“Is…is he dead?”
“I don’t know. He’s not moving. And look at the color of his face.”
“Maybe we should take the duct tape off his mouth, see if he’s breathing.”
The man standing in the middle of the sidewalk blocking other pedestrians would have been handsome had his dark face not been contorted by rage as he screamed at the young boy. The man’s well-trimmed beard with its scattering of grey, his black hair curling around the edges of his lavishly jeweled turban, his beautifully tailored clothing told of his aristocratic lineage.
The morning after I arrived in Miami, I opened the window shades in my bedroom and saw eight inches of snow. I guess I should clarify: I was in Miami, Vermont.
Rabbi Aviva Cohen is at it again—she’s helping the police whether they want her to or not. It all started when Florence’s daughter finally got engaged. After all, Audrey’s in her forties! But Aviva won’t do interfaith weddings so Florence is referred to Rabbi Ben. He doesn’t do interfaith marriages either but surely can recommend another rabbi who will. Should be easy enough, right?
