The Family Tabor

by Cherise Wolas

  She cranks up the music and the first artist loud out of the speakers is like a finger wagging in her face. One of her favorites, with a stage name that’s a play on Chet Baker. She’s never listened to Chet Baker, but she likes Chet Faker, his cool, moody music, and she forces herself to sing along, to drown out how aptly his stage surname applies to her—faker, faker, faker.

  EIGHT

  HARRY CLICKS THE TEMPERATURE button on his watch. Still early, but the heat is inching up, the norm for August, when Labor Day is still a couple of weeks away. Yesterday at five, it peaked at 114. Today, it could reach 108 by noon. He reaches into his bag for a bottle. Forty-five minutes ago, it could have been a frozen weapon; now it’s just plastic holding cold water, which he swigs.

  Levitt has gone out the gate, to the parking lot, has popped his trunk, seeking a dry shirt, then holds his phone up in the air. “Hey, Harry, I’ve got to make a call,” he yells.

  “Do what you need to do,” Harry yells back, and sits down on the weather-worn bench on the court.

  Levitt usually receives and returns one or two during their matches, always a patient querying him about her recent mammoplasty, or blepharoplasty, or rhinoplasty, or rhytidoplasty, or platysmaplasty, or abdominoplasty, or gluteal augmentation—the medical terms Levitt has taught him for breast implants, eyelidlifts, nose jobs, face-lifts, neck-lifts, tummy tucks, and rounding buttocks that have fallen down or flattened with age. Levitt’s features are slightly simian and he sweats like the hairy beast that he is not, and having some of the work he performs on others executed on his own visage and body would not be amiss, but it is impossible to feel sorry for the plastic surgeon in such demand that he is located on the court for matters involving not life or death, but vanity. He is the most pleasant doctor Harry has ever known and Levitt says it’s because the work he does is nearly 100 percent elective, only a tiny smattering medically required, and as a result, he rarely tangles with insurance companies: he’s paid up front and in full before he ever numbs an area or puts someone under and lifts the finest of scalpels, ready to perform his surgical-artiste magic. As Levitt’s Maserati demonstrates, he is cleaning up in his business of smoothing and sanding and defatting and plumping Palm Springs women of a certain age, of which there are many. Men, too, more and more, as Levitt always reminds him.

  Harry swigs again, feeling pleased with the way he’s playing, keeping Levitt running, even if the memory of those dachshunds is still rolling around in his head. That might be the worst thing he’s done in his life, leaving those dogs behind, tearing out his young daughters’ hearts. Still, the girls survived, and all his children are healthy and happy, frequently phoning to fill him in on the progress of their lives, visiting regularly. He’s done right by his children, whom he loves so much, done right by them all of the time, except for that lapse in judgment regarding King David and Queen Esther.

  Levitt, leaning against his car, is speaking into his phone, one hand moving slowly up and down, as if compressing the air, a gesture Harry recognizes as Calm down. Some matron is worried about something. From what Levitt has told him, he’s never botched a procedure or a surgery or been sued for malpractice; the toughest thing about what he does is convincing people they need to be patient, that swelling requires time to subside, that stitches will dissolve as they should, that bruising will fade, leaving behind vulnerable pink skin as unblemished as a baby’s, that they will, eventually, be exactly as they desire.

  Harry understands that need people have for reassurance, to be told many times that everything will be okay.

  And that’s exactly what he told that young Owen Kaufmann from the Palm Times.

  That dealing with closed countries, secretive emigration quotas, malfunctioning airports, armed military, corrupt officials, extreme weather, and all the other details that attend moving Jews from around the globe to this patch of arid heaven is often easier than providing the necessary calm to families breathlessly checking off days until they have the proper paperwork in hand, are boarding a plane, stretching their necks to view the despised countries they are finally leaving behind, itching to begin their new lives awaiting them here in Palm Springs. No matter the education provided about what to expect and no matter how clear Harry’s people on the ground have been, he must calm them again when they land, are taken to their new home, and discover it is not the sprawling house plus pool of their dreams, but an acceptable apartment near to the very decent first jobs he has found them. And that when they were told they would be living in the desert, it meant a dry place that is usually hot or hotter or hottest, and the items they’ve packed into their bulging, double-strapped suitcases, like snowsuits and fleece-lined boots, would no longer be required. Acclimating to the heat takes time, they are all repeatedly told when still in Russia, Ukraine, Poland, Romania, Lithuania, Hungary, Slovakia, Belarus, Moldova, Bulgaria, Czechia, Slovakia, and, lately, China. And he tells them again when they arrive, but they can’t really understand the notion of desert heat until they have lived here a while. With time comes an increase in physical stamina, the skin and vital organs recalibrating to the new temperatures. They all always do adjust, and then become happy, and then happier, and many end up with those large houses with pools, but in the beginning there is an enormous need to calm them down. The only transplants happy immediately were the Ethiopian Jews, who were used to the heat. In his thirty years of resettling Jews here, his own track record is nearly as unblemished as Levitt’s. Only one family has ever returned from whence they came. And each year they send Harry a multipage letter, telling him how everyone in the family is doing, that they were hasty in turning back from their future, that one day they might give it another go, try better, harder, do it right, the second time around.

  That story had impressed the young reporter, as did Harry’s three-armed expansion of CST fourteen months ago, which formalized its informal dabbling in real estate, education, and lending. Now, CST Property provides affordable housing at below-market prices for the desert’s newest inhabitants, and CST Educate! grants no-string funds for higher education, requiring only that the schools attended are accredited and that grantees maintain a B average each year, and CST Lend offers better and more elastic terms and rates on mortgages and business loans than any bank in California. He’d recruited new division presidents smartly, hiring a former property manager of midpriced developments in Texas, Florida, and Arizona, a former high-level administrator in the California community college system, and a former banker who retired early from a premiere asset-management firm and was looking for a new challenge. Owen Kaufmann had scribbled fiercely in his notebook, the red light on his phone steady as Harry’s every word was also recorded.

  And Harry had waited happily for the next interview question, pleased he’d finally heeded the advice of his new presidents about a campaign for CST, to publicize that the doors of CST Property, Educate!, and Lend were open not only to Jews who had availed themselves of the relocation services CST provides, but to anyone, whether or not strictly defined as a refugee, who was in need and newly arrived in the valley from a problematic country. He was pleased, too, that after additional meetings with his new presidents and several of his underling hires—second-generation gogetters whose Jewish-naming ceremonies and circumcisions Harry had witnessed, born to those he had brought to the new world as teenagers—he’d finally conceded that the campaign should feature its openhearted founder as the centerpiece.

  How wary, hesitant, and unsure he’d been about that.

  He had kept a deliberately low profile since uprooting his family from Connecticut. That long meandering journey allowing him and Roma to adjust to the realization that what they had planned for themselves was, as it never had been before, up in the air, needing those three traveling weeks to adapt to the changing nature of their future. And when they settled in Palm Springs, and he founded CST, he had still maintained that deliberately low profile, and kept his organization’s mission quiet, “under the shade of a bushel,�
�� as his father, Mordy, might have said.

  But his people convinced him and he finally said, “Okay, but we’re going to go slow. I’m only going to dip one toe at a time into the spotlight.”

  He’d put one toe in, and it felt warm in the glow, and so he put in another toe, and enjoyed the meetings with deep-pocketed contributors and national businesses with large local presences about increasing their conservative donations up to seven figures, and he knew he had them when their final inquiry was whether CST might put up a wall in the lobby of its adobe building, etch donor names in stone or marble, to which Harry answered, “I think we can manage that.”

  And damn, it was gratifying having CST’s works out there for all to admire, albeit in small articles printed in local magazines, and he wondered why he had waited, when public recognition all at once felt like his due.

  He was seventy, so honestly what had he been waiting for? For his philanthropic works to be summarized in his eventual obituary?

  That notion had filled him with unalloyed fear, and that was his state of mind when the Palm Times began aggressively pursuing him after the Man of the Decade announcement. He’d taken his time thinking about it, then relented, and in walked fervent Owen Kaufmann, a cub with acne on his cheeks, and an overly starched shirt wearing him, and the too-wide tie probably handed down by his father, but with colorless eyes that shone with a fervor no longer seen much in the young, who said, “Mr. Tabor. I can’t thank you enough. This is terrific. I have to admit I never thought you’d agree.”

  He swigs again and thinks how he relaxed into the new sensation of being sought after, and he’d extended his hand and, with a huge Harry Tabor smile, said, “Happy to finally meet you, Owen, after all the phone calls. Begin anywhere. I am, as they say, an open book.”

  Owen had asked the perfect first question: “Why did you decide to bring attention to yourself and the work you do now?”

  Harry had leaned back in his chair, steepled his hands, and told a tiny white lie: “This isn’t at all about me.”

  When Owen gave him an encouraging nod, Harry continued. “Indeed, I have never wanted our work to be public, but there comes a time to bring mitzvot into the light, and given the dire circumstances of refugees around the globe, it seemed appropriate to highlight the work we do here, to encourage others to reach out and help those in need. As is being done for the Syrians and other refugees by Mormon missionaries in Utah, by helpful citizens in Idaho, by groups of Canadians, and even, surprisingly, by the Germans. Each has different reasons for their compassionate aid, but bottom line, they are saving people. There are so many living in appalling conditions, throwing themselves into the ocean and drowning when their overcrowded boats sink or are sunk by despicable people profiting on these people’s struggles and misery, that it was time to send out a call, a wish that others would step up and do what is right.”

  His answer was honest and ardent, and he had just a moment to bask in its fine qualities, thinking that if Owen Kaufmann said something like, “You’re sort of a saint,” Harry would deny that appellation forcefully, would say, “Not at all. Human nature is such that we give lip service to helping others, and then turn back to our own lives which, of course, are our priorities, but since I was in a position to do so, I simply made up my mind to follow through.” But he did not have a chance to vocalize that well-formed response because Owen Kaufmann changed direction on Harry.

  “Did you come to your work because you have always lived a moral, ethical life, or did you come to your work so that you would live a moral, ethical life?”

  Harry had needed a moment to digest the distinction.

  “Oh, I see. You’re asking have I always been a principled man, or was I seeking to become such.”

  “Right,” Owen Kaufmann said.

  He’d never considered his life in those terms, and he said as much, then said, “You’re still very young, but in every man’s life, inevitably there are a few missteps that don’t bear recollecting, so long as one has learned from those mistakes.”

  “Can you give an example of a mistake you’ve made and learned from?”

  “I stole a pack of gum when I was a kid. My mother forced me back into the store, to apologize to the manager, and when we returned home, I was sent to my room and forbidden from watching my favorite cowboy show on TV. So that taught me if I took what wasn’t mine, I’d end up losing something else that was dear to me. But Owen, that’s off the record. My misdeeds, minor as they may have been, are not something to be shared with your readers.”

  Owen said, “Sure, I understand, no problem,” and Harry felt they were in sync.

  “So my next question is this: Is your religious faith the reason you’ve made it your mission to help Jews?”

  Harry had swiveled his chair around and stared out at the high blue of the desert sky and thought about how he was born on May 14, 1948, the very day and year the State of Israel came into being, and how his family attended Palm Springs Synagogue’s Reform High Holiday services, and the occasional Saturday morning Shabbat service, but not much more than that, and how each of his children had attended Hebrew school there, but he hadn’t required they publicly attain their Jewish maturity, as he had once done under the banner of God and in view of family and friends, and how, until stepping down last year, he sat on the PSS board, helping orchestrate Jewish life for its congregants, but when he was too busy to attend a bimonthly meeting, the blast of freedom was enormous.

  He had felt the young reporter’s fervent stare, his restraint waiting, and he’d thought, My religious faith, such as it is, is not the reason I resettle wandering Jews in my desert.

  Then he’d thought, But what is the reason?

  He tried unearthing the instigating factor for his life’s work these last thirty years, and couldn’t find it, but found incipient panic that he tamped down hard. An answer was expected and so he had spoken a truth he realized last night he should have expanded upon: “Religious faith has nothing to do with my organization’s mission. I am a historical Jew.”

  Owen Kaufmann had nodded again, and said, “So, I’ve tried researching this, Mr. Tabor, but I can’t find any background on my next question. What does the acronym CST stand for?”

  That Owen Kaufmann had been researching Harry before this interview was his first thought, quickly subsumed by the second: What did CST stand for? And the panic fluttered higher, because he was sure his strong brain retained every important piece of information about his life.

  He’d rallied with, “It has a personal meaning, that’s all, but not for public consumption.”

  Owen had smiled in a way that struck Harry as a little wolfish, that made him question the sort of young man Owen Kaufmann actually was, and the interview had continued, the small silver hoop in Owen’s right ear winking under the lights, and when he was finally gone, Harry walked down the short white hallway to the file room. Faced with rows and rows of gray cabinets, containing information about every single person he has saved, along with his foreign on-the-ground staff, he wasn’t sure where to look for anything that might tell him why he had named his organization CST. He stood and stared and then returned to his office and sat mulling that mystery with its heft of importance, combing through his life and coming up with zilch. When he took himself home, he poured a glass of smoky scotch and drank it with his feet in the courtyard pool, the water purpling as the sun lowered itself to the horizon, his eyes fixed on a cactus with one hanging red bloom, debating whether his inability to recall what those letters represented was a first sign of something going wrong, like Alzheimer’s.

  Does he have Alzheimer’s? All week, he’s tried to remember what compelled him to found CST, and what its letters stand for. His Man of the Decade honor is because of CST, and for the life of him, he can’t recall. He didn’t ask Roma because he wants to assess whether his memory contains other glitches before he worries her. She fears nothing in life other than either of them losing their minds.

  “SO
RRY, HARRY, THE CALL took longer than I expected … Hey, Harry!”

  Harry looks up at Levitt.

  “What?”

  “Do you want to think or do you want to play?”

  Harry’s not sure.

  Then he says, “Play,” and trots to his baseline. Soon they’re trading points, and collecting points, and Harry moves ahead four games to three, then five games to three, then he’s leading in the sixth.

  Levitt tosses up the ball, stretches to smack it with his racquet, and Harry instinctively moves forward to meet it, and is ambushed by the vision of Owen Kaufmann’s wolfish smile, lips pulled up tight, small, sharp teeth bared. Was that the reporter’s normal smile and Harry hadn’t noticed, or was it cause for—Harry thwacks the ball, a blistering forehand so hard and fast that when Levitt dives for it, he’s left hitting air as the ball soars right past him and lands, perfectly, just inside the line, before spinning away.

  Definitely not cause for concern, Harry thinks, when that shot wins him the first set.

  NINE

  THE SUN HAS UNFURLED, the freeway traffic has remained sparse, and Camille has resolved nothing. Is it fair if out of the blue she tells her family how things have been for her of late, when she’s given no hints, has trained them so well that when their calls, emails, and texts went unanswered, they assumed she was consumed with her anthropological work, read nothing into her unresponsiveness, were grateful for the short conversations she had with them these last months?

  She’s been dispiritedly depressed, and being home means entering a special realm, a kingdom where all the Tabors shine incredibly bright, that blaze a distinguishing family characteristic. She’s one of them, but her filaments have always been of a different variety, and now she’s beclouded, bedimmed, the first among them forced to brake before burning out.