serves a higher purpose. She would say we are created in his image. Everything we do must be also for a greater purpose. My sister would want us to remember the way of her life, not the way of her death.”
Fourteen
Elise didn’t bother checking the caller ID before she picked up the phone. She had been expecting this call, polishing off her second glass of wine to calm her nerves.
“What's going on, doll?” her father asked in his usual enthusiastic tone.
Elise inhaled deeply to steady her voice. If she were to respond honestly to his question, the words out of her mouth would be an incoherent jumble, something like, “it was horrible… the mikvah… a woman is dead.” Eventually she would calm down and attempt to convey the enormity of an entire community attending the funeral of a holocaust survivor. Naturally, he would want details about the crime and she would tell that there weren't many yet. But, she would say in her most assuring voice, there was no reason for concern; they already had him. The man who killed Estelle was in police custody.
As if that would satisfy him .
Elise knew better. One iota of news of a murder in Arden Station and her father would be on the next plane to the states. A knight in shining armor coming to rescue her, no matter that she had a husband named Evan to protect her. Maybe it was because she kept her maiden name—Danzig—that her father still felt so responsible for her. Elise had planned to become a Henner, really she had, but at the last minute, on the day of her wedding, during the signing of the ketuba, she just couldn’t do it. Somehow, it felt too much like she was abandoning him.
In truth, her father had always been overly protective. Elise understood it to some degree now that she was a parent herself. She worried all the time about her own three kids—about their health, safety, happiness. At least she had Evan to co-parent with, to lean on for support. Her father, to the contrary, had been utterly alone.
“Elise?”
“Oh… fine, Dad; everything’s fine… ”
She was thankful the conversation was taking place over the phone. Had she been face to face with him, he would for sure know she was lying; he was that adept at reading her. But what else could she expect? After all, Lewis Danzig had been a clinical psychiatrist for over forty years. It was his job to read people! During the course of his long career, Lewis had also held posts at Boston Memorial and Harvard Medical School, but he was best known for his work in the area of posttraumatic stress. His research had been published in The American Journal of Psychiatry , The International Journal of Mental Health , and The Journal of Child & Family Studies, as well as countless other publications. His most acclaimed studies involved the use of cognitive reconditioning protocols in PTSD and three months earlier, he had been tapped by the U.S. military to work with army M.D.'s. It was all top secret; he couldn’t talk much about it, could only tell Elise he was presently on an army base in Germany.
“And how’s the peanut gallery doing?” Lewis asked, as usual, redirecting the conversation away from himself. “Everyone doing well in school? Elise?… Elise are you there?”
“What?… Sorry Dad… Becca! Stop pulling on my sleeve! I’ll put you on in a minute…”
Lewis chuckled. “Elise, put Becca on. I want to talk to my granddaughter.”
“…Becca, here… talk to Pop-Pop.”
Elise went to check the oven. It was burger and fries night; the meal was easy to prepare, and was a virtual guarantee she wouldn’t hear any whining from the kids. Her father had cooked plenty of meals like this for her when she was growing up. Some of Elise's fondest memories were of sitting at the kitchen table doing her homework while her father wrapped hot dogs in slices of fatty bacon and American cheese— Texas Tommy's he called them—and deep fried thick slices of Vidalia onions in peanut oil—his own
Fourteen
Elise didn’t bother checking the caller ID before she picked up the phone. She had been expecting this call, polishing off her second glass of wine to calm her nerves.
“What's going on, doll?” her father asked in his usual enthusiastic tone.
Elise inhaled deeply to steady her voice. If she were to respond honestly to his question, the words out of her mouth would be an incoherent jumble, something like, “it was horrible… the mikvah… a woman is dead.” Eventually she would calm down and attempt to convey the enormity of an entire community attending the funeral of a holocaust survivor. Naturally, he would want details about the crime and she would tell that there weren't many yet. But, she would say in her most assuring voice, there was no reason for concern; they already had him. The man who killed Estelle was in police custody.
As if that would satisfy him .
Elise knew better. One iota of news of a murder in Arden Station and her father would be on the next plane to the states. A knight in shining armor coming to rescue her, no matter that she had a husband named Evan to protect her. Maybe it was because she kept her maiden name—Danzig—that her father still felt so responsible for her. Elise had planned to become a Henner, really she had, but at the last minute, on the day of her wedding, during the signing of the ketuba, she just couldn’t do it. Somehow, it felt too much like she was abandoning him.
In truth, her father had always been overly protective. Elise understood it to some degree now that she was a parent herself. She worried all the time about her own three kids—about their health, safety, happiness. At least she had Evan to co-parent with, to lean on for support. Her father, to the contrary, had been utterly alone.
“Elise?”
“Oh… fine, Dad; everything’s fine… ”
She was thankful the conversation was taking place over the phone. Had she been face to face with him, he would for sure know she was lying; he was that adept at reading her. But what else could she expect? After all, Lewis Danzig had been a clinical psychiatrist for over forty years. It was his job to read people! During the course of his long career, Lewis had also held posts at Boston Memorial and Harvard Medical School, but he was best known for his work in the area of posttraumatic stress. His research had been published in The American Journal of Psychiatry , The International Journal of Mental Health , and The Journal of Child & Family Studies, as well as countless other publications. His most acclaimed studies involved the use of cognitive reconditioning protocols in PTSD and three months earlier, he had been tapped by the U.S. military to work with army M.D.'s. It was all top secret; he couldn’t talk much about it, could only tell Elise he was presently on an army base in Germany.
“And how’s the peanut gallery doing?” Lewis asked, as usual, redirecting the conversation away from himself. “Everyone doing well in school? Elise?… Elise are you there?”
“What?… Sorry Dad… Becca! Stop pulling on my sleeve! I’ll put you on in a minute…”
Lewis chuckled. “Elise, put Becca on. I want to talk to my granddaughter.”
“…Becca, here… talk to Pop-Pop.”
Elise went to check the oven. It was burger and fries night; the meal was easy to prepare, and was a virtual guarantee she wouldn’t hear any whining from the kids. Her father had cooked plenty of meals like this for her when she was growing up. Some of Elise's fondest memories were of sitting at the kitchen table doing her homework while her father wrapped hot dogs in slices of fatty bacon and American cheese— Texas Tommy's he called them—and deep fried thick slices of Vidalia onions in peanut oil—his own
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