Lieberman's Day by Stuart M. Kaminsky Page A

demon, and now he would have to return to his task. The Lord might well place many other obstacles in his path, but now he knew that it was within his power to smite demons and recognize tempters.
    Frankie Kraylaw, with the help of God, would prevail. He would destroy the two policemen. He would wrench his wife and son from this city of evil. Then a new thought struck him, the voice coming as he was sure it had come to Abraham. When the task was completed, when God’s will was done and Frankie had been rewarded on earth for his faith, God might well want him to sacrifice his firstborn son.
    Yes, if God so bid him, he would sacrifice Charlie on the altar of the Lord though he truly loved his son as Abraham had loved Isaac.
    Frankie wanted to say “Praise Jesus” aloud. He tried, but his throat was dry with blood and he choked upon the words.
    There were four people at Maish and Yetta’s 1950s split-level brick house in Lincolnwood when Abe arrived with his bag of bagels, bialys, and cream cheese. He avoided Bess’s eyes and went to Yetta, who stood, her eyes red, a heavy woman who had given up any pretense of holding herself or her feelings together. She looked and felt in his arms like a sack of cotton left out in the rain.
    Spindly-legged dark furniture and faded flower patterns, gray carpet throughout, two bedrooms, one of which had been shared by David and Edward until they each left for college, marriage, and their own families.
    â€œAvrum,” she said, clinging to him, almost knocking him over.
    â€œYetta,” Abe answered, patting her head and trying to keep his balance.
    Her pain came into him, a sudden wet shock, and she cried. “I can’t remember what he was like as a baby,” she said, holding him at arm’s length to make this statement that astonished her. “Can you remember Lisa?”
    â€œSome things,” Abe said, looking at Lisa, who stood across the room.
    Bess, dressed in black, was now moving toward him and Yetta. She did not look angry. Bess was erect, slender, as tall as her husband and looking fifteen years younger than him, though only five years separated them. Bess was not a beauty, but she was a fine-looking woman, a lady. Her father had been a butcher on the South Side, but she carried herself as if he had been a banker. She had the soft, clear voice that telephone operators used to have.
    Lieberman had done his best, which was not always very good, to keep his wife from being displeased with him, not because he feared her but because he felt the criticism of her common sense.
    â€œYetta,” Bess said softly. “Come, let’s have another cup of coffee and show the Reiffels the family pictures. Come.”
    Yetta nodded dutifully and started to turn, but paused to say to Abe, “Maish went to work.”
    â€œI know,” said Lieberman. “I just came from there. He sent these.”
    Bess took the package and handed it to an overly made-up woman who could have been sixty or eighty.
    â€œYou remember Marge Reiffel,” Bess said.
    â€œOf course,” Lieberman said with a smile, though he had no idea who this woman was. “How have you been, Marge?”
    â€œDon’t ask,” Marge said, turning away with a wave of her hand and a tear in her voice as she headed for the kitchen with the bag.
    Bess stood at Lieberman’s side while Lisa led Yetta to the sofa, where an open book of family photos waited.
    â€œGive him something to eat, Bess,” Yetta called. “He must be starving.”
    â€œI will,” said Bess, turning to her husband.
    â€œI wanted you to sleep,” Lieberman said. “I thought you could use a good night’s rest for all this.”
    â€œI know,” she said. “I figured.”
    â€œYou look beautiful and you smell like perfect memories.”
    â€œYou look terrible, Lieberman,” Bess answered. “And you smell like mildew. You got time to go home,