relatively small. To the left was the secretary’s desk partially hidden behind a chest-high partition and shelf. About ten feet behind the work station was a closed door with the nameplate “Dr. Saltzman, Headmaster” on it. To my right were two copying machines, and against another wall was a grid-like hive of teachers’ mailboxes. A number of them were overstuffed with papers, while others looked sadly empty, as if those teachers were unloved.

I turned back to the secretary’s desk. Empty. In fact, no one was in the room at all. Perhaps there was a meeting behind the headmaster’s closed door. A nearby analog wall clock clicked to 8:20. Class would start in thirty minutes and I wanted to arrive early so I could establish dominance over the 13 and 14 year olds. I knew where to go; I had subbed for Mrs. Cayhan before. I just needed her lesson plans. I stepped over to the collection of mailboxes and began looking at the names printed above each one.

“Can I help you?”

I turned to see a very striking, petite woman who was probably in her early thirties. She was slender with shoulder-length blonde hair framing her sparkling eyes. A tapered white sleeveless dress flattered her figure and revealed toned, tanned arms.

“I’m Gidon Aronson. I’m subbing for Mrs. Cayhan.”

“Right. I knew you’d be coming in. Carol told me.”

“You are...?”

“I’m sorry. I’m Katie Harris. I direct student services here.” She put out her hand, which I shook. Her grasp was firm. “You’re taking her 7th Grade American History class, aren’t you?”

“I am.”

“You know, you can save me a trip, if you don’t mind.” She pulled a pink slip of paper from a nearby mailbox and then leaned over the shelf to fill it in. I noticed she wrote with her left hand — always a good sign in my book — and I also noticed she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring. The fact there was no tan line where a ring would have been hadn’t escaped me either.

As she continued to write, I tried to watch her without staring. As she leaned over, her hair had fallen slightly away from the back of her neck to reveal a thin gold necklace. It went perfectly with her tanned skin and the color of her dress. So no one would think I might be leering, I stepped back and turned to peruse the walls. There were class photos, a bright yellow flyer announcing the arrival of the yearbooks, a calendar, and two State commendations. After another moment, I looked down at my tie — for some reason I suddenly hoped it was one of my more stylish ones — only to see that it had flipped around so that seam and label were now forward. I ever-so-nonchalantly flipped it back. I looked up to see Miss Harris watching me. She was smiling at my deft maneuver.

“It’s my natural energy,” I said. “It just spirals right off me. All my ties flip.”

“Uh huh,” she smiled back.

“Really.” I smiled back. After a moment I pointed to the slip of paper in her hand. “What do you want me to do?”

“Just give this to David,” she named the student on the note. “It’s a pass to let him come to my office.”

I took the note which had the words “The Harris Get Out of Class Pass” printed across the top.

“Cute.”

She smiled, not as impressed as I would have liked. “He’s not due to see me until 9:00, so that should give him more than enough time to copy down his homework.”

“No problem.” I put the paper in my shirt pocket. “So, what does a director of Student Services do?”

“Oh, I teach, I coordinate the efforts of tutors, our school psychologist, other teachers and administration. Basically, I’m the official advocate for the students.”

I was thinking about asking her where her office was — in case I needed help — when the headmaster’s door opened. Out came an attractive middle-aged woman with short tapered dark hair that made her look both attractive and business-like. I recognized her as Diane, the Middle School secretary. As she emerged from the headmaster’s office, she was talking over her shoulder: “I’ll call her office and see if she can come in.” Diane sat down at her desk and picked up the phone. Before she began dialing, she looked up at me: “Mr. Aronson, hi. How are you?”

“Pretty well, thanks.”

“Give me a second and I’ll be right with you.” She began dialing.

“Gidon, it’s nice to see you.” I looked up to see the headmaster coming out of his office. He was a tall man in his mid fifties, a little husky as if he could’ve been a football player in earlier years, balding and clean shaven. The knot on his Jerry Garcia tie hung an inch or two below an unbuttoned collar. He exuded warmth.

“Thank you, Dr. Saltzman,” I said, shaking his hand.

“So I hear you had a little excitement last night.”

Oh God. What did he know and how?

The headmaster turned to the two ladies in the room. “Do you know that Mr. Aronson stopped an assassination at the Beit Shalom banquet last night?”

The women looked at me. I just looked back at headmaster.

“It’s a small community, Gidon,” he laughed. “I have several friends who saw you.”

I just shrugged. “I’m just glad Mr. Lev is okay.”

“What did you do?” the secretary asked.

Dr. Saltzman didn’t give me a chance to respond. He put his hand on my shoulder. “He flipped a waiter who was about to shoot Eitan Lev.”

“I didn’t flip him,” I said, shifting my weight, unconsciously. “I just tripped him before he could do any damage.” I felt the three pair of eyes on me, waiting for more explanation. I shifted my weight again. “Really, it wasn’t a big deal.”

I needed to leave. I didn’t want to talk about this.

Katie Harris stepped closer. “Excuse me, but you’re subbing for Carol, right, in about fifteen minutes? Do you know where her lesson plans are?”

Was I that obvious in my discomfort, or was she extremely intuitive? It didn’t matter. I took her lead. “She said they’d be in her mailbox.”

Ms. Harris stepped over to the grid of mailboxes, located one along the top row, and pulled some papers from it. “7th Grade American History. Here they are, with your name on them.”

“Thanks.” I took them from her. “If you will excuse me, I need to look at these and set up before class starts.” I turned to the Headmaster and his secretary. “It was good seeing you.”

As I headed down the hallway, I could feel my shoulders slowly relax. When I paused to get my bearings, I heard footsteps behind me. I smiled as Katie Harris approached. “Bless you, bless you, bless you for getting me out of there,” I said.

“You’re welcome, you’re welcome, you’re welcome.” There was that luminous smile again. We walked together. A moment went by then she said, “You’ve taught this class before, haven’t you?”

“A few times.”

“They’re good kids.”

“All nice and rested and full of energy, right?”

“Yup,” she smiled again. “Just for you.”

We rounded a corner and headed down another corridor. This one was carpeted and had bulletin boards to either side. Room 235, Mrs. Cayhan’s room, was the second classroom on the right. We stopped in front of it.

“You know, your reputation precedes you.”

“My reputation?” I wasn’t sure what she meant. I broke a guy’s wrist last night and threw him to the ground. Did she mean that?

“As a teacher. I’ve heard the kids love it when you substitute.”

I laughed. “Is that a good thing? Maybe it’s because their regular teacher isn’t here.”

“No, they enjoy your class. Really.”

“I’m glad.” I let a moment go by. “Have you been the special services person here a long time?”

“I started this past September.”

“And you like it here?”

“Very much. I love the kids.”

As we talked, I noticed that she hadn’t asked about last night. I wasn’t sure what that meant. Maybe she just didn’t want to pry. That was refreshing and appreciated. I was sorry I hadn’t run into her before.

“Well,” she said after a moment, “if you ever need help with any of the kids, or ideas for getting across a lesson, let me know.”

“I will. Thanks, again, for the save,” I said.

“My pleasure.”

With that, Ms. Harris headed down the corridor and I opened the door to my home for the next forty-five minutes. I looked around. The room was the traditional rectangle, with the teacher’s desk in front, facing rows of students’ desks. On the far side of the teacher’s desk — opposite me as I walked into the room — was a wall of windows, some covered by Venetian blinds. Behind the teacher’s desk and facing the room was a whiteboard, with a matching one on the back wall of the room. This rear whiteboard was flanked by two bulletin boards. The one to the left had a display on the Presidents of the United States, while the other highlighted different geographic terms such as peninsula, isthmus, and basin — with matching illustrations. I took this all in and also noticed that the air conditioner was on, putting a slight chill in the room. In a matter of minutes the room would be filled with young hyperactive bodies that would add some heat.

I put my notes, the packet from the teacher, and my Monopoly game down on the desk and took a deep breath. The teacher’s notes spelled out Mrs. Cayhan’s plan for the day, plus the students’ homework. I picked up a black marker from the ledge below the whiteboard and posted the overnight assignment. No sooner had I finished the last line than the bell rang, signaling the end of the current period. Actually, it was more like an electronic buzz, but it was warning enough. I gathered my notes, sat on the edge of the desk, and waited.

In a minute, two girls — one tall, dressed all in black with spiky hair, and one short and thin with blonde hair tied up in a sort-of bun — came in talking. They took two steps then froze in mid-stride.

“Mr. Aronson, are you subbing today?” the smaller of the two semi-shrieked.

“I sure am,” I said smiling.

The petite girl immediately headed back out to the hallway and announced my arrival, using a decibel level disproportionate to her size. Within minutes the entire room was filled. There were probably eighteen or twenty kids and there was only one desk to spare. The new period bell rang, and we were off.

“Okay,” I announced, “your homework is on the board and I will be passing out your drill, so please settle down.”

The buzz in the room quieted as I passed out Mrs. Cayhan’s drill for the day: an analysis of a political cartoon about big business in the late 1800’s. It showed a giant Cornelius Vanderbilt, the railroad baron, straddling a group of railroad tracks. He was holding a leash in each hand that was attached to different railroads. The students’ task was to answer a number of questions about the cartoon.

I looked out at the students in the room. There were tall and small kids, round and thin; some were in shorts and T-shirts, others in jeans and more fashionable tops. As I watched the boys and girls get down to work, the young, petite girl who had announced my arrival raised her hand. She was sitting in the front row, dead center.

“Mr. Aronson, are you subbing all week?”

“No, Arielle, just today. Mrs. Cayhan will be back tomorrow.”

She raised her hand again.

“Yes, Arielle,” I smiled.

“How’d you remember my name? I mean you’re not here that often.”

A boy diagonally behind her with close cropped blonde-hair and a cherubic face burst out with: “It’s because you ask so many questions, Arielle. God!”

“Thank you, Zach,” I said. “Actually, I try to make my mind very impressionable, like a field with undisturbed snow on it. Then when I need to remember something, it makes an impression and I remember it.” I paused. “That, and the fact that you ask a lot of questions, Arielle.”

“If you say so, Mr. Aronson,” Arielle said.

I smiled again. “Back to work.”

Just as the class had settled down, the door opened and in walked a dark-haired boy, dressed in jeans and a black and orange Orioles T-shirt. He began heading for the lone desk in the back left corner of the room.

Our eyes met. “Stop,” I said.

Everyone in the room looked up.

“You’re Josh, right?” I loved being able to call them by their names. It made it personal, essentially saying I may be a sub, but I know who you are.

“Uh huh.” Josh answered, frozen in place near the door.

“Do you know what time it is?”

The boy wasn’t even flustered. “I know I’m late. I’m sorry.” He wasn’t. You could see it in his expression and in his body language. He was smiling and looking at his friends.

“Do you have a late note?”

The entire class was watching the two of us. Except for our exchange and the low rumble of the air conditioner, the room was still.

The boy in the Orioles T-shirt looked at me. “No.”

I didn’t say anything; just looked at him

“Mrs. Cohen let us out late.”

I addressed the class: “How many of you are in Mrs. Cohen’s class?”

About fifteen students raised their hands. I thought that might be the case.

“Class started eight minutes ago, Josh. It’s not fair to all of us, and besides, you missed my explanation on the secret to remembering Arielle’s name.”

A moment went by. We needed to get past this.

“Don’t take advantage of me, Josh. I don’t appreciate it.”

He sat down without further comment.

“Okay, ladies and gents,” I began, “we have miles to go before we sleep, so let’s take one more minute and then we’ll review the drill.” They all got back to work.

A hand from a girl seated in the center of the room went up. She had her knees pulled up close to her chest, her feet resting on the chair.

“Yes?”

“Could you turn down the air conditioner. It’s freezing in here.”

I looked at her. She was wearing shorts and a sleeveless flowered top. She was rubbing her own arms, trying to get warm.

“We can’t turn down the air conditioning, Sammi,” Zach, the boy who had earlier needled Arielle, spoke up again. “The knob is broken.”

I walked over to the window-side of the room and took a look at the wall unit. It was a system similar to the units found in many motel rooms that controls both heat and air conditioning. There were only two knobs: one to select the function and one to control the temperature. The knob for the temperature was missing, leaving only the metal post.

“You can’t turn it,” Arielle spoke up from the front. “It’s stuck. You need a pliers or something.”

I looked at it for a moment then grabbed the small post between thumb and forefinger and rotated it to the left. It was a little resistant, but it turned. Immediately, the tone of the unit deepened and the air blowing out became warmer.

“Oh my God, how did you do that?” someone in the back asked.

I just smiled. On the way back to my desk I caught a glimpse of the wall clock. It was almost 9:00. I pulled Katie Harris’ note from my shirt pocket. I asked for David Leder to come see me, and a short, disheveled-looking boy with wire rim glasses came over. I handed him the “Harris Get Out of Class Pass” and off he went.

The remainder of class went smoothly. After reviewing the drill and then working on vocabulary relating to their chapter, I pulled out my Monopoly board. Since the lesson was on the rise of industry in America, I thought it would be interesting if they could redesign the Monopoly board to reflect that era. They could rename the railroads and utilities to something more era-appropriate, and then could also replace the street names with other monopolies of the time, such as the Standard Oil Trust. I divided the class into four groups and gave them time to come up with suitable names. Ten minutes before class was over, we reconvened to share their ideas. They loved it, and I was pleased. Not all my ideas went over so well.

The bell rang shortly and the class filed out. Most of the kids said good-bye; some said thank you. I ushered two stragglers out — two boys who took an incredible amount of time gathering their books and binders — and then collected my own belongings.

I went back to the office. It was much busier this time, filled with teachers and a few kids. Teachers were moving from mailbox to door, from door to copier, from one office to another. Students were just hanging out.

I looked at Diane, the secretary who had welcomed me warmly. She was at her desk and had the phone cradled between her ear and shoulder — she must’ve been on hold — but was talking to a teacher beside her about report cards, jotting down notes on a Post-it pad, and directing traffic in the room — all at the same time. She saw me walk in and waved me over with her free hand. She handed me a blue sheet of paper emblazoned “Substitute Pay Form,” then went back to her traffic direction.

I found a shelf to lean on and filled out the paper.

By the time I was finished, the room had emptied. I handed the form to Diane, thanked her, and headed out. As I walked down the corridor filled with the student cubist art, I hoped I would bump into Katie Harris before I left. I smiled picturing her smile. My thoughts shifted to Alli. I owed her a phone call to set up dinner tonight, but I’d deal with that later. My mind went back to Katie.

I headed down to my office on North Charles Street. This area of town was a few miles north of the city center and had a mixed commercial-residential feel to it. On the main street, stores lined either side, however, the road itself was not all that wide. In fact, it was one-way northbound, and where the shops were mostly at street level, apartments filled the upper two stories. I pulled into a tenant’s only parking lot behind my building, then headed around front.

My modest place of business was located between the offices of a radio station and a natural food restaurant. Both had been there when I first rented my place. I had never set foot in the radio station — no need to — but I was familiar with the natural foods place. It was run by a Latino husband and wife who seemed to always be there.

I hustled up the five steps to my entrance: a single, nondescript glass door that had orange paper lining it on the inside so you couldn’t see through. There were no signs, no markings of any kind as to what lay inside. I unlocked the door and walked in.

The entranceway soon gave way to a decent-sized hardwood-floored open room. There weren’t many accouterments to give away what went on here. The walls — simply painted white — were pretty much bare; there was a punching bag hanging from supports in one corner, and there was a lone bookcase against the back wall that had a shelf-full of arm and leg pads and a collection of miscellaneous books. Two good-sized windows, both of which were open, let in plenty of light.

The one thing that gave away the purpose of the room was a young man in his mid-twenties, holding a pair of Chinese broadswords. He wore loose black pants and a red T-shirt with a black dragon emblazoned on the back. At the moment, he was moving vigorously about the room flashing the swords, constantly rising up on one leg, and then sinking low. I watched from the side.

After about thirty seconds he came to a stop. He turned to see me and came right over.

“Sifu, hi.”

“Good morning, Jon.”

Jon was about five-ten, lean, and curly-haired. Sweat was running down his cheek and the front of his T-shirt was patterned with wet spots like an ink-blot test.

“That last section looks good,” I said. “Smoother than last week. Not bad for a young guy.”

“Thanks. Some old guy showed me what to do.”

I smiled. The “old guy” was me.

He smiled back, then asked: “Did you get my message last night?”

“About the uniforms and about the new student? Yes. I look forward to meeting her.”

We walked through a door and into my office. Like the main room, the office had the essentials: a desk, some chairs, plus a tall filing cabinet. The only elements of luxury were an old sofa that I had rescued from a second-hand shop and a TV/DVD player. On top of the filing cabinet was a green towel. I tossed it to Jon.

“So how’d last night go?” Jon asked, mopping his face.

“You know, Oh Young Student, there aren’t too many people I let pry into my private life.”

“If I didn’t pry, you’d end up telling the whole class anyway.”

I smiled because it was true. I sat down in the desk chair and looked up at my student. “It was definitely an interesting night.” I told him everything, from spotting the waiter to the discussion with the Shin Bet guy. The only thing I left out was my emotional state at the beginning of the evening.

“So what do you think about the Israeli dude?”

“He’ll be by. He knew I wasn’t giving him the entire story. And while that may not affect his investigation, these guys hate not knowing everything about everything.”

“So he doesn’t know your background?”

I shook my head. “I don’t think so. Maybe by now. I don’t know.”

Jon began playing with one of the broadswords, moving it from side-to-side. “So, when do you think he’ll show up?”

“This morning, I’m sure. I had to give him my home phone number. He’ll trace me here.”

“Anything you want me to do, Sifu?”

“You may want to offer me a can of soda when he comes in.”

He smiled, knowing exactly my intent.

“After that, be invisible. Don’t give him a reason to notice you.”

“I’ll be as clear as a fresh mountain stream.”

“Uh huh.”

With that, Jon went back to his work-out and I went about some paperwork. My attention span for that was about five minutes, so I left my desk and went about my own martial routine. It was very dull to look at: several sequences of stretching exercises and then a lot of standing around and staring off into space.

About an hour later the door buzzer sounded. Jon and I exchanged glances and he went to see who it was. In a minute he came back, as expected, with David Amit, the Shin Bet man from last night. Amit looked a little more worn than the evening before. He was wearing a sport coat with an open collar — Israelis detest ties — and his thinning hair was slightly disheveled. He came in alone, though I doubted he was by himself.

“Boker tov,” he said almost flatly. “Good morning.”

“Good morning. What can I do for you?”

“Is there a place where we can talk privately?” He looked at Jon.

I led Amit into my office. I opened a folding chair for him and placed it opposite my desk. I grabbed the cushioned desk chair across from him.

He sat in his seat with his legs crossed, ankle on the opposite knee, and tried to look casual. “You didn’t tell me everything last night.” He looked around the dojo office. “Where did you train?”

“Here and there. It doesn’t matter does it? What can I do for you, Mr. Amit. You know what I told you about the waiter was accurate.”

He uncrossed his legs. “You said you didn’t see the waiter talking to anyone, that you thought he was working alone.”

“From what I could see.”

“We don’t think so. We don’t think he was by himself.”

“Okay, but as I told you, I didn’t see anyone else.”

There was a knock on the office door. It was Jon. “Sifu, excuse me. I thought you’d like something to drink.” He looked at me and I could almost see a smile on the corners of his mouth. He handed me a can of Coke and a plastic cup.

“Thanks.” I turned to the Israeli. “Mr. Amit, do you want anything to drink?”

“No thank you.”

Jon left the room.

The Israeli went on: “We think he’s part of a larger group.”

“So?”

“So, we’d like your help.”

“I helped last night. Did your job for you.”

Amit didn’t react; he just looked at me. After a moment, “What unit did you serve in?”

I poured the soda into the cup and then began to fiddle with the empty can. “Why do you ask questions you already know the answers to?” I paused. “How is Mr. Lev?”

“Mr. Lev is fine. We need your help,” he repeated.

“I’m just a teacher. Go to the police.”

“They can not help us.”

“Why not?”

“The waiter is involved in a group that the police don’t know very much about.”

What he meant was he knew the group, but probably didn’t have the time or the resources to infiltrate them. I looked down at the can of soda in my hand and put my right index finger against its side. About halfway down I began to make a slow drilling-type movement with my finger. Amit looked for a moment at what I was doing then turned back to me.

He sat forward in his chair. “You teach here. You can maybe get one of their group to join your class or use one of your students to get close to them. Maybe one of the girls... preferably someone in high school.”

I was on my feet. “That’s it, we’re done. ‘Use one of my students!?’ You know your way out.”

Amit stood up casually. “They were watching you last night when you came out of the synagogue.”

I looked at the Shin Bet man. I looked at his black wire rim glasses and at the lines at the corner of his eyes.

I looked right into his black pupils. “Mr. Amit, it’s time for you to go.”

“Consider this your meluim, your reserve duty.”

“We’re not in Israel.”

“You are involved.”

“I am not involved. I helped you last night, that’s all.”

“I’m sorry you feel this– ”

“Just tell your bosses in Ganei Yehoshua that you couldn’t recruit me.”

His right eyebrow went up as I mentioned the location of Shin Bet headquarters in Tel Aviv.

As I finished this last statement, I pushed my right index finger through the side of the aluminum Coke can. This time both Amit’s eyebrows went up. I pulled my finger out and then tossed him the can.

“Like I said, I can’t help you.”

Amit looked down at the punctured can and then back at me. “You are a very interesting man, Gidon.” He said the same thing last night after my interview. I didn’t like it.

He turned to leave, but looked back. “You asked me last night how the waiter smuggled a gun past us. He hid it in a tray of silverware. He had help.”

“We’re done, Mr. Amit. Atah meyvin? Do you understand?”

“Yes, I understand.”

“Good. Let me see you out.”

I escorted him out of the office and into the main practice hall. Without looking around I could tell Jon was not in the room, though I knew he was nearby. I walked the Israeli agent to the entrance.

There was nothing else to say, so he just looked at me and then opened the glass door and went outside. I locked the door behind him.

“Shit,” I said aloud. “Now he’ll be back.”

Jon appeared at my side. “I thought you were pretty chill.”

I looked at my finger. It was bleeding from where I punctured the soda can. “Not chill enough.”