A TRUE SON OF ASMODEUS Chapters 7-8

(Download  chapters 8-12 in pdb doc format.  )

by

Zvi Zaks

The next thee chapters can be found at A True Son of Asmodeus -- Chapters 9-11

For that morning, the clinic had booked twelve patients, two of whom needed complete physicals. A nurse, dashing to the medication cabinet, passed by me and muttered, “Another roller-skate day.”

I tried to keep up, but so much chaos had left me with nerves raw, unable to focus on my work. The line of waiting patients grew. To aggravate the situation, vertigo, the kind that heralded another premonition, made me unsteady. I sensed a personal disaster approaching.

Midmorning, an aide waved the telephone at me as I scurried down the narrow aisle. “Dr. Rothenberg, you have a call from the States on line two.”

The premonition expanded to full terror. I ran to the nurses’ station and, hand shaking, picked up the phone. Birnbaum waited on the line. He hesitated before speaking which in itself was ominous. “Eli, this is the most difficult call I’ve made in my life.”

“What's wrong ?”

“Eli ... your dad’s dead.” I stiffened, then shook my head, feeling like wads of cotton had suddenly wrapped around my skull. I remember hearing my own voice screaming to cancel the rest of the day’s schedule. Birnbaum then explained that Dad had undergone the surgery, and afterwards had bled to death. Something had been done wrong, though he wouldn’t say what. He put Mom on the phone.

She sounded hysterical. “Eli, what the hell is going on here? What did they do to him?”

Nurses sitting at the long desk looked up from their charts and stared at me as I paced back and forth in the cramped workspace.

“I’m coming home, Ma.” My voice cracked.

I had to get back to Philadelphia, but who would care for my patients while I was gone? Which plane should I take? What would I do with my cat? A hundred problems demanded solutions, but news like this travels fast. The chief resident said he would arrange coverage, Rodger promised to have someone care for my laboratory animals, and Susan, bless her heart, offered to get my plane ticket, drive me to the airport, and even care for Boris until I got back. Everyone was so helpful, I wanted to cry.

I took a cab back to the apartment, where Susan was already packing my suitcase. The blood soaked towel still lay on the bloody kitchen table, but I told her not to touch the mess. She looked puzzled. “Eli, I don’t mind cleaning up.”

“No, really, don’t. Just – leave it. I’ll fix it when I get back. Please.” Thinking back, I should have put a sample of blood in the freezer, but I was too disconcerted to do anything other than grimace and hold my hands to my temples. The vampire test could wait if only Susan would leave it be, though of course I couldn’t tell her why I wanted the mess untouched. She frowned, but helped me finish packing, drove me to the airport and kissed me and hugged me tight.

“Eli, I know what it’s like to lose a parent. Be gentle with yourself,” she said in a soft voice.

“I will. And thank you.” I kissed her on the forehead. Then, without a backward glance, I boarded the plane.

I folded into my seat and realized -- nothing more needed to be done. How could that be? This moment held such momentous import. Yet no task remained to divert me. I could only sit and wait while the plane carried me across the empty Atlantic to join my mother, because my father was dead.

#

After disembarking, I went through customs and then to the waiting area beyond the metal detectors where people greeted and hugged their loved ones. No one stood there to greet or hug me. Clutching my carryall and feeling lonelier than ever, I walked the long corridor to the baggage area, where I was surprised to find my uncle Morris, Dad’s brother. Since we last met, his hair had grown whiter, and skin hung wrinkled over his cheeks. Though he and I had never been close, I was happy to see him. We embraced and sobbed, but when the luggage caravans started to whir, he abruptly let go and, dry-eyed, turned to watch the procession of motley suitcases disgorging themselves from the bowels of the airport.

It was dark when I arrived back home -- that is, back at my parents’ house. Mom opened the door. She wore an old, shabby sweater, hair pulled back into a bun with loose strands backlit by the antique lamp in the corner. For the first time I could remember, the room stood silent -- no music. Her face was colorless, her lips tight. "Eli," she said, and put her arms around me, clutching me with such desperation that I thought, having lost part of her own vital force, she now needed to replace it with mine. She scared me.

My brother Daniel, wearing a faded flannel shirt and an expression of depressed resignation, came downstairs. We hugged briefly.

“It's good you're here,” I said.

He shrugged. “I couldn’t leave Mom alone. Ruth wanted to stay also, but Robert is out of town and she didn’t want to leave the kids.”

“I’m glad you’re here for Mom, but, well, I’m glad to see you myself right now. You’re here for me, also.”

“We’re here for each other.”

The next morning, my older sister Ruth and her usual mien of dissatisfaction arrived. Seeing her impeccable black dress, I felt embarrassed that I didn’t have anything black for the funeral.

That afternoon I went to the funeral home. I had always known my father would die someday and had tried to prepare myself beforehand for the emotional shock. For example, I had resolved to resist any sales pitch from an undertaker for a more elaborate funeral. The resolve was worthless. You can’t prepare for a parent’s death.

On the way back, I bought a black tie.

If my heirs read this, know that I want the cheapest funeral possible. Give the rest of the money to charity. And I mean it – this is not just part of the story.

The funeral took place the day after. Dad didn’t know a rabbi and didn’t particularly like rabbis, so I delivered the eulogy. Mom, Ruth, Danny and I collaborated on the wording and, for once, agreed without fighting. I stood on the sanctuary platform, few notes on the lectern, and looked out at the crowd who had come to honor my dad. I felt too numb to remember the speech, but Herb and several other people told me how well I had caught Dad’s essence, how clear my delivery had been. I enjoy speaking in public and, in all honesty, part of me enjoyed it this time. But it feels so abnormal to receive compliments at your father’s funeral.

We returned home and, following tradition, washed our hands before entering the house. Inside, Mom, usually fastidious in her dress, put on a cardigan without noticing the frayed edges, and sat on the couch. Danny and I sat next to her, flanking her, physically holding her up while she tormented herself with regret and guilt. “Do you remember the premonitions you had when you were little, Eli? Well, Dad had a premonition about this operation. I never should have let him go through with it.”

As the days passed, Ruth, Danny and I took turns guarding her, one of us always around to support her.

I wish someone could have supported me.

We “sat shiva” – from the Hebrew word for seven – opening our house for a week so visitors could pay their respects and try to comfort us. Surviving that week of intensive mourning was not easy.

None of us understood what happened to Dad in that operating room and it bothered us. Two days after the funeral, I took a subway to Birnbaum’s office to garner details. When I gave my name, his nurse escorted me into his consulting room, a courtesy I appreciated. Handsome prints hung on wood paneled walls – a nice office though not as luxurious as Netter’s. Wanting to look like a doctor rather than a patient, I leafed through one of his medical journals. It bored me. Birnbaum arrived a few minutes later. He appeared a little older and heavier than me, but talked like me, practiced medicine like I do and wore a herringbone sport-jacket identical to one in my closet. In treating my father he had made one mistake -- he had not checked an old cardiogram taken a half-year ago at a different hospital. In those six months, it turned out, the EKG had developed changes that might have meant a weakened heart. I couldn’t criticize him because I wouldn’t have checked the old EKG either.

Now my father’s doctor had one of my least favorite duties -- talking with a bereaved relative.

He told me right out that an artery in the liver had not been tied properly. A medical student had tried to warn the surgeon, a Dr. William Bund, but he wouldn’t listen. Later, he ignored the report of a slight blood pressure drop in the recovery room. By the time my father had developed shock, Bund had disappeared. They coded my father, trying for half an hour to bring him back, but the situation was hopeless. The autopsy showed a massive intra-abdominal hemorrhage. My father had bled to death in the middle of a hospital.

My stomach churned. I wanted to lash out and hit someone. Not trusting myself to speak, I just nodded, then stood, ready to leave his office.

Birnbaum extended his hand. “I’m sorry.”

I broke into tears. “He was my father.”

Birnbaum put his hand on my shoulder and tried to comfort me. Then, as I left, still suffused in grief, I heard the phone ring, heard him talking to the caller, returning to his other duties just as I have returned to other duties after comforting a mourner. Grief overwhelmed me; his life continued on its normal path.

After so many years as a doctor, how odd it felt to experience the other side.

#

I had no desire to talk to Bund himself, but I did want to talk to his superior, the chief of surgery, a Dr. Joseph Licardello. That worthy let me fidget in a dingy waiting room for an hour before he showed up. Ruffling through old magazines on a rickety card table, I suppressed an inner rage and forced myself to act calm. Licardello himself, when he at last allowed me into his inner sanctum, showed himself a pudgy, scared little man with thin, unruly hair.

Gripping the armrests of the chair, I fired off several questions in a loud voice. “What blood pressure did my father have at the end of the operation? How much blood had been cross-matched beforehand? Did the surgeon ever receive the call from the nurses?”

Licardello shrank back in his leather chair as if hiding behind his thick glasses. With a visible effort he composed himself. “These things don’t matter. This whole affair has been very upsetting to everyone. Dr. Bund feels horrible about your father’s death. But the minute details aren’t important.” He droned on in soporific tones that reminded me of Shmuel's monologues.

I wasn’t soothed. My ears started to ring, my chest burned, and I felt dizzy and furious. He was trying to cover up Bund’s incompetence. “My mother and sister want to sue Bund and the hospital, and I don’t blame them. I want answers. What the hell did that man to do my father?”

His eyes hardened. “What do you want me to say? Have you never made a mistake – Doctor? Are you Jesus Christ, the perfect man? Has no one ever died from your carelessness?”

Unbidden, the image of three people came to mind, patients who, had I been a little quicker, a little more alert, or a little more knowledgeable, might be alive today. One of them had been fifteen years old.

Weighted down by powerlessness, I left his office and went home. Something indefinable had been wrong with that conversation. I found an old prayer book given for my Bar Mitzva, and started to memorize the Kaddish, the prayer that mourners recite for eleven months after the death of a loved one. Saying the Kaddish, sitting shiva and wearing a black ribbon, the traditional mourner’s badge, let me feel less helpless. Pinning that strip of cloth on my jacket meant doing something, even if only something symbolic.

I also memorized the Sh’ma, something I had wanted to do ever since that horrible turbulence on the plane to Philadelphia.

I tried to call Susan but couldn’t catch her at home. Twice I found a message from her on Mom’s answering machine, but we couldn’t connect. I felt too upset about Dad for telephone-tag to bother me. That week I lived in a trance, wandering without purpose, scarcely seeing where I walked. I scribbled with passion in my diary, a reporter transcribing data for posterity but too numbed by grief to shed my own tears. I never thought Dad’s death would devastate me like this. Parents mean less to an adult than to a child. Why was I so desolate? My depression grew and, though I had been eager to get to Philadelphia, I now wanted to leave, to go back to Susan and my work, to resume my normal life.

Herb visited often to offer moral support. We strolled through our favorite park and talked for hours about our careers and the women in our lives, and exchanged memories about Dad. “Something else is bothering you, Eli,” he said one time and threw a pointed rock onto the ice covered creek. When it slid over to the other side, he grinned.

“Dad’s death is enough to depress me.”

He nodded. “Of course, but I think there’s another problem on your mind.”

“What? Don’t you have enough patients that you’re trying to analyze me?” I lay down on the grass and put my hands under my head. “You see, doctor, it all began 31 years ago. That’s when I was born.”

He chuckled. “All right. I shouldn’t pry. It’s an occupational hazard for shrinks.”

I stood and we walked along the creek, Herb sliding more stones over its iced surface. Finally I spoke up. “I’m embarrassed to talk about it.”

He shrugged. “Then don’t.”

“You see, on the flight to England, I met this bizarre man.” I told him my apprehensions about Shmuel, and finished up with the plan to test his blood.

He shook his head. “First the spooky Hasid, and now a Jesus freak. Eli, how did you get so lucky?”

“There's another detail. That spooky Hasid said I’d marry a Jewish girl to give my mother grandchildren.”

“So?”

“He never mentioned grandchildren for my father. And now I can’t give my dad grandchildren.”

Herb rolled his eyes. “And this prophecy bothers you?”

“If I marry Susan, I’ll disprove at least that part of his prediction.”

“Right. Susan isn’t Jewish.”

I nodded.

He turned towards me and grabbed my wrist, his expression more serious than I’d ever seen. “Don’t.”

“Don’t marry Susan?”

“Don’t marry her for that reason. If you love her and think the two of you can be happy, great. But don’t walk her down the aisle to prove a point. Trust me -- no woman deserves to be dragged into a marriage in order to debunk the off hand comments of some wannabe prophet.”

#

After an eternity, the seven dreary days of sitting shiva ended. I felt guilty leaving Mom, but Danny and Ruth assured me they would help her if she needed it. Mom and Danny drove me to the airport. “Don’t worry about me,” Mom said in Yiddish. She had combed and set her hair, but her face still lacked makeup and her eyes drooped.

“Be well, Mom, and I won’t worry.” She laughed bitterly. I hugged and kissed her and then entered the concourse.

#

Time passed without boredom on the long flight back. Lulled by the steady drone of the jets, I slept, stared out the window, and even studied for my specialty board exams. They were years in the future, but it wouldn’t hurt to start reviewing now. Dad’s spirit, looking down on me from heaven -- if there was a heaven -- would be pleased.

Shmuel’s visage suddenly floated in front of me. That wretch would say my father was burning in Hell because he didn’t believe Christian mythology. If Shmuel in fact said that to me, I would hit him. I swore I would hit him.

Sweaty, pants clinging to my thighs, and knees stiff after the flight, the sight of Susan waiting for me at Heathrow comforted me. She waved furiously and gave me a big smile and a hug. While driving home she boldly announced that she had taken a three-week leave of absence. “If you don’t want me in your apartment, you’ll have to throw me out,” she said. That was not likely.

That night we lay in each other’s arms. As usual, we slept nude, toasty warm under the down quilt she had brought to my flat a couple of weeks ago, but without sexual desire. We just held each other and kept loneliness and despair at bay. At that moment she represented my sole island of stability.

Next morning, the smell of hot coffee, eggs, and fresh rolls woke me and enticed me to the dining nook. Sitting there, enjoying both breakfast and the intimacy of Susan in her robe, I startled to realize that someone had cleaned the table and floor, leaving no trace of the bloody mess I had left before rushing off. During the past week I had not once thought of Ashley or the young man in the emergency room. Now, my obsession with vampires returned. “Susan, did you straighten up here? I had asked you not to.”

“No, I wanted to, but you were so adamant, I didn’t want to upset you further, though it wouldn’t have been an imposition. Yesterday, when I stopped by to see what groceries we needed, I found the kitchen already clean. I assumed you hired a maid. Is something wrong?”

“No, it’s okay,” I said, but a surge of adrenalin rushed through me. Someone – or something – had sabotaged my plan to test Shmuel’s blood. Whoever had tidied the kitchenette had also washed the bloody towel I had planned to test. Just a faint brown stain, too little and too cooked for analysis, remained.

Did vampires exist or not? The question sounded absurd, but I couldn’t answer it. The one chance at a solution had washed away -- literally -- when I went to Philadelphia. I could not ignore the coincidence. Somehow, my father’s death related to the supernatural.

What was happening to my rationality?

After dinner that evening, the mystery of the towel was resolved. While washing dishes, I turned to Susan, sitting on the sofa and reading, and said, “Honey, Shmuel is at the door.”

Susan gave me a funny look. “How do you know?

At that moment, there was a knock on the door. Looking more puzzled than ever, Susan stood to open it, and invited him in.

“Eli, I can’t tell you how sorry I am about your father’s death,” Shmuel said as he entered. “It’s horrible. I wouldn’t wish that on any Jew.”

I glowered at him. “I wouldn’t wish it on anyone, Jewish or not.”

Fidgeting, he managed a weak smile. “I hope you don’t mind. A few days ago I stopped by to apologize for the horrible mess I had made and, since you weren’t home, I came in and cleaned up.”

For a moment, I was speechless. “You entered my apartment? When I wasn’t home?”

He actually trembled. “I felt bad about causing you trouble.”

“How dare you? Shmuel, that’s breaking and entering. If nothing else, it’s illegal.”

“I didn’t take anything. I just cleaned the table and floor with the towel and then washed the towel with soap and hot water. And I didn’t break in. The door was unlocked.”

Him. Of all people, he was the one who came in and ruined my sole piece of evidence. “That’s impossible. I’m sure I locked the door before I left.”

Looking like a scared rabbit, he shrugged his shoulders. “It was unlocked when I came by.”

Once invited in, vampires can bypass any lock. A paranoid idea, but one I couldn't suppress. All the pieces fit. To think him a vampire seemed so logical.

But the idea was crazy. My entire professional life involved the use of the scientific method. No matter how much superstition seemed to explain, I wouldn't succumb to it. I glowered at him.

“Eli, did I do something wrong?”

I closed my eyes. “You mean other than invading my home?”

He stared at me, eyes wide open, and asked with the faintest quiver, “Is that enough for you to sound so furious?”

In truth, it wasn’t. But I couldn’t tell him my insane suspicions that he might be the vampire murderer of at least five people. I told him half of my concern. “You’re a hypocrite. You feign sympathy for my father’s death, but your mythology would say my father is now burning in Hell because he was a good Jew and didn’t believe in your precious Jesus. That’s why I’m angry.”

Shmuel’s eyes hardened. “I don’t know how your father related to God, Eli. I can’t evaluate the state of another man’s salvation.”

“Then how can you know mine? Why do you harangue me?”

“Do you accept Jesus as your personal savior?”

“No. Of course not,” I snapped.

“That’s how I know.” He smiled with bitterness. “You’ve told me.”

“Shmuel, leave me alone. I don’t want people to preach to me.”

“Can you explain any of those quotes in the Bible?”

Susan, with a sigh of exasperation, broke in. “Shmuel, this is inappropriate. You’re taking advantage of Eli’s grief.”

Looking sad, he turned to the door. “I didn’t mean to push. Eli, I am sorry about your father, terribly sorry about what happened. I wish I could have done something to prevent it. Please believe me.”

The door closed. Susan and I stood hugging each other. She felt like a lighthouse I didn’t ever want to lose. “Susan, will you marry me?”

“My. That is a surprise.” She laughed uncertainly and pulled away. “This isn’t the time to discuss it, Eli. Ask me when you’re over your grief, if you still want to.”

“I guess you’re right,” I said, and sat down.

She sat next to me and rubbed my back. “By the way, how did you know that Shmuel was at the door?”

“He had knocked.”

“No, you asked me to let him in before he had knocked.”

“That couldn’t be.”

“I’m certain. And even if he had knocked, how did you know it was him?”

I turned towards her. “I don’t know how I knew.” Years ago, I scoffed at Mom’s ideas about ESP, but with these recent premonitions about Shmuel and other matters, I had to wonder if Mom might have been right after all. I shuddered. Galileo seemed far away.

I slept poorly that night. The next morning I called Detective Ashley. The sergeant on duty said Ashley had taken medical leave of absence, and would I mind talking with a Detective Curtis.

That afternoon I again traveled to the police station where I met Mike Curtis, a relaxed, handsome guy with big biceps, a full head of light brown hair, and a mellow voice. He invited me into his office, a brighter and neater space than Ashley's, with modern furniture and a large window. He let me ramble for several minutes about my research and the anticoagulant in the murder victim’s blood. Finally he raised his hand and smiled. “I’m sorry, Dr. Rothenberg, but why are you telling me all this?”

“Isn’t it important?”

“Should it be? Oh, wait. You asked for Fred Ashley. Aren’t you the doctor he interviewed a few weeks ago, the one who had treated the latest homicide victim?”

“That’s right.”

“Aha. And now you’re talking about bat anticoagulants.” He tapped a pencil on the desk. “Had Fred said something to you about vampires?”

“Well, yes, as a matter of fact.”

Michael laughed briefly and with little humor. “My dear man, I’m terribly sorry. Poor Fred had worked on this case far too long. Last week strain and exhaustion finally took their toll. He went completely off the deep end, seeing bats flying and blood dripping all over, and screaming that vampires were after him. He’d gone mental. He’s stopped hallucinating by now but he’s still talking about the vampires. The doctors hope to return him to work in a few months, though to a less stressful assignment. And you, happening along at just that moment to tell him about vampire bat anticoagulation. Poor Fred.”

I sat back in my chair and said nothing. If this was an act, it was a good one.

The detective rearranged papers on the desk. “You look like someone who suspects a scam. Had Fred said anything about a need for secrecy?”

“He said it was the best kept secret in 200 years.”

“Pathetic. Yes, Fred kept screaming that we mustn’t tell anyone, that no one could be trusted. Then he’d dodge those damn bats he saw swooping down on him. Ah well.

“Doctor, you’re suspicious, but that’s all right. Perhaps we can help each other.” He hesitated a moment, eyes thoughtful, and then wrote on a piece of paper. “This isn’t standard procedure, but I know how to read people. You sound like a trustworthy bloke. Here’s Fred’s home address. He should go home from the hospital next week. Go back to your laboratory and find a reason why someone should test positive on your vampire test. A reason besides vampires, I mean. Then visit Fred, and see how crazy he is. Perhaps explaining that test will help him. Not that I blame you for his breakdown. Not at all. But he’s my friend, and it would be nice to help him.”

I fidgeted in my chair. “But what if I can’t find a reason?”

“You try, Dr. Rothenberg. I’m sure you can do it, but if not, come back and we’ll talk about it. Just promise you won’t rush to his house and agitate him more.”

“Of course. I wouldn’t do that.”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t. Thank you for coming down.” He showed me to the door.

My head whirled. Now what? I didn’t want to think vampires stalked the world, but changing my beliefs every other day was almost as uncomfortable. The bat venom test was the key. This test represented the only scientific, reproducible aspect of the dilemma. My boss, SW Rodger, was a pain in the ass, but was also the world’s expert on the the anticoagulant. She must have answers.

When I reached her office, she had just returned from New York, and was going through a huge stack of mail. Leaning over her desk, I explained how the murder victim’s blood had tested positive for bat venom. She looked up, letter opener still in envelope, and asked, “Why in the world did you run the test on him?”

I sighed and turned my head. “I don’t know. Now I wish I hadn’t. I don’t know what to make of it.”

“Didn’t we test controls for the antigen?”

She’s asking me? This was her project, and her name would be first on any paper published. She should know what we did. “We checked 200 university students to be sure the test didn’t cross-react with normal proteins. None showed any trace.”

“That’s the problem,” she said, eviscerating the envelope. A pale yellow slip of paper fluttered to the desk. “You tested healthy people. You need to run sick people as controls.”

“But the murdered man had not been sick.”

“The moment before someone slit his throat, perhaps not, but by the time you drew blood from him in the ER, the hemorrhaging had thrown him into shock. Test more people in shock. Test patients with a variety of medical problems, and see how many test positive.”

Of course. We had used the wrong control group. Using healthy people for controls instead of sick patients was one of the oldest mistakes in medical research. I thanked Rodger and went, thoroughly confused about Shmuel and Detective Ashley, to my lab where two of the experimental cats lay stiff and cold in their cages. They had bled to death from excess anticoagulation. That stuff was too hard to regulate. The timing was horrible. I had spent several hours working with those animals and had planned to sacrifice them the next day to assess how effective the anticoagulant had been.

Antigen testing be damned. I slammed the door in disgust, stormed out of the lab and went home, where I found Susan preparing dinner. She took one look at me, came over, and put her arms around me. “Something upsetting happened today?”

I explained the problem with the cats. We sat on the sofa and she held my hand. “This has been a difficult week for you.” I had half expected her to ooze sympathy, but she didn’t. She just listened and made that comment. It felt nice.

Susan wanted to spend a day with her mother before returning to work. That night I proposed to her again. She smiled, put her arms around me and kissed me on the nose. “Of course, Eli. I’d love to marry you.” We set a date two months away. We would have a small wedding before I left for Germany, then I would find us an apartment in Munich, and she would join me a couple of weeks later.

I called Mom that night. She cried. “Dad would have been so happy to see you settled down. He worried about you so much.”

“You know Mom, she isn’t Jewish.”

“So what, Eli. You love her and that’s all that matters.”

Sometimes I don’t understand Mom.

Three weeks later, I finally got around to testing different hospital patients the way Rodger had suggested. I don’t know why I waited so long. Maybe fear of not finding an answer inhibited me. To my surprise and relief one patient did test positive. This patient had not been in shock, but rather had a large lump in his jaw, a salivary gland tumor. Other than that, he felt well and had no bleeding problems.

Salivary glands make protease, an enzyme that breaks down protein, just as bat venom breaks down protein. The only difference was which proteins were affected. I added salivary gland protease to blood serum, and then ran the test for the anticoagulant. The vial had a thin band of sand at the bottom. It showed an unmistakable positive result -- weakly positive but nonetheless positive.

Success. This was just what Curtis and I wanted, an explanation for the test results. While the murder victim had not had a tumor, he might have been hit in the jaw before he died, thus releasing the enzyme into the bloodstream.

It’s hard to describe my relief. I had in all seriousness been suspecting that Shmuel was a vampire. How Herb would have laughed. But when all was said and done, the only solid evidence had been the antibody test. Everything else had a rational explanation, whether sleep deprivation, coincidence, or someone’s insanity. Now, seeing how non-specific the antibody test could be, I could forget about the supernatural.

It was a bright, sunny day, no jacket needed, a soft breeze comfortably cool on my arms. My step was light as I walked back to the apartment. I had survived my father’s death, I planned to marry Susan in the near future, and there were no vampires in London. Even Shmuel hadn’t been around for a while. What more could I want?

I was soon to find out.

Chapter Eight

That night, while watching television, another premonition struck and made my heart pound. Two minutes later, I guessed its source. “Shmuel’s coming,” I told Susan.

She looked up from her magazine. “Again? That’s uncanny. Are you sure?”

I stared at the TV screen. “My chest burns and my head is spinning, just like the last time he barged in. He feels himself like a bulldozer.”

"Can you read his mind?" She slammed the magazine on the coffee table. “This is bizarre. I don’t know how you sense such things, but if he comes, I’m leaving.”

“Please, don’t go.”

“He’s an obnoxious lout who exploits people. Whatever power he has over you, I can’t help you again. You have to learn how to protect yourself.”

“Maybe it isn't him. Maybe I’m imagining things.”

A knock at the door shattered that hope. Susan went to the door and opened it. Shmuel, as disheveled as ever, stood at the threshold .

Susan glanced back at me and shook her head. "You were right."

"I wish I had been wrong."

She turned to the unwelcome visitor. “Shmuel, this is a bad time.”

He slipped by her into the room. “I’ll just take a second.”

Once invited, vampires can enter any dwelling.

Susan scowled. “Eli, there are some things I need from my old apartment. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

“No, please. Shmuel won’t be here long.” My voice caught in my throat.

Half out the door, her face softened. “I really must. I’ll be back later.” The door closed with a sharp crack.

I turned to him and bristled. “Shmuel, get out.”

He looked at me out of the corner of his eye. “Just let me make one point. This is important. It’ll just take a minute.”

My head buzzed and spun so much, I collapsed onto the sofa. He sat uncomfortably near to me and started to elaborate on some passage in the biblical book of Daniel. I could hardly understand him and couldn't answer him at all. His utter conviction overwhelmed me. Once again I felt prey to a scam which, because of my own ignorance, I couldn’t expose.

“...So then, Eli, as a scientist, you should consider that only Jesus can save you from eternal damnation...”

As if earthly problems weren’t enough, now I had hellfire to worry about.

He moved closer. As he babbled on, the droning sound increased, flies swarming around my ears. Voices murmured in my head. My brain felt foggy and nervous. I struggled to analyze his case, find a flaw in his arguments, but I couldn’t think. A hot, suffocating cloud surrounded me. I couldn’t resist flowing along with his words. And his bad breath nauseated me.

“Shmuel, maybe if you used mouthwash we could talk more easily,” I said, my voice warbling.

Something strange followed. He stopped his monologue mid-sentence and edged away from me to the end of the sofa. I blinked twice and broke into a cold sweat. My head spun so hard, I almost fell off of the couch. Shmuel stared past my shoulder for several moments and said, almost as an afterthought, “I have a stomach condition, Eli. Mouthwash won’t help.”

I shook my head, trying to clear it. “Then you should see a doctor.”

He gnawed his nether lip, still staring in my general direction without looking at me, then rose and left without another word. Only then did I realize what had happened -- while he was rambling on, I had inadvertantly unbuttoned the top of my shirt and grasped the mezuzah hanging around my neck. I shivered with the thought that maybe my comment hadn’t stopped his ramblings. Maybe the mezuzah had shut him up. Only when I held the small metal casing in such a way as to point it -- actually aim it -- towards him, did he stop trying to brainwash me.

But that couldn’t mean anything. To think a religious symbol could ward off bad luck or demons was superstition. I was a rationalist. I knew better. The mezuzah couldn’t stop Shmuel’s spouting. I knew it couldn’t.

#

Why had Shmuel come? His visit unleashed once more my obsessions about vampires and the young man who had bled to death. I had promised to tell the police about the vampire test, so the next morning I called the second detective, Mike Curtis, and explained how a tumor turned the test positive.

“Great,” he said. “I don’t understand it, but you do, and that’s what counts. Why not visit Fred this evening and tell him about it?”

Fred and his wife lived in a two-story brick house in the suburbs. A white picket fence with missing slats and peeling white paint surrounded their home. Weeds had overgrown the lawn and flower garden. Fred’s wife, a dowdy woman with a cockney accent, met me at the door. “I don’t think you should see him, Dr. Rothenberg. You might upset him.”

“I have important information from the lab. Mike Curtis insisted I talk to him.”

She sighed and led me to a darkened sitting room with a sofa, a television, and two large easy chairs. Other than a caged songbird chirping softly in the corner, the room was silent. Fred sat in one of the chairs, motionless, staring into space, shoulders sagging. Gone was his authority and nervous energy. He turned to look at me, his head moving in a stiff, jerky fashion. He looked like a different person.

I sat in the other easy chair. “How are you feeling?”

He took so long to answer, I thought he hadn’t heard me. “Not well. It’s hard to think.” His words were slow and quiet.

“Are you on medication?”

“Yes, Haldol three times a day. It makes me sleepy. I want to stop, but Doris,” indicating his wife, “won’t let me.”

“What happened to you?”

He shook his head. “I still don’t know. The day wasn’t stressful. No more than usual. I was drinking coffee and reading a report when the walls changed color and pulsated as if they were breathing. Then a telephone became a bat. It squeaked and flapped its wings and flew at my face. I know it sounds crazy, but it looked and sounded so real. I’ve faced death more times than I can count, but no criminal has ever frightened me so much. I yelled and tried to warn people until medics came and stuck me with needles that made me black out.” He spoke in a monotone, relating these emotional events such little affect, it was eerie.

I leaned forward. “Do you think now that murderous vampires of the type we discussed in your office were attacking you?”

“I don’t know. It’s a crazy idea and no one else saw it. But the memory is vivid.”

“You sound rational enough now.” I glanced up and saw Doris frown and shake her head.

“It keeps happening,” he said. “Things keep turning turning into bats and swooping down on me. It doesn’t scare me now, because it isn’t new, and I know it won’t last. But the doctors say I have to keep taking the medication.”

I forced an upbeat tone. “I have some good news for you, That blood test on the slasher victim turns out to have a logical explanation.” I explained the similarity to salivary gland protease.

He sat still for a moment. “But that doesn’t explain the puncture wounds on the necks of the victims. You saw some of the wounds yourself.”

“I must have been confused. Maybe I was sleep deprived after all. The autopsy photos didn’t show puncture marks.”

He smiled grimly, the picture of a man in pain. “Don’t you remember? The pictures you saw were from a different murder, one four years ago. The original report did show puncture wounds. We changed the photographs with conscious intent to mislead busybodies like you.

“Go to the coroner’s office. Study the original files -- not copies. You’re a smart man, and our forgeries weren’t done all that carefully. You should be able to see where one report is superimposed on another.

“I don’t know why I’m hallucinating bats, and I don’t know what your laboratory tests do or do not show. But what I told you in my office was correct. If I can be sure of anything, it's that. You saw vampire bites that night, not a hallucination.”

#

Before work the next morning I called Mike Curtis. “Impossible.” he stormed. “You can’t forge coroner’s reports.”

“Fred sounded pretty definite, and didn’t talk like someone crazy. I saw a lot of psychotic patients during my internship. They’re speech is different. He sounded like someone with LSD hallucinations, not mental illness.”

“Interesting. One of the doctors who had examined him said the same thing. But we checked him for drugs, including LSD. He was clean.”

“He talked as if the police had a secret file on these throat-slashing murders.”

“I guarantee you we don’t, and I would know if we did. Doctor, let me suggest something to calm your paranoia. Call the medical examiner, one doctor to another, and check the reports yourself. That should settle it.”

But when I called, a secretary told me that the chief medical examiner had left for a month in France and could not be reached. Worse, no one else had the authority to release the files.

This was anxiety provoking, but also ridiculous. This matter would not stay settled. Every time I thought I had answers, someone raised a new question. Was this vampire idea insanity or not? That evening, at dinner, I told the story in detail to Susan.

She took a sip of wine. "Didn't you say the punctures could have a natural cause?"

"Yes, but then the police wouldn't forge autopsy reports. Fraud means they're hiding something."

She put the glass down with deliberation. “I could believe almost anything about Shmuel. I feel violated when he even looks at me. But a literal vampire is a fantastic concept, even for someone like me who doesn’t have your scientific training. Fred may sound rational, but paranoid people often do. I have an idea. At this point, it all hinges on the validity of the coroner’s report. Forget about this whole affair for a month. Just put it out of your mind. Then, when the medical examiner comes back, you can confirm the original report and put the matter to rest.”

That sounded so logical, I took her hand and kissed it. She really was a dear, and I did feel lucky to be engaged to her, even if I still had qualms about marriage.

#

A few days later, one of the residents told me Barbara Lewis had been readmitted because of an overwhelming infection. Leukemia cells now ran rampant throughout her body. Her husband, a tall, good-looking guy, cornered me in the hallway outside her room and asked if she would survive till Christmas.

I frowned grimly. “I just don’t know.”

He nodded, lips pursed tightly with obvious pain and eyes now moist. “We expected that. Thanks anyway,” he said with a crack in his voice, and went to visit his wife.

The next night, I had on-call duty and went to visit her. She sat in bed, propped up with pillows, the dinner tray in front of her almost untouched. Fuzz covered her scalp and tiny beads of sweat dotted her forehead. Though obviously exhausted, she managed to smile. “Dr. Rothenberg, to what do I owe this honor? Have you come to take another bone marrow specimen?”

“No, no. I just thought you might want to chat a little.” I pulled up a chair and sat down. “How are the twins?”

“Oh, they are simply beautiful.” With frequent pauses to catch her breath, she talked about her lovely new house, the twins and how much she had enjoyed spending time with them. “Thank you for coming by,” she said finally. “I know how busy you are.”

“No problem. This has been a quiet evening.”

“You know, it’s most unusual. My gums keep bleeding and no one can get them to stop. It appears I may bleed to death from gum disease instead of leukemia.” She tried to laugh.

I hesitated. “Uh, the bleeding is part of the leukemia.”

“Oh.” She stared at me, face immobile, for several seconds. Then a tear trickled down her cheek. “Do you think I’ll make it to Christmas?”

“I can never make promises, Barbara.”

She tore a tissue into pieces. “My chances don’t look very good, do they?”

I went over to the bed and took her hand in both of mine. Her palm felt warm and moist. “We never give up hope.”

She sobbed. I shook my head. Knowing what to say to people close to death is sometimes impossible.

She took another tissue from the nightstand and dried her eyes. “Yes, we never give up hope, even when the situation is hopeless.”

Her paraphrase was accurate. I grimaced. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“No, that’s all right. You’ve been very kind.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Perhaps.”

She died that night.

#

Two days later, I was sitting with my eyes aimed at some vapid TV sitcom and thinking about Barbara Lewis, when Susan came home. She came up behind the sofa, put her hands, warm and comfortable, on my shoulders, and asked, “Eli, would you like to celebrate Thanksgiving this year?”

I looked up and smiled wanly, thankful for the diversion. “Hadn’t really thought about it. It isn’t an English holiday.”

“Of course it isn’t, silly, but it might be fun to celebrate anyway, and it would be a good opportunity for you to meet my mother and also my aunt. You don’t know either of them and they are all the family I have.” She sighed. “And you’ve seemed so depressed lately. I thought this might cheer you up.”

I stood and kissed her. “Maybe it would. And since we’re going to get married, a visit with your family is overdue.”

Susan’s mother, Constance Lashly, had severe rheumatoid arthritis. Cooking a large meal would have exhausted her, so when Thanksgiving arrived, we brought turkey and dressing to her house, a dignified little bungalow in Chiswick.

Susan’s aunt, a younger woman than Constance, opened the door, and helped us carry the food into the kitchen for reheating. I would guess that none of the appliances there was less than 30 years old.

We returned to the ling room, where Constance, a short, wrinkled woman with a Cockney accent, served us a glass of sherry. She limped badly and used a heavy cane with determination, carrying herself with an air that dared anyone to cross her. She came to the fireplace where I was standind, and handed me a glass. “You’re the boy who wants to marry Susan.”

“Yes. I’ve proposed and she’s accepted.”

“How I wish her father was alive to help me figure this out. I suppose you’ll want to take her away to the States after the wedding, won’t you?”

“Well, we really hadn’t thought about it.”

She stomped the cane on the floor. “Think about it. It may not be important to you, but it means I’ll be left alone here. I’m too old to make a move like that, even if you wanted me to come with you, which I am sure you don’t.”

“Now, now dear,” the aunt, now sitting in a floral chair, broke in. The aunt had a pleasant, round face and brown hair tied back in a bun. “My house is much too big for an old spinster like me to care for properly. You can stay there. You would be doing me a favor if you moved in. Certainly, Eli looks like a very nice boy for Susan.”

Constance lowered herself onto a huge sofa with antimacassars. “Aren’t there any nice English boys for her?”

Susan looked out the window and blushed during this conversation, but said nothing. I didn't comment either. An awkward silence persisted until the aunt came to our rescue. “Eli, tell us a little about this holiday of yours.”

I remembered few details about the Pilgrims, but the story interested the three women and broke the ice.

The smells of roast turkey and the buzz of a timer led to the announcement that dinner was ready. After saying a non-denominational grace, Constance started talking about her dead husband, how she missed him, and how proud the two of them had been of Susan.

I said, “You have every right to feel proud of your daughter. She’s a wonderful, talented girl.”

“Oh, you don’t know the half of it.” Constance dabbed her lips with an embroidered napkin and the two of us exchanged compliments about Susan, which started Susan blushing again, but seemed to mollify the old woman. Before I left she took my hand and said, “You seem like a nice lad, even if you are a Yank. Maybe you’d want to settle here?”

“I don’t know. It’s possible.”

“And if not, you’d at least come back to visit from time to time?”

“Of course. How else would you see your grandchildren?”

“Go on, you,” she laughed and slapped my arm. “It’s way too early to talk about that.”

On the way back to our apartment, Susan said, “I’m so embarrassed, Eli. I don’t know what got into my mother with that comment about English boys.”

“That’s okay. She’s sort of refreshing, in a way. I’ve had my fill of mothers who want a doctor son-in-law. I’m just glad your aunt offered to take her in. With her arthritis, I'd feel guilty to leave her alone.”

Susan squeezed my hand and kissed me lightly on the cheek. I smiled. She was so right for me, and I was so glad we were getting married, I kept telling myself.

#

Rodger had not seen fit to assign me an assistant, so I often had to work late in the laboratory. Sometimes I stayed till midnight, caring for the animals, assaying the blood clotting ability, tabulating data or just thinking. I didn’t mind the hours, especially when Susan’s job called her away, but I did mind the growing realization that the bat anticoagulant, while potent, was unpredictable. How could I study the effect of the serum when I couldn’t regulate it? One day the animals would show no effect and the day after they would bleed to death. When I could control the dosage, it prevented clots, but usually the effect was too erratic.

I caught up with Rodger in her lab, a much larger and better equipped area than mine, and asked her for suggestions. She raised her eyebrows. “It sounds like you need to stop the animal tests and develop a more precise assay for the anticoagulant. Then you could adjust the dosage.”

My mouth fell open. “A new assay would take months to develop. I’ll be leaving England too soon to finish it. What will happen to my experiment?”

She looked down into a microscope. “It won’t give you a publishable paper, but at least you could write a letter to one of the journals.”

I couldn’t believe she was saying this. With those few, casual words, spoken without even looking me in the face, she had axed my entire project. Why had she agreed to supervise me if she cared so little about my project? A letter to a journal wouldn’t begin to compensate for those long hours in that cramped, smelly lab. My effort the past four months had been wasted.

Worst of all, she was right. I walked back to my own lab, thinking maybe I should forget about research and just treat patients instead of tormenting cats.

In the lab, beakers and reagents stared at me, daring me to remove them. I scratched the head of a laboratory cat. She purred while I sighed. Except for Susan, London had been a disaster.

I left for home early and blinked to see a six-foot artificial Christmas tree overpowering a corner of our living room. Susan must have put it up after I had left that morning, and without telling me. Trying to ignore it, I sat at the kitchenette table, and started to compose a letter to the Munich chief of hematology, asking if I could come a few weeks early.

Susan arrived while I was writing. I explained how Rodger had in effect canceled my project.

“That’s a shame, Eli,” she said brightly, putting away groceries. “Let’s go Christmas shopping. Perhaps that will cheer you up.”

Didn’t she know me better than that? That damn project had been important to me. But even more, Christmas has never been merry for Jews like me. As far as I was concerned, the holiday could not come too early, because the sooner it came, the sooner it would leave. I turned back to my letter. “Christmas shopping won’t help, Susan.”

“How do you know? Have you ever tried it?”

“No.”

“Then come with me. You’ll be surprised. It’s tremendous fun.”

I wanted to cooperate, to avoid the stubbornness that can destroy a relationship, so I let her drag me to Harrods, described by some as the biggest store in the world and perhaps the most expensive as well. She bought gifts for almost everyone she knew, whereas I had no one to buy for except her. I didn’t want to choose her present while she was watching, so I just followed her from one department to another.

It was no fun at all. Walking past the tinsel and posters of Santa Claus, with ‘Joy to the World’ drilling into my brain, I wanted to scream out, “I don’t belong here. I’m Jewish.” Never before had the "December dilemma'' -- how to stay Jewish without hurting anyone’s feelings -- hit me with such force.

For my family, the problem didn’t exist. They considered exchanging Hanukah gifts almost as bad as a so-called Hanukah-bush. Christmas and all of its accoutrements were for the neighbors only. It never occurred to me to want the pageantry for myself.

I found a Judaica department with shelves full of Hanukkah menorahs, and bought the largest they had, an elaborate bronze monstrosity with leaves sculpted onto the branches, along with a box of tapered candles.

Back home, Susan assembled scissors and other materials and brusquely started to wrap her newly bought presents. “You could at least have tried to enjoy yourself.” She sounded annoyed.

I put the menorah on the kitchen table without answering.

She stared at it, then resumed her work. “It's gaudy.”

In truth, it was. Still, her comment annoyed me. “Your Christmas tree is ten times as big. Why didn’t you tell me before you put it up?”

“I didn’t think you’d mind. It’s not like we’re celebrating Christmas in a religious way.”

“You can’t separate your holiday from your religion. To me, the tree’s an intrusion.”

At that she turned to me and put her hands on her hips. “It’s not my religion. I’m not Christian. To me it’s just a time for a celebration. Am I supposed to give it up because you’re Jewish? It’s a time for people to feel good about one another, not a time to feel mistreated.”

“It has no good feelings for me.” I ran my finger over the metal leaves on the menorah branches.

She took a deep breath. “Look, decorating a tree is originally a Druid custom, not Christian. Let’s call it a solstice log and be a pair of happy pagans.”

This argument felt so strange. For months, I had ignored being Jewish. Now, the December dilemma had brought my forgotten resolve to the forefront. “That wouldn’t work for me.”

She spoke in clipped, measured tones. “If you don’t want me to have Christmas, we can get rid of both the tree and the candelabrum. Beethoven’s birthday comes about now. We can celebrate it.”

At that I smiled a little. “I’m sorry, but I’m not pagan. Or even Beethovian. I’m Jewish, and that’s the way you have to accept me.”

She nodded, but gnawed her lower lip. “I understand.”

“Can you live with that?”

“I guess so.”

“Okay. It’s almost sundown. Let’s light the menora.” I took two candles from the box.

She shook her head. “Not tonight. Right now, I don’t want to light candles with you.”

I shrugged.

“I might never want to. Can you live with that?”

“Never won’t come tomorrow. We’ll talk about it later.”

So I lit the candles alone. I enjoy Hanukkah candles, but that interchange spoiled it for me. The next evening, I tried to tell Susan the Hanukkah story. She made the effort of listening, but her disinterest was obvious.

What would happen next year, after we were married?

On Christmas Eve, I volunteered to take hospital call so Christian doctors could be with their families. I did promise Susan I’d be home in time to join her mother and aunt for Christmas dinner – or Saturnalia dinner, as Susan tried to de-christen it.

Elizabeth McKenzie had been admitted a few days ago and was obviously dying. Lying in bed, IV tubes in each arm, she moaned and cried non-stop even with large doses of pain killers. If she was awake, she screamed. Worse, her mother had insisted that “everything” be done so we couldn’t knock Elizabeth out with morphine, because such high doses might kill her a day or two early.

All through the night, every thirty minutes, the nurses called me about her blood pressure, her urine output, her fever, and, most of all, her pain. Whenever I dozed off, the phone rang again. Finally at 4 AM she coded. I ran to her room and worked with the staff, trying for an hour to revive her. Occasionally her heart fluttered, but without a blood pressure. What a travesty it was. Even if we could resuscitate her, what would we accomplish? A few more days of agony? So she wouldn’t die on Christmas day? Finally I called a halt.

“But doctor, she still has complexes,” a nurse said, pointing to the occasional blips on the cardiac monitor.

I turned off the instrument. “Now she doesn’t,” I said, too weary to react to the nurse’s glower. A large round clock on the wall showed 6 A.M., Christmas morning. Sleep now was impossible, so I wandered the corridors, visiting my patients and trying to act cheerful. Out of habit, I started towards the laboratory to check on the cats before I remembered: no more lab, no more cats. Again the soft pink of dawn mixed with the dirty white of the hospital lights and my own sleep deprivation left me depressed. Extreme fatigue resembles lethargy due to drugs, except that drugs can bring euphoria. Fatigue never does.

Two long hours later I finished rounds and went home. To my surprise, Susan wasn’t there and the bed hadn’t been slept in. She must have gone to her mother’s to help prepare dinner, but why hadn’t she told me? I lay down without undressing and napped for a couple of hours, expecting her to awaken me. Boris’ rough tongue on my hand roused me around eleven. I fed him and, absent-mindedly eating a stale donut, called Susan’s mother. She had no idea where Susan had gone and sounded worried that I didn’t know either.

This was not like Susan. I picked up a medical journal, but reading technical articles is difficult under the best of circumstances, and these weren’t. I turned on the TV and the radio, searching for a program to distract me, but the airways broadcast only Christmas programs, saccharine sounds which I can’t stand. In my nervousness I went for a walk, striding briskly in spite of fatigue down unfamiliar alleys lined with three-story row houses painted in garish green, yellow and violet. I walked until my legs ached, wanting to go home but afraid of returning to that empty apartment. I wandered down to the Thames and stared at Westminster Abbey on the opposite shore. A crow cawed above me. Staring at ripples in the water and listening to far off voices, I shuddered -- could she be in the river? My imagination had once again gone wild. I hurried back to our apartment, hoping with desperation to find her there. It remained empty.

I called Ann, Susan’s former roommate. “She may have been asked to fill in at the airline,” Ann suggested.

“On Christmas? And without leaving a note?”

“You said you weren’t home last night anyway. She may have been in such a hurry she didn’t have time to leave a note. I’m sure she’ll be back in plenty of time for the Christmas dinner, or at the very least she’ll phone. Don’t worry, Eli. Susan can take care of herself.”

But the hours dragged without any call. I phoned the airline only to wait on hold for what seemed like forever before someone picked up the line. No one knew if she had been asked to work or not. I finally gave up and phoned her mother again to warn her that we would be late. By now her mother was as worried as I.

My anxiety over the silent phone forced me to leave the apartment. Not knowing where else to go, I walked to Bart’s ER. The nurses asked why I had come Christmas day. I made up some excuse and gazed through eyes heavy with fatigue at the list of the day’s patients. Susan’s name was not there.

I left the hospital and resumed wandering, letting my legs carry me wherever. At one of the old red telephone booths that dot London’s streets, I stopped and dialed our number. A busy signal sounded. I ran back home, certain she had returned. My hands shook so I could scarcely get my key in the lock. But the apartment was still empty. I paced the floors, hitting the tables and slapping my head. I wanted to scream with my fear, but emitted only a low agonized groan. Poor Boris hid behind the sofa.

Then the phone rang. I nearly tripped while running to answer it. My hand trembled as I lifted the receiver. A young man waited on the line. “Hello, this is the coroner’s office. Have I reached the home of Miss Susan Lashly?”

“Yes. What’s wrong?” Fear crawled up my belly to my throat.

“Sorry to disturb you, but did you know her, sir?”

“Of course I know her. She’s my fiancיe.”

“Well, I’m sorry to have to tell you this but...” The clerk's monotonous voice explained how the police had found a slasher victim with Susan’s identification papers. They had sent an officer to the apartment earlier, but he must have come when I was out searching for her. They asked me to come to the Westminster morgue to identify the body.

The trip to the morgue seemed like a dream, a random succession of sights and sounds. I felt no anxiety, but only the weight of sleeplessness and yesterday’s sweaty clothing. A carol, “Joy to the World”, sounded from somewhere. Joy? Today? I walked with legs moving automatically, seeing and not seeing pedestrians, hearing words without meaning. I remember sitting on the bus, listening to traffic noises and watching headlights. Passengers boarded and left, living their normal lives. For me, nothing was normal. At the morgue people talked to me, but some strange voice -- not mine -- answered them. White glistening corridors passed by me, seemingly without effort on my part. I felt no grief and wondered curiously how long that apathy would last.

A lanky, dark-skinned bobby with an impassive expression slid the body out of the cubicle and pulled the sheet down to her chin. The face belonged to Susan. Another “slasher” victim, or did she too have puncture marks over the jugular? I reached out to uncover her neck but the officer quickly pulled the sheet back over her head, and started to push the body back into the cubicle.

My entire body stiffened. “Wait just one second. I want to look at her neck.”

“No need sir. We wanted you to identify her, that’s all.”

“But I want to see how she died.”

“She bled to death. You can read the autopsy report.” He closed the cubical, locked it, and walked away.

A detective met me as I left the room, and asked me not to tell anyone that Susan had been a victim of the mad slasher. To avoid panic, they would tell the newspapers that an ordinary robber had murdered her.

I grimmaced. “You mean you falsify the news?”

“Please, Dr. Rothenberg. No one wants the public to panic. Tell me, who do you know in England who needs to know the details.”

“How about her mother”

He shook his head. “Of all people, she’s the last who should hear the grisly details.”

I didn’t have the strength to argue further.

I found a payphone in a waiting room near the morgue’s exit and called Susan’s mother. She screamed at me. “What have you done to my baby? I’ll never see her again. I wish she had never laid eyes on you.” That jarred my numbness, but didn’t shatter it.

The trip back to the empty apartment gnawed at my stomach. I stood for several seconds in front of the door to where we had lived, my whole being not wanting to go into its lifelessness. When I finally entered, Boris, evidently sensing that something was wrong, meowed loudly and rubbed against my leg.

I sat down and tried without success to gather together my thoughts from the heavy emotional stupor surrounding me. Then I called Ann, who cried, but agreed to take Boris.

The next day the mailbox held a letter from the University of Munich, saying I could come whenever I wanted. I would be there before the week had ended.

Why not write Zvi the Fiddler and let him know how much you liked this story so far?

A short story by Zvi which you might also enjoy is The Tax Bell

And if you have a minute, take a look at Zvi's home page and THE KLEZMANIACS.

Revised 8/05