November 12, 2020

The Goldfarb Chronicles

Goldfarb asked if I would mind stopping at the cemetery on the way to the golf course. He said he wanted to say hi to his father. The cemetery was right next to Lewberg’s private club where we would be playing that day in unseasonably warm late October weather, and we would drive right by it. Sometimes, if I sliced a drive on number 10 Lewberg would say “I hope there is no funeral today.” But I checked. It is close, but not that close. I actually had wanted, uncharacteristically, to hit some balls on the range that day, because my slice, even if it wasn’t flying into a group of mourners, was still cause for concern, so we were there early and had plenty of time. Anyways, I wasn’t about to tell Goldfarb he couldn’t go see his father.

The cemetery had a few burials and Goldfarb got stuck behind a procession but I knew better than to complain. We might have both been thinking it was a nice day for a funeral but neither of us said it out loud. Goldfarb finally got us to his father’s gravestone and he parked a little ahead on the side of the road. He popped the trunk, reached in, and handed me a black stone. It was a beauty. Dark as the night and smooth as silk.

I said “Nice.”

Goldfarb said “Volcanic from Tahiti.”

I said “She’s a beaut!”

Goldfarb was a bit of a rock hound. While others hunted for lost golf balls, he kept his eye out for nice stones. He had twice cajoled me, once on a golf trip to Pebble Beach and once on Kiawah Island, to put stones in my golf bag. There was nothing illegal about it but both times it felt a little like Midnight Express.

Neither Goldfarb or I prayed or really believed in anything, so we just placed the stones down on the grave as is customary in the Jewish tradition and stood in silence for a minute.

Then Goldfarb turned to me and said “Somebody has been stealing my stones.”

Lewberg was a little irritated because we made it to the first hole with only two minutes to spare. Goldfarb was hopping up with one golf shoe on and one in his hand.

Lewberg said “What the fuck? I thought you said you wanted to hit some balls?”

“We stopped to say hi to Isiah,” I said.

“May he rest in peace,” replied Lewberg.

I said “Do you have any sunscreen?”

Lewberg replied “It is October.”

I pointed to the sun and said “Well that ain’t Jupiter.”

And Lewberg, reaching into his golf bag and pulling out a mini tube of Coppertone said, “Tell me more, Mr. Science.”

Meanwhile, Goldfarb, now firmly ensconced in his golf shoes, strode up to the first tee, driver in hand and, without a word to either of us, crushed one down the middle.

Lewberg said “Jesus, what’s with him?”

And I said “Someone has been stealing his stones.”

Goldfarb was so upset we couldn’t get him to talk about it. He was the only one with a range finder, binoculars which measured distance away from the hole, and was not speaking other than to give us the number. On number 7, a nice par 5 with a difficult third shot over water, I was in the middle of the fairway with maybe 120 left. I asked Goldfarb for the exact distance. He looked through the range finder and said: “Obsidian.”

Which, I was pretty sure, was not a number. Lewberg, whose ball was only a few feet from mine said “What was the number?”

I said “Goldfarb says obsidian.”

Lewberg said “Obsidian? I usually use a pitching wedge for obsidian.”

I said “Can someone tell me what is going on?”

Goldfarb said “Obsidian is a type of igneous volcanic rock. Like the one I gave you at the cemetery. Those are the stones I lay on his grave.”

I said “Ok.”

Then Goldfarb said “But someone is taking those obsidian rocks and replacing them with common sedimentary rocks.”

“Are you sure?” I asked.

Goldfarb said “Are you suggesting I don’t know the difference between an igneous and a sedimentary?”

Lewberg said “Harold, nobody is saying that. We are just asking you if you are sure.”

Goldfarb said “Last two weeks. Someone is switching out the rocks.”

Lewberg went ahead and hit before me. A pitching wedge to within five feet. Then he said “Well boys, looks like we got ourselves a stone stealer.”

We were at the clubhouse cafe overlooking the 18th hole. I had a Guinness, Lewberg a Kettle and cran, and Goldfarb a diet coke. Lewberg had convinced us to get nachos as an appetizer although we had all three ordered cheeseburgers.

“Let me ask you this,” said Lewberg. “Are these stones worth anything?”

Goldfarb dipped a chip in the guac and said “Some, these aren’t.”

“Maybe he doesn’t realize that. Maybe he is in for a big surprise.”

“I assume,” I said, “that you checked out the neighboring grave stones.”

“I did,” replied Goldfarb, choosing not to lambast me for a such an idiotic question.

“How many graves in the cemetery?” I asked.

“Four thousand.”

“We could split up. Won’t take us that long.”

“You are assuming the stones are being used here,” he said. “But they could be anywhere. I think that would be a waste of time. Besides, I don’t trust you to recognize the stones.”

“I think,” Lewberg said, using words he had waited over fifty years to use: “we should stake it out!”

I said “The cemetery?”

Lewberg said “Yeah. We find a spot to park the car. A place with a good vantage point.”

“Then we wait.”

“A car is no good,” said Goldfarb. “It is too conspicuous. A van would be good.”

“Or a stretch limo,” I chimed in. “A stretch limo would blend right in.”

“Yes,” Agreed Goldfarb. “A limo would be perfect.”

Then Lewberg said “I think I have a guy.”

Goldfarb was having trouble figuring out how to use the contraption he had bought for the stakeout. It was a device used by long haul truckers so they could relieve themselves without having to leave the cab. Goldfarb, who had an advanced degree in mathematics from MIT, couldn’t figure out which part went where. “Harold,” I said. “We aren’t driving to Omaha. We are parked on the side of a road in a cemetery right next to an open field. God has provided us with a vast toilet.”

Goldfarb replied “It must be missing a piece.” Then, pulling out the instructions asked “Can anyone read Korean?”

Lewberg was in charge of provisions which meant he brought a bag of pistachios to go with his Kettle and cran. I had anticipated his move and stopped at Center Street Deli to pick up smoked meat sandwiches and potato salad.

“Who brings potato salad to a stake out?” Said Lewberg as he reached for it. “Plastic forks? Are we at war?”

I’m not sure where Lewberg found the stretch limo but it had tinted windows and smelled of cheap perfume and stress sweat. I asked him but he waved me off like a pitcher declining his catcher’s call for a curveball, saying: “Better you don’t know.”

Goldfarb finally gave up on figuring out how to use his device and got out of the car to walk to the edge of the field in order to take care of business. When he got back in the limo he said “There is no chance we are going to last a week.”

I said “End of day tops.”

And Lewberg said “I’ll take the under.”

It would have been an interesting bet but we weren’t going to find out because two minutes later a late model Honda Accord pulled up and parked on the side of the road not ten meters from the limo. It was Monday at 11am and we were the only two cars in the entire cemetery, but the driver, in his mid-twenties with Rayban sunglasses and a retro Montreal Expos baseball cap, paid us no mind. Instead, he purposefully walked to Isiah Goldfarb’s grave and, in one quick motion, grabbed the black stone, the one I had placed only yesterday, and replaced it with another.

“Wow,” I exclaimed.

The stone stealer, as Lewberg had christened him, then quickly walked to the next row and placed the stone on another grave.

Lewberg turned to Goldfarb and said “I thought you said you had checked out the nearby graves?”

“I only checked Isiah’s row,” he said sheepishly.

We then watched him get into his car and drive away.

“You aren’t going to go after him?” I asked, even though I knew he wasn’t.

“Nah,” said Goldfarb. “At least I know where my stones are now.”

“Shall we go take a look?” I said. The three of us, Lewberg holding a plastic cup, tumbled out of the limo, and slowly walked to the grave.

The engraving read: 
Miriam Schopenheimer. Beloved mother, caring wife, and devoted sister.

I looked at the dates on the stone. We didn’t need Goldfarb’s degree to do the math. She was born the same year as the three of us.

“Anyone know her?” I asked out loud. But none of us did.

“All my rocks are here,” said Goldfarb. It was true. Smooth, volcanic, igneous stones.

“You going to speak to the kid?” Asked Lewberg.

Goldfarb said “Nah.”

I said “You aren’t curious?”

Goldfarb said “Maybe she liked stones. Isiah didn’t really care for them that much.”

We stood silently for a while.

“Same age as us,” I finally said.

“Two months younger than me,” said Lewberg.

Then Goldfarb said “Any of those smoked meat sandwiches lean?”

Jacob Schopenheimer was not hard to find. I Googled the last name and his listing, plus the real estate company he worked for, and a convenient photo was one of the first things to come up.

Goldfarb, who had been so agitated about the stolen rocks, was now surprisingly more than placated and ready to move on. I think knowing where the stones were meant more to him than finding out why they had been taken. Lewberg had only come along to help Goldfarb and, although curious about the motivations, was not curious enough to waste more time on it. Which, I suppose, should have been more than enough for me but it felt a little like a short story where the editor had decided to delete the last paragraph. Just a little unsatisfying.

As it happened, Jacob Schopenheimer was hosting an open house that afternoon at a home on Douglas. It was four blocks from my house. I had no plans and could never say no to a freshly baked cookie.

Schopenheimer was in a suit and wearing neither his sunglasses nor his baseball cap but I would have recognized him right away, even if he hadn’t introduced himself the minute I walked into the house. He asked me to sign the guest sheet and, as I always did in these cases, I carefully jotted down Lewberg’s name. He handed me a features sheet and launched into his spiel. The house was 3800 square feet and had five bedrooms and five bathrooms. Even someone like me who was very close to the top of the board on the Uber Eats loyalty program could recognize the kitchen was a chef’s dream.

“Is that calacatta marble?” I asked. I didn’t know calacatta marble from Bombay gin (yes, I know calacatta is from Italy and not India) but had peaked at the spec sheet.

“You know your marble Mr. Lewberg,” he said.

“I dabble,” I replied. “I have a friend who is a bit of a stone nut. Harold Goldfarb. Maybe you know him?”

Jacob Schopenheimer looked up and said:

“Harold Goldfarb?”

“Yeah.”

“No.”

“Ok.”

“But I do know an Isiah Goldfarb.”

I looked up and asked “How do you know him?”

And Jacob Schopenheimer said “He’s my grandfather.”

Goldfarb took the news about having had a sister he never knew about pretty well. I mean, he locked himself in his room for a week and didn’t take or return any of our calls, texts or emails. But for Goldfarb, that was actually pretty well.

On Sunday morning he called and asked if I wanted to go for a drive.

He picked me up and he started to drive north. We didn’t say anything for a while until I worked up the nerve to say:

“Isiah, eh?”

And Goldfarb said “Yeah. Go figure.”

“You speak to the kid?”

“Jacob? Yeah. Nice kid. His mother more or less took it to the grave. Isiah’s name was a note in the will.”

“Crazy!”

“Yeah, I know.”

Goldfarb parked in his usual spot. He unlocked the trunk and reached into his knapsack. The rock he handed me was almost orange with speckled white crystals.

“Porphyry,” he said, “from Norway.”

“Nice” I said, holding it up to the sun and watching the crystals sparkle. “This one for Isiah?”

And Goldfarb said “No, why don’t you give that one to my sister.”

The end.