by Hopen, David
“Yeah, I guess that, too,” Evan said. “What about you, Eden?”
“Eden flipped out while you’ve been gone.” Oliver slung his arm around my shoulder. “The kid’s back to his old religious ways. No more weed for him!”
“But how are you feeling?” Evan asked.
“Fine,” I said.
“I see you’ve had your cast removed.”
“I have.”
“Good as new?”
I flexed. “More or less.”
Oliver clapped my back. “Your star witness is a brave fighter,” he said, failing to notice the way I immediately cringed.
Amir picked at his beard, ignoring my eyes. “You know, I would’ve liked to see Ari on the stand.”
“Quite the sight,” Evan said, “you have no idea. A regular Ronald Dworkin up there. He did everything he could, I’m very grateful. And it sounds as if your goodness has been rewarded?”
“Our Princeton man,” Noah said. “Doesn’t he look like your typical All-American frat star, now that we’re done with him?”
I blew anxiously into the palm of my hand. “You heard?”
“Of course,” Evan said. “It’s the talk of the town.”
“I’m just curious,” Amir said, “the Academy is fine with this hiatus? Stanford, too?”
“Well,” Evan said, leaning on his elbows, “here’s how Bloom put it—”
“I thought you couldn’t see anyone,” Oliver said.
“My father certainly abides by that rule.”
“He hasn’t been here much?” Noah asked.
“Not a single time,” Evan said. “But that’s irrelevant. He’s irrelevant. What I was saying was that my old friend Judge Holmes sent quite a letter to Stanford, advising they sever ties. So they called Bloom to learn more.”
Nervously, Amir massaged his fingers. “Like what?”
“Everything. My personality. Teachers’ opinions. Informal disciplinary record. What Bloom himself thought. And you know what? The old man came through.”
Amir looked astounded. “Like, you’re in the clear?”
“For the moment. There are caveats, though. Bloom gave me rules.”
“Such as?” Amir asked.
“Let’s just say he isn’t terribly fond of my—extracurricular interests.” I squirmed, went to sit on his desk. “I live to see another day on the condition that I cease and desist from things he finds unsavory. Basically, I’m on extreme probation. Stanford will see reports from rehab, the judge, the school. Make sure I get myself in order.”
“And the Academy?” Amir pressed. “You’re just off the hook with missing finals?”
“I’m taking my exams when I get out,” Evan said. “But you’ll be happy to know it’ll be with reduced points.”
Amir frowned. “Reduced points? That’s it?”
“That disappoints you?”
“Not really. It’s just—you bust your ass and you do everything right for eighteen years, or you just fuck up colossally and, lo and behold, it all works out nonetheless.” Amir joined me at the desk. Noah patted his back mockingly.
“Speaking of fucking up colossally.” Awkwardly, Evan cleared his throat. We blushed collectively at such contrived pacification. “I wanted to see you guys so that I can, you know, formally apologize. And, well, repent.”
Oliver laughed. “Repent?” Noah kicked him.
“I’ve put each of you”—his eyes lingered on me—“in dangerous situations, and I’d like to make things right. I’d like to earn your forgiveness.”
“Things are fine, aren’t they, guys?” Noah said, trying to muster enthusiasm. “You really don’t need to sweat it, dude.”
“That may be. But I know I’ve been behaving—erratically all year. I’ve forced each of you into situations you probably found uncomfortable or bizarre or, I guess, distasteful, to put it mildly—”
“—no, no,” Amir said, unable to help himself, “we just love raising the dead.”
“And Ari,” Evan continued, turning my way, “more than anyone else, you’re the one who’s suffered most from my misconduct. You’re hurt because of me, and, truly, from the bottom of my heart, whether you forgive me now or not, I’m sorry. I’ve been through a lot this year, I’ve learned a lot about myself and my father and, to be brutally honest, it took me a while to figure out that the pain of losing my mother isn’t something I can expect to evaporate. It’s no excuse, it’s just—I haven’t been entirely myself, as I’m sure you’re all too aware, but I’m working on it.” Evan cleared his throat. “So you’ll let me make it up to you?”
Noah was the first to offer a high five. “Hell yeah, bud.”
Oliver shrugged. “Want us to sing a song or something?”
“Not quite. As a token of my remorse, I’d like to propose a trip.”
“I’m not going back to Key West,” Amir said.
“A camping trip,” Evan said.
“Camping?” Oliver laughed. “Mind if we spring for a hotel?”
“Think of it as an end-of-high-school send-off. Nature, hiking, beers, fireside chats. A way for us to be together before we have to finally splinter off.”
“Since when are you sentimental?” Amir asked.
“Actually,” Noah said, glancing around the room for support, “I was going to suggest we take a trip this summer anyhow, before college starts. My pops keeps encouraging it. He did one with his boys back in the day and he still goes on and on about it.”
“Exactly. Plus, to be honest,” Evan said, “I could use a trip. I’ve been locked up for too long in fucking hospitals and rehabs. And I think the mountains would do us all good. Wholesome fun, right?”
“Wait, mountains?” I asked. “You do know this is Florida.”
Evan smiled patiently. “Did I forget to mention that the trip is in Georgia?”
“Georgia?” Amir asked. “No. I’m not doing a fourteen-hour drive.”
“Okay, so we’ll find somewhere closer. That part is no biggie,” Noah said delicately. “We’ll go somewhere a bit more local. Who needs mountains?”
“We do,” Evan said sternly. “Transportation won’t be a problem, I assure you. I’ve taken care of tickets. All you need to do is show up at the airport.”
We were quiet, too awkward to answer, until Noah approached Evan and, gingerly, wrapped him in a bear hug. Evan’s face at first maintained its natural aloofness, but then, to my surprise, it adopted a thin smile, softening its features. Oliver offered some mildly offensive joke to relieve the tension, and Amir found himself laughing against his will. I remained at the desk. Evan, still being squeezed by Noah, met my eyes and nodded. I nodded back.
* * *
I SPENT THE NIGHT BEFORE our trip with Sophia. I packed a small meal—several rolls of her favorite sushi, assorted milk chocolates, a bottle of red wine—and snuck her through Noah’s backyard into the golf course. It was a gorgeous evening: the wind hardly blowing, the sky a perfect black, sprinkled with faded stars.
“So this is it,” Sophia said, a plastic cup of wine in hand, sitting with her knees at her chin, observing the sky, “the calm before the storm, they call it.”
“That storm they keep talking about?” I was full now, drowsy, slightly drunk. “Noah said it wasn’t real.”
“He’s probably right. They say it’ll be Category One if it hits, but usually these things die out into tropical disturbances. But maybe you’ll get your first hurricane! How exhilarating. We can’t consider you a proper Floridian until you’re baptized by one, you know.”
“Yeah, wow, I can hardly contain my excitement.” I bit open a packet of M&M’s, separated several greens, offered them in the palm of my hand. She snorted, slapping away my hand. I flicked the greens toward a nearby bunker. “When would this hit?”
“Probably never, because we’re still a few days away from the first of June. Worried it’ll affect your little boys’ trip?”
“No.” I inched closer, feeling the heat of her body. “I
don’t want to go that badly anyway.”
“Why’s that?”
“I just don’t.”
“Who’s forcing you?”
I took the wine, poured myself another cup. “It’ll be one of our last times all together for who knows how long. Maybe ever.”
She placed her head in the nape of my neck, breathing softly against my chest. I didn’t dare move.
“Soph?” I finally asked, after holding my breath for too long.
“Yes?”
“What happens after all . . . this?” Animals chirping from the distance, some far-off hole up the course. “To you and me, I mean?”
Her head angled to the heavens. “Beautiful, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
“So then let’s not think about that tonight.”
The moon was full. “It’s just that Princeton and Juilliard,” I said, “really, we’re only a bus ride away.”
She lowered herself until her back was on the ground. She grabbed my hand, gently pulled me on top of her.
“Come to prom with me,” I said.
She leaned on her elbows, weak moonlight illuminating half of her face. “I’m supposed to go with Evan, you know. He asked me at the end of freshman year, when he was still a child. He gave me a rose. We had our first kiss.”
“Right,” I said, my cheeks burning with heat. “Yeah, understood, then.”
She leaned up toward my face. “But I want to go with you, Hamlet.”
I fell forward, kissed her. We sank to the ground, arms and legs intertwined, pale lights above. Thomas Hardy, they say, spent an hour each day staring at the same painting in a local museum to commit everything—color, texture, pigmentation—to memory. This moment, I told myself, would be the painting to which I’d return, that singular burst of beauty and happiness I’d recount day in, day out, for the rest of my life, down to the slightest detail: the texture of her lips, the taste of her mouth, her vanilla scent, night rolling on around us.
* * *
IT WAS STILL FOGGY WHEN we left. We met outside the Delta terminal, where Evan distributed our first-class tickets. It was a short flight, just over an hour. Evan had a driver waiting when we landed, equipped with camping paraphernalia—a large tent, hydration backpacks, cooking utensils, a flare gun—and a cooler of food and beer. It wasn’t a far drive to Horeb, a picturesque stretch of trails within the Blue Ridge Mountains. Our driver confirmed Horeb was an excellent choice: an elevation of nearly four thousand feet, water springs, all sorts of wildlife. “Songbirds, bobcats, coyotes, boars, deer, foxes, black bears,” he lectured, “anything you want. You boys like fishing? Because there’s quite an aquatic population, some delicious catches.”
“Not particularly,” Oliver said. “I’m more gatherer than hunter.”
“Never mind that. Just get to the top. Lord, that’s a view. Some tribes used to hunt there. Iroquois. The Shawnee, too, I think. There’s a memorial plaque or something up there. Sacred ground.”
There was a shelter, a small wooden shack, at the entrance where we mapped our trail. The kid manning the desk looked our age, perhaps younger. “If you need something,” he said with a heavy Southern twang, “you’ll give a holler.”
Amir frowned. “You expect we’ll need something?”
“I was joking,” the kid said. “Nobody will hear you anyway.”
“Lovely,” Amir said, “and what’s the deal with the storm?” I glanced out the window at a rich, cloudless sky.
The kid spat dip into an empty water bottle. “Look like a storm to you?”
“No,” Amir said, “but I—”
“First time?”
“Camping?” Amir asked. “Yes, actually.”
The kid waved us off. “You softies will be fine.”
I was surprised by how much I enjoyed the trail, the woods still, forbidding, the air heavy and fresh and filled with the sound of running water and warbling birds. We decided to set camp at the peak. Evan wanted to see stars.
We took several breaks—to eat, to swim in a spring, to give Evan’s leg a chance to rest. Evan limped the whole way through and, despite his walking stick, despite his protests, had to be assisted when the incline proved too steep.
“Maybe going to the top isn’t the wisest, Ev?” Noah said, after Evan had been forced to retreat to a rock to catch his breath and wait for the pain to subside. “Let’s find somewhere a bit more manageable.”
Evan popped a blue pill and, wincing, picked himself up again. “Fuck that.”
We were worn and sore and ravenous by the time we arrived at the summit. We picked out an isolated spot in a field and set to work pitching our tent. They smoked—I, alone, refrained, just like in the old days, and instead davened ma’ariv off to the side—and then we sat lazily, watching the sky move from blue to harsh steel to violent purple. The wind began picking up.
“Maybe it’s coming after all,” Oliver said, studying the sky. “That storm.”
Evan disappeared into the tent and came out with our food. We roasted hot dogs and tore through snacks—protein bars, marshmallows, extravagant desserts—that Cynthia had sent up with Noah.
“So how we feeling, Ev?” Noah said, passing around frosted cupcakes while Amir set about making s’mores. “Mountain air doing the trick?”
“My stump of a leg feels like absolute shit,” Evan said. “But otherwise, yes, actually. Exactly what I needed.”
Amir speared a marshmallow. “Who knew you’re such an outdoorsman?”
I felt peace in the sudden absence of color above, a sense of order and stillness emanating from the empty fields and ancient trees and astral skies that bled out into the world around us.
“Something about the mountains, I guess,” Evan said.
Unmoved by astronomy, unperturbed by the mess on his face, Oliver crammed an entire cupcake into his mouth. “Anybody else feel weird pounding these on a camping trip? Because I feel like woodsmen aren’t supposed to eat adorable frosted desserts.”
I helped myself to a second. “Nope, they’re delicious.”
Amir raised his cupcake toward Noah. “Compliments to the chef.”
“Don’t look at me,” Noah said.
“You’ve never had to cook a thing in your life,” Amir said. “I was referring to your rock star mother.”
“First of all, I make great pizza bagels, everybody knows that,” Noah said. “But no, my momma didn’t make these. She makes different cupcakes.”
“True,” Oliver said, “she makes those chocolate chip ones. They’re amazing, better than weed, I swear.”
We continued losing light. Night wasn’t far off. Evan added another branch to our fire.
“So,” Oliver said, “someone should tell a story.”
Amir looked my way. “Give us ghost tales from the Old Country.”
“All the ones I know are about demons and dybbuks in the time of the Gemara,” I said.
“Like that one about pouring seeds on the ground near your bed,” Amir said, “so that you can wake up to those chicken footprints that demons have? Spooky stuff. Bet Ev believes in that, huh?”
Evan was busy staring into the fire with enough intensity to infect me with secondhand anxiety. Slowly, he dragged a branch through the flames.
Amir cleared his throat. “Mr. Stark?”
“What?”
“I asked if you believed in demons.”
Evan gave a slight smile without turning toward Amir. “Why would I?”
“Ari, give us a dybbuk story,” Oliver said. “Frighten me out of my goddamn wits, will you?”
For emphasis I stood. I gathered the strings of my tzitzit in my hands, the way I used to when I was a child. “My first-grade rebbe told this story on an Erev Shabbat, as a treat. I didn’t sleep for a week.”
“Wonderful,” Noah said. “Lay it on us.”
“Okay. Once upon a time there was a newly married couple in Chelm.”
Oliver sighed. “It’s always Chelm, isn’t it? The Yi
dden of Chelm can’t stay out of trouble.”
“One Motzei Shabbat,” I continued, “just after midnight, the wife goes outside into a crazy storm to empty a bucket. When she comes back inside, she’s choking, seizing. Her husband asks what’s wrong, but when she opens her mouth nothing comes out. They call the doctor, but he’s stumped. He can’t figure it out, neither can any specialists in the area. So, they head to the rav.”
“Love going to the rav,” Oliver said, picking at his cupcake. “I do the same thing when I’m constipated.”
Amir hurled a marshmallow at Oliver’s face. “Shut up for once and let the man finish.”
I cleared my throat. “The rav looks her over, consults a Gemara and then whispers into her ear. All of a sudden, a deep, alien voice answers, except the woman’s lips aren’t moving, though her stomach is swelling, getting bigger and bigger. The rav demands the dybbuk reveal its identity, and the dybbuk obliges, explaining that he was a former yeshiva student who had strayed from the derech. One evening, after hours of drinking, he’d been thrown from a horse, and because he had died suddenly, the dybbuk tells the rav, he never had a chance to repent. So, the rav promises he’ll learn Torah in the dybbuk’s honor, gathers a minyan, says kaddish and then the woman crumples to the floor, writhing, while the voice booms out the Shema. Her left pinky nail comes exploding off, the glass window in the room shatters and then—silence. The dybbuk is gone.”
“Well,” Oliver said, soothing his left pinky, “that was . . . kind of a letdown.”
Amir laughed. “How did you possibly believe in that stuff?”
“I mean, I was, like, six,” I said. “Plus our rebbe never lied.”
Noah sandwiched graham crackers, chocolate oozing onto his wrist. “I don’t even get the point of that kind of story. What’s the lesson?”
Evan twirled a marshmallow through the fire. “That there’s mysterious power in the universe.”
I shrugged. “Or it’s a little more mundane: learn Torah, don’t wander and you won’t wind up becoming a dybbuk.”
“What about you, Ev,” Noah said. “Give us something from rehab. Something . . . grittier.”
“I don’t have anything,” Evan said. “I spent my time reading.”
“Whatever you were reading was probably a horror story in and of itself,” Amir said.
