Free Murder At The Mikvah by Sarah Segal

temperature was the same, but somehow, Yehuda found himself sweating constantly, even when he wasn’t running around. There were alligators instead of snakes in Florida, and palm trees instead of cactus.
    Days, then weeks, then months went by without word from their father.
    “Maybe he doesn’t know where we are!” a concerned Sunny told her brother one night while stuffing her face with Jiffypop.
    “Maybe,” Yehuda replied, lying for his sister’s benefit. Sunny's hearing wasn’t as sharp as Yehuda's; she hadn't heard the whispered conversations between their mom and grandparents. Nor did she know that mail had come from their father’s divorce lawyer—papers their mother needed to sign—proof that he knew their address! The fact was, their father could visit any time he felt like it; but simply chose not to. Maybe once he stopped being mad at their mother, he would call. Yehuda often tried to guess what caused his parents divorce. Initially he thought his mother must have done something wrong, even though he couldn’t fathom what it could be. Everyone loved his mother, adults and kids alike. Judy was someone who always had time . Time to pitch in and lend a hand, time to help a new mother, time to cook a healthy meal for her family, time to teach in the communal school.
    Yehuda admitted to himself that as far back as he could remember, there had always been something not quite right between his parents. Most of the time, it was as though his parents were living separate lives, hers with the kids, his without. Sadly, when Yehuda recalled his earliest childhood memories, more often than not, they excluded his father altogether. His dad was always running around, moving so fast, coming and going. It was like he could only stand to be in the house with them for a few hours at a time—except when his mom's friend Marigold was around, that is. Then he had all the time in the world to sit and visit. Yehuda knew it was Marigold who inspired the name Sunny. “Marigold is such a groovy girl,” his dad had said to his mom, “maybe our Sunflower will be the same way.” It was funny when he thought about it. Despite the fact that his parents chose to live on a commune, they had always managed to maintain a conservative streak. But it was meeting Marigold that changed all that—at least for his father.
    Most nights Yehuda lay awake, sometimes crying softly into his pillow. Other times, he finger sketched an image of his father onto an invisible canvas above his bed, willing himself to remember details: His dad's long nose, his high forehead, the ponytail he had begun to wear in the past year. Yehuda didn’t have a single photo of his dad (oddly he had plenty of Polaroid’s showing he and his mom and Sunny), but he wasn’t about to be a traitor and ask his mother for one. Yehuda struggled to hear his dad's voice in his head, but the more time passed, the less he was able to succeed.
    Be a good boy…
    That fall, Yehuda and Sunny were enrolled in a Florida public school, which took some getting used to after being home schooled for their entire lives. Having to sit still for thirty to forty-minute increments seemed as pointless to Yehuda, as the amount of memorization he was required to do. He told his mother these things, but she had her own pressures and he didn’t want to burden her. Newly enrolled in law school, she would spend hours in the law library after her classes, occasionally arriving home in time to join everyone for a late dinner. Sometimes Yehuda would wake from a nightmare at two or three in the morning, get out of bed and discover his mom surrounded by books at the kitchen table.
    Though Yehuda never said it, the thing he hated more than anything about his new school was his feeling of isolation. His sister made friends easily and before long there were knocks on the door for Sunny to come play tetherball at Sharon’s or ride bikes with Linda and Nancy. Yehuda wasn’t particularly shy by nature, but