“I love you more than life itself, motek sheli.”
His mother’s words of endearment are almost more than Raphael can bear. He pulls back his hands and sits up.
“You’ve been terrible to me, Ima. So cold, so mean.”
“Raphael, stop.”
Raphael scoots back on his bed away from his mother.
“Steady, motek,” she says.
Raphael glances at his wall clock.
“Allow me to explain,” she says
Raphael points at the clock. “I’m getting up early tomorrow. So please make it quick, Ima.”
“Yes, yes…” Sylvie shakes her head. “After what happened at the esnoga—”
“You mean three years ago?”
“After what happened there,” she repeats, “I was so ashamed, so disappointed in you. I never stopped loving you, of course. How could I? You’re my son. My special son. But I struggled for a very long time to forgive you, for the shame you brought on all of us. It caused me so much pain.”
Raphael chokes back the stinging tears that stand out in his eyes. But he holds his mother’s intense gaze and listens to her without interrupting.
“I’ve never told anyone this before, not even your father. But the doctor recently told me he thinks my relapse and the acceleration of the disease may have resulted from all the stress I suffered during that horrible period of our lives.”
Raphael looks down and wipes his face on the back of his sleeve and looks back up at her, determined not to own the guilt she seems to want to burden him with.
“Motek, I know very well how difficult it is to be an immigrant in a new country,” she continues. “I’ve experienced it myself. First Israel, then America.”
“You were two years old when you went to Israel, Ima. You were practically born there. That doesn’t count.”
“I didn’t go of my own accord. My parents took me there. And they never learned to speak Hebrew. We spoke only French at home. For much of my childhood, I wished we would have stayed in Lyon. It wasn’t easy for me, motek. It took me a long time to find my place. But I eventually did. And then your father brought us here to America, which wasn’t easy for any of us. Not for Gabriella, not for me, not even for your father. But we’ve coped, we’ve adjusted. We’ve had to. We’ve had no other choice.”
“What’s your point, Ima?” He glances up again at the wall clock.
“My point is you’ve been blaming what you did at the esnoga on your father and me, for bringing you to America against your will. But that’s completely on you.” Her voice takes on a hard edge. “None of the rest of us who are in exactly the same position as you have resorted to theft, dishonesty, or chronic lying.”
“That’s all in the past, Ima.”
“So you say.”
“That’s totally unfair, Ima! You have no proof of anything against me.”
Sylvie holds up her hands. “A mother knows, motek. A mother knows. And then there are your outrageous eccentricities, what with your selection of reading material, these obscenities you paint”—she waves her hand at his paintings—“and the way you dress.” And only Hashem knows what you get up to out there on the streets. The rabbi and your father have been willing to grant you these liberties and tolerate your strange behaviour in the hopes you’ll change and become someone respectable. But not me. Not anymore. I love you, my son; I would give up my life for you. But you will not have my affection until you change.”
“And sending me to Aunt Penina’s is what’s going to change me?”
“Only Hashem knows.” Sylvie signals for Raphael to lean forward. He stares at her for a moment, then shakes his head and complies. Sylvie presses her lips to his forehead. “You’re in His hands now.”
Raphael lies back on his bed trembling with rage, his eyes tightly closed, his mother’s harsh words still ringing in his ears. He focuses on his journey ahead, on what he remembers of Israel, in an effort to purge his mind of the black feelings her words provoked. He summons up the image of his beloved Savta, always so sweet to him, and of his old neighbourhood in Jerusalem. He recalls his drives to the Dead Sea with his Uncle Shimshon and his cousins to float on its oily surface under a burning sun. The cloudless sky, the hint of orange blossoms in the air, the bustle of the market, the smell of the spices, the prayers at the Kotel.
As his heart rate settles, he notices something odd hovering at the edge of his consciousness. At first, he finds it difficult to determine what it is, given that it is so far away. But as it moves closer, he can make out what looks like a floating head. The image terrifies him, but much as he wants to open his eyes and make it go away, he forces himself to look at the face as it speeds toward him, a woman’s face with open and knowing eyes, the hard face of his Aunt Penina, the bitter, accusing, and tortured face of a soul without hope. Raphael sits up and opens his eyes, but he can still see her, hovering there, ever accusing.
He runs to the shower, spinning on the cold water tap to receive the full force of the stream over his trembling body. The frigid water shocks him back into full consciousness and sends his heart racing. He bends over and grasps his ankles and lets the water wash over his back for sixty seconds, then stands back up and arches into the stream, allowing it to pummel his face. As his trembling subsides, he spins on the hot water tap and finishes washing in the warming water, finally pushing away the image of Aunt Penina.
After his shower, Raphael puts the paintings away in his closet and climbs back into bed to recite the night-time Shema. When he finishes, he stays sitting for a moment, fiddling absently with the edge of his duvet and feeling thoroughly exhausted. Even though he knows the Shema is the last thing he should say before closing his eyes, he feels compelled to say something else. He looks up at the ceiling, then around his room, and then straight ahead.
“Hashem?” He pulls up his knees, wraps his arms around them, and sits that way for a bit. “Hashem?”
Raphael reaches up and touches his kippah with his fingertips. A warm sense of reassurance washes over him as he feels it on his head. He can’t remember a time he ever slept without his head covered, out of respect for Hashem who, as the Talmud teaches, watches over us all hours of the day and all hours of the night, like a gardener who watches over a tender plant.
He takes up his tallit katan from his nightstand, kisses it, and sets it aside. Then he looks up again at the ceiling. “Hashem?”
After a few minutes of sitting in the dark silence, he shrugs and fluffs up his pillow before lying down and closing his eyes. Thirty seconds later he transitions from weary consciousness into a deep, dreamless sleep.
* * *
The next morning, after immersing himself in the mikveh to ensure he is ritually pure for the start of his journey, Raphael changes into white cotton trousers and a white cotton shirt and walks alone the five blocks to the synagogue for morning prayers. The hazzan approaches Raphael as he finishes laying tefillin and offers him the honour of elevating the Torah scroll during the service, which Raphael readily accepts. He quickly moves into the study hall, head down, and slips into the row where his father is praying next to the rabbi.
Raphael ascends the platform at the start of the Torah service and kisses the scroll as he receives it from the stone-faced sexton, his lips lingering for several seconds on the embroidered vestments. Whether deliberate or not, Raphael recognises the scroll the sexton has selected as the very scroll he stripped of its precious silver three years before, and his chest goes tight. As customary, he carries it in a circuit around the room, followed by the rabbi and the hazzan, focusing his eyes on the floor rather than on the still-resentful congregation as they reach out hands and prayer books to touch the holy scroll, before he ascends the platform and sits to one side of the reading table.
The sexton removes the ritual silver from the scroll—the crowns, breastplate, and vestments (bringing back stinging memories of armed police officers bursting into his classroom)—after which Raphael stands and unrolls the sc
roll, four panels wide, on the reading table and waits until the hazzan finishes chanting. Then he holds high the scroll facing north as the hazzan calls out in Hebrew, This is the Torah that Moses presented to the children of Israel. He catches sight of Simon standing in the back row sticking out his tongue at him, and next to him he sees Simon’s sidekick Marc Sadot looking away and shaking his head.
The rest of the service passes like a fog for Raphael; his thoughts are only of his quickly evaporating American life, accompanied by a chasm of anxiety for what lies ahead. But he keeps a brave face and chants the prayers with forced enthusiasm in an effort to keep his fears in check and hidden from the community.
At the conclusion of the service, the president of the community ascends the platform and pulls out his notes to make his usual morning announcements. When he finishes, he folds his notes, sets them aside, looks up at the congregation for a moment, and looks straight at Raphael.
“And, finally, I’d like to announce that our very own Raphael Dweck, who executed a perfect levanta for us this morning, will soon be returning to Israel.”
Raphael turns his head and looks at his father and at the rabbi, both of whom stare straight ahead at the platform. He glances over his shoulder and sees Simon and Marc whispering to each other, then looks back up at the president.
“Raphael, we will all miss your energetic participation in our community, your quick wit, and your insightful arguments.”
A general murmur of agreement rumbles through the community and Raphael looks down at the floor for a moment before lifting his head and nodding his thanks to the president.
As the service breaks up, Raphael makes his way to the back of the room, shaking hands with the various members of his community as he passes them. Simon and Marc intercept him when he reaches the door, and Simon gently pulls him aside by the arm.
“What’s up with that, man?” Simon asks. “Israel?”
Raphael shrugs. “Let’s just say I’m ready for a new challenge.”
“I’ll bet he got caught stealing again,” Marc says.
Simon elbows Marc in the ribs, and Marc pushes him back. “Hey, that hurt!”
“Tell your girlfriend to mind her own business,” Raphael says, indicating Marc with a tilt of his head.
“Girlfriend?” Marc says.
“Anyway,” Raphael says to Simon, “I’m sure you’ll be happy to be the best-looking guy in the community again, gever.”
Rabbi Sadot passes them and asks Raphael to follow him as he disappears into the hallway.
“What do you mean?” Simon says.
Raphael winks at Simon. “See you when I see you!” He throws a sidelong glance at Marc. “Hope I never see you again, comrade.”
He slips away from them and speeds down the narrow hall to the rabbi’s office. The door is slightly ajar, and Raphael moves inside, closing it behind him. He is surprised to find the rabbi sitting on the sofa instead of behind his desk. The rabbi invites Raphael to sit next to him with a pat of his hand on the adjacent cushion. Raphael hesitates slightly before lowering himself next to the rabbi.
“I understand you wanted to speak with me,” the rabbi says.
Raphael shifts left to look at the rabbi. “I’m leaving today, Rabbi.”
“Yes, I’m aware. The question is why today?”
“I don’t understand something, Rabbi. But I need for this to stay private, just between us, please.”
Rabbi Sadot reclines against the back of the sofa, raises his eyebrows in agreement, and waits for Raphael to continue.
Raphael clears his throat, reaches for a glass of water on the table in front of the sofa, and takes a sip. After a moment, he sets the glass on the table and looks back at the rabbi. “After that time, you know, with the stealing and all that, I’ve done everything right. But it doesn’t really work, does it, Rabbi?”
“What doesn’t work?”
“I study and I pray, more than anyone I know. But I’m still bad inside.”
Rabbi Sadot lifts his gaze at Ralph. “So I wasn’t wrong, was I?”
Raphael looks down and shakes his head. “The compulsion is still there.”
“Have you done something like what you did before?”
“No, Rabbi. But I want to. All the time! I ask Hashem to help me, but He doesn’t. Last night I called out to Him. After the Shema.”
“You called out to Him?”
“Yes, Rabbi. But He doesn’t answer, does He? Not really.”
“Hashem answers in other ways.”
“I’m not sure He’s really there, Rabbi.” Raphael catches his breath as the words come out. “At least not for me.”
Rabbi Sadot closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose for a moment, then he opens them, leans forward, and whispers, “He’s right here, young man. He’s always right here. With me, with you, with all of us. Don’t have any doubt about that.”
“Then why doesn’t He help me?”
“Hashem’s help isn’t always obvious. It will come to you. But it won’t come to you here. Not with all the distractions you have around you. As you know, I’ve been giving this a lot of thought, and I’m convinced your answer will come to you in Israel. Trust me, young man. Trust me. And trust Hashem.”
Chapter 4
Raphael pushes down the aisle of the 747 and finds his seat at the back of the plane two rows from the galley. Before sitting down, he pulls a makeup kit from his backpack and pops into the lavatory to quickly shave off his eyebrows and apply mascara. Then he returns to his row and slides next to the window, hoping no one will take the other two seats so he can recline across the whole bank.
After a few minutes, he spots a lanky young woman with a strawberry-blonde ponytail, a NASA-stencilled T-Shirt, and tight bell-bottom jeans headed in his direction, comparing her boarding pass with the numbers above the seats. A dark green roll-on suitcase trails in her wake. She pulls up alongside Raphael and squints at the number above the seat bank and at her boarding pass.
“Is this twenty-seven?” The young woman flashes Raphael a gap-toothed smile wrapped in silver braces.
Raphael nods.
She holds out her boarding pass at Raphael. “I think I’ve got the window.”
Raphael scoots out and stands next to the young woman, who is about an inch taller than him. “Sorry, my fault,” he says, noticing a nametag hanging around her neck in a plastic holder. The tag is topped with a red, white, and black logo that says Tours of the Cross, underneath which are the neatly calligraphed words Joanie Smith.
The young woman smiles again at Raphael. She lifts her suitcase into the overhead compartment, and Raphael follows her in as she scoots to the window seat, taking the middle seat next to her.
Once they are buckled in, the young woman offers her hand. “Hi, I’m Joanie.”
Raphael points at her nametag. “I figured that.” He glances at her hand and back at her face, which is covered in freckles. “I’m Ralph.”
“Are you Jewish?” she asks, slowly drawing back her hand.
Raphael points at his kippah. “Guilty as charged.”
Joanie lets out a short laugh and nervously jiggles her long legs. She glances out the window for a moment, and Raphael steals a quick peek at her breasts, which are small but shapely.
“I’m a born-again Christian,” she says, looking back at Raphael.
Raphael nods and flashes a half-smile, turning a bit red.
Joanie points at a flow of chatty teenagers making their way down both aisles to the back of the plane, all wearing Tours of the Cross nametags. “We’re part of a youth group from Fresno called The Faithful of Christ. We’re off to Israel to see the places where the Lord walked. Have you ever been before?”
“Where? To Israel?” Raphael looks closely at Joanie, who has the gentlest, most beautiful light hazel eyes he has ever seen.
“Yes,” Joanie says.
“I was born there, actually,” Raphael says. “I’m going home.”
“
Really?”
“Yes, really. I’m originally from Jerusalem.”
“That is so cool. You’re, like, really special.”
Raphael flashes his teeth and holds out his arm to Joanie, who looks down at it.
“What?” Joanie says.
“You can touch me if you want.”
Joanie giggles at Raphael’s little joke and spends the next thirty pre-takeoff minutes explaining her group’s itinerary in detail. Raphael nods and smiles politely suddenly dreading the next fourteen hours.
As the plane pushes back from the terminal and starts taxiing toward the runway, Raphael excuses himself from Joanie’s monologue and closes his eyes. Several minutes later, the plane speeds down the runway and lifts off. After about twenty minutes, he is awakened by Joanie, who is trying to climb over him to get to the lavatory. Raphael blinks a few times and sees that the plane has levelled off and the first drinks service has passed them up.
Raphael strolls around the cabin, grabs a cup of orange juice from the galley, and pokes his head into the first class cabin on the second level. He slips into an empty window seat and stretches out to sleep. After a while, he hears someone clear his throat and opens his eyes to find a gruff-looking, bearded flight attendant in his early thirties staring down at him. His thick eyebrows meet in the middle above an unnatural-looking snub nose as he narrows his eyes at Raphael.
“Is this your seat?” he asks.
Raphael sits up, quickly assessing the flight attendant, whose dark blue uniform is perfectly tailored and whose shoes are polished to a high shine.
“No, it’s not.”
“Then what are you doing in it?”
“It was empty. So, I figured, what’s the harm?”
“Where’s your seat?”
Raphael points downstairs.
“You have ten seconds to get out of first class before I call security.”
Raphael stands and glares at the flight attendant. “You don’t have to get nasty, gever.” He notes the name Uzi Shaked on his tag and calculates the location of his wallet from the slight lift on the left-hand side of his jacket. “I can at least walk through the cabin, can’t I?”
The Death of Baseball Page 14
