And if Mr. Tabor was, then we must decide whether dirty money becomes cleansed, if magnanimously used thereafter, and whether lapses in personal morality and ethics can be erased by later benevolent acts.
All suppositions, not a single hard fact, and Simon’s instinct was to sue the Palm Times and Owen Kaufmann for libel. But he knew a hack job cleverly posed as opinion that ended with a saving rhetorical grace—But when so few help others, can we afford to condemn those who do?—would be impossible to fight. He had stared out his window all the following hours.
Later, he wasn’t sure if he was relieved or not that his own deep research shook loose nothing more than what his father had already discovered, and nothing about his father at all. He has never mentioned the article to his mother or to his sisters. And they have never mentioned the article to him. They would have, he’s sure, if any of them had seen it, if it had been brought to their attention. Despite the influx of outsiders during certain months, Palm Springs was a small town, gossip quickly making the rounds. But in all their conversations since mid-August, it’s never been raised, and he wasn’t going to be the one to break their torn hearts, to ruin the historical view of husband and father. But he has had a difficult time coming to terms with the accusations Owen Kaufmann knifed into those lofty pretend questions.
He has joined a temple, and attends Shabbat services, to which he brings Lucy and Isabel, who sit quietly for the first hour, but then reach their limit. His newfound passion, though, is for the classes held in the rabbi’s office, where he and other seekers study the Talmud. He has taken naturally to that remarkable compendium of Judaism’s written and oral laws that encompasses all of the authoritative Jewish religious teachings from what seems to Simon as the very beginning of time. He has emerged as a class leader because of his evocative questioning, and takes copious notes when the discussion bears down on one of the many specific questions he needs answered. He is finding solace in the deep philosophical arguments set out in the Talmud. There is no black-and-white world, as he had believed until recently. It is a world made of whole cloth sewn in shades of gray.
He has also spent several afternoons researching Einstein’s beliefs about the fabric of time—that the past, present, and future all exist simultaneously, that there is no true division between past and future, but rather a single existence. That knowledge sometimes quiets his thoughts, affords him a temporary becalming, a brief cognitive peace.
But the yearning has been acute for at least a seasonal division between past and present. In the desert where he was born, and in Los Angeles where he lives, the sunshine has been a constant affront. He gritted his teeth through the end of summer, then the fall, and into the winter, desperate for an end to the sun’s flared strength, its relentless glare, when he required atmospheric acknowledgment, the tempest of weather.
Now, at the end of February, as he searches for an uncertain address found folded in a suit pocket, the weather at last possesses the necessary gravitas. No frost, which would be appropriate, but vaporous fog, a chilled drizzle, a sulky, scowling sky, all providing the weight and angle of retrospect.
He steps into a large empty courtyard patterned in Byzantine tiles. The once-bright shades of turquoise, apricot, rose, and lemon, long bleached by the elements, have left behind ghostly colors.
The wooden benches are wet and empty.
The dusky leaves of the old trees are dressed in quivering raindrops.
The coiling vines are climbing the ancient walls.
The drizzle turns insistent and he shivers, but not from the cold. He never expected that weeping nature would return him to the immediacy of his existence, absent since mid-August, but it is returning, and returning here in this place. There are stirrings of faint hope, too, regarding the efficacy of prayers, that perhaps the fullest scenes of his life are yet to come.
He brushes the moisture out of his hair, straightens his coat, then knocks on the bright blue door of a small house in the Jewish Quarter of the Old City in Jerusalem.
He steps back when the door swings open. The man is shorter than Simon expected, spare but strong. Energy pulses beneath his plain white shirt. He wears black pants, but his feet are bare. His hair is white and wild. His beard is white and wild and reaches his Adam’s apple. Simon is struck by the sublime light in the man’s eyes, by his learned, prophetic force, the power bursting from his being.
“You look exactly as he did at your age.”
“You know who I am?”
“I know your father is Harry Tabor. I always hoped he would show up one day.”
“He tried.”
“Tell me.”
“Six months ago he was on his way here to find you. His journey ended on the tarmac at Ben Gurion. He died in his seat on the plane. I didn’t know that, none of us knew that, when I flew here the next day. I was coming to support him. I never left the airport, simply turned around and took my father home.
“When he decided to find you, he told none of us he was going, and we still don’t know the originating impetus, the catalyst. I’ve pieced together bits, but there’s too much I don’t know or understand, too much that’s missing, and I’m hoping you’ll tell me the entire story. What I do know is he believed he had sinned against you. And those sins were driving him here.
“I’ve come back to continue the path he was on, to complete what my father started. To atone for his sins, the suffering he inflicted upon you, and perhaps to obtain your forgiveness on his behalf. For you to forgive Harry Tabor.”
The man nods and tugs hard at his beard. “It seems we ought to get you out of the rain and introduce ourselves. I’m Rabbi Max Stern.”
“Simon Tabor.”
“Well, Simon Tabor, atonement doesn’t quite work that way. A son cannot atone for his father. But come in. I’ll make a pot of tea and we’ll talk.”
LAMPS ARE UNLIT, YET the house is filled with a glorious encircling light, white and omniscient. The home is ascetic, but far from austere—lifeblood rushes through it; the walls vibrate with the magnetism of an inquisitive mind. Open books are splayed throughout on pale-wood furniture, Scandinavian simplicity in this most complicated of countries. A Persian rug in muted jewel tones mirrors the faded courtyard tiles. A folded tallit crowns a bronze sculpture. On the dining room table, a glass bowl of dusty rocks and a vase filled with wildflowers are centered, as if in conversation. There are no personal pictures on display, but he senses love occurs in this environ, is given all of the time by the man who resides here, received by those who seek him out.
“Are you married?”
Simon shakes his head. “The divorce will be final soon.”
“Children?”
“Two lovely young daughters.”
“Are you observant?”
“Just before my father died, I planned to explore, and if it suited me, to immerse myself. After his funeral, after we sat shiva, I joined a synagogue, threw myself and my grief into it. Now I observe Shabbat, take my girls to Friday night services, and I’m studying the Talmud deeply. I’m here to atone, and also to learn.”
Max Stern fills the kettle and settles it on the stove, the flame sparking blue before calming. He turns to Simon then, raises into the air a firm hand, veined and weathered, browned by the absent Jerusalem sun.
“We’ll speak of many things in due course. But you’ve arrived at an auspicious moment. This, Simon, is where the lesson begins.”
When they hear the first note, they lock eyes, in an intimacy at once instinctive and emotional, and together they listen to the exquisite cacophony Harry Tabor heard in his airborne dream: the peals of church bells, the calls of muezzins from the minarets, the chanting of Jewish prayers at the Wailing Wall.
“Yes?” asks Max Stern.
“Yes,” says Simon Tabor.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
Huge love and deep gratitude to these amazingly talented people who believe in me:
At Flatiron Books, Amy Einhorn is a fabulous force and co
nsummate supporter; Caroline Bleeke has the keenest of eyes; Conor Mintzer has the details down pat and wonderful cheer; Amelia Possanza, Nancy Trypuc, and Ellen Pyle are unflagging in their creative ways of bringing my work to the attention of booksellers, reviewers, and readers. And my heartfelt appreciation to: the copyeditor, Mary Beth Constant, who writes me funny notes in the margins and catches what needs to be caught; the production editor, David Lott, who lets nothing slip by; the interior designer, Donna Noetzel, who makes the visual experience of reading my work as good as my own words hopefully are; and the cover designer, Keith Hayes, who created a sparking great cover for The Family Tabor.
At The Borough Press, the whole team and especially Suzie Dooré with her sharp reads and emails that make me laugh.
At Trident Media Group, the fantastic and funny Erica Spellman Silverman, great literary agent and wonderful friend; and Nicole Robson and Caitlin O’Beirne, who so enthusiastically put their impressive talents at my disposal.
Independent booksellers are the marvelous bridge between author and reader. I am deeply grateful for all they have done to make The Resurrection of Joan Ashby a success. Please support your local bookstores. Enormous thanks to:
Liza Bernard
(Norwich Bookstore, Norwich, VT)
Zora de Bodisco
(Book Booker, Gulfport, FL)
Kenny Brechner and Karin Schott
(Devaney Doak & Garrett Booksellers, Farmington, ME)
Anmiryam Budner
(Main Point Books, Bryn Mawr, PA)
Nona Camuel
(CoffeeTree Books, Morehead, KY)
Bill Cusumano
(Square Books, Oxford, MS)
Kimberly Daniels and Angie Tally
(The Country Bookshop, Southern Pines, NC)
Jann Griffiths
(Booksmart, Morgan Hill, CA)
Anne Holman
(The King’s English, Salt Lake City, UT)
Steve Iwanski
(Turnrow Book Co., Greenwood, MS)
Andrea Jones
(The Galaxy Bookshop, Hardwick, VT)
Pamela Klinger-Horn
(Excelsior Bay Books, Excelsior, MN)
Valerie Koehler
(Blue Willow Bookshop, Houston, TX)
Don Luckham
(The Toadstool Bookshop, Keene, NH)
Jessica Osborne
(E. Shaver, Bookseller, Savannah, GA)
Ellen Rodgers, Kelly Pickerell, Hillary Taylor, and Julia Blakeney
(Lemuria Books, Jackson, MS)
Nancy Simpson-Brice
(The Book Vault, Oskaloosa, IA)
Luisa Smith
(Book Passage, Corte Madera, CA)
Deon Stonehouse
(Sunriver Books, Sunriver, OR)
Susan Taylor
(Book House of Stuyvesant Plaza, Albany, NY)
Beth Wagner
(Phoenix Books, Essex Junction, VT)
To all the readers who have reached out to share their personal stories after reading The Resurrection of Joan Ashby, I’m honored by your confidences.
FOR:
Everything everlasting: Michael Dickes, my brilliant husband and most favorite person. NC, NL, ND, ND.
Laughter, love, and friendship: Claudine Wolas Shiva, Sherri Ziff, David Smith, Michael Stewart, Ginger Buccino Mahon, Atienne Benitez De Conciliis, Heather Macdonald LaMarre, and Gabrielle Massey.
Great conversations and constancy: Henry Wolas Dickes; and Pearl Wolas, who was with me through most of the writing of this novel.
The story about burning money: Jacob Mazon.
The banking tutorial (errors are mine alone): Neil Rudolph.
Leonard Cohen’s remarks and quotes, read by Roma Tabor, come from the fine article by David Remnick: “Leonard Cohen Makes It Darker,” The New Yorker, October 27, 2016 issue.
Writing is such a private and intense endeavor that sending a novel out into the world requires an enormous leap. Thank you so much for reading.
Recommend The Family Tabor for your next book club!
Reading Group Guide available at
www.readinggroupgold.com
About the Author
Cherise Wolas’s acclaimed first novel, The Resurrection of Joan Ashby, was a New York Times Book Review Editors’ Choice and a semi-finalist for the 2018 PEN/Robert W. Bingham Prize for Debut Fiction. A native of Los Angeles, she lives in New York City with her husband. The Family Tabor is her second novel.
Also by Cherise Wolas
The Resurrection of Joan Ashby
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