Where Are My Glasses? [Part II]

The woman who lived (and possibly died) in our apartment before us, didn't buy the place herself. Her gentleman friend did. After his third wife died, she was his live-in, and they never married. When he passed away (probably in the apartment, too), he left the place to her and screwed his own family out of the deal. So the daughter of this woman, who was in no way related to the guy who actually bought the place, got the apartment and sold it to us as her inheritance. Nice deal, eh? She gets the money and we get to live with the spirit of her mother and her mother's boyfriend.

I don't believe in ghosts, specters or poltergeists. But a few months after we moved into the apartment, I had a very creepy experience. I had a work appointment at a local synagogue. The head Rabbi gave us a tour of the facility. Walking down the marble halls of the temple, my goyishe co-worker innocently inquired about the memorial plaques on the walls.

"What are all these names on the walls, and why do some of them have bulbs lit?" she asked. The Rabbi sagely waved his hand at the hundreds of names inscribed on brass plates around the temple and explained that these were "yahrzeit" plaques, commemorating those who have passed away. He pointed to a single name on the wall and said, "See, this one here is lit, to honor the anniversary of the deceased. May he be in peace."

There was moment of silence as my co-worker and I nodded respectfully. He kept his finger on the plaque, closed his eyes and bit his bottom lip. I focused in on the name and my eyes widened.

"I recognize that name!" I blurted out. "I get his mail!"

The Rabbi looked at me with a cross stare. But it was true. I had this guy’s mail on my kitchen table. The name on the plaque was that of the man who had owned our apartment -- before leaving it to his now-deceased lady-friend. Letters from the AARP and the Scoliosis Foundation, addressed to him, continued to find their way into my mailbox. Of all the hundreds of names on this wall, this was the one he pointed to. And it was the anniversary of his death, to boot. A chill ran up my spine (Was that you, Mrs. Sapperstein?). The Rabbi looked at me as if I had been sniffing the spice box and moved on. But that moment has stuck with me. It was a sign.

To be continued...