The Unthinkable Thoughts of Jacob Green

by Joshua Braff

  “No I’m not.”

  “You should comb this,” he says, and licks his palm.

  “What are you doing?”

  “I just want to wet it.”

  “Go away.”

  “It’s sticking straight up in the back.”

  “Don’t.”

  “Let me just flatten it. You didn’t shower, did you?”

  “Get off. I’ll fix it. Stop.”

  “Fine,” he says. “Go to school like that. Alfalfa. The kids’ll call you Alfalfa for the rest of the year. Look at the new kid and his fucked-up hair.”

  “I’ll fix it,” I say, pressing it down.

  “Good. You should. Looks ridiculous.”

  Asher lifts his book bag higher on his shoulder and exhales the autumn air. He glances at his new route to school and then down at me. I don’t know how he stays so calm. We’re just a couple of Heebs who can all of a sudden wear our “play clothes” to school. Hi, my name is Jacob. I can recite the book of Esther and say the Hebrew blessings over bread, wine, and macaroons. Want to come over?

  “Okay, Alfalfa,” Asher says, and walks away from me across the street. “Poor Alfalfa . . . poor, poor Alfalfa. Remember that episode? With the fish?”

  I step to the curb and watch him go.

  He stops when he gets to the other side and faces me. “Good luck,” he says under his breath, and heads down the sidewalk.

  “What’d you say?”

  “I said good luck.”

  I watch him go a few more steps. “Good luck too . . . to you. What time does the junior high let out?” I yell at his back.

  “Same as yours, I guess.” He cuts through some hedges and walks down Bristle Street. He looks back at me just before he turns the corner and I wave on my toes but don’t think he sees.

  I glance down at my new white sneakers and feel homesick for the yeshiva I hate. I think of the long bus ride, my brother’s shoulder against mine and how greedy and blind I was for not seeing what I had. I tell myself I’ll see him later, in a few hours, not that long. A group of boys my age walk across the street toward the school. They’re shoving each other and hurling acorns at mailboxes. I step slowly down the sidewalk, giving them a chance to get ahead. And then I follow them. All the way to class.

  THE THING I notice first about the fourth grade at Fillmore Elementary is death and God—or the amazing lack of them. A whole morning goes by and there’s no talk of plagues or slavery or the smiting of anyone, and not as much as a peep on sacrificial slaughters or pestilence. By lunchtime we do some vocabulary flash cards, learn how the Sioux liked to dance, and watch a cartoon filmstrip on magnets. The magnets have googly eyes and giant ears and wear top hats with daisies on them. And they really like to dance. Just days earlier, Rabbi Hadad, a nearly seven-foot Moroccan Torah teacher with a limp and special shoes was quizzing us on the lessons of the Tanakh. Pointing like a game-show host, the rabbi would give us the opening line and place his hand behind his ear for us to finish it in unison.

  “He who fatally strikes a man shall be . . .”

  “Put to death!”

  “When a man schemes against another and kills him treacherously, the man shall be . . .”

  “Put to death!”

  “He who insults his father or his mother shall be . . .”

  “Put to death!”

  “Whoever lies with a beast shall be . . .”

  “MICHAEL THE MAGNET has a magnetic personality. Just watch how Sammy Steel and Ira Iron come running when Michael says hello.” [beep]

  “Say, Sammy and Ira. What do you say we make a connection? A magnetic connection that is.”

  “Sounds magnificent, Michael.” [beep]

  “Great. Let’s dance!”

  THE CLASSROOM is huge and bright and has a living gerbil named Rerun in the science corner. The floor is carpeted and there’s a locker in the coatroom that has my name on it in glitter. My teacher, Mrs. Carnegie, is a lanky redhead with freckles on her lips and earlobes. When she smiles her top lip disappears and you can see her tan gums way up high in her mouth. It makes her teeth look enormous but she seems really happy. She has me come to the front of the room when I first arrive and asks each of the students to say their names. There’s Kristen, Barry, Jackie, Paul, Kara, Glenn, Cecil, Andre, Tara, Andy, Gary, Kyle, Dana, William, Jon, Cadence, Jill, Maggy, Thomas-not-Tommy, Rob, Nicholas, Lisa, Dee, and Patty. I wave to each as they say their name and feel Mrs. Carnegie’s hands squeeze my shoulders. They all wear very bright and different-colored clothing and some of them are Chinese, I think, and some black. The kid named Jon says, “Hi, I’m Jonny, Mets or Yankees?” Everyone laughs. I say “Mets” and half of them cheer and boo.

  “Jacob comes from a special school called a yeshiva,” Mrs. Carnegie says. “It’s a school where children learn Hebrew for half the day, right, Jacob? And then all the other subjects like math and English and science for the second half?”

  I nod. Science?

  “Maybe if we ask him nicely, Jacob would write something in Hebrew on the board for us.”

  My classmates applaud for this and Mrs. Carnegie leans over my shoulder from behind me. “Would you?”

  I nod and face the blackboard.

  “Did you know there are seven other Jewish students in this class, Jacob?”

  When I look out at them, a kid in the back named Barry is waving at me. I take a piece of chalk and write Ya’akov on the board in Hebrew and then stand there like a moron, unsure of what to do next. A girl named Dana and a girl named Kristen start to tap each other and snicker in the front row. They’re both prettier than most of the girls that went to Eliahu and wear something wet and clear on their lips that smells like cotton candy. Dana’s hair is brown and long and slides around a lot when she turns her head. When I look at her she bumps her shoulder into Kristen’s and they both laugh with their hands over their mouths. I check the zipper on my new Levi’s jeans and Dana points at my crotch before bending at the waist with the giggles. I lick my hand and pat down my hair.

  “And what does that word mean?” Mrs. Carnegie says, bowing toward the board.

  “That’s just my name.”

  “Oh, that’s wonderful. That’s the Hebrew word for Jacob, class. Would you read it for us, please?”

  “Ya’akov.”

  “Gazoontite,” says Jon, and the whole class laughs.

  Mrs. Carnegie stares him down with her hands on her hips. Jon shrinks behind his desk as the seconds pass by. “Thank you,” she finally says, returning to me. “It sounds a little like Jacob, doesn’t it?”

  I nod.

  “Well, welcome to Fillmore, Jacob. It’s wonderful to have you in our class. Isn’t it students?”

  They applaud again.

  “Okay, now. We have a big day as usual. You all know what time it is. So let’s get started.”

  The class lets out a moan and each kid reaches for a textbook. Mrs. Carnegie walks to her desk and lifts a booklet from her center drawer. She guides me by the shoulders to a desk right next to Jon and lays the papers on top, facedown.

  “I need you to take this small quiz,” she says. “What kind of math were you doing at your old school?”

  “What kind of math?”

  “Yes, were you doing any division or long division?”

  “Division . . . no.”

  “None of that yet, huh? How ’bout word problems, any of those?”

  “Yes . . . like . . . spelling?”

  She blinks a few times and hands me a pencil. “Do your best. Let me know when you’re done, all right?”

  “Okay.”

  “Chop, chop, class, everyone should be working. Can’t talk to your neighbor if you’re working. Just can’t. Jonny, let’s go.” Jon sits on his knees, bending over his desk. He waits for her to walk away before putting his pencil in his mouth and offering his hand. “Did I embarrass you?” he whispers.

  “What?”

  “Did I embarrass you? When I said gazoontite?”r />
  “No,” I say, shaking his hand.

  “Your Hebrew name sounds a little like a sneeze, doesn’t it? Ya’akov,” he says, covering his nose.

  I smile at him. “I guess.”

  Jonny is tiny with jet black hair that falls past his shoulders. He also has very tan skin, as if he just got off the beach.

  “I’m Jewish,” he says. “Gruber. So don’t be offended, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “So the Mets, huh?”

  “Jon!” says Mrs. Carnegie, and he flops off his knees and opens his book.

  I pull my chair in closer and pick up the pencil she gave me. Rerun is in a tank right behind me. He’s sucking from his water bottle, making it rattle, his tiny paws gripping the sides. It’s really funny to watch. He drinks like a person. I smile at him and look to see if Jon notices. He’s back on his knees with his head dipped, scribbling away. This is a good school. There’s a decorated Christmas tree in the corner by the flag and a huge map of the world painted on the wall near the encyclopedias. That kid Barry says there’s pizza for lunch today, and you can get a Coca-Cola from a can if you have a quarter. The girl named Dana keeps putting on that lip stuff and turning around to see me. Her sweater is pink and fuzzy and the hairs look like they’re floating.

  “I hear talking,” says Mrs. Carnegie.

  I look down at the booklet. I flip to page 1.

  1. Amy watched 8 hours of TV on Sunday, 8 hours of TV on Monday, 9 hours of TV on Tuesday, 3 hours of TV on Wednesday, 5 hours of TV on Thursday, 3 hours of TV on Friday, and 8 hours of TV on Saturday. How many more hours of TV did Amy watch from Monday to Saturday than from Tuesday to Saturday?

  “Pssst.”

  I glance over at Jon. He points with his chin to a piece of notebook paper taped to his knee. It says The Mets? What about Reggie, Guidry, Nettles?

  He peeks at me under his armpit and raises his eyebrows. I go back to my quiz.

  2. Jane practices the piano for 3 hours during every practice session. Jane has 3 practice sessions each week. During a 17-week period, how many hours will Jane practice the piano?

  I rub my eyes with the heel of my palm and look up at Mrs. Carnegie. She stands from her desk and walks to the back of the room.

  3. If Brad drives at 46 mph, how many hours will it take to drive 414 miles?

  “Psssst.”

  4. A crate of apples weighs 225 pounds. A crate of plums weighs 130 pounds. How many pounds would they weigh if . . .

  “Psssst!”

  I turn to Jon. “The first one is eight,” he says, glancing behind him at Mrs. C. “Eight more hours. The TV girl, right? It’s eight. Write it.”

  I press the pencil tip to the paper. I press it until it snaps off. I can’t do these. I’m not smart enough. Jane practices the piano for 3 hours during every . . .

  Mrs. Carnegie taps my shoulder and I flinch. “How’s it going?” she says, and kneels at my side. “Did I scare you?”

  “I’ll help him,” says Jonny, way too loud, and I see all these heads pop up and stare. He closes his book and stands.

  “Sit . . . down . . . now.”

  “But he’s—”

  “One more chance. Sit . . . down . . . now.”

  Jon lowers himself back down.

  “Concentrate on your own work, Mr. Gruber. Understood? Let’s go. Open that book back up.”

  “Just trying to help.”

  “How’s it going over here, Jacob?”

  “My pencil broke. It just—”

  “Here’s another one,” she says, and gives me hers. “Are these confusing to you?”

  I look down at the words, the numbers, the names Jane and Brad. When I hear the girls laugh I glance up and see Dana. She moves Kristen’s blond hair behind her ear and leans in to whisper.

  “Let’s try this second page together, and we’ll go from there, sound good? Jacob?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Are you ready?”

  I nod.

  “This is straight-up multiplication, all right?” Let’s try a few,” she says. “Ready?” She flips the page over. “Okay, number one. “Seven times eight.”

  Seven rows of eight things or . . . eight rows of seven things. Like cars or . . . oranges. Seven rows of eight oranges is . . . like . . . a lot. It’s like . . . a wall of oranges.

  “Would you please turn around, Dana, Kristen, Jackie, all of you, right now. I’m coming over there next. In two minutes I want to see what you’ve accomplished today. Will you be ready for me?”

  Twenty-six, twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine, thirty, thirty-one . . .

  Mrs. Carnegie kneels back down and stares at my work. “What are you—tell me what you’re doing right now,” she says, blocking the girls with her back.

  “I’m drawing seven rows of eight things. These are oranges.”

  “I see. Okay. Did you learn any multiplication at your old school?”

  I nod.

  “Can you tell me what two times two is?” she whispers.

  “Four?”

  “Good. Can you tell me what four times four is?”

  Not without drawing more oranges, but ya know what I can do? I can sing the “Four Questions.” You know, from Passover. “‘Ma nishtana halila hazeh mikol halelot—mikol halelot. Sheb’chol halelot . . .’”

  “I’ll be right back,” I hear her say, and she storms off to scold the girls up front.

  I watch her go and then look down at the page. My cheeks and neck tingle with fearful embarrassment. I’m going to be in the third grade before this day is over. My father will die. And then he’ll kill me. I’m the stupidest person in this class. I just got here and everyone in this room is going to know.

  “Pssst.”

  When I look at Jon he’s got the same piece of paper taped to his knee. His first message is crossed out and underneath it just says Jane practiced 153 hours.

  “One fifty-three,” he says without sound. “Write it.”

  The Sabbath

  One’s “thing”—(1) A point of personal interest; a hobby, sport, or avocation that succinctly defines a person. (2) A brief coupling of words used to evoke someone’s personality in a small-talk setting: Billy’s thing used to be soccer; now it’s masturbation. (3) A laconic summation of one’s character and interests used for the purpose of categorization and judgment. See also “What do you do?”

  I choose to lie when my father asks about school. I’d be stupid if I didn’t. Like in class, there are right and wrong answers to every question he has. But unlike class, I know the answers he wants: (1) Yes, Dad; (2) Very; (3) Always; (4) All of them; (5) Every day; (6) Constantly; (7) Oh, yes; (8) A lot. (9) Yup; (10) Of course me. The answer to that is . . . me. As he and I join the family in the dining room for Shabbat, he flattens a yarmulke on my head, and kisses the corner of my eye. “Now that,” he says, “is what I like to hear.”

  When the first blessing comes to an end, both candles are lit. My mother stares at them before sitting, a hint of a smile. My father lifts his cracked leather prayer book and opens to a page marked by a frayed violet tassel.

  “Thank you, Claire,” he says, his voice softened, lethargic. “Lovely as always.” He places his glasses back on his face and smooths the page with his palm. “You shall love the Lord your God, with all your mind, with all your strength and with all your being. Take these words which I command you this day upon your heart. Teach them faithfully to your children, speak of them in your home and on your way, when you lie down and when you—”

  “Aaaafffffflllooo” is the sound that leaps from Asher’s mouth. He sits frozen before facing my father, his head still lowered in a cave of brown hair. My father slowly closes his book and removes his glasses.

  “Sorry,” Asher says, straightening his yarmulke, and sneezes a second time. “Affffloooo.”

  My father rests his chin on his fist and glares at the top of Asher’s head.

  “Just . . . continue,” Asher says, and sniffs. “Keep read
ing. I sneezed.”

  “Abram,” says my mom. “He said he was sorry. Come on now.”

  “Asher interrupted,” Dara announces, chewing on the tip of her ponytail.

  “Mind your own business,” Asher says to her.

  “Mommy, I’m hungry,” Gabe says from his booster chair, rubbing his eyes.

  And the silence resumes. I look down, can see my face in the reflection of my large white plate. I tap the handle of my spoon, counting each of the seconds of this poisonous silence. Fourteen . . . fifteen . . . sixteen . . . and my father reopens the book.

  “You shall love your God . . . with all your mind . . . with all your strength . . . and with all your being. Take these words which I command you this day . . .”

  I swallow a yawn through my ears and stare at the braided challah I will bless when the time comes. It’s been my role on Fridays nights for as long as I can remember; the hamotzi is what they call it. My dad says I read Hebrew better than most of his friends. He likes to have them over so he can watch their faces as the words roll from my trained tongue. There is nothing else I do in life that is so assured to please him, no other triumph so rewarded. He calls it my gift, my “thing.” As he reads the prayer he runs his hand through his pitch-black hair and scratches his scalp. Shabbat has always seemed to exhaust him or remind him of the workweek he’s somehow escaped. His sluggish movement and melancholy tone may also be an offering to the plight of his religion, an homage to perpetual atonement and unceasing pogroms. Any deviance from the respectful pace he seeks is a blatant declaration of our lack of historic empathy. Our advantage is that we’ve been trained since birth to sit as statues at this table. Our disadvantage is that we are children. The penalty for religious indifference in our home has forever been clear. It is rage.

  As he finishes he slides his prayer book over to Asher without looking at him and leans back in his chair with folded arms. Asher brings the book into his lap and begins. “Shma Yisroel—”

  “Clarity . . . please.”

  “Adonai Eloheynu, Adonai Echad. Here oh Israel, the Lord is our God, the Lord is one. Ve-ahavta et Adonai Elohecha . . . bechol levavcha . . .”