by Allen Zadoff
“I finish the year at home, take my exams early, then I’m out. B-Jew and Sanskrit are parting ways.”
“I’m sorry,” Herschel says.
“Why would you be sorry? It’s what you wanted, right? That’s why you brought Mom to the fund-raiser.”
“I wanted to make things right.”
“How do you know what’s right?”
“I pray to know.”
“I love that. I love how people do messed-up things in the world, and then they say it’s God’s will. Like you have a direct line into what’s right and wrong.”
It’s between classes, and the halls are full of students. Most of them ignore me or speed up when they see me. But a few slow down to throw me dirty looks.
Herschel says, “I don’t need a direct line. The Talmud tells us what’s right and wrong.”
“It’s all open to interpretation,” I say. “What is the Talmud but thousands of years of opinions?”
“So you think you were justified in lying to everyone?”
“It was my own business. That’s all I’m saying.”
“Not when the community is involved.”
I slam my cabinet closed.
“Let’s say HaShem exists—and I don’t believe he does—but let’s pretend for a second. Why would he want anything from you personally? What makes you so special?”
“I’m not special,” Herschel says.
“You don’t act like it. You act like you’re better than everyone. Nobody else wears payis at this school.”
“I’m trying to live a pious life,” Herschel says.
I punch my cabinet door. It makes a loud cracking sound.
“You used to be my friend!” I say. “But then you went to Israel and you flipped. What the hell happened?”
“You know what happened. I told you.”
“You didn’t tell me. You said we were wrong about things, that you found God, and I should find him, too. That’s not telling me.”
“I was at the kibbutz. You know this.”
“And God appeared to you while you were picking grapefruit?”
“Grapefruit is old school. We made fans.”
“Fans, then. They blew a God wind on you?”
“It’s not a joke,” Herschel says.
The class tone sounds, and the hall starts to empty.
“Why do you bring this up now?” Herschel says.
“Because I’m never going to talk to you again,” I say. “So we might as well get it out of the way. What happened to you in Israel? How did you find God?”
“I didn’t find God. I found a girl.”
I stop packing books.
“You met a girl in Israel, and you never told me?”
“Not just met. Fell hard.”
“How hard?”
“Initials hard.”
I’m shocked, but part of me feels happy to see a flash of the old Herschel. The human one. Not the religious robot that’s been passing for my old friend for the last two years.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I say.
“I couldn’t.”
“We were best friends.”
“I had my reasons,” he says.
“So this girl. She wouldn’t give you the time of day, and you became religious to compensate?”
That’s what happens to a lot of guys. They’ve got no game, so they get God instead.
“No,” Herschel says. “She fell, too.”
“For someone else.”
“For me, Sanskrit. We fell for each other. It happens, you know. Not everyone lives in your universe of unrequited love. Love requites. At least it did with Chana.”
“Chana.” I repeat the name, enjoying the guttural chet sound, the Hebrew letter that you pronounce like you’re clearing your throat. It makes her sound rough and sexual and Israeli all at the same time.
“We fell for each other, Sanskrit.” He lowers his voice and leans towards me. “We even slept together.”
“Newsflash: you’re a virgin.”
“No.”
“How could you keep something like that a secret? That’s the most important thing in the world.”
“Not so important.”
“What?! We’ve talked about sex for years. You never told me you knew how to do it.”
“I don’t know how to do it.”
“You did it.”
“I didn’t know what I was doing. It just happened.”
“Once?”
“A few times.”
“Jesus Christ,” I say. Herschel winces. “The cursing—”
“What do you want from me? This is unbelievable news.”
“It’s not—You’re not understanding me,” Herschel says.
“I understand that you had sex,” I say. “Though I admit I’m lacking certain critical details which you’re more than welcome to describe to me.”
“It’s not what you think,” he says.
“Well, what was it? What happened to the mysterious Chana?”
“She was from England. She went back home.”
“Oh. That sucks.”
“She had to.”
“What am I missing?”
“She was with child.”
“What?”
Herschel is speaking in biblical terms. But I know what he means. Pregnant.
“You have a kid?” I say.
“I don’t.”
“Wait. I’m confused. You said she was pregnant.”
“We terminated the pregnancy.”
“Oh my God.”
“I took the life of a child,” Herschel says.
His whole body changes. He leans against the wall, holding himself up with both arms.
“This is unbelievable,” I say. “You didn’t tell me any of this.”
“It was a secret,” he says.
He lets out a moan and slumps down to the floor, sitting with his back against the wall.
I think of Herschel when he came back from Israel. He was different, but I thought it was because of the religious conversion. Formal words, formal dress, services every day …
I sit on the floor next to Herschel, up close so our shoulders are touching.
“I can’t imagine how hard that must have been,” I say. “But it’s not like abortion is illegal in Israel. And it was your freshman summer. Nobody would blame you for not wanting to be a father.”
“Why not a father?” Herschel says. “Who says I’m supposed to be free and doing whatever I want in the world? Nobody. Judaism does not say we are free. We are bound to God.”
“You were a child. You didn’t know.”
“I was bar mitzvahed!” he says.
He means he was a man. He was responsible for his actions.
“You ask how I found God?” he says. “This is how. After it was done, my child came to me in a dream. Only he wasn’t mine anymore. He was HaShem’s child.”
Herschel bites at his lip.
“I can never undo what I did, but I can spend my life making amends. I can cleave myself to his will. That’s why I bought your mother to school. I was trying to do the right thing. I’m sorry if I caused you harm.”
“You didn’t do anything wrong.” I say. “I got what I deserved.”
He pats my forearm.
“God will find us, one way or the other,” he says. “Some of us are stubborn, and the journey to him is hard. I pray it goes more easily for you than it did for me, my friend.”
Herschel pulls himself up. He puts out a hand to help me up.
“Now you know everything,” he says.
We hug briefly, and he pats me on the cheek.
I laugh a little. “You’re like my zadie,” I say.
“When is your mother leaving?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Let me know if I can help in any way.” He forces a half smile, then walks away down the hall.
“It’s time.”
It’s Mom, calling to us from the living room.
Saturday morn
ing. Moving day.
“Kids, I’m leaving,” she says.
Sweet Caroline is crying in her bedroom. I hear the muffled sobs through the wall. Mom walks down the hall and goes into Sweet Caroline’s room. I can’t hear what they’re saying exactly, but I can imagine it.
After a few minutes, Sweet Caroline’s door opens, and Mom taps on my door.
“Sanskrit?”
I don’t answer.
“I’m leaving now.”
I hold my breath.
“Can I say good-bye?” Mom says.
She turns my doorknob, even though she’s not allowed to come in without my permission. It’s locked. I made sure of it.
“Please, Sanskrit.”
My lungs are burning. I want to take a breath, inhale so hard that I pull Mom into the room.
“Your father is on his way over,” Mom says. “Late as always. I have to leave or I’m going to miss my flight.”
I press my face into the pillow and take a breath. My nose fills with the scent of lavender. That’s the stuff Mom spritzes on the sheets when she gets them back from fluff-and-fold. Her little personal touch.
“I left a curry stew in the refrigerator,” Mom says.
I don’t acknowledge her.
“Sanskrit,” Mom says, her face pressed close to my door. “I want to tell you—”
A taxi blows its horn in front of the house.
I want Mom to finish the sentence. What was she going to say?
I love you.
I’m sorry.
I don’t want to go.
I’ll never know.
I wait for the scraping at my door to stop. For Mom’s footsteps to move away down the hall. For the front door to open and close. For the squeak of the cab’s brakes as it pulls away on the street.
For the house to go quiet.
It does.
A few minutes later, there’s a tap on my door.
I go over and pop the lock.
Sweet Caroline doesn’t say anything. She just stands there looking at the ground and chewing on a fingernail.
I go back and lay on my bed, look up at the ceiling. It needs paint. Mom’s been saying she was going to get the house painted for two years, but it never happens.
Sweet Caroline comes in and sits on the edge of the bed. The mattress creaks a little. Not much. She doesn’t weigh much.
Without a word, she lies down and presses her body into mine. I turn on my side and wrap my arm around her.
I smell the trace of lavender oil on the pillow mixing with the fruit shampoo scent of Sweet Caroline’s hair. It’s the smell of my family.
After a while, I hear the sound of a key in the front door followed by Dad cursing.
“How the hell does this thing—”
He doesn’t know the lock is old and doesn’t work right. You have to turn the knob half a turn or the key won’t engage.
Finally, he gets it, and the door swings open and slams against the wall too hard. Mom hates it when we slam the door. I told her she should install a doorstop instead of yelling all the time, but she said it was our responsibility to take care of our home, not some piece of rubber’s.
Dad curses again and closes the door.
Sweet Caroline is snoring softly in the bed next to me.
I press her shoulder.
“Dad’s here,” I say.
“Okay,” she says.
But she doesn’t move.
“We should go,” I say.
“To Dad’s.”
“We can make it work.”
“We make it work two days a month, Sanskrit. I’m not naïve. I know it’s not a thirty days per month kind of experience.”
She’s right. But I don’t say it. I say, “Let’s go and find out.”
She rolls away from me.
“I’ve got everything on a list.
I just need to find the list.”
That’s what Dad says. He stands there patting his pockets while Sweet Caroline and I wait for him.
We’re in the living room surrounded by boxes.
“Everything we need to do is on the list,” Dad says. “The packing, the organizing, the whatchamacallits. I just need to remember where I put it.”
“Did you look in your back pockets?” Sweet Caroline says.
“I did,” Dad says.
“Did you check your sock?” I say. Another of Dad’s favorite hiding places.
“Let me think for a minute,” Dad says.
Sweet Caroline clenches my arm, her fingers digging in. I can feel her starting to panic.
“It will be okay,” I tell her.
Dad looks around the room, confused.
The doorbell rings, and the three of us jump.
Sweet Caroline looks at me hopefully.
Is it Mom? Did she change her mind?
I rush to the door. It’s Herschel.
“On my way to Shabbos services,” he says. “I know it’s a big day. I hope you don’t mind that I—”
“I’m glad you’re here,” I say.
“Good Shabbos,” he says, and gives me a big hug.
He pokes his head in the front door.
“Good Shabbos, Zuckerman family,” he says.
Dad gives him a wave. Sweet Caroline forces a smile.
“Shall we sit outside for a minute?” he says.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell Dad.
I squat down on the front stoop. Herschel pulls a handkerchief from his suit pocket and brushes off the stairs so he won’t get his black pants dirty.
“Your mom?” Herschel says.
“She left a few minutes ago.”
“How are you doing?”
“I don’t know yet.”
He takes off his hat, fans his forehead with it.
“I was thinking a lot about you last night. Your situation,” he says.
“You mean school?”
“Not so much that. There are other schools. Other places to learn. You can always live a Jewish life. Nothing can prevent that if it’s what you want.”
“True,” I say. “If it’s what I want.”
“I was thinking more about your mother leaving.”
“What about her?”
“Did you ask her to stay?”
“It’s not that simple.”
“Why not?” Herschel says.
I think about that. I’ve tried all these way to manipulate Mom, change her mind, get her to see that we’re worth it. But did I ever ask her to stay?
What do you want? Mom said in the car yesterday.
But I didn’t answer. You shouldn’t have to ask your own mother to be a mother, should you?
“What does it matter now?” I say. “She left us. It’s too late.”
“It’s never too late,” Herschel says.
“What about God’s will?” I say. “If it’s God’s will for her to go, there’s nothing I can do to keep her here. You’ve said as much yourself.”
“Since when do you believe in God?” he says.
And then he smiles.
I glance through the open door behind me. Sweet Caroline is crying on the sofa while Dad rubs her back in little circles. He looks like he’s about to cry himself.
Maybe Herschel’s right. Maybe it isn’t too late.
I jump up.
“Dad! Start the car,” I shout.
“We have to pack your stuff first,” he says. “The list says—”
“Forget the list. We have to go now.”
Sweet Caroline looks at me like I’m crazy.
“Where are we going?” Dad says.
“We’re going to get Mom back,” I say.
Sweet Caroline leaps off the sofa.
“Let’s go!” she shouts.
We race to the car. Herschel follows us.
“What are you doing?” I say to him. “It’s Shabbat. You can’t be in a car.”
“I can if it’s life or death,” he says.
“Red lights are optional.”
&n
bsp; That’s what Dad says as we shoot through the intersection accompanied by a chorus of honking horns.
“Careful, Daddy,” Sweet Caroline says.
Dad snorts and drives faster. He slides through stop signs, speeds up when he sees yellow lights, tailgates, and passes on the right. He gets us to the airport in record time. I’ve never been so grateful to have a maniac driver for a father.
He pulls up to the white loading area in front of the Tom Bradley International Terminal, and I’m out of the car before it even stops, Herschel and Sweet Caroline racing along behind me.
“I’ll catch up to you!” Dad shouts after us.
We’re heading for the security check-in when I realize we’re in trouble.
“Boarding passes, please,” the TSA agent says. He’s tall and serious, a fifty-year-old guy who looks like a presidential candidate, a great mane of white hair on top of his head.
“We don’t have boarding passes,” I say. “We’re trying to get to our mother before she leaves the country.”
The agent looks us over. I’m sweating through my T-shirt, Sweet Caroline is fidgeting next to me and marching in place, and Herschel is in full Jewish garb, nervously spinning his hat on his head. We’re like an airport security training poster.
“I’m sorry,” he says. “I can’t let you through.”
“We lost our mom,” Sweet Caroline says. She starts to cry. It’s gotten us through a lot of jams in the past.
Not this time.
“Rules and regulations,” the TSA agent says, holding up his hand in a stop gesture. “I’ll call it in. We’ll make an announcement so your mother will know where to find you.”
“You don’t understand,” Sweet Caroline says.
“We have to get through!” I say, a little too loudly, because the TSA agent stands up from his chair and fingers the radio on his shoulder.
“I need you to take a step back,” he says firmly.
His partner stops what he’s doing and stands up, too, bracing for trouble.
“We’re going to get arrested,” Sweet Caroline says, panic in her voice.
“Why would you be arrested?” the agent says. He reaches towards something on his belt. Restraining cuffs.
Saying you’re going to get arrested in an airport these days pretty much guarantees that it’s going to happen.
