It’s registered, he’s oblivious or doing wonders for faking: we’d submitted the application eight days ago, as per your requirements, did the whole background check, got together our recommendations; God, we’ve followed every single one of your guidelines — I can’t believe you don’t have us on file.
Mister Simon Weizmann, plus two…check again, I’ll believe you.
Weizmann, I don’t know any Weizmann…
And the longer we wait, he’s not finished just yet…the more everything spoils.
Hard for anything to spoil more than it already has, he taps his scratched plastic pane to alert, and no, it’s not registered, understand — nothing’s registered, not anymore.
The Israelien family should’ve notified you in advance, made their wishes known — they only had Him a week ago, what’s to expect? Would it help to mention I’m a good friend of Alana Milfhaus? We did weddings together. She was in flowers.
You have any identification?
He hesitates. I seem to have left my license at the office. Anyway, it’s a little outdated. I’ve since lost the weight.
Maybe you want to talk with my supervisor. He’s dead. You want his number? Or maybe you’ll rabbi this out on your own?
It’s a party at Hanna and Israel Israelien’s, 333 Apple; it’s for Benjamin, their newborn — a boy, would you believe? Now how would I know that if I weren’t here with the lox and the spread?
The Keeper shrugs, reaches under his desk to throw the emergency switch, then realizes all the armed response he’ll ever need’s already here, and has enough emergency as it is.
We’ve reached our quota today, no more admissions; especially not for looters, fortunehunters…anyway, where’d you get that funny getup? he’s stalling, those robes? what’s with that?
Also rentals, you like? and he twirls the hood’s gold tassels.
Give me a moment, will you? the Keeper grunts, gulps at any medication then tosses its unlabeled jar to his desk, hobbles out of the hut and makes his way to stand before the robed tasseled figure and the rental Lexus, near to the face obscured by the hood. God save me for going offmessage, he says to himself and his whisper aches through last night’s two packs of smokes then the liquor redeemed from area cabinets and basements, stumbling on the numb of his tongue he says, they’re dead, then pauses to regain his face, its mouth, lips no longer trembling, you getting me, friend? he beats the breast of the robe immobilized in front of him, the visitor leaning up against the shine of the just washed, likenew sedan, and says again, they’re gone, all of them, as of last night, kaput, it’s over and done with, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, but they seem to be out all over the place; he begins crying, a tear rips through his throat and he almost falls, Misses Herring, my supervisor, the Israeliens, too, a tragedy — what about me, I’ll be out of a job, I’ll be old and unemployed, uninsured, without a wife and…Mister Bris, there’ll be no circumcisions for anyone today, I don’t think, never again.
But Benjamin. He’s still alive, pleadingly, isn’t He? Jesus, muttering Mary, we’ve received assurances, what about all those omens, those portents and signs (he’s stalling himself, trying to think what those were, might’ve been) — we’ve made all this food, two crates of wine; we haven’t even been paid.
Don’t get wise with me, says the Keeper, suddenly suspicious when the talk gets to money.
Weizmann begins to cry, too.
Enough, the Keeper resists an urge to hug, rams his hands into the pockets of his uniform pants.
If you want, I’ll let you in to talk to Security. Or the insurance people, the claims adjusters — if you want to file against the estate.
Of course, I’ll have to take a peek in the trunk. That is, if you don’t mind. It’s standard procedure.
And so Weizmann, weeping to wet his robe’s gilded frill, opens the driver-side door, pops the trunk into a storm: it’s fullup with oversized, overstuffed green trashbags holed and holding they appear to be weeds, acting as padding for plasticpacked frankincense, ziplocked myrrh its freshness sealed in; the stench hits the Keeper in the gut, he goes reeling, gags, recovers, pinches his nose, lifts the trashbags and roots around with his other hand amid wrapped and greasy platters of fish, white and herrings smoked and sturgeon, nova and kippered salmon and sable, alongside enormously risen loaves of pumpernickel and rye both with seeds, without; underneath, a shimmering: uncovered, it’s a glowing golden bundt cake, which illuminates his confusion, is pareve; the Keeper retreats a step, stares at the shvartze driving as if it’s all his fault and so the shvartze kills the engine, gets out, leaves the door open and beeping, proceeds somberly to the trunk, which he shuts as the similarly robed caterer in the backseat gets out, too, stands immediately behind the Keeper with his hands on the Keeper’s neck as if to assuage him by choking.
