“Don’t ever say that again,” said Bobby, getting to his feet as if he had accomplished his goal, which was far from clear.
“We’ll see about that,” said Timmy, as he calmly fluffed up his hair and returned to the counter to fish for prize-winners.
In a vacant lot, months later, the two scuffled once again, their inconclusive struggle broken up by a passing salesman. And in the years that followed, the boys circled each other warily, at a discreet distance, as if probing for a soft spot in the enemy lines. Working as a waiter one summer, Bobby filled out his slender frame and returned from the Jersey shore, anxious to display, if not actually flaunt his newly muscled body in the neighborhood. He headed immediately for the playground; alarmingly, there stood Timmy, calmly dribbling a basketball, towering over every boy in sight, including Bobby.
And thus they traded physical advantage, Bobby nosing ahead several summers later, Timmy drawing even the next – until both went off to college, Bobby to nearby Hofstra, Timmy, with the aid of a divorced father, to far-off Claremont Men’s. Then came the Korean War for both young men. Returning home on a brief leave, Bobby proudly strolled the neighborhood streets as an Air Force lieutenant. Coming toward him suddenly was Timmy, a Navy ensign. Both men were flustered and lowered their eyes. Then, if such a thing were possible, they glared at each other shyly. Suddenly, with no words being spoken, they fell into each other’s arms in a communion of tears and an undeclared promise of everlasting friendship.
They spent the afternoon together, speaking of failed romance and future glory.
“I never meant that remark I directed at you,” said Timmy at one point. “It was just something I heard around the house.”
“I gathered that,” said Bobby, who hadn’t.
No sooner had the friendship been established than Timmy, after his discharge, moved to the West coast, where he studied medicine at Stanford. He became wealthy, not in private practice but as owner and administrator of a thriving group of emergency clinics. Along the way, he married a prominent Jewish oncologist. As a testament to his love for Rebecca Glassman (and as a condition of the marriage) Timmy had completed an arduous eighteenmonth conversion to Judaism. (Both bride and groom had retained their names – Glassman and Flanagan.)
Bobby, in the meanwhile, had remained close to home. A high school teacher of Social Studies, he had married a woman who taught the same subject, barely noticing that she was Catholic. He loved her virtually on sight. That was enough. As for his own connection to the Jews, he had never, since his bar mitzvah, set foot in a Synagogue. When pressed to the wall, he would describe himself, obnoxiously, as a “bagel and lox Jew.” Slightly aware that he was being a renegade, he took occasional positions that were contrary to the best interests of Israel. On a brief trip to Jerusalem, he and his guide, also secular, posed wearing t’filn at the Western Wall, but only, to the best of his knowledge, as a lark.
The two friends called one another from time to time – and always, sentimentally, on New Year’s Eve. They concentrated on major developments, Bobby’s knee operation, the birth of Timmy and Rebecca’s son. Thus the friendship, slender but unwavering, was kept alive.
The years flashed by – and then one day, Kate and Bobby received a handsomely engraved invitation to the bar mitzvah of Samuel Benjamin Flanagan, son of Timothy Aloysius Flanagan and Rebecca Sylvia Glassman. Timmy enclosed a handwritten note saying that a hotel room had been reserved in Bobby’s name.
“I’ll be keeping my fingers crossed that you can see your way clear to make it.”
Since no mention was made of airline tickets, Bobby assumed he would be expected to pay for them – his friend no doubt taking it for granted that Bobby had prospered over the years – just as Timmy had with the Flanagan Clinics. This was not the case. Despite their combined Board of Education salaries, Bobby and Kate barely kept their heads above water in financially punishing Manhattan.
Bobby and Kate discussed the dent a trip would make in their frail bank account.
“Still and all,” said Bobby, “I’d like to go.”
“Then it’s case closed,” said Kate, who had no history of denying Bobby the smallest pleasure. (Bobby, it should be noted, did what he could to hold up his end.)
“And besides,” she added, “I’ve never been to a bar mitzvah.”
When Timmy and his wife came out to meet Bobby and Kate at the Sacramento Airport, Bobby was struck by the dramatic change in his friend’s appearance. He had expected him to have aged, of course; but Timmy’s shoulders were now stooped, he had on rimless glasses, and he had a full head of gray curls, worn much in the style of the noted attorney Alan Dershowitz. To Bobby’s way of thinking, Timmy, whose face had once resembled the much remarked upon Map of Ireland, now looked Jewish. Rebecca was a petite, dark-haired woman whose features indicated that she had once been a beauty. But her face now seemed sallow and disappointed. Bobby chalked this up to the strains of preparing for a major religious event. Or perhaps it was the nature and rigors of her medical specialty. Both men took turns introducing their wives, Timmy and Kate exchanging a complex look, an ex-Catholic meeting a casual if not a lapsed one.
As they prepared to leave the terminal, Timmy dropped all formality and embraced Bobby with undisguised emotion.
“To come all the way out here for my kid’s bar mitzvah is above and beyond. You have no idea how much this means to me and Becky.”
Though he was still unsettled by the steep price of the roundtrip tickets, Bobby replied: “I wouldn’t have missed it for the world.”
A small dinner was held for friends and immediate family that night at Timmy and Rebecca’s home, several miles from the city. Timmy mixed cocktails for Bobby and Kate. He said they had bought the spacious Colonial from a Vegas entertainer whose career was on the downslide.
“Frankly, when we first took a look at the place, it was tacky as all get-out. But then Becky here took over,” he said, with a fond gesture in his wife’s direction, “and voila.”
“I did use a decorator,” put in the oncologist, modestly.
“Never mind,” said Timmy sharply. Then he turned to the visitors. “Trust me . . . it was her eye all the way.”
The interior was indeed warm in feeling and tastefully decorated. There were several Chagalls on the walls, originals, for all Bobby knew, and handsome items of Judaica on the various tables and mantelpieces.
Timmy caught Bobby staring at an exquisitely carved Menorah.
“In case you’re wondering,” said the host, “we picked that baby up in the port of Haifa.”
Bobby was seated between Timmy’s in-laws. Benjamin Glassman, a retired CPA, barely spoke. When he asked for the salt, it was in a whisper. Mrs. Glassman, a formidable, full-bosomed woman, had the same aggrieved look as her daughter. She brightened only when she learned that Bobby was to be her seatmate. Bobby, no doubt with some presumption, felt he could read her thoughts: “How come my daughter couldn’t have met a nice Jewish boy like you?”
After the Hispanic couple – hired for the evening – had served dessert and coffee, Timmy took Bobby aside and asked him what his name was in Hebrew.
Bobby, who could not recall what he had done three nights before, surprised himself by replying instantly.
“Yitzchak.”
“Great,” said Timmy, scribbling down the name . . . and not even asking how it was spelled.
He then said that Bobby, as a dear friend, would have the honor of reading a section of the torah at the bar mitzvah ceremony. He handed Bobby a sheet of paper with the passage printed in Hebrew; after a quick glance, Bobby was surprised once again. Though it had been years since he had looked at a passage of Hebrew text, he remembered how to pronounce the words, though not their meaning. Then Timmy handed him a tape cassette.
“Listen to this,” he said. “It will instruct you on how to chant your passage.”
Bobby recalled his own bar mitzvah and his disastrous rendition of the Haftarah. Influenced by the p
opular baritones of the day – Sinatra, Perry Como, Vic Damone – he had been accused by the Rabbi of “crooning” the section assigned to him; as a punishment, the Rabbi rapped his knuckles in front of the congregation.
“I don’t know about the chanting,” said Bobby.
“It’s important,” said Timmy, with a nervous glance at his mother-in-law. “Just play it a few times. And bear with me on this. It’ll be a piece of cake.”
In the hotel room that night, Bobby was increasingly upset by the chanting requirement. He had, quite frankly, seen the trip as something of a pleasurable vacation – and he was in no mood to embark upon what amounted to a program of study, however brief.
“Where am I supposed to get a player?” he asked Kate, flipping the cassette up and down as if preparing to throw it at someone.
“I’ll call down to room service,” said Kate. “I’m sure they have one.”
“Don’t bother,” said Bobby. “I’ll read – but I’m not chanting. First of all, I’m jet-lagged. Second of all, it’s a performance, no matter how you slice it. I don’t like to do things half-assed. . . . It would take a week to get it right. He should have told me about this before we got here.
“And besides,” he said, tossing the cassette aside. “I notice he didn’t pay for the hotel room either.”
The ceremony was held in a light and airy synagogue that did not differ much in design from a church Bobby had admired while attending the christening of Kate’s nephew in upstate New York. A basket, overbrimming with yarmulkes, had been set aside for visitors in the reception area. Bobby chose one that was snow white, and also a taleth, although the selection was much more limited.
Kate watched him solemnly drape the prayer shawl around his shoulders, as if he were warming himself in a forest.
“Are you supposed to do that?” she asked.
“Of course,” said Bobby, taking her hand and leading her into the synagogue proper.
As the Congregationalists filed into the house of worship, the Rabbi, a neatly-dressed woman with a short no-nonsense hairdo, set the tone for the ceremony by chanting a wordless melody. Her voice was high and clear and quite lovely, calling up visions of a warriors’ campfire on the eve of battle in ancient Judea. Still, the guests seemed to ignore her as they greeted one another, exchanging reports of recent vacations, primarily in Palm Springs. Bobby thought this was rude of them and said as much to the neatly dressed man who sat beside him. He seemed frail, as if recovering from an illness.
“Where I come from they show respect,” said Bobby.
“It’s just till they settle down,” the man assured Bobby. “And where are you from?”
“New York.”
“Really? I was from there, too.”
True to the man’s word, when the Rabbi began to speak, the congregation fell silent.
She welcomed the group to the special occasion, expressing gratitude to those who had traveled great distances to attend young Samuel’s bar mitzvah. In the front row, Timmy, also wearing a yarmulke and beautifully embroidered taleth, had been bent over, as if in advance prayer. At the mention of “visitors from afar,” he turned and gave Bobby a thumbs up.
The ceremony began. Bobby soon learned, with some mild disappointment, that he was not the only honoree. At least a dozen friends and relatives of the Glassmans – most in the medical profession – had also been asked to read Torah selections. Bobby was next to last on the list and had to wait with discomfort as each of the honorees chanted their Torah passages flawlessly. He consoled himself by deciding they were experienced Congregationalists. Or they had put in long hours of preparation.
When Bobby’s turn came, he mounted the platform and saw his selection spread out before him in large print. But unlike the version that had been given to him by Timmy, these Hebrew letters had no vowel markings, making it impossible for him to read the words correctly. Not only did he fail to chant, but as he stumbled through the selection, he mispronounced at least a dozen words in the brief passage, each blunder drawing a sharp look from the Rabbi.
His ears were hot as he took a seat beside Kate.
“You were terrific,” she said, squeezing his arm supportively.
“The hell I was.”
The ceremony continued, a high point being the recitation of a long Torah passage by the bar mitzvah boy, whose delivery was youthfully impeccable. Samuel was a cheerful-looking redhead, who appeared to have picked up the best features of his parents – Timmy’s nose, his mother’s great eyes – and then added a puckish third dimension of his own. Timmy and Rebecca looked on with pride as their son delivered a speech in English about the importance of protecting the environment on behalf of generations to come – and not just his own.
The Rabbi then gathered Samuel, his parents, and the Glassmans around her, thanking Timmy and Rebecca for providing their son with a wonderful Jewish upbringing. As the Rabbi blessed the little group, Timmy looked at Mrs. Glassman, as if for approval; his mother-in-law’s response was to crane her head in another direction. Once again, Bobby felt he could read her thoughts: “He can convert all he wants. And I don’t care if he‘s a doctor or a lawyer or even a dentist. I’m not buying the package.”
To conclude the ceremony, a processional, led by Timmy and Samuel, each holding a Torah, walked solemnly through the synagogue, a number of Congregationalists leaning out of the aisle to touch their prayer shawls to the sacred scrolls, then to kiss the fringes. Bobby remembered seeing the ritual as a boy; he had always wanted to try it, which he did.
“It was a beautiful ceremony,” said Kate, as they left the house of worship and walked into blinding sunlight.
“I agree,” said Bobby. “And I wish Timmy luck with those in-laws.”
Bobby and Kate stayed on that night for a celebratory buffet dinner and dance at Timmy’s country club. Several hundred people were on hand for the affair. To spice up the proceedings, a master of ceremonies and disc jockey had been hired. He alternated recordings of hip-hop selections favored by Samuel and his friends with standards for the older group. Also mixed in were tunes from Broadway shows with Jewish themes such as “Milk and Honey” and “Fiddler on the Roof.” Though Kate was more of a Stones person, she and Bobby danced dreamily to several Sinatra ballads. Bobby’s legs were in good shape for the spirited Horah that followed, enabling him to execute the tricky cross-kicks with ease and precision. When “four strong men” were called for to hoist first Timmy, then Samuel and finally Rebecca aloft in chairs – and to dance them about – Bobby was the first to volunteer.
Throughout much of the festivities, Bobby had little contact with his friend. He watched Timmy circulate among the guests, smoking a cigar, accepting gift envelopes, which he deposited in his breast pocket with a little pat for each one, as if to say, “Never fear, I’ll take good care of this.” Bobby made a mental note to send his own gift check to Samuel – as soon as he got home – another expense he’d forgotten about. It was only late in the evening that Timmy, his bowtie loosened at the collar, made his way to the buffet table where Bobby had returned for a second helping.
“Got enough food?” asked Timmy.
“Plenty,” said Bobby, scooping up a spoonful of noodle pudding, an old favorite. “It’s a great party.”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying it. But frankly, I was a little disappointed that you didn’t chant your selection.”
“I’m sorry about that, Timmy. There wasn’t time to get it right. I thought I’d just say the words.”
“You didn’t do such a hot job at that either.”
“I don’t know if you’re aware of it,” said Bobby, putting aside his plate and trying to suppress his annoyance, “but on the version they gave me, there weren’t any vowels.”
“Then answer me this: How come everybody else chanted without vowels?”
“I can’t speak for them. The bottom line is, I wasn‘t in the mood.”
“Your mood’s got nothing to do with it,” said Timmy, pointin
g a finger at Bobby. “It wouldn’t have killed you to chant. I spent a fortune on this affair, and you brought down the whole occasion.”
“Now you’re exaggerating.”
“Bullshit,” said Timmy. “The Rabbi was pissed and Becky wasn’t too happy about it either. I don’t even want to discuss my in-laws. Added to which I saw that move you made when the kid and I carried out the Torahs.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Touching the tsitsis to one of them, to make up for not chanting.”
“That’s not why I did it.”
“The hell it wasn’t.”
“Now look . . .”
“No, you look.”
And suddenly, to the background strains of “If I were a Rich Man,” they were at each other and went tumbling head over heels in a furious Judaic pinwheel of gefilte fish, kasha varnischkes, chopped liver canapés and derma with gravy.
Bobby pressed his thumbs on the convert’s throat, debating whether to choke him or take out his eyes.
“We did kill Christ, you Jew bastard,” he cried out, “and you better get used to it.”
The Investigative Reporter
ALEXANDER KAHN, a failed novelist, and at best a marginal producer of off-Broadway plays, decided at age forty-five to go back to his beginnings and try to get the knot of his life untangled. Trained as a journalist, he got a job as a reporter for a small Long Island daily and for several months wrote competent stories about local politics. When his marriage broke up, he had held on, perhaps idiotically, to his ten-room house in the suburbs. To be close to his job, he moved back into it. He had lived alone in an empty apartment. Why not an empty house?
One day, he was surprised to learn that his managing editor, a prison reform man, had gotten him a chance to cover a small correctional unit in the South, one that was proud of its facilities and its record on rehabilitation. Kahn had never been inside a prison and had always wondered about them. How long could he last in one? Would he be able to stand up to the homosexual advances? Could he exist on prison food? Would he soon begin to bang his head on the walls? What if he didn’t like his cellmate? (When he asked himself that question, he used the word ‘roommate’.) He was excited about the assignment, although he was a little nervous about it as well. Though he had traveled widely in Europe, he had never been to the South and thought of it as a hostile place where people would look at him through narrowed eyes. In the Air Force, a Southerner had once said he was soft in the crotch. Kahn, a powerful man, although misleadingly frail in appearance, had started for the fellow, then veered off. The words had barely been audible. Perhaps he had heard them wrong. Still, he was confident that in the South, one way or another, he would get his head broken.
Three Balconies Page 2
