Israel Book Shop presents Chapter 78 of a new online serial novel, Outside the Bubble, by Esther Rapaport. Check back for a new chapter every week. Click here for previous chapters.
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Rob left the room and quiet reigned once again, but just for one minute. Martin barely waited till the door was closed before he hurried over to the closet, the blanket hanging loosely over his left shoulder. He hoped there was no surveillance camera in the closet, and if there was one behind it, then his glorious cape would hide whatever he was doing. Here was his suitcase, and the hidden compartment. And here was the phone and the charger. Excellent.
He closed the doors of the closet and leapfrogged impressively back to the middle of the room, sitting hunched over under his blanket, the phone in his right hand. He took a deep breath. It was not likely that someone would come into the room a second time in the next few minutes. Now was his chance to try.
He pressed and held the number 2, the speed dial for Shimon Weisskopf.
“Hello?” Shimon answered in seconds, as if he had been sitting and waiting for this call since they’d parted at the airport.
“Hello, Shimon?”
“Yes?” He sounded cautious.
“It’s me, Yosef Schorr.”
“Good, I’m happy you managed to call. I was worried about you.”
“It took me some time to get settled here.” His kept his second ear peeled for any noise from the door.
“I realized that’s what happened. Are you really in that place in South Carolina?”
“Yes. Next to Charleston.”
“So it really is them… Good to know. I spoke to your ‘mother’; she told me you’d let her know that you arrived, but I didn’t know how much of the truth you could tell her. Have you met our relative yet?” Shimon remained cautious.
“Yes.”
“How is he?”
“Fine…” Martin hesitated a bit. “He speaks slowly, and it looks like he really did have a stroke or some other head injury.”
“Besides that, how does he communicate?”
“Oh, his mind is great. He seems to grasp things very quickly.”
“Good, that’s what I wanted to hear.” Shimon was quiet. “What else?” he asked, after a moment.
“Look.” Completely wrapped in the blanket, Martin now crawled toward the door and leaned on it. If someone tried to open it, he should have some warning. “The problem is that there’s a young man here who formed a connection with Michoel before I got here, and he’s figured out our story.”
“Story? What, that you’re…not…”
“That I’m not,” Martin summarized flatly. “And he is demanding to leave with us; otherwise he’ll talk to the management and tell them the truth about me.”
“Sounds awful.”
“He seems trustworthy,” Martin whispered.
“Seems trustworthy? Who is it? What’s his name?”
“Kopshitz. Mike Kopshitz.”
“And why does he need you? What is he thinking? That only you, the angel of rescue, can get him out from behind those walls?”
“He realizes that if I came from the outside, I apparently have a plan, because from inside, it really is very hard to try an escape.”
“Who is he, and what is he?”
“He’s a Jewish kid from California, from a wealthy, traditional family. He came here on his own; at first, he was an ardent fan of the place, until they disappointed him. The interesting thing is that they trust him fully, and he’s one of the few people here who have his own phone.”
“So if he has his own phone, why can’t he call for help by himself?”
“It’s complicated. He says the few times that someone tried to tell the world that this is actually a prison of sorts, or a cult, or whatever you want to call it—the management was able to artfully get out of any accountability. And the poor informer didn’t get out of it so fast.”
Shimon processed the dismal information. “So, it’s not simple—that’s what you’re saying.”
“Right.”
“But if I come with agents, we’ll have more of a chance.”
“For sure. The question is the timing.” He listened for a moment. Was someone approaching the door? Yes, and with giant steps. Had they picked up every word of the conversation? But how?
“Maybe the middle of the night is better,” Shimon said thoughtfully. “But first I need to get to South Carolina; I can’t drag anyone with me from New York if it’s not their area of jurisdiction…Martin?”
Loud knocking and muffled cries had suddenly cut off the conversation, and Shimon tensed up. “Martin?” he asked over and over, quietly, and then fell silent, waiting anxiously for the moment that a strange voice would pick up the phone and demand to know who he was.
But no voice demanded to know his identity. From afar, he heard fragments of words: “Perl…road…scream…hospital…”
“What?!” he heard Martin’s panicked voice gasp, and then the call was cut off.
Shimon didn’t dare call the number back. Instead, he called his friend Mendy, who also happened to be his travel agent, and booked a ticket that evening to South Carolina. Then he looked up inexpensive hotels in Charleston.
***
He’d never been a fool, just a bit impatient. He’d always tried to find shortcuts, to pull strings, and that was why he’d urged Hinda to go out into the world again soon after the passing of her husband. Hashem should forgive him for pushing her like that. He hoped that Hinda had already forgiven him; she certainly could not deny the improvement in her personality afterward. Maybe she’d eventually thank him for the opportunity he’d given her. But for his part, he knew, it had not been okay to come down so harshly on a poor widow. What could he do if he hated seeing people so totally absorbed in themselves? Hinda had been that type since she was small. That’s the way she was: an only child, spoiled, everything revolving around her. If she stayed like that even after the tragedy, he had decided, it could all become much worse.
Now she was blossoming. Not that he gave himself credit for the fact that she’d remarried, but it was clear to him that without the job that he’d forcibly arranged for her years ago, she would have forever remained in the same hole with herself, like a worm in the veins of lettuce.
With her kids, though, he did try to speak patiently. Hey, where was Yosef? He tried to be especially patient and tolerant with Yosef.
On that trip, he’d also been a bit impatient. Potash from New York had given him a nice sum, and he’d hoped that if he’d mention this ahead of time to Reb Aharon Kluft from Savannah, Georgia, the gvir would be impressed enough to match his brother-in-law’s donation. No, wait, it was the opposite: He’d gotten a donation from Kluft, and he was on the way to fly to New York for a visit with Potash.
He’d never spoken on his phone in public about such things, but this time it had happened, because Potash was about to go on an important trip, and Michoel had needed to give him the information as soon as possible. And Ernie had been sitting right next to him. And he’d overheard the entire conversation.
What bus accident? There was no bus and no accident. Or rather, perhaps there was a bus—that’s how he’d gotten around in the city—but an accident? Absolutely not.
He’d traveled to the airport. Which one? It didn’t matter right now. It was not a very big airport—that much he remembered—but even before he’d entered, someone had come over to ask him for the time. It was the tall blond guy who had gotten off the bus after him.
Blond.
Tall.
“No, it hurts!!” Michoel rubbed his forehead and his temples. “Enough! I can’t…no, no, no, leave me alone! Who is there, Yosef? Mike?”
“It’s me, Mike,” a soft voice said next to him. Then another voice interjected, “I’m also here, Mr. Perl. It’s me, Dr. Jerry. Is everything alright?”
He could not open his eyes; the light bothered him, and the metal beating inside his head—was that just a stick or was it a weapon? Whatever it was, it really hurt.
Michoel breathed heavily and tried to sit up. He had to win this battle. If he stayed here, Ernie might come and give him a blow again. Mike would take care of him, perhaps. No, who was Mike anyway? Maybe Yosef would. Not that it was Yosef, but he had come to help him.
“Please, Mr. Perl, don’t sit up yet,” another voice, an unfamiliar one, said. “You came here to Central Hospital because you collapsed. It’s better for you to rest as much as you can, so that it shouldn’t happen again. Dr. Skulholt, which medications does he usually take?”
The psychiatrist said something in a low voice. Michoel became frightened. Who knew what they would inject into his veins now? He mustn’t let that happen! If he would become too groggy, he might blurt out something about the identity of his guest from Israel!
“I don’t want anything,” he said, in as strong a voice as he could muster. Despite the terrible weakness that was overpowering him in waves, he sat up. “I want to let my body recover itself; I don’t want any sedatives or anything.”
The man facing him was short and wore blue scrubs. He looked at Michoel with eyes that seemed to be half smiling. Something about him evoked trust. “Whatever you want,” he replied amiably. “I like strong people—you recover quickly. But don’t you want to help out your body?”
“Nature is the best healer…” Michoel murmured, making every effort to maintain his equilibrium. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Mike standing near the wall, looking at him with big eyes. “How does the rest go? Mike, can you help me?” He looked down. Oy, he was still wearing that ugly yellow shirt.
“Am I in the emergency room?” he asked quietly. “When am I getting released?” Maybe this was all a show by Dr. Jerry and his friends. Maybe he wasn’t in any hospital, and they just wanted to drug him up again, like they’d done then, after the blow he’d sustained from that horrible Ernie. Who knew how long he had been lying there for? What did they want from him? The money?
“You’re in the emergency room,” the pleasant man in blue scrubs said. “My name is Dr. Rueben Clark, and I’m in charge of your care right now. In general, you seem to be okay. Based on how you do over the next few hours, we’ll see when you can be released. Dr. Skulholt, can I offer you something to drink?”
“No, thanks,” the psychiatrist replied. There was a thin crease in his forehead.
“The water is very clear here, you know,” Dr. Clark said, and Michoel wondered if there was thinly veiled cynicism in his words. He apparently was not the only one to notice it, because Dr. Skulholt repeated himself, as the crease in his forehead grew deeper, making him look dour. “Thanks, but no.”
Michoel’s head was pounding, but he did not let it take control over him. He had to keep his mind clear. “Mike, can you please raise the head of the bed?” he weakly asked the pale young man standing next to the IV pole. Mike glanced at the psychiatrist and then approached the bed. Within a moment, Michoel was sitting up straight, leaning back on a pillow.
“I’m fine,” he said, ignoring his wildly racing heart. “Absolutely fine. Half a day of rest, and I’ll be back to myself.”
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