Jan and Lenore had bought new dresses for the occasion, and Marcus, who traditionally followed Thoreau’s dictum to avoid all activities requiring new clothes, had spent nearly eight hundred dollars on a suit. Nathan was thoroughly enjoying himself, beaming at the relatives he rarely saw, relishing their temporary attention on the dappled sidewalk that clear California morning.
Marcus had talked to other fathers whose sons and daughters had gone through this rite, but he was still unprepared for the tightening he felt in his throat when he looked up and beheld Nathan on the bima (a word Marcus learned from Rabbi Rachel when he made the mistake, during a pre-bar-mitzvah family meeting, of calling it a stage). The rabbi and the cantor, a young man of Middle Eastern appearance who wore a multihued head covering that looked as if it had been purchased in a Moroccan souk, led the congregation in prayer and song, and Marcus saw Nathan as if in a time-lapse photograph. In Marcus’s mind, he grew from chubby-legged baby, to electric toddler, to bright-faced kid, and now, as he was passing through the brambles of puberty, into an awkward early adolescence that bore the first seeds of his eventual disappearance from his father’s day-to-day life. Marcus glanced over at Jan, who he sensed was experiencing the same inchoate mix of pride, pleasure, and loss that strikes parents in these moments. Upbraiding himself for his rising schmaltz level, he cleared his throat. Marcus had once heard someone say all gangsters are sentimental. He briefly wondered if this applied to him. Jan squeezed his hand. He returned the pressure, keeping his eyes straight ahead. He became conscious of a lump in his throat and hoped it would subside before it was his turn to speak.
Nathan read from the Torah, his command of the ancient liturgy sure, his voice clear. Rabbi Rachel beckoned Marcus and Jan when it was time for their speeches. Jan spoke first, facing Nathan across the podium from which the rabbi led the service. She wasn’t used to public speaking, particularly the kind that involved personal revelation. At first, she spoke blandly about her love for her son, and how proud she was of him—everything you would expect a mother to say. But then, gathering herself, she said “You might not have been raised in the most religious household, Nathan, but we always tried to teach you to do the right thing. If believing in God helps you to do that, then it’s a pretty good idea.”
She kissed him on the cheek, and then it was Marcus’s turn. He took his notes out of his pocket and unfolded the paper. He glanced down at the single-spaced type, then looked at his son, who smiled back at him. Marcus took a deep breath and launched into a panegyric about Nathan, during which he discoursed on the gift of his essentially sunny nature, his musicianship, his ability at sports, the grace with which he accepted parental prodding where his schoolwork was concerned, his enviable ability as a son and grandson—all the aspects of a young person’s life a parent remotely aware of how challenging being thirteen is will appreciate when they bother to pay attention. When Marcus finished, he offered an awkward hug, greatly relieved at having discharged his paternal obligations with regard to this ceremony, and returned to his seat, where he silently thanked the universe for allowing him to get through his speech without weeping. The surfeit of goodness he had been witnessing, from Rabbi Rachel, from Nathan, from Jan, and, amazingly to him, from within, all manifested in such a public way before this gathering of family and friends, was making his daily life exceedingly difficult to reconcile at this moment. Watching thin, coltish Nathan adjust the micro-phone—the boy’s shoulders far from strong enough to bear existential weight—Marcus told himself he would be an exemplary citizen for the rest of his days.
“Hello everyone,” Nathan began, resonantly. Resonantly? Had Rabbi Rachel been giving him public speaking lessons, along with the spiritual insights she had imparted? “I would like to thank you all for being here with me on this special day. In my Torah portion, we find Abraham, Sarah, who is Abraham’s wife, and their nephew Lot, going to Egypt because there is famine in their land.”
Marcus knew a thing or two about famine. Perhaps not famine literally, but he was entirely too familiar with the fear in the heart of one who is unable to provide the necessities of life to those who place their faith in him. He settled into his seat, beaming at his son, so poised and intent. The congregation had been quiet earlier, but now it was dead silent.
Straightening his back, Nathan continued: “Before the three of them arrive in Egypt, Abraham pulls Sarah aside and tells her something that has been bugging him. As he was about to enter Egypt, he said to his wife Sarah ‘I know what a beautiful woman you are. If the Egyptians see you and think She is his wife, they will kill me and let you live. Please say that you are my sister, that it may go well with me because of you and that I may remain alive thanks to you.’ Sarah, being the diligent passive wife of the past, agreed to participate in Abraham’s survival plan and claimed to be his sister.”
Marcus had no recollection of this story from his own meager Bible study. Abraham’s choice in this situation was news to him. His engagement with his son’s biblical interpretation and delight in the boy’s accomplishment were only mitigated by a budding discomfort with the nature of the story Nathan was telling.
“As they entered Egypt, the Egyptians were quick to notice Sarah’s radiance. The Torah says Pharaoh’s courtiers saw her and praised her to Pharaoh, and the woman was taken into Pharaoh’s palace. Abraham,” Nathan said, now in high dudgeon, “just exchanged Sarah for his life. Not the kind of thing a gentleman would do. However, God did not agree with Abraham’s decision to give up Sarah to save his own skin and was angry that Sarah apparently now had two husbands. The Torah tells us The Lord afflicted Pharaoh and his household with the mighty plagues on account of Sarah, the wife of Abraham. When Pharaoh finally figured out that Sarah was Abraham’s wife, he was furious. As my Torah portion says, Pharaoh sent for Abraham and said ‘What is this you have done to me? Why did you not tell me she was your wife? Why did you say “she is my sister”? So I took her as my wife. Now here is your wife. Take her and be gone!’” Nathan pounded the podium for emphasis, startling some of the elderly congregants.
“I wonder why God would choose someone as the leader of the Jewish people who could screw things up like this.” There were murmurs in the congregation now, an exchanging of glances. No one was expecting a thirteen-year-old bar mitzvah boy—on this day of all days—to lambaste a biblical hero like Abraham with such force and emotion. Marcus, however, was staring straight ahead, seemingly in a trance, and didn’t notice when Nathan glanced at him before continuing. “He not only put his wife in a compromising position, but his behavior threatened the lives of Pharaoh and everyone in Pharaoh’s household.” Here Nathan paused for dramatic effect. He looked out over the congregation and gripped the lectern with both hands. “How could the leader of our people be so imperfect? How could he be, well, so like us? Many of the spiritual leaders and prophets from other religions are seemingly perfect, and yet the first Jew had so many imperfections. Maybe that is what God wanted, to find or create a person so obviously human that people could truly relate to him, so that when Jews think of Abraham, they think of someone like themselves. Some would think the leader of a people should be a model of what to strive for. But maybe God knew trying to be perfect is just not healthy, or maybe God could not find any perfect human beings. Maybe it’s just not possible to be perfect.”
Marcus nodded at the last observation, thinking Amen.
“Rabbi Rachel once told me that until we have children, our first priority is ourselves, our own well-being. Later in Abraham’s life, when God asked Abraham to sacrifice his son Isaac, Abraham continued to act selfishly. Some might say it was a noble thing to be willing to sacrifice your own child in the Lord’s name, but I just think it was stupid. Why would Abraham risk losing something so important to him for nothing more than a religious belief? Why is religion so important? Isn’t how we act what really matters? God tested Abraham and his faith, and many people would say he passed with flying colors. Flying colors? I say, no way. Abraha
m failed at the most important duty of all, which is take care of those you love.
“I know two people who would have passed that test. My mom and dad.” At this, the lump in Marcus’s throat grew from the size of a tangerine to that of a grapefruit. “I said to them recently, ‘How could you be so selfless with me?’ And my dad responded ‘Trust me, it’s not always easy.’ I know it’s not easy, but you do it, and I appreciate it more than I could express in words. I love you both…”
Nathan talked for another minute, but Marcus could not hear a word, the sobs were coming so relentlessly. He buried his wet face in his hands there in the front row of Temple B’nai Jesherun, secure in the knowledge that everyone would assume he was convulsed with paternal pride and love for his son.
Which he was.
Up to a point.
What no one else but Jan understood was that Marcus had projected himself into Nathan’s reading. Marcus was in Pharaoh’s court, and Marcus had to save his skin. That the parallels were not direct made them no less unmistakable, or damning, and he felt his body temperature rising as the inner battle raged and tumbled. Now he was feeling as if his very presence in the sanctuary vitiated his son’s accomplishment. If Nathan could so eloquently bring the original patriarch of monotheism to heel, what would he say about his own father? Marcus groaned audibly at the thought, which those around him misinterpreted as a paroxysm of pride. Staring at his shoes, Marcus noticed that the carpeting had become worn and made a mental note to contribute to the temple building fund next week.
At the post-service kiddush, held in the social hall of the synagogue, Marcus and Jan accepted congratulations on Nathan’s accomplishment. Several people remarked on the iconoclastic nature of his speech, and he took great pride in having raised a boy who, rather than simply regurgitating the religious nostrums he had been fed in Hebrew school, actually seemed philosophically inclined.
Marcus spread whitefish salad on a cracker as he watched Plum and Atlas, who were standing near the dessert table, having what appeared to be a civilized conversation. When he felt a hand on his arm, he looked over and saw Kostya. Wearing a fashionable four-button suit, he was grinning, pleased to have been included in the celebration.
“Li’l Gangsta rocked the mike,” Kostya said, handing Marcus an envelope. “For the kid.”
Kostya embraced his erstwhile employer, then headed toward the smoked fish. Marcus stepped outside so he could have a moment alone. The sky had taken on a sickly grayish yellow cast. The wind had shifted and now the air had a vaguely toxic smell, worse than smog, more threatening. The powerful Santa Anas were blowing from the north now, whistling through the passes, carrying this foulness with them. His eyes began to water. It was good that Nathan’s party wasn’t going to be in the Valley.
That evening, sweet, tropical liquids flowed from large plastic martini glasses and down young throats. Boys in groups of fours and fives jumped up and down to neo-punk and hip-hop, too scared to ask girls to dance, untroubled by any homoerotic subtext. Girls who looked far older than thirteen, sloe-eyed and cool in their tight dresses, watched and wished the boys were older and less silly. Two boys were stealing glasses filled with liquor from adults who left them unattended. One girl, whose father owned half of Westwood, wore a T-shirt that said FUCK YOU in a gothic font across her narrow shoulders. Several mothers mentioned this to Jan, who told the girl to please turn the shirt inside out, which she did without incident, although, when Jan walked away, this spawn of privilege and neglect gave her the finger (to the amusement of her snickering confederates). Nathan’s male friends bounced off each other like pinballs on the dance floor, rocketing this way and that, spinning, arms akimbo, faces turned upward, whirling round and round in a distant, rapturous echo of eighteenth-century Hasidim. Lenore and her well-toned and exceedingly affable friends from the pole dancing studio enticed the older, more groove-resistant guests onto the dance floor, bumping, grinding, and unleashing the Dionysian propensity that lurks beneath the surface of a bourgeois breast. The white-jacketed bartender was kept busy all night and the intoxicants, copious and of high quality, flowed from bright bottles into glasses, and then veins, leading the ordinarily sedentary from their chairs toward the music, where they found themselves line dancing and didn’t for a moment care about how it looked— the sign of a party cranking on all cylinders.
Roon had dispatched regrets via an e-mail BlackBerried from his corporate jet somewhere over the Maldive Islands, be great to catch up, some other time, congrats! and had his accountant send a small check for Nathan. Marcus would have liked for Roon to see how he had prospered since leaving his employ, and trusted Takeshi, who was waving his arms overhead in time to the music twenty feet to Marcus’s left, to report that the Ripps family was thriving.
Chapter 21
Sunday morning was dark and hazy, the air worse than the day before. Although Marcus drank several margaritas at the party and was exhausted from the revelry, he had remembered to take the customary two aspirins before going to sleep. So the following morning when he swung his legs out of bed and his feet touched the floor, he was able to stand up with no ill effects from the previous night. Because Jan was still feeling the copious amounts of Chardonnay she had imbibed, Marcus thoughtfully brought her a headache remedy and a cup of black coffee while she lay in bed. When he opened the front door to get the Sunday newspaper, he looked out on the street and saw that a fine ash had fallen from the sky and coated every-thing—the lawns, the trees, the streets, the cars. The sky was dense with it. Coughing, Marcus went back inside and turned on the television. He hadn’t watched TV or looked at the paper since Friday, and was not surprised to see that a fire was consuming much of Angeles National Forest. The toxic powder that had fallen on Van Nuys was its detritus.
Nathan and Lenore were still asleep, so Marcus glanced through the newspaper until the young Mexican deliveryman arrived with the platters of lox, bagels, and artfully arranged sliced fruit.
Two hours later, the quiet house was invaded by relatives from out of town who all talked about the polluted air, the layer of ash, and wasn’t it wonderful that it hadn’t happened yesterday morning? Buoyant sounds of animated chatter flew around the room as everyone discussed Nathan’s accomplishment, the local attractions they wanted to visit before returning home, and, for those who were departing today, what time they would have to leave to make their flights. Marcus was telling one of Jan’s aunts about the Gene Autry Western Museum when the doorbell rang. Two men in dark suits were standing there. They asked if he was Marcus Ripps. Marcus told them he was, and they identified themselves as police detectives from Valley North. Then they arrested him for pandering and illegal transportation of a dead body.
The holding cell in the Van Nuys precinct house looked like all the holding cells Marcus had seen on cop shows, something he thought about in a conscious effort to keep himself from considering the precise nature of what he was facing. Oscillating between acute shame and sheer terror, he found himself absurdly musing about how the proliferation of police-related entertainment on American television had improved civics, since any casual viewer developed a rudimentary understanding of the criminal justice system.
It was early Sunday afternoon by the time Marcus found himself in the cell, and the other inhabitants were the human flotsam of the previous Saturday night: drunks, brawlers, and an unfortunate burglar who had been stopped for a traffic violation with the contents of someone else’s house in the bed of his pickup. Marcus was the only one wearing pressed trousers and a Lacoste shirt, and he was grateful that his cellmates seemed too exhausted to notice that their newest addition appeared to be dressed for a shopping trip to Rodeo Drive. Marcus cursed the fact that he hadn’t chosen to wear socks today. He believed his naked ankles broadcast acute vulnerability.
Utter ruination was not something he’d considered when he embarked on his skin-trade sortie. Not really. He knew it was a possibility, but had discarded the thought rather than examine the terrify
ing ramifications. The luxury of obliviousness was no longer available to him now that he was here in jail trying to repress his olfactory senses, currently being assaulted by an acrid scent he immediately identified as urine. The grizzled man lying near him on the wooden bench filling the fetid air with his snoring had pissed himself. Marcus stood up and walked to the bars at the front of the holding pen, fighting a burgeoning sense of panic.
I don’t even know which dead body they’re talking about. Is it the one I actually moved or the other one? It could be either. Memo wasn’t dead when he went into the forest. I didn’t transport him anywhere. He transported me. But no one could possibly know how he got there unless Tommy the Samoan ratted me out. Tommy played with my dog. The man was undergoing a spiritual conversion. It couldn’t be him. Then it was Mink who gave me up. Kostya probably lied to me when he said he didn’t work her over. He probably kicked the shit out of her and she was too scared to tell me. Goddammit! After I specifically told him not to touch her. Never mind that. It’s too late now. How do I keep this from becoming public? If people even hear I’ve been arrested, I’m a pariah. Nathan! Nathan can’t find out. I have to extricate myself from this without him knowing. What if I get convicted? He’ll know then. And he’ll judge me. I can explain it to him when he’s older, the whole big stinking rationalization, but now? He won’t buy it. Maybe he’ll love me still, I think, but he won’t believe me any more and what kind of father can I be with a son who doesn’t believe me? Why am I looking out the cell? I should be looking behind me so no one can sneak up. What if I get convicted? How are they going to convict me? They won’t be able to. I’ll have obstacles, maybe, significant ones like how to make a living, but my family won’t have to visit me in prison.
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