Joshua: A Brooklyn Tale

by Andrew Kane

  Mr. Harvey hung up, looked across the desk at Paul, and asked, “Well, what’s it going to be?”

  Goldman was in an unenviable position. Mr. Harvey was his boss, and Paul was his client. He remained silent.

  Paul wondered if he would be allowed to cover his head if he’d had an injury, or had lost his hair from some illness. He chose not to ask. There was no point in arguing. “I’m sorry, Mr. Harvey, but nothing that you, Dr. Goldman, or my father can say will convince me to take off my hat.”

  Goldman, aware that Harvey was waiting for his input, was also aware that there was nothing he could say that would make a difference. He had gotten through to Paul on many things, but when it came to religion, the boy was inflexible. Goldman also suspected that this entire situation was coming off exactly as Paul had hoped. Paul had confided in Goldman about his desire to leave this school and attend yeshiva, and about his frustration over his parents’ disapproval. What better way, Goldman reasoned, than getting suspended like this, to change their minds?

  “I suppose you understand the consequences of your refusal to follow the rules,” Goldman said, only because he had to say something.

  Paul seemed to understand perfectly well.

  By the time Paul got home, his mother had been alerted to what had happened. “You see, I warned you that your fanaticism would get you into trouble. You just don’t listen, do you!” she harangued as he came through the door.

  Trying to ignore her, he started up the stairs to his bedroom.

  “Don’t you dare walk away when I’m talking to you!”

  “You’re not talking to me, you’re screaming.” He continued on his way.

  “This is my house, and if I want to scream, I’ll scream,” she shouted, following after him.

  He turned to her, pointed to his ears, and said, “And these are my ears. If I don’t want to listen, I won’t.” With that, he slammed his bedroom door.

  He waited for her to open the door and really give it to him, but the phone rang. He figured it was probably his father, checking on the situation.

  A few minutes passed before his mother burst in, saying, “Your father wants you to stay right here in this room until he comes home.” Paul was sitting at his desk, wearing his yarmulke, and hovering over one of the books of the Talmud. “While you’re at it,” she added, “take a look in there for what it says about slamming doors in your mother’s face and talking back to her. Or did you skip that chapter?”

  She left before he could reply, though he really had no response. Unable to concentrate, he closed the book. He felt antsy, and didn’t care that his father had grounded him. He wanted to go out.

  It wouldn’t be the first time that he’d left through his bedroom window. When he was younger he had done it often, for no other reason than to prove he could. His parents had never suspected.

  There were two windows, one that looked out to the front of the house, and another that bordered part of the roof. He opened the latter one, hoisted himself up on the ledge, and climbed out onto the roof.

  As soon as he was on the roof, he made his way to the side of the house, where the branches of a tall sycamore were in reach. He looked down, smiled at how easy it was, and grabbed onto one of the tree’s solid branches.

  He walked across the front lawn to the road, reached into his pocket and felt a dollar and some change, more than enough for a candy bar and a coke. His house was on Everit Avenue, near the entrance to Hewlett Harbor. “The Harbor,” as it was called, was considered by The New York Times as one of the five wealthiest communities in the country, inhabited by mostly Jews, with a smattering of WASPs and white Catholics. It was rumored that Sammy Davis Jr. had once attempted to purchase a home there, but had somehow been dissuaded.

  Everit Avenue was close to the shopping district of the town of Hewlett, and less than a mile from the bay, where the most expensive homes were. But even on Everit, there were homes that qualified as “estates,” some of which were surrounded by more than an acre of land. While Paul’s house wasn’t quite that large, it was still impressive by most standards. Sitting on about half an acre of fastidious landscaping, it was a three story edifice with four bedrooms and two baths on the top floor; dining room, living room, den, study, maid’s room, eat-in kitchen, and two baths on the ground floor; playroom, four walk-in closets, laundry room, guest bedroom with bathroom, and finished sitting room with a fully stocked bar in the basement. Outside, in the back, was an in-ground pool, which was seldom used. Alfred was never around, and Evelyn didn’t like Paul “traipsing” through the house in a wet bathing suit. It was there because, like everything else, it looked good.

  The neighborhood was quiet. The kids on the block were still in school, not that Harbor children were ever found playing in the streets anyway. Paul could smell the pollen from blooming trees and fresh cut grass as he sauntered past the houses. Hewlett Harbor was definitely a nice place, he had to admit, but he preferred Brooklyn. At least there he could wear his yarmulke in peace.

  Suddenly, he realized he still had his yarmulke on, and that he had forgotten his baseball cap. He was halfway down the block, and couldn’t go back, so he kept walking. The end of Everit Avenue intersected with Broadway, the main street for the town of Hewlett. Just before the intersection sat the local public high school. Kids from “The Harbor” generally didn’t attend public school.

  As he neared the high school, he heard a bell ring from inside. He looked at his wristwatch and realized it was the end of the school day. A few seconds later, the doors to the building opened and hordes of teenagers burst out.

  He felt uneasy wearing the yarmulke. In the past, he’d had a few scuffles with public school kids, especially some of the Italian and Irish kids from the middle-class neighborhood of Gibson, who liked to bother him and other Academy students. Sometimes things got physical; mostly it was just heckling.

  Paul realized that, under the circumstances, it would be wise for him to remove the yarmulke. But he didn’t. A Jew must cover his head! I cannot be a hypocrite! I will not be afraid! He told himself these things as he recalled Rabbi Weissman’s stories of Jews who refused to shave their beards or remove their head coverings in Nazi Europe. “You must be proud to be a Jew,” the rabbi had said, “and sometimes you must suffer because of it!” Paul pictured the rabbi’s soft eyes turn ablaze with those words, and became ashamed of his fear.

  He was walking fast, and came to the corner of Everit and Broadway. The candy store was just on the other side of Broadway, half a block down. The traffic light was against him, he had to wait. He heard rowdy voices behind him, and the beating of his own heart.

  It was a group of five kids, and they were less than ten feet from him when the light finally turned. He started to cross the street and thought he heard the word “Jew-cap” followed by laughter. He wasn’t sure if he was being paranoid or not, so he continued crossing, trying not to appear frightened. The kids were right behind him. He quickened his pace; they quickened theirs. Now, he was certain he wasn’t paranoid.

  “Hey Vinny,” one of his pursuers said, addressing a tall, dark, good looking kid who seemed to be the leader, “the sissy is a yid.”

  They all laughed.

  “What you gotta say, sissy? Maybe you gotta a bald spot youze covering or somethin’?” another added.

  Paul ignored them. By the time he reached the curb he decided to make a dash for it, but as soon as he started to run, two of them grabbed him, and two others blocked his way.

  Vinny, the leader, stood proudly, watching his henchmen at work. Paul tried to wrestle free, but couldn’t. Vinny began to laugh again. He had a sadistic look; he was enjoying this. “Is it true, sissy, that your people killed Christ?” he asked, peering directly into Paul’s eyes.

  Paul didn’t respond, and stopped struggling.

  “Vinny asked you a question,” one of the others said, “or are you deaf along with being dumb?”

  “Why don’t you do what you want and get it
over with,” Paul said.

  “Okay guys, lets grant the Jew-boy his wish,” Vinny said as he pointed toward the back of the shopping center. Paul was scared, but did a good job of hiding it. He would let them get their kicks, then it would be over.

  “My God, what the hell happened?” Evelyn exclaimed as Paul came through the door, his face bloodied and swollen. She was so beside herself at the sight, she forgot he’d gone AWOL.

  Paul groaned, indicating that talking was painful, and went directly to the freezer for some ice. She noticed the yarmulke and had the answer to her question.

  She followed him to the kitchen. “Let me help you,” she said, taking the ice tray from his hands. She started preparing an ice pack.

  She handed him the ice-pack, helped him sit, and asked, “Who did this?”

  He shrugged, pretending he didn’t know, then grunted again, reminding her that he couldn’t speak. She left him sitting at the table, and went to the bathroom for some iodine and bandages.

  “Did some kids do this because you were wearing the yarmulke?” she asked as she came back into the kitchen.

  Paul winced at the sight of the iodine. He dreaded what was coming next, the real punishment. He looked at her and nodded, “Yes.” Why not tell the truth, he figured, hoping she might appreciate the strength of his convictions. Maybe she’ll respect me, he thought, though he knew she wouldn’t.

  “Well, I hope you learned a lesson. It is just plain stupid for you to wear that thing all over the place, especially in school and on the street.” She reached over and began to clean his face with soap and warm water. Unlike her words, her touch was soft.

  He flinched from the sting of the iodine, as he wondered why she hadn’t yet mentioned his sneaking out of the house. Then, it occurred to him: she was probably leaving that for his father. I’m sure she is, he mused, wondering how he was going to deal with that.

  Alfred entered the house and was removing his coat when the private phone in his study rang. He had a special line installed about three months earlier, after years of Evelyn’s complaints about his tying up the house phone in the evenings. What she had wanted was for him to stop conducting business at home and spend more time with her. She should have known better.

  Thinking it was an important call—what else could it be at this time—he hurried and grabbed the receiver by the third ring. The man on the other end identified himself.

  “Yes, good evening Rabbi Weissman,” Alfred said with exasperation, wondering about the rabbi’s perfect timing, and also how the rabbi had gotten his private number.

  “I hope I’m not disturbing you,” the rabbi said.

  “Well, I just got home and…”

  “Then I’ll only be a minute. You see, I’ve spoken vith Paul today and I understand there’s been some problems in school, and some trouble vith kids in the neighborhood.”

  Alfred hated the way the rabbi replaced W’s with V’s, pronouncing vith instead of with. Why can’t he speak like an American, Alfred wondered. And why can’t he stay out of my fucking life.

  “I would say so,” Alfred said. Evelyn had called him earlier to tell him about the shopping center incident.

  “Vell, I’m calling to tell you that I have a solution to all this.”

  What the hell is “vell,” Alfred thought. Maybe I should ask him. Yea, that’s a good idea. Hey, rabbi, what’s “vell”? And he’ll probably answer, “Vell, Mr. Sims, is a vord.” Alfred said nothing.

  “I’ve been thinking about how Paul maybe vould be better off in a yeshiva, yes?”

  “In a what?”

  “A yeshiva,” the rabbi repeated, acting as if Alfred hadn’t actually heard him.

  “Look rabbi, with all due respect, my wife and I will handle this our way, and that doesn’t include putting Paul in a yeshiva.”

  At this point Alfred’s voice grew loud enough for Evelyn to hear from the den where she’d been watching TV. She got up and came into the study to listen to Alfred’s end of the conversation.

  “Please, Mr. Sims, before you make any judgments, it seems you should consider how committed Paul is to being a Torah Jew. You can ignore this if you vant, you can even try to change it, but in the end he vill still be what he vants to be. I suppose you could say that he’s maybe like you in that respect?”

  Alfred listened to the rabbi’s point. He knew he had long ago lost control over his son, and also realized that Paul was now sixteen, not quite a “boy” anymore. But yeshiva? That was something else. How could he, Alfred Sims—neé Simenovitz—send his son to a yeshiva, after having spent most of his life shunning his ethnicity. It was too much to digest. What’s next, he asked himself. Who knows, maybe the kid will want to become a rabbi?

  “There is vone more thing I should tell you, Mr. Sims, though you probably already know.”

  Alfred waited.

  “The boys in our yeshiva don’t get drafted into the army. Ve claim they are all rabbinical students, and the government doesn’t bother them.”

  Being a vet himself, Alfred was aware of 4-D deferments. He often thought about the Vietnam war, and what would happen if Paul were drafted. A kid who could barely make it in Hewlett Harbor wouldn’t fare very well in Southeast Asia. The rabbi had struck a chord.

  Evelyn noticed the defeat in Alfred’s eyes, something she’d never seen before. She also knew what it meant. She and Alfred had been far from ideal parents, and now it was time to pay.

  The rest of Alfred’s conversation with the rabbi was short. Within himself, he couldn’t deny that Paul’s tenacity was indeed inherited. He recalled a Biblical passage from his childhood, the one about the sins of the fathers being visited upon the sons, and realized that his own proclivities had come back to haunt him.

  When he hung up, he was silent for a moment, then looked at Evelyn and said, “Well, I guess that’s that.” His tone wasn’t flippant, just resigned.

  She shared a final glance with him, and left the room.

  Alone in his study, Alfred looked around, reflecting over what his life had become. He pictured his mother, how she would have been proud of Paul in a way she had never been of him. He also reminisced about his father, a simple man from the old country who, though forced to work on the Sabbath, never lit a cigarette from sundown Friday through Saturday evening. Avrum Simenovitz, a devoted Jew, would have been appalled at the life his son had chosen, yet would have found great satisfaction in his grandson. Yes Mama, Alfred thought, now Papa is really turning over in his grave. Turning over and laughing.

  A week later, Paul Sims was enrolled in the Yeshiva O’havei Torah on Eastern Parkway in Crown Heights, a high school yeshiva for boys under the auspices of the Lubavitcher Hasidim. That Sunday, his father accompanied him, and most of his worldly possessions, to the dormitory. As the car pulled up, Rabbi Weissman was waiting outside on the sidewalk, holding the black fedora which Paul had kept at his home. Alfred and Paul emerged from the car, shook hands with the rabbi, and the rabbi handed Paul the hat.

  Alfred watched, wincing as his son put the fedora on, relieved that Evelyn had chosen not to accompany them. He looked at Paul, and realized for the first time that his son was truly a stranger. And deep in his heart, sadly enough, he understood that this was exactly what he had forced the boy to become.

  CHAPTER 15

  “If I ran away, would you come with me?” Celeste asked.

  “What are you talking about?” Joshua replied.

  “One day I’m gonna go,” she said. “I just wanna know if you’re coming.” Her eyes were pensive, her voice soft and serious. She looked past him, at the trees behind the park bench on which they sat.

  “Where do you think you’re going?”

  “Don’t know,” she answered hesitantly, her eyes still looking elsewhere. “Don’t matter.”

  “I thought things were okay now.”

  “What’s okay?”

  “You know, your father don’t hit you and Jerome any more. And you and I are okay, too.”r />
  “Oh.” Impassive.

  “Oh what?”

  “I guess you’re right,” she said without conviction.

  He let it drop, but was still worried. He wanted to tell her he would go anywhere with her, only he couldn’t. A year ago there wouldn’t have been a question, he would have packed his bags on the spot. But now things were different. He’d been off the streets, getting straight A’s in school, and his mother had been treating him like a man. Moreover, Loretta was growing tired and needed him around. He wanted to be with Celeste, but he had responsibilities. He hoped she would understand that he couldn’t choose between her and his mother, and prayed he wouldn’t have to.

  The next day, Celeste didn’t show up in school. Joshua wanted to ask Jerome if everything was okay, but they hadn’t spoken since the stabbing incident. It would have been a poor ice breaker for him to remind Jerome of his continued involvement with Celeste.

  Joshua couldn’t figure Jerome out. He believed Jerome hated his father, and might one day even kill the man himself. In any event, Jerome had become quite the “holy roller.” He attended church several times a week, and spent most afternoons and weekends at Roy Sharp’s home, studying religion with Roy’s father, the preacher. Joshua wondered if it helped.

  After lunch, Joshua noticed that Jerome didn’t return to class, and wondered if Jerome had also been concerned about Celeste’s absence. He reassured himself that she wouldn’t have run away without him.

  Or would she?

  Just as the class was about to begin, he got up and hurried home.

  He tapped on her bedroom window, but she didn’t appear. Harder, and still nothing. Something was wrong. He tried the back door to the building, but it was locked, so he decided to go around to the front.