Kagan's Superfecta: And Other Stories

by Allen Hoffman

  Peggy Hartridge. What an unrequited relationship that was! Calculus class, homework together, walks in the snow together, and countless ice-cream cones. Almost six feet tall, blond, blue-eyed, and bright. Everything you could ask for in a math partner. I got a B-; she got an A. Bluma would believe that part, all right. There had been no chance that Peggy was going to change her fait’ for me. Our relationship never blossomed. I had the inclination, but not the courage, and she was always falling in love with someone else. A sophomore who looked like a Swedish lumberjack, straight A’s in linguistics. A German, unlike Henry Kissinger, a real one, who took her sailing at night on an African lake (her father was a Peace Corps administrator) where the waves were so high they blotted out the brilliant stars, and who during the day casually shot king cobras. What did I have to offer? By day, I took her to the bleachers in Fenway Park and explained why the left-field wall was called the green monster, and by night I took her to see a thirty-year-old subtitled film, The Dybbuk. But what I found most attractive about her was the way she received a compliment. With absolute grace and charm. She wasn’t embarrassed or thrilled, but very direct and appreciative. I don’t think Peggy Hartridge knew about the Evil Eye the way Bluma did.

  “Bluma, you’re a wonderful person,” I had said.

  “Shut up! Whaddaya want to do, give me the Evil Eye?”

  What did Peggy know about the Evil Eye? The boat never capsized, the cobra never bit her, and every time I came close, a Swedish lumberjack walked into her life. The worst thing that ever happened to her was when she caught mono. Some Evil Eye! She went to the infirmary for two weeks, studied for finals, got all A’s, and fit as a fiddle flew off to watch the snake charmer.

  Enough was enough. I walked ahead of the lady with the dog and looked back, fully expecting to find myself staring into a strange, terrified face. Even if it were Peggy, how could she recognize me with a beard and long hair?

  “Hello, Peggy,” I said, somewhat surprised.

  “Hal, how are you?” she answered coolly.

  “Fine, how are you?”

  “Good, thank you.”

  “Peggy, what are you doing here?”

  “I’m coming back from the vet on Seventy-ninth.”

  Along with a charming dog, Peggy had acquired a Ph.D. in history and was teaching at City College. She certainly hadn’t aged. We talked about what we were doing because Peggy did not seem to remember the past very well, a strange failing for a history professor, I thought. We arrived at Ninety-ninth, and there was Bluma at the corner. I introduced them.

  “Bluma, Peggy.”

  “What’s your dog’s name?” Bluma asked Peggy.

  “Duncan,” Peggy answered.

  “Duncan?” Bluma queried.

  “Yes, Duncan,” Peggy repeated.

  “Duncan,” Bluma said. “You’ll forgive me, my dear, but Duncan is a stupid name for a dog. It’s a person’s name.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” Peggy laughed.

  “He’s not a person. He’s a dog,” Bluma generously explained. “When I got my dog, her name was Lady, but that was stupid. Lady is what you call a person, so I changed her name to Brownie because she’s brown. See!”

  “I guess so,” Peggy said pleasantly.

  “No, you don’t,” Bluma said. “Why not call him Blackie, he looks kind of black?”

  Peggy did not respond.

  “Call him Spot,” Bluma suggested by way of a compromise for the solid-colored dog. “Maybe he’s got a spot.”

  “I like the name Duncan,” Peggy said.

  “It’s a nice name, but it doesn’t make sense!” Bluma explained.

  I switched the topic, and after a little small talk Peggy excused herself. We watched the six-foot, blond, blue-eyed creature walk toward West End with her large black dog.

  “She’s a shiksa, isn’t she?” Bluma said matter-of-factly.

  “How could you tell?” I asked.

  “Duncan is a goyish name,” she answered. And then she said, “Wait around the corner. I’ll get the stuff.”

  “Can’t I get it for you?” I offered.

  “Shut up! Nobody should know our business.”

  Bereft of Bluma, Peggy, and Duncan, I waited on Broadway in hot steamy misery, thinking what a strange coincidence that had been. As I was daydreaming in the heat, Bluma arrived with the packages. In some ways, she hadn’t changed. Bluma still would not embarrass me. She put the packages down in front of Cake Masters’ bakery and crossed to the curb where she pretended to greet the man delivering magazines and newspapers.

  “Oh,” Bluma called merrily to him, “how are you, my friend?” And then still walking toward him, she spun her head in my direction and said vehemently, “Use your head! Use your head!”

  I ran over and picked up the packages and started to shlep them downtown. What a strange day! Talk about threads! Ageless Peggy Hartridge comes looping back after all those years. But Bluma was right. God is good; I could have gone the way of Henry Kissinger and Bluma. I could have thrown my life away, cut myself off from my roots — and what for? A woman who names a dog Duncan! It’s not even a nice name.

  And in that bundle was an army trench coat, the arms right. My wife admitted that the long green combat coat fit me better than anything I had ever had tailored. I wore an army coat in a time of peace, but Bluma maintained her war, battling in the trenches on a hundred different fronts. Her words remained a verbal feast, but I did not have the stomach for them. Not with all the pain and hurt that was served with them. And strange things began to surface. One day Bluma rang our bell, but I could not hear over the intercom so I went downstairs to see who it was. I invited Bluma up, but she refused. We talked in the lobby. After a while, my wife came down to see what had happened. She joined the conversation. After we had spoken for a while, I escorted Bluma to the corner.

  “You got problems, Hal. Your wife is a jealous woman.”

  “You think so, Bluma?”

  “C’mon! Why did she come down?”

  “She just wanted to see who it was,” I answered.

  “Use your head. Be careful! Hyah! Hyah! Hyah!”

  “You are a remarkable person, Bluma!”

  “People love me. The world loves me. I have a remarkable personality. It’s a gift,” she said with pride.

  What could I do for Bluma? I turned to the moon. The moon had the answers, for the moon and Bluma were sisters. The answers were in the Talmud. In Genesis it is written, “And God made two great lights.” Later it calls them “the greater light and the lesser light.” What happened? Originally the sun and the moon were of equal magnitude. The moon came to God and asked, “Can two kings wear the same crown?” Svora! The moon was right, but God commanded the moon to make itself smaller. The moon asked, “Since what I have suggested is a good idea, why must I make myself smaller?” God heard the moon, and decreed that the moon will rule by day and night. The moon asked, “What good is a candle (the small moon) in broad daylight?” God said that Israel will count the days and years according to the moon, but the moon answered that the sun was needed for this, also. And when God saw that he could not console the moon, the Holy One commanded Israel “to bring an atonement for Me because I have made the moon smaller.”

  And Israel brought a sacrifice for the Lord on the New Moon until the Temple was destroyed. And Israel blessed and still blesses the moon in its renewal, for in the moon’s renewal we see the symbol of Israel’s renewal. Every nation has a heavenly advocate. Israel’s is the moon, that pale creature of svora. Esau’s is the sun. It is written, “Esau hates Jacob (Israel).” But Jacob does not hate Esau because the moon has forgiven the sun since God is good. To demonstrate this — and to emulate this freedom from jealousy — we say “Peace unto you. Peace unto you. Peace unto you,” as we bless the New Moon.

  And every month the moon begins its heavenly renewal in the hope that this renewal will be the ultimate and final renewal, for God is good. And Israel below chants as it
blesses, “The throne of King David is established forever!” For the throne of David, the dynasty of David, the Messiah of David shall, “like the moon, be established forever.” And the renewal of the “New Month” and “King David of Israel lives and endures” possess according to the numerical values of their Hebrew letters the identical sum, eight hundred and nineteen. The ultimate numbers game — eight hundred and nineteen — redemption — the Messiah.

  And yet we who attempt to bless the moon from West End Avenue and Bluma on Broadway stand isolated and ashamed as we reach to grasp a wanderer’s hand. Bluma and the moon: both had been wronged, both remained faithful, and both pursued subservient, but never servile, circuits about other bodies, heavenly and human, no grander in creation but less diminished in an everyday, material world. The moon chasing about the earth to catch the fire of the sun and Bluma looping through the Upper West Side to catch the coins of undiminished human fortunes. Bluma and the moon awaiting the shofar’s final, redemptive blast.

  What does that leave for the moon maiden, Bluma, on the Upper West Side? What could I do? Bluma made greater and greater demands on my time. Bluma expressed her love — the power to control. Perhaps I did not love. Perhaps I did, for I countered with demands that Bluma could not meet. I invited her for the Sabbath meal. I invited her for any meal. I invited her to visit. Once, when she was in the hallway outside our door, I asked her to come in for “at least a cup of tea.”

  “Hal darling, I remember a woman who was very good to me. She begged me to come into her for a meal. Finally, I came. She put the food on the table. When I sat down, she moved over to the window sill. See! I am observant. The policeman said, ‘Bluma, you should be a detective.’ See!”

  Everything she said was true, but I invited her for Rosh Hashanah anyway. Can’t we learn? And it was our anniversary of sorts. No, she wouldn’t come. I told her that we would be expecting her and if she could not make it, not to worry, we would understand.

  “What are you having, Hal?”

  “Turkey.”

  “Turkey is goyish.”

  I heard the shofar — the calls of creation — and I thought of the moon — the calls of the Messiah — and I thought of the moon and Bluma. I knew that the heavenly threads being woven were for Bluma. We returned from the shtibl for lunch and, without Bluma, we ate the goyish bird.

  Yom Kippur arrived and I donned my shroud for the Day of Atonement. White shrouds, for white is the color of the angels. Shrouds, for life is the name of the game. And in the morning, a man walked in and told us that the Arabs had attacked Israel. And we turned to pray, as is the custom, for we wear shrouds, and they do the dying. We prayed. And after the Day of Atonement, we ran to Bless the Moon. How quickly we blessed the moon before we dashed home for news. “What is happening? Have they stopped them yet?” And the news was not good. The war dragged on for too long. The nation is small, the wound is large, and the precious blood flows quickly. And the relentless, steely cold fear of destruction hovered over a small people of flesh. And the threads were soaked in blood. The holiday season continued and so did the blood. It was a fear such as I have never known. How could we rejoice? Yet we tried. Talk about threads! An impenetrable snarl! And I repented of my arrogant sin. The threads were not simply Bluma’s and the moon’s, but the threads of an entire nation. And in the middle of it all — the war, the fear — there was a pennant race. Who could care? And for the first time, it dawned on me that someone led the National League in batting the year two million Jews died in Auschwitz. Who can comprehend the middle?

  In the incomprehensible middle, where could I turn? To the beginning and to the end. The threads are Bluma’s, the nation’s, the moon’s, and mine. I turned to the moon. For the moon is memory, and we are a people of memory. The sun has no memory. The sun does not need one. It is ageless and always shining. Peggy Hartridge cannot remember her past. For her, it is always the present. Bluma the Beggar has no present. She possesses the past (she has never forgotten anything) and the future. Memory is the curse of Bluma and the Jews, and it is our salvation. We live in the past and rebuild the future. The world compresses us into the present. Either we transcend it, or we go crazy. The acquisitive millionaire in Scarsdale and the ascetic Talmudist in Brooklyn are two sides of the same coin. Both are driven by the past and the future. One rejecting. One accepting. But it’s the same fuel — higher octane than lies under any Arabian desert.

  The sun is Esau. The sun is the present. The sun is obvious. The sun is hairy. Nothing is hairier than the sun. One sees it in all the pictures children draw. When the sons of Esau landed on the moon of Jacob, what did they do? They took pictures and flung Hasselblad cameras over the face of the moon. The moon remembers. The sun is static. The moon is born, grows, and dies, only to be reborn. It is no mistake that the moon affects the tides. For the seas are the insensate potential of creation. The great tremendous unstructured and unchartable mass — chaos and creation. The moon tugs invisibly only on those liquid currents of immutable repose and fathomless desire — the pulsating sea and the immeasurable human heart. The moon is the tide of the Diaspora — a self-contained wave sweeping the face of the earth in bitter greeting.

  The bitter tide sweeps through the incomprehensible present. The threads are tangled. The sorrow is real. Bluma’s complaints grew. Bluma couldn’t live there. What could Bluma do? She gave to help Israel.

  “Hal, they got trouble on the other side. If we don’t help ‘em, what’ll be?”

  What could I do? I went to the Whitehall with a lawyer, a Spanish-speaking rabbi, and an old Lower East Side hand, all from the shtibl, to see if we could help. We couldn’t. Bluma’s horrors — junkies, winos — were real, all right, but her complaints — a leaky sink, a broken toilet — were imaginary. Brownie was lying on the bed because the room was filled with boxes, suitcases, and bags from floor to ceiling. The lawyer asked why she kept all that stuff.

  “My dear man, everyone has something.”

  We had failed. Bluma said we had made things worse. Perhaps we had. For the first time, I shlepped downtown from Bluma’s unencumbered by a material load. I carried a heavier one: Bluma was in pain and I could not help. On the way back, I saw the phony, arm in sling, at Ninety-sixth Street. People gave to him. The Talmud says, thank heaven for the phonies, or we would have to give to all who asked. In the middle, God bless him.

  I was depressed. The Yom Kippur War. Bluma. Myself. Then my wife gave birth — another girl baby. I was ecstatic. I called and told the good news to Bluma, who told me that I was no good. She said that I never called, I made things worse, I would have destroyed the world except for God. “God is good.”

  I hung up less ecstatic, but understanding, for I had a wise teacher. The disease contained its cure. We shall arrive at the ends of our threads because of our gladness. The Talmud tells us that “The Divine Presence dwells among Israel only in gladness,” and I know that gladness is from man, who knows that God is good. How could we not be glad? I have my teachers of gladness, quieting the terror-crested wave of bitterness. The Messianic moon renewing the throne of David. Then we shall all be on the other side, dwelling in our land of peace. It will surely be. The Messiah! Although I weep now for Bluma, I am glad, for that day will come when everyone has something. Oh, that Bluma, will she have something! She will have the shofar’s calls — the Holy Threads — which will hang in the windows of her room, shielding her from lunacy. For lunacy will be the moon shining by day and night as brilliantly as the sun. And I shall stand to honor my teacher when the door to her room opens.... Room 819.

  Building Blocks

  I ARRIVED late for the afternoon prayers on Shivah Asar be-Tammuz. On the Seventeenth Day of the month of Tammuz, a fast day, one laments the breaching of Jerusalem’s wall by Roman legions in the final days of the Second Temple. Shivah Asar be-Tammuz is not your average fast day by any means. It kicks off the whole mourning season that runs for a full three weeks culminating in Tisha b’Av, the day the
Temple itself was destroyed. This period is known, in fact, as the “Three Weeks,” “Drei Vochen,” or “Shalosha Shavuoth,” all of which literally mean three weeks. During this period one observes customs and laws of mourning (with the exception of the intervening Sabbaths when all mourning is forbidden). One does not listen to music, have one’s hair cut, or get married. Additional strictures for the final nine days demand that one does not eat meat, drink wine, go swimming, or wear new clothes. And on the fast of Tisha b’Av one does not wear leather shoes, sit on chairs, or even study holy subjects. In other words, starting with Shivah Asar be-Tammuz you can really mourn your head off. It’s not exactly a picnic, definitely not my best season, and I come from a family that loves to mourn. And not just at the chapel or grave — tears, stools, ripping clothes, kaddish, the works. Sorrow, bitterness, anguish, indulgence, sweetness — real mourning. And not just for seven days — for years. And why not? How many sensual things in life are there? But when my family mourns, we are mourning for someone — a father, a sister, an uncle. We shriek “Rachel,” “Morris,” “Menachem the son of Lazar.” It’s all very intimate, personal. When Shivah Asar be-Tammuz comes and you mourn your head off, who is it for? The whole world! A pretty tall order. Who even knows the name of the world? Earth? Universe? Did you ever try and mourn for the whole world the week Hank Aaron hit his 700th home run? It is a confusing experience. And if the Temple had not been destroyed, what would Einstein have been, a camel driver in Beersheba? The Budapest String Quartet, olive pickers in the Galilee? It’s true. Yes, and if the Temple had not been destroyed, we would not have been around for Hitler and his ovens. That’s true, too. All the years of blood. If only the Jews had been good. If only we hadn’t hated without cause. If only we hadn’t transgressed His Sabbath — our Sabbath. If only we had minded our own business like the Italians and Greeks and all the other short, swarthy races of antiquity. What can you do? Mourn — from Shivah Asar be-Tammuz through Tisha b’Av, and who can be so certain Sandy Koufax is so happy anyway? But the man did pitch four no-hitters, so is it any wonder that I was late for minchah, the afternoon prayer?