Garfield laughed. “I favor my mother, he looks like our father. My mother was sweet, but very ugly.” He held Leah, who was beginning to smell close to him, and kissed her hair. She kissed him back. “My brother thinks he’s Samael . . . the demon . . . and that I’m Metatron . . . the angel.” Still holding Leah, he went to the cupboard and took down the coffeepot. “Not just an angel, mind you, but Metatron himself. Angel of angels . . . Prince of Countenance . . .” He laughed, jiggled Leah, who squealed and laughed with him, and managed to get the top off the coffeepot all at the same time. “Now look at me!” he commanded. Rachel and Hawkins did. His eyes were bright black, round, and set close together. The irises were too large for the whites, and his thick black eyebrows almost met over his nose. His ears stuck out, his chin was too long, and his beard was too scraggly to hide the fact. He kept laughing. “Nu?” he asked, “do I look like an angel? Don’t be shy!” he cried. “Tell me I look like a minor angel . . . Raphael . . . Gabriel . . . not Metatron.” He grinned and hugged Leah closer. Then he said, “She’s leaking,” and he put the coffeepot on the counter and ran out of the room.

Rachel and Hawkins looked at each other and Hawkins started to laugh. She’d never heard him laugh like that, absolutely, helplessly. It was irresistible and she started to laugh with him, but it got out of hand and she sobbed. He put his arms around her and held her against him.

“Hey, hey,” he whispered, holding her tight. “Hey . . . sshhh . . . love, Rachel, shh . . . don’t be scared . . .” He kissed her face, then her lips. “Oh, Rachel,” he whispered, “I’ll kill it, if it’s there, I promise. It won’t get you or me or anyone. . . .”

Suddenly it was the climax in a Western, Rachel thought, and the marshal had the villain in his sights and John Wayne or Clint Eastwood whispered, He’s mine, and the marshal knew his place and stood aside.

He’s mine, Rachel thought. I’m not scared and you won’t kill it. He’s mine.

Garfield came back into the kitchen but Hawkins and Rachel didn’t jump apart. Garfield looked at them for a long time. Leah stood next to him, holding his hand.

“Nu,” he said finally. “Black and white lovers . . .”

Hawkins said, “Rabbi . . .” But Garfield held up his hand and Hawkins was quiet. Garfield shook his head. “I don’t care about that part, but you,” he told Hawkins, “are not Jewish.” Hawkins smiled, but Garfield was serious. “Meyer thinks I’ll marry you . . . maybe I will, but only—and I mean this—if you are circumcised and convert. I won’t even consider it otherwise . . .”

“But—” Hawkins started.