comm ave art deco

"I've come to get our mezuzah."
The short balding man wearing the yarmulke pointed to a little case that was nailed to the door's frame. It was covered in innumerable coats of paint, and after forty-two years was barely distinguishable from the other painted-over bits of wood and metal and plastic that surrounded the door: buzzers that no longer worked, plaques with old tenant's names, notices to ward off salesman.
The Latino boy who answered the door on Nightingale Street stared at Abe, then his mouth curved into a little smirk and he called out over his shoulder.
"Hey Mommie, there's a crazy white guy out here."
Cruz Perez walked down the long hall and stood behind her son. Abe could smell the plantains frying in the kitchen.
"Can I help you?" Cruz said politely, drying her hands on a small blue towel.
"I would like to take our mezuzah," Abe said, pointing. "We used to live here, and we forgot it."
"You used to live here?" Cruz asked, her voice rising. "I've been here for a long time sir, over twenty years. I bought the house from Mr. Perkins, and I think he was here for over..."
"I sold it to James Perkins. 1968. He was the first colored man on the block."
Abe stared into Cruz Perez's eyes. Then he finished his thought.
"But I didn't take the mezuzah."
"That some Jewish thing?" Cruz's son quipped. Cruz clipped him on the side of his head with the blue towel. There was an awkward silence.
"Yes," Cruz said awkwardly. "I don't see why not."
As Cruz and her son watched, Abe took a screw-driver from his pocket and worked carefully, prying the mezuzah from the wooden frame. Small flakes of paint rained down on the front steps. After a minute it was free, and Abe slipped it into the pocket of his black jacket, and brushed his palms together.
"Abe Silverman," he said, extending an open hand.
Cruz hesitated.
"Cruz Perez," she said, taking his hand into hers. "And this is my son, Jose."


MEZUZAH