by Andrew Kane
“Yes, Mrs. Eisenman, it is.”
Instinctively, Williams took Joshua’s hand and helped him up. “It seems that Joshua fell. Right Joshua?” he said.
“Yes, I suppose I did.” Tentative.
Mrs. Eisenman watched curiously. “Shouldn’t you be at school now, Joshua?” she asked.
“Yes ma’am,” he said. “I was on my way there, running because I was late. That’s how I fell.” A bit more conviction this time.
“Are you okay? Do you need to come up for anything?” she asked.
“No, thanks to Mr. Williams here, I’m just fi-ne.” Joshua turned to Williams with a smirk.
“Vell, then I suggest you go off to school right now. Ve vouldn’t vant you to be any more late than you are already, vould ve?”
“No ma’am.”
Joshua walked to the front door, feigning a slight limp to impress the old lady. But as soon as he came out onto the sidewalk, he lost the limp, dashed up the block to the corner, and down the alleyway toward the back of the building.
He approached Celeste’s bedroom window out of breath. It was a dangerous and stupid move, he knew, being alone in the back of the building after his confrontation with Williams. Williams might have expected this, and could be waiting to finish what Mrs. Eisenman had interrupted. But Joshua didn’t care, his only thought was of Celeste. He needed to know if she was okay.
He tapped on the window, looking over his shoulder all the while. Her hand appeared and lifted the curtain. The window, though dirty, was clear enough for him to see dark swollen welts on her face and tears in her eyes. She looked as if she’d been beaten with a lead pipe.
She tried to open the window from inside, but it was stuck from not having been open in years. There was nothing Joshua could do to help. Her pushing quickly turned into pounding. It didn’t seem to faze her that the window might break or that her pounding could be heard throughout the building. The window didn’t budge.
The door to her bedroom burst open. She screamed with fear as she was pulled away. Through the grimy glass pane Joshua could see her father attack her, swinging at her head and body. Joshua slammed his fist through the glass, and barely noticed the blood on his hand as he started kicking the frame. Celeste’s screaming grew louder as he dislodged the frame and tried to squeeze through to get into the room. What he would do when he got in, he didn’t know.
Williams turned from his daughter, and seeing Joshua stuck, violently pulled Joshua’s legs, trying to drag Joshua into the room. Joshua kicked frantically to break free, pulled himself back out from the frame, and got to his feet. He ran back around to the front entrance of the building, raced up the stairwell to his apartment, went straight to the kitchen, and pulled open the knife drawer. He grabbed the largest knife he could find, hid it in his coat, and rushed back down the stairs.
He wasn’t sure what he was thinking, only that he needed to protect Celeste.
He made it to the basement, and at the front door to the Williams’ apartment he heard the mayhem from Celeste’s bedroom. Mrs. Williams was trying, unsuccessfully, to break it up, while Celeste was screaming, and Williams was yelling at his wife to get out of the way.
Joshua tried the door. It was open. He went into the living room, took a deep breath, and stepped into the bedroom. His hand was behind his back, clutching the knife.
Williams saw Joshua and charged, saliva drooling. Instinctively, Joshua took the knife from behind him, but Williams, too frenzied to notice, kept coming. He lunged, fell upon the knife, then backed away, standing erect, horrified, staring down at the blade handle protruding from his abdomen. He stumbled, looked bewilderingly at his wife and daughter, then fell over backwards to the floor.
Joshua saw that Mrs. Williams and Celeste were both in shock. He held his hand out for Celeste, but she was frozen, her face wet, her body shivering. He wanted her to grab him, to run away with him and never come back. But she just stood there, gaping at her father on the floor, a pool of blood forming around his body.
He was still breathing when Mrs. Williams came to her senses, ran to the phone, and called for help. Joshua tried again to get Celeste’s attention, but to no avail. The next thing he knew, he was running away. Alone.
The police picked him up a few hours later, wandering in the vicinity of Troy Avenue and Empire Boulevard. He wasn’t really trying to hide, just roaming the streets, thinking about what to do next. When they found him, he was actually relieved.
They took him to the precinct in the back seat of a patrol car. When he arrived there, he was processed by two plain-clothed officers. He figured they were detectives; they looked like the kind he had watched many times on TV. He loved police shows like Dragnet and Adam-12, but The Naked City was his favorite. It never bothered him that there weren’t any black heroes in any of those shows; that’s just the way things were.
The taller cop’s name was McQuade. He had thin, dirty blond hair, and a filterless Camel between his lips. He tried badgering Joshua about what had happened, but Joshua offered nothing other than where his mother could be contacted. Growing up on the streets had taught him when to keep his mouth shut.
The other cop had jet-black, greasy hair, a neatly trimmed mustache, muscular build, and olive skin. He didn’t bother telling Joshua his name, but did try the “buddy-buddy” routine. Joshua figured these guys took him for a fool, but he wasn’t going to fall for it. “I don’t know. When’s my Mama coming?” was his answer to each and every question.
He was, surprisingly, worried about Mr. Williams, but more so about Celeste. He also wondered about Jerome and Mrs. Williams. He was smart enough not to ask the cops anything, not to let on that he knew why he was there. Thank God for television.
The cops eventually became exasperated and placed him in a holding cell, where he sat for another twenty minutes, as they talked among themselves. Finally, his mother entered the squad room with a tall, dark-haired, middle-aged white man in a sharp, expensive looking suit. Joshua had never seen this man before, but assumed him to be Mr. Alfred Sims.
The detectives walked over to greet Loretta and Mr. Sims. Joshua moved closer to the bars to get a better look, and tried to listen to what was going on. His mother was crying, and it seemed Mr. Sims was consoling her while talking with the cops. Loretta turned toward Joshua with a look reflecting more sadness than anger. Joshua was taken aback; he had never seen such an expression on her.
It appeared that Sims was in control of the interchange, which lasted but a few moments. Detective McQuade then walked over to the holding cell, unlocked the door, and let Joshua out. “You’re a lucky kid,” he said.
Joshua kept silent.
McQuade escorted Joshua to Loretta and Sims, turned to Sims and said, “Here he is Al. Better keep a close watch on him if you don’t want him to end up here again.”
Sims nodded with a smile. “Thanks, John, I owe you one.”
Joshua was surprised that Sims and McQuade were so acquainted.
Sims shook hands with each of the detectives, the three of them smiling. Loretta barely acknowledged Joshua’s presence. He knew he was in deep trouble.
Joshua sat in the back seat quietly, as Alfred Sims drove him and his mother home. The first and only thing Sims said to him was something about not needing to worry about the cops. He was finding it hard to focus, and hadn’t heard the exact words. In any event, it seemed that Sims had somehow managed to convince the detectives to forget the whole thing and lose the paper work. From this, Joshua figured that Williams must be doing okay, and probably wouldn’t being pressing charges, all things considered. It seemed to Joshua that his mother’s employer wielded much influence, though he wondered just how much all this had cost.
Loretta remained silent in the car, but Joshua believed she would eventually make him wish he’d stayed in the holding cell. Sims dropped them in front of the building, said good-night to Loretta, and gave Joshua a stern warning about straightening up. Joshua thought it odd for this stranger
to be so authoritative with him, but realized that the guy had saved his hide. He owed Sims, so the least he could do was pretend to listen.
When they got upstairs, Loretta sent him to his room and added, “I’m gonna make some supper. I’ll call you when it’s ready.” That was all she said.
Joshua sat on his bed, thinking about Celeste. He could take whatever punishment his mother would dish out, but Celeste—he just couldn’t bear to think what her father was capable of. He tried taking comfort in the hope that Williams might change now that Mr. Sims and others were aware of the beating. But Joshua knew better. He had instincts about such things, a peculiar familiarity with evil for someone his age. Big Bob had been right about the lessons you learn on the street.
Several hours passed before Loretta called him into the kitchen for dinner. They sat across from one another at the small table, and Joshua helped himself to a hefty portion of macaroni and cheese from the serving bowl.
Loretta didn’t eat, and didn’t speak. She just sat there and looked at her son with that same expression she’d worn in the police station. Joshua tried ignoring her, stuffing his mouth with food, but the tension got to him. He wished she would say something, chew him out and pronounce his sentence. The silence was unlike her; she’d found a new weapon.
Without realizing it, he’d polished off the macaroni. He looked at the empty serving bowl, and said, “I’m sorry Mama, guess I was hungry.”
“Guess you were,” she replied. “You should be, after not eating for a whole day.” She got up and took the dishes to the sink.
He waited for her to say more, but she didn’t. “I’m also sorry about today,” he said, a quiver in his voice.
No reply.
“I know you’re angry, Mama, but…”
“Now listen here, Joshua,” she jumped in, “before you go offering excuses, let me tell you a thing or two.” She turned from the sink and looked at him. “First, it ain’t none of your business if Mr. Williams got what was coming to him, or not. That there’s The Lord’s concern. Your place is in school, and if you’d been there as you’re supposed to be, none of this would’ve happened.”
“But that’s not true Mama, he beats her always, he don’t even need a reason!”
She stopped, pondered his statement, and asked, “If he beats her for no reason, then why go and give him a reason?”
Joshua didn’t answer.
“That’s my point, Joshua—you had no business missing school with this girl, no business being in this house with her. And I don’t wanna know what the two of you been up to when you were here.”
So that was her lecture. Surprisingly, nothing about his having stabbed Williams, only for having gotten himself into that situation in the first place. It was as if she believed that Williams had gotten what he deserved, but wished it hadn’t come from her son.
Joshua knew that it was his lying and deceit that had hurt her. It was also that she blamed herself, the long days away at work, leaving him alone to fend for himself. All these years she had tried to protect him, to teach him the right way. And now, she believed she had failed.
For Joshua, realizing all this was punishment enough. Well, not quite enough. His mother added something extra: he was grounded for the remainder of the school year, four months to be exact, confined to the house after school and on weekends, without television, and no friends over either. Mrs. Eisenman would be checking up more frequently to insure compliance, though to Joshua’s thinking that wouldn’t be necessary. He was certain he would do as he was told.
CHAPTER 12
“Look young man, this is my home and I decide what we eat. You are not going to take over our lives with your religious fanaticism!” Such were Evelyn Sims’ words when Paul finally refused to eat the pork chops she had served for dinner. It was about a year after Paul’s Bar Mitzvah. “If you don’t want what I give you, then don’t eat. Or move in with that rabbi and eat what his wife makes.”
“I don’t understand what you’re so upset about, I just don’t want to eat that kind of meat anymore, that’s all,” he said.
“What I’m so upset about,” she yelled. “What I’m so upset about is the way you’ve tried to take over our lives. We’ve given you everything, and now you behave as if that’s not good enough!”
“Please, Evelyn, stop screaming,” Alfred interjected, seeming more engrossed in his food than in the problem. “It’s just a phase he’s going through, don’t worry about it.”
“A phase,” she parroted angrily. “With you, everything is a phase. After all, he’s not criticizing what you made for dinner…”
“I’m not criticizing anything,” Paul asserted.
“Don’t interrupt me when I’m speaking young man,” she said. “Or didn’t your rabbi teach you about honoring your parents?”
Paul was seething. At this point in an argument with her, he would always seethe. He knew there was never any winning, or reasoning. She believed what she wanted.
In past years, he had occasionally resorted to temper tantrums, banging on walls and throwing things. Once he had gotten so enraged, he actually spit at her. He wasn’t proud of these things; there were simply times when he just didn’t know what else to do. He bore the brunt of her misery, he was her scapegoat, and he was trapped. Doctor Goldman had helped him with his temper, but at moments like this he felt tested.
He sat there, trying to control himself, recalling his last session with Goldman, in which he had revealed an incident that had occurred when he was seven years old. Evelyn was going to visit her sick father in a hospital somewhere in New York City, and took him along because she couldn’t find a sitter. The details were scanty, but Paul had remembered that they were stopped at a red light and it appeared as if smoke was rising from the hood of the car.
“Look Mommy, there’s smoke coming out!”
“Oh my God!” She opened the car door and jumped out to see what was happening. Paul followed. They examined the car and looked underneath, and discovered that what Paul had seen was not smoke from the engine, but steam rising from a man-hole. Of course, young Paul’s intentions had been completely innocent, but that didn’t stop his mother from grabbing him by the jacket and dragging him back into the car, yelling, “I’m going to punish you for this. You knew there was nothing wrong with the car. You were just trying to aggravate me! You’re just like your father, always trying to upset me!”
Then too, Paul had tried to explain to her; then too, it was pointless.
It might have been easier for him if she was purely evil. He could simply hate her and that would be that. But she was a contradiction, a cross between an overprotective Jewish mother and a wretched neurotic. He never knew which to expect.
Whenever he was sick, she was at his side, sometimes through the night. Once when he was ten years old, he had come home from school shaking and nauseated, on the verge of vomiting. Evelyn hadn’t been there, so Loretta rushed him to the bathroom, and tried to help him vomit.
“I can’t!” he protested, sitting on the floor by the toilet, afraid of gagging.
“If you let yourself throw up, you’ll feel better,” Loretta said, her hand on his shoulders to comfort him.
“Where’s my mother?”
“She’s out shopping. What does that matter?”
“If she were here, maybe I could.”
“You need her here to throw up?”
“I don’t know, I just can’t do it till she gets here.”
“Well, that may be a while yet, and you look like you best throw up soon.”
Lucky for him, he heard his mother come through the front door at that very moment. “Maaaa,” he called from the bathroom.
“What’s the matter?” Evelyn yelled.
He hadn’t had the strength to answer.
“He’s up here, in the bathroom, Missus Sims. He’s pretty sick by the looks of him.”
Evelyn hurried up the stairs. “What’s wrong?” she said as she came into the bathroom.
“He needs to throw up, but he won’t do so without you,” Loretta explained.
Evelyn knelt on the floor beside him. “It’s okay, Paul,” she said calmly as she began gently rubbing his back.
Within seconds, he vomited.
Because of incidents like this, Paul Sims knew he loved and needed his mother. And he believed that, however strange her way of showing it, she loved him as well. The problem was her inconsistency, and that was why he had become so fearful of people in general. He never knew just what to expect, never felt quite secure or safe from somehow being hurt.
Thus, the appeal of Rabbi Isaac Weissman’s world—a life centered around books and learning, structured and consistent, everything according to the dictates of the law. The axioms were simple: study, and you will know how to be a righteous Jew; be a righteous Jew, and you will find fulfillment.
And there was also Rabbi Weissman himself, the first person with whom Paul had ever felt completely at ease. The rabbi had never pushed Paul to become Orthodox, for that would have created more problems for the boy than solutions. He was also careful not to provoke Alfred and Evelyn into terminating his services or depriving Paul of the occasional Sabbath visits to his home. Moreover, Rabbi Isaac Weissman was a patient man, certain that God would decide the right time for Paul to join the fold.
And Paul, in his desire to gain favor with the rabbi’s daughter, was giving God’s plan a little push.
A few weeks later, Paul found himself once again at the rabbi’s Sabbath table, this time donning a dark suit and fedora. He had coaxed his mother into buying the navy blue suit, dark enough for him and blue enough for her—a rare compromise.
As for the hat, he had purchased that on his own, with his allowance savings, and kept it in the rabbi’s house for Sabbath visits. He didn’t ask the rabbi outright not to tell his parents about it, but he had confidence in the rabbi’s discretion.
Paul was proud of his new outfit. In it, he felt he belonged. The followers of Rav Schachter, however, still seemed weary of his presence. He sensed continuing hostility in their eyes, and wondered about it. He had become more aware of the divisions in the community, of Rabbi Weissman’s prominent position among Rav Feldblum’s flock. Even earlier that very evening on the way home from the synagogue, Rabbi Weissman’s neighbors had once again been complaining about Rav Schachter’s followers, referring to them as “fanatics” and the like. Again, Rabbi Weissman had insisted that the Rebbe would soon address the problem. It had been over a year since Paul had first heard those words from Rabbi Weissman, yet still there had been no reaction from the Rebbe, causing Paul to wonder who the Rebbe really favored.
