A Town of Empty Rooms by Karen E. Bender

dames” and then the husky romance of this voice in a room where the walls seemed to be the consistency of flannel. The floors were warped and soft as cardboard; the building, frankly, needed a wrecking ball. The rabbi stopped in the middle of the room and gazed at the sunlight falling onto the rotting wood floor. The sunlight seemed thicker here, a pale, transparent band falling through a hole in the roof, the dirt glinting in its path. The rabbi stepped forward and put his hand into the warm swath of sun. His face was bright and solemn with an extravagant hope. She understood that hope, had felt it when she began her work speechwriting, loved the sensation of wanting to release something significant onto other people — her father had been so certain, so sure of her.
    â€œI love the idea,” she said. There was a glint of this new, fresh entity, the future — how she wanted to be part of it. They made their way to the car. Betty was waiting there.
    â€œI think my father would like this,” Serena said, though she didn’t know if he would have, particularly.
    â€œA man of good taste,” the rabbi said. “You see? Do it for him, Serena. Let’s get it for him.” He stepped back and clasped his hands. “We need this building for everyone,” he said. “The dead are not gone. They are not here with us, but they are not gone. Serena,” he put his hand on her shoulder, “the Jewish community includes the living and the dead.”
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    SUDDENLY, HE WAS IN A hurry to get back. He bolted to the car and sat there, gunning the engine, which gurgled and spat in an alarming way.

    â€œWe have to start somewhere,” said Betty, brightly. “We made a good — ”
    â€œStart? We’re finished,” he said. “Don’t sit on this. Get up, everyone! Get up!” He was doing about forty-five in a twenty-five-mile-an-hour zone, hunched over the wheel.
    â€œRabbi, slow,” said Betty, pressing her hand against the dashboard.
    â€œSlow! Enough slow. Full speed ahead.”
    When he stopped for gas, Betty, face damp with sweat, leaned over to whisper, “Listen. I want to tell you. I’m not one to gossip. I’m just saying — ” Betty fanned herself with her hand. “We’re losing people because of that man.”
    â€œWhat are you talking about?”
    â€œHe’s going to fill that place with people? Ha! He’s going to bankrupt us with his schemes. Who in god’s name among us is going to pick up a saw to fix that place? Norman? Open your eyes, Serena, just wait and see.”
    Serena stared at Betty, her dark maroon lipstick gleaming like new paint. Betty had the same feathered gray haircut as Serena’s mother, who lived in Los Angeles along with Serena’s sister, Dawn, and had, for no reason she could fathom, been remiss in returning her phone calls. A part of her liked being around Betty, but Betty was different in that she seemed to be the sort of person who rose into the day, perfectly groomed, possessed of unwavering certainty.
    The rabbi slid into the driver’s seat and Betty stopped. “Speed limit only, Rabbi, or I’m reporting you,” she said, trying to make her voice sound light.
    â€œNo time to lose,” he said, but he seemed to hear a warning in her voice. He slowed down.
    The rabbi was stopped at the gate of Betty’s community, which was surrounded on all sides by pointed evergreen bushes. It was called Windsor Plantation . The guard halted the rabbi’s car with a concerned expression until he saw Betty inside. “Miss Blumenthal,” he said, in a tone of respect and bewilderment. The rabbi drove to her house, an enormous brick mansion with a slanted Tudor roof; it looked like it could house a German restaurant.

    The rabbi drove out, waving to the guard, who lifted his hand warily at the old Buick. As the rabbi continued on, he smacked his