On Tuesday morning the rabbi called to tell me that Ruth Klein had died. I’m wondering, Who’s Ruth Klein? Did we read her in Book Club? Was she some grand old blue-hair from Hadassah? I only hoped that maybe the rabbi would mistake my dumbstruck silence for something more profound than memory loss.
Before I could embarrass myself by asking anything, the rabbi continued, in that voice like when he makes the Yahrzeit announcements on Saturday morning,“In solemn testimony to that unbroken faith which links…”
“Nancy, I’m so sorry. Her niece called. The body’s being flown south from Detroit. Before she died, Ruth specifically requested that you be asked to say something at the funeral. It’s a graveside service at Menorah Gardens at eleven on Thursday morning. I’m so deeply saddened and so very sorry, Nancy, for your loss. But God is a righteous judge. Please let me know if there’s anything at all I can do to help.”
Before I could say, “Yeah, Rabbi, maybe you could remind me who Ruth Klein was,” he hung up.
My loss? From Detroit? I was asked to speak? About what? About whom? Then I thought, wait a minute, Ruth Klein, that little woman from up north, she was here two or three years ago, stayed about six months, and then just sort of vanished. I saw her maybe a dozen times. We didn’t leave one another on the best of terms. She stood me up for lunch. And the next thing I know she had moved...
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