by Joshua Braff
When I move toward it, Brigitte asks me where I’m going. Four rings. “What the hell’s he doing?” Asher doesn’t answer her. “Hey. Jacob? Jacob?” Five rings. “Don’t you pick that up,” she says. “Jacob!”
Six rings.
Standing before the kitchen phone I feel a great and sudden urge to laugh. Seven rings. I look over my shoulder at my brother. He nods with a subtle smirk and asks me, “What’s so funny?” Eight rings.
“You,” I say, with a descending smile. “Me. The wilderness of Zin.”
Asher’s eyes seem to unplug as he drapes his arms over Brigitte’s shoulders. I wait a beat with my hand on the receiver. Nine rings.
And then lift the phone to my ear.
Saturday
I can see it now. Now that it’s morning. A tan body bag from Saks with a tiny oval window over the right lapel. Another beginning is what it means. A pardon for what’s been done. It’s been two days since my father picked me up at my mother’s house. The tantrum was mild and quick and ended in the car. The silence that followed has lasted much longer.
I’d guessed “temple clothes” when he entered my room in the middle of the night. Could smell the beach-ball plastic of the bag from my bed. I sit up now and stare at it, hanging from my doorknob. A suit, no doubt made special for the day, tailored off some dummy my size. I walk to it and slowly unzip the bag. A charcoal three-piece. A black belt, new shirt, and maroon loafers with tissue paper crammed into the toes. A new yarmulke rests next to the shoes. It’s large and boxy with earth-tone rams and menorahs on the sides.
I pull out the suit, toss it on my bed. It’s time to get dressed.
Rule Number 10 of the Green House Rules
When dressing for synagogue:
a. Slacks go on last and must hang or lay paper flat with hard crease intact until other garments are donned.
b. After the briefs start with the feet. Socks must always match and should never reveal shin skin when seated. Only black or brown socks are allowed, and be sure the elastic is intact and snug around shin.
I see myself in the long mirror on my door. The suit pants are roomy in the crotch, but the jacket seems fine. My tie has a very large head and a short body: “hobo clown,” as my dad would call it. I try again, but it comes out worse. The third time I get it right. Sort of. I step closer to the mirror and tighten it. I gaze hard at my own reflection. My eyes are green. Maybe hazel. The right one has a smeared trace of brown in it. That’s weird. I never saw that before.
“Jacob?” My father calls from downstairs. “You dressed, J? It’s time.”
c. Shirttails should never be noticeably bunched around waist and rear of slacks. Lay them flat against underpants and skin of upper legs. Fasten slacks only when tails are flat so that shirt is taut against stomach at entry to belt.
d. Cuffs and collars need to be stiff with starch. Collar must fully blanket all appearances of tie around neck, and tie must never gather or twist against fabric in question.
I walk out of my room and to the stairs. My new shoes are slippery on the carpet. For a second I’m on ice and lose my footing. I recover, walk halfway down the staircase, and see my father looking up. He grins when he sees me, his head high. “There he is,” he says, and I slip again, grabbing the banister for support.
“You need to scuff up the bottoms. Go out to the driveway and scratch ’em up a little. But be quick, okay?” He looks at his watch and then back to me. “Look at you,” he says, folding his arms. “You look like a million bucks. They’re gonna weep today, Jacob. Just look at you.”
I walk past my father, and open the front door. In the driveway I remove my right shoe first and begin to rub the bottom against the pavement in circles. Two giggling girls ride by on bikes, and a third soon follows. I watch them pedal down the street until they turn onto Saber and disappear. With my shoe back on I walk out to the sidewalk. When I hear my father open the screen door, I turn to see him. He taps his watch and waves me toward him. “You ready?”
“I think I’m gonna walk.”
“What?”
“It’s a nice day.”
“You’re going to walk to temple?” he says, another glance at the watch.
I nod and step further into the street. “Scuff the shoes.”
“Jacob?”
I stop and face him.
“I’ll meet you there,” he says.
I wave and cross the street. And then I don’t see him. I begin to walk slowly, but in seconds my steps get longer and faster until my shoes are so scuffed that I begin to run. And I mean run. But it’s funny because you don’t see people racing on foot down the road with their ties flapping over their shoulders very much. And if you did, you’d wonder, wouldn’t you? You’d wonder—where the hell is that kid going so fast? Where the hell is that kid going?
