Ryan took the Décarie expressway, cut east on Van Horne, then north on Plamondon to Vézina. Pul ing to the curb, he pointed to a two-story redbrick box in a row of two-story redbrick boxes.
I scanned the block.
Each building was identical, its right side a mirror image of its left. Wood-framed doors jutted in front, balconies hung from upstairs windows. Al walks were shoveled. Al shrubs were wrapped. In the driveways, Chevy and Ford station wagons waited under tubular-framed, plastic-shrouded shelters.
“Not the Jaguar and SUV set,” I said.
“Looks like the homeowners held a meeting and banned any trim that ain’t white.”
Ryan chin-cocked the building directly opposite. “Ferris’s unit is upstairs on the left. His brother’s down, Mama and another brother are in the duplex next door.”
“Ferris’s commute must have been hel .”
“Probably stayed here out of love of architectural self-expression.”
“You said Avram and Miriam had no kids?”
Ryan nodded. “They married late. The first wife had health problems, died in eighty-nine. Ferris remarried in ninety-seven. So far, no progeny.”
“Isn’t that against the rules?”
Ryan gave me a quizzical look.
“The mitzvot.”
The look held.
“Jewish law. You’re supposed to have babies. Not waste your seed.”
“You’re thinking of the farmer’s almanac.”
Ryan and I walked to the smal front stoop.
Ryan stepped up and rang the top bel .
We waited.
Ryan rang again.
We waited some more.
An old woman trudged by behind us, grocery cart rattling in cadence with her boots.
“Isn’t the widow supposed to hunker in?” Ryan asked, hitting the bel a third time.
“Shiva only lasts a week.”
“And then?”
“You say daily kaddish, don’t party, don’t shave or snip and clip for a while. But basical y you get on with your life.”
“How do you know al this?”
“My first boyfriend was Jewish.”
“Star-crossed love?”
“He moved to Altoona.”
Ryan opened the storm door and pounded.
The cart woman stopped, turned, and stared unabashedly over her triple-wrapped muffler.
To the right, a curtain moved. I touched Ryan’s arm and tipped my head. “Dora’s home.” Ryan smiled brightly.
“Avram was a nice Jewish boy who went eight years between marriages. Maybe he and Mama were close.”
“Maybe he told her stuff.”
“Or Mama noticed things on her own.”
I thought of something.
“Old ladies like cookies.”
“They’re known for it.”
I reached into my purse and pul ed out the shortbreads.
“Mama might warm to us, feel chatty.”
“Damn.” Ryan turned. “We’re good at this.”
Only, Dora didn’t answer the door. Miriam did. She wore black slacks, a black silk blouse, a black cardigan, and pearls.
As on our first meeting, I was struck by Miriam’s eyes. There were dark hol ows beneath them now, but it didn’t matter. Those lavender irises were showstoppers.
Miriam was not unaware of the effect her eyes had on men. After flicking a glance at me, she shifted to Ryan and leaned forward slightly, one hand wrapping her waist, the other gathering the cardigan at her throat.