I long regarded the Falkowitzes as “outsiders” who could never fit into our frum worldview

Under the snow mountain at the end of our cul-de-sac lay the frozen form of Sébastien, the Khao Manee cat that belonged to our secular neighbors, the Falkowitzes. Kalman Ostreicher claimed that the inch of whitish-grayish fur sticking out from under the great heap of ice was undeniably Sébastien’s tail, and that we were all to use our hands to scoop out as much as we could to exhume the feline. He felt it was of great importance to the Falkowitzes to have knowledge of what had befallen their beloved pet. After all, hadn’t Alex Falkowitz been seen putting up flyers on every lamppost on our street and beyond?

I had absolutely zero interest in the fate of Sébastien; no desire to numb my extremities on his behalf. I felt no obligation to provide closure to a family with whom I had no connection. Yet I was drawn into the madness that sometimes overcomes young children on a mission.

We got to work. From three-year-old Yaakov Lang to 11-year-old Chanchi Weiss, we dug our freezing fingers into the frigid peak to free poor old Sébastien from his icy grave. Finally, after ten minutes of not-much-progress, Yitty Fink had the brains to suggest that hot water would do the job quicker and with less pain. In a few minutes, we had formed a chain with containers full of hot water from my house to the snowy Everest at the end of our block. A little while later, Sébastien’s corpse came into full view.

Just shy of my bas mitzvah — so, relative to the rest of the kids, practically an adult — I was chosen to report to Family Falkowitz the solemn news of their pet’s passing. This was not a job I relished, having long regarded the Falkowitzes as “outsiders” who could never fit into our frum worldview. Nevertheless, I found myself knocking on the old oak door of the Falkowitz home to let them know that their lost cat must have slipped into the snowbank weeks ago.

Theirs was an almost stately home, boasting two white marble columns and a balustrade of wrought iron leading toward the double front door. The bell was a metal rope that I would have to pull, setting off peals of chimes coming from all around the inside of the house.

I turned to look at my neighbors; the other kids had all chosen safe spots to watch whatever it was they expected to unfold.

I remember feeling very nervous, my stomach shriveling at the prospect of having to come face-to-face with Marilyn Falkowitz.

Much had been said about Marilyn Falkowitz: that she was between the ages of 18 and 28, though no one was sure; that she was dropped on her head when she was a baby, and this damaged her brain and, subsequently, her soul; that she laughed very loudly and cried even louder; that she had large, crooked teeth and that the sides of her mouth were permanently wet; that she never left the house — although of this I was skeptical, since it could very well have been that she only left the house when it was safe to do so. “Safe” meaning away from us pesky children with our gawky eyes.

All these things and more were said about her. But until that day I had never laid eyes on her to verify any of them.

I rang the doorbell and waited while the rest of the posse kept themselves a good span beyond the Falkowitz front lawn.

And who would open the door to me as I stood there with holes in my tights, face grimy with dirt, fingers red and shivering, but Marilyn Falkowitz — rendering me still and speechless. I took in her person, noting that although the sides of her mouth were dry, a small tear of dribble was slowly making its way down the middle of her chin. She paid it no heed but smiled brightly at me, as though I were her relative and she was jubilant at this unexpected visit. Her smile did indeed reveal large, crooked teeth, and on her nose were thick, purple-rimmed glasses. It was only around five in the afternoon, but she was wearing what looked like pajamas.

“Queenie Lewis?” she articulated, with some difficulty.

How in the world did Marilyn know my name?

I lost my words. I forgot the reason for my appearance at her door. Why was I here? All I wanted, at that moment, was to bolt from the house, down the garden path and away, but I was too frightened to move. After a few moments of us standing there, staring at one another, I remembered myself, and I asked if her mother was home.

I watched as Marilyn turned from me and trudged toward the staircase, leaving a smell of being-indoors-for-too-long in her wake. She stopped at the bottom of the stairs, held the wooden ball at the top of the banisters in both of her hands and called out in rough, scratchy sounds, “Mama… Mama!”

At the time, I had absolutely no understanding of what it meant to live with a special-needs person. So when Mrs. Falkowitz — also wearing what appeared to be pajamas covered with a luxuriously thick fleece robe of purple-and-green flower print — bumbled down the stairs, my tongue got stuck on the roof of my mouth and threatened to never work properly again. She walked over to me, with Marilyn hiding behind her like a three-year-old, when in fact she was closer to 23.

And there, suddenly behind the two of them, appeared 15-year-old Alex. He took in the scene, his eyes scanning the landscape behind me, hardly even noticing me as he absorbed all the children watching from their distant posts. He turned to me then, and in a scowl that frightened me to my very core, he boomed, “What d’you lot want?”