Transgression

by R. S. Ingermanson

  “I think Baruch is the local doctor,” Ari said. “Some woman came by yesterday and he prayed over her.”

  “Did she get better?” Rivka asked.

  Ari shrugged. “Headache. Probably psychogenic. She said she felt better, and that’s what matters, isn’t it?”

  Rivka wanted to say that the patient’s actual physical condition mattered more than a changeable mental state, but she wanted to see as much of the ritual as she could. She turned back to watch.

  “…in the name of Yeshua HaMashiach,” Baruch said.

  Rivka blinked twice, astounded. Had she heard right? Yeshua? Baruch had to be a member of HaDerech—The Way! Wouldn’t it be incredible if he healed this Mattityahu right here in front of Ari? Oh, God, let this man get well! Let Ari see your power, Lord.

  Baruch took his hands off the man’s face and examined the skin. From this distance, Rivka could see no change at all.

  “Looks bad,” Ari said. “That one doesn’t look psychogenic. I hate to tell Baruch, but I don’t think he’s going to get anywhere.”

  “And how do you know?” Rivka asked. She was offended by his tone, although privately she had her own doubts. This case didn’t look easy.

  “You don’t believe in that stuff, do you?” Ari said.

  “In what stuff?” Rivka asked, stalling. Her mind raced ahead. Should she tell Ari? Would he believe her? And if she did tell him, should she tell the whole truth?

  “Sorry, maybe we should not discuss it,” Ari said. There was a note of discomfort in his voice. “I don’t want to get into another big argument over nothing.”

  “No, I want to discuss it,” Rivka said. “I promise not to get mad.”

  “Okay, fine.” Ari switched to English. “But let’s keep this in a language the neighbors won’t understand, shall we? And I’m already wet, so you may forego the water this time.” A crooked grin played across his face.

  Whatever his flaws, Ari certainly had a forgiving spirit. Rivka smiled to show that she was going to be a good sport. She took a deep breath. “To answer your question, yes, I do believe in that stuff. Not that I care for the Holy Rollers on TV who promise a miracle every ten seconds, but I think God does occasionally intervene.”

  “Intervene—as in he violates the laws of physics?” Ari asked.

  It was a trick question, and Rivka had been down this line before in endless dorm discussions. “I don’t really care if God obeys the laws or breaks them,” she said. “But I do believe that people sometimes get unexpectedly healed after prayer.”

  “That’s not a very strong statement from a statistical point of view,” Ari said. “There is a small rate of spontaneous remission in cancer, for example.”

  Bingo. He had jumped into this one with both feet. She might as well hit him with her big guns. “Okay, let’s take an example,” Rivka said. “Joe Schmoe is diagnosed with skin cancer, malignant melanoma, advanced. Too late for chemo or radiation. Too extensive for surgery. No hope. The doctors send Joe home to die. Joe’s neighbor comes over and lays hands on him and prays. The next morning when Joe wakes up, he is healed. Totally. No traces in his system. He goes back to the doctors, and they say they’ve never seen anything like it. It’s not spontaneous remission. It’s a miracle. Direct quote from the doctor. Now how does that fit into your theory?”

  Ari shrugged. “Offhand, I would say it sounds pretty strong, though it’s only one instance. This is a hypothetical case, I assume?”

  Rivka shook her head. “Joe Schmoe was David Goldberg. My stepfather.”

  Ari scratched at his nose. “When did this happen? Did you see it yourself, or is this a family legend somebody told you about?”

  “It happened when I was eleven years old,” Rivka said. “I told you a few days ago that we started going to a Messianic synagogue in San Diego when I was in sixth grade. That was after David got healed. Our neighbor was a member of Beth Simcha, and he came over and prayed, and boom! It was pretty weird, really. I still can’t believe, sometimes, that it really happened. But I also remember exactly how I felt when I woke up the next day and that huge ulcerated patch on his arm was just gone.”

  Ari shrugged. “Interesting.”

  “So, you believe me?” Rivka said.

  “Sure, why would you lie?” Ari said. “But I’d like to meet your stepfather, anyway. You know—seeing is believing.”

  Which was exactly the problem. Rivka wondered how to explain the rest of it. She still didn’t understand it herself.

  “Brother Ari!” Baruch said. “You must come and help me pray for Brother Mattityahu. I am concerned.”

  Rivka sighed. Off the hook for now. But that would only make it worse later.

  Ari went over to have a look. Rivka followed him. The closer she came, the less she liked what she saw. It didn’t look good. Baruch put his hands over Mattityahu’s face again.

  Ari said nothing. Quietly, he laid his hands on top of Baruch’s. He gave Rivka a little shrug, as if to say, It can’t hurt, can it?

  Which was true and it wasn’t, as Rivka had learned.

  Baruch continued praying in a soft, yet intense voice. Sweat popped out on his forehead. Ari closed his eyes. Rivka could not guess what he was thinking.

  They stood like that for quite a long time. At last, Baruch stopped praying. He and Ari lifted their hands away at the same time. Rivka stepped forward, afraid to look, unwilling not to.

  Nothing had changed.

  “It is the same,” Baruch said. “You agree, Brother Ari?”

  Ari nodded. “Yes.”

  “We will pray again tomorrow,” Baruch said. “You will come back, Brother Mattityahu?”

  The old man tugged at his beard. “I will come back. We will be here in Jerusalem for yet a week.” He gripped Baruch’s arm and then leaned forward and kissed him. He did the same to Ari.

  Rivka wondered what she would do if Mattityahu tried that on her, but of course there was no such danger. He hardly seemed to notice her at all.

  “Have you heard the news of Renegade Saul?” Brother Mattityahu asked.

  Rivka felt a little rush of adrenaline in her veins. Renegade Saul! She had never heard of that particular name applied to Paul, and yet her instincts filled in the gaps in her book knowledge.

  “He will be going to the Temple with the four young men on the day after tomorrow,” Baruch said. “I did not believe he would go, but he promised that he would. He is an apikoros, but he is no liar. What he says, he will do.”

  “Perhaps he is not an apikoros after all, if he will go to the Temple,” Mattityahu said.

  “No, you are wrong,” Baruch said. “I heard him last night with my own ears. He eats with goyim. He teaches them to follow Rabban Yeshua, but he does not teach them to observe the commandments.”

  “But does he obey the Torah?” Mattityahu asked. “Does he teach our brothers in the Diaspora to forsake the customs? That is what I want to know.”

  “He denies it,” Baruch said. “He calls himself a Pharisee, a son of Pharisees.”

  “So?” Mattityahu said. “Is he a liar, or is he not? If he is a Pharisee, then he is a true follower of the Rabban.”

  “I asked him this question,” Baruch said. “I asked if he eats meat sacrificed to idols.”

  Rivka held her breath. Paul had tread a fine line on that one.

  “And what did he say?” Mattityahu asked.

  “He says he does not know,” Baruch said.

  “How can he not know?” Mattityahu’s face showed bewilderment.

  “He does not ask,” Baruch said. “He simply eats the food set before him by his host.”

  “And he is never told?” Mattityahu asked. “I do not believe that.”

  “Sometimes his host will say, ‘This was sacrificed to an idol,’” Baruch said. “In that case, he will not eat it.”

  “Don’t ask; don’t tell,” Rivka said on impulse.

  Both men turned to stare at her—actually at some fixed point above her head.
r />   She blushed. “I am sorry. I did not wish to intrude.” She knew her friends back in Berkeley would be freaked by her kowtowing to this patriarchal system. But she had a simple answer to that, one which Paul himself would endorse. When in Jerusalem, do as the Pharisees do. And why not? Much of human behavior was culturally conditioned, not some grand moral absolute. No way in the world could she force gender equality in a cultural matrix like this one.

  Brother Mattityahu looked up at the sky. “My friend, I must be returning to my daughter’s house. But I will visit you tomorrow, if HaShem wills it.” He nodded to Baruch and Ari, but not to Rivka, then turned and strolled away up the street.

  “Something is not right,” Baruch said in Hebrew. “I must go to my room and pray. I do not understand why nothing happened.” He walked back toward his house, tugging at his beard.

  Ari had been standing to one side quietly. “Did you follow what they were saying?” he asked Rivka. “I caught most of the words, but I can’t follow full-speed Aramaic yet.”

  “It was about a certain man named Saul,” Rivka said carefully.

  “Ah, yes,” Ari said. “Renegade Saul. Baruch told me all about him last night.” He hesitated. “Did you catch what they call him here? Apikoros. Renegade.” He seemed almost apologetic about scoring a debating point.

  Rivka laughed. “Did you think that was news to me? I read all about it when I was a kid. It’s in the Book of Acts. Saul comes back to Jerusalem, and the first people to make a fuss are his own fellow Christians. Not the Jewish leaders. Not the ultraorthodox. His own Christian brothers. Yes, I knew that. I didn’t know they called him Renegade Saul, though.”

  “I would hardly call these people Christians,” Ari said.

  Rivka stared at him in surprise. She had used the word Christians only because Ari had insisted a few days ago that Messianic Jews were not real Jews. He had obviously done some rethinking in the last few days. Good for him. She saw no reason to hammer the point home. Ari wasn’t stupid. “You’re right, Ari. They’re Jews who believe in Yeshua HaMashiach, and yet they’re still part of the community of Israel.”

  “But what about the Christian creeds?” Ari asked. “How do those fit in?”

  “What about them?” Rivka said. “They don’t exist. The Nicene Creed is almost three centuries down the road. The Apostles’ Creed is fifty to a hundred years in the future. Even the New Testament isn’t written yet, except for a few letters by Renegade Saul. There aren’t any stained-glass churches yet, Ari. No pope, no pulpits, no pipe organs. No Christian anti-Semitism, because nobody has figured out yet that Christians aren’t Jews.”

  “Except Renegade Saul,” Ari said. “He’s figured it out. Don’t tell me he hasn’t blasted ‘the Jews’ in his writings.”

  “Paul? I don’t think so. He comes down on the law, but not on Jews.”

  “It’s in your New Testament. My next-door neighbor at MIT used to quote it to me. All about how the Jews killed Jesus.”

  “Sounds like John,” Rivka said. “His name is Yohanan in Hebrew. He’s referring to Jews who disagree with him. It’s an old tradition, arguing among ourselves. Two Jews, three opinions, remember? You want an example of some real vituperation, read the Dead Sea Scrolls. They make John look like a purring pussycat. Paul, too.”

  “I…guess I would like to meet Saul,” Ari said.

  That makes three of us. Rivka closed her eyes. You, me, and Dr. West.

  “Don’t fall asleep,” Ari said. “I still have some questions for you.”

  “Fire away.”

  “Please,” Ari said, “we are not at war, correct?”

  “Sorry. Bad choice of words.”

  “As I told you, I am interested in your stepfather’s story,” Ari said. “Could I have his e-mail address, please? I would like to get his account in his own words.”

  Rivka sighed and took a deep breath. Now she had to tell him.

  “There’s a problem,” she said.

  “Problem?”

  She nodded, and then the whole sorry last six months of her life came rushing in on her. Something snapped in her heart. Not now—she couldn’t face it, couldn’t talk about it, couldn’t even think about it.

  “What kind of problem?” Ari asked.

  Rivka shook her head, annoyed—no, angry. At God. Tears blurred her vision, and her voice choked off so she couldn’t talk. She turned and began walking away in the general direction of Hana’s house.

  She heard Ari’s footsteps behind her. “What kind of problem, Rivka? I…didn’t mean to intrude, but—”

  “He’s dead!” Hot grief squirted up through her insides as she said it. “Pancreatic cancer. Last winter. Last Christmas! How’s that for ironic, huh? He died on Christmas, and God wasn’t there to make it all right.” She smeared at her eyes with the sleeve of her tunic.

  “I’m sorry, Rivka—”

  “Well, I’m angry!” she shouted. “Now leave me alone.”

  “Rivka, please—” He touched her elbow.

  She shook him off. “Just give me a little space, will you? I need some time by myself.”

  “If you want to talk—”

  “I don’t!” She knew she was acting like a spoiled brat, but right now she didn’t really care. “Look, Ari, if you want to bother me, come do it tomorrow morning. Right now, I just want to go back to Hana’s. Alone.”

  “If you insist.” He stopped. “I will see you tomorrow, my friend.”

  Rivka kept walking, half-blinded by her tears. She hadn’t asked Ari to come looking for her. And now he had stirred up this, which she had been trying to bury for the last six months.

  God had dealt her a raw hand. If he hadn’t healed her stepfather way back when, she wouldn’t have expected anything this time. But he had—he had done a miracle. Once. So why did he have to stop with just one? If God was sovereign, why didn’t he do a better job of running his kingdom? Why did he get her hopes up and then walk away?

  That was one question she would ask Paul, if she somehow managed to cross his path. Assuming he would bother to talk to a woman.

  When Rivka arrived back at Hana’s house, she was still crying. Hana opened the door, reached out her arms, and simply hugged her.

  “Cry, my friend,” Hana said. “I have been waiting for you. Now you must cry until you are finished.”

  So Rivka did.

  * * *

  Damien

  The moon gave a little light, enough to see by in the deserted streets. Damien strode up the hill, guided by his memory. Rivka and Ari had hung around outside that house for a while this morning. Damien hadn’t seen them looking at any papers, but that didn’t prove anything. If Ari had Damien’s spreadsheet, they would get around to it sooner or later. And Rivka would see through Damien’s cryptic notations quicker than pig Latin.

  Damien had to prevent that. At any cost. He clutched the lock pick he had fashioned out of stiff wire. He had brought a lot of things that might come in handy in his duffel bag. It paid to plan ahead. He had spent the evening practicing on the door of his rented house. Dead easy, compared to modern locks. The hard part would be dealing with Ari and his friend. Two against one might be tricky.

  He turned right, then left, then right again. There. The moon threw weird shadows in the street. Damien wasn’t spooked. He feared only one thing in life: the sight of his brother, lying in that wretched bed. That he couldn’t stand. But now he could do something about it.

  At the door, Damien listened intently. Nothing…not even a snore. He eased the pick into the lock. In. Twist slightly. Tug gently.

  Click!

  Damien’s heart pounded in his chest. He listened again. If anyone had heard him, they would come to investigate.

  But he heard no sound. After sixty beats of his heart, Damien eased the door open. It must have been greased with fat lately, like his own door, because it swung in silently on its iron hinges. He opened it all the way and peered inside.

  He saw…nothing. No bodies, anywa
y. He flicked on a pen-sized flashlight and swung the beam around the room. No people. A stairway led up into darkness. So maybe they slept on the second floor. The neon blue of Ari’s backpack caught Damien’s eye.

  Yes!

  If Ari had any information, it would be in there. That was practically his office. He never went anywhere without it.

  Damien hesitated. Should he go upstairs and put a bullet through Ari’s head and be done with it? No. Rivka would figure that one out in a millisecond. And she had information that could help the mission. If he had any chance of getting that information out of her, he had to wait.

  Damien silently lifted the backpack and slung it over his shoulder. He stepped backward out into the street, pulling the door shut behind him. He even took a minute to lock it. No need to leave a mess. Why give Ari any clues at all?

  Fifteen minutes later, Damien arrived back at his rented house. It was an easy walk when the streets were empty.

  Inside, he lit the olive oil lamp with his cigarette lighter and opened the backpack. On top lay a bee-sting kit. Damien dropped it on the floor. On impulse, he crushed it under his heel. Then he dumped the rest of the contents of the backpack onto the floor. What a load of junk! A calculator. A battered address book. Red and black Uni-ball pens. A checkbook. Paper clips. A multifunction screwdriver. A clipboard with two dozen loose pages of calculations. Good grief, the guy must do tensor calculus in his sleep. A phone bill hung half out of its envelope. And what was this?

  Damien held up a Polaroid photograph. Ari and Rivka, standing in a field next to a small tree. That must be the day they went tree-planting. What kind of a loser took a girl planting trees on a date? On a whim, Damien ripped the photo in two, neatly separating Ari and Rivka.

  What else was in that pile? Damien pawed through the rest.

  Junk. Plenty of junk, but not what he was looking for.

  So either Ari had that spreadsheet in his pocket, or he hadn’t brought it along. Most likely the latter.

  Excellent. One less thing to worry about.

  Damien scooped the dregs of Ari’s pathetic life into the backpack, zipped it shut, and tossed it into the corner near his duffel bag.