by David Hopen
“Nothing, actually,” I said.
“Oliver’s tequila,” Amir said.
The girl with her arm around Amir snatched his cup. “Oliver’s got good taste.”
“Highly debatable,” Amir said. “And easy on the gulping. We don’t want a repeat of last week.”
The blue-eyed girl laughed. The shorter girl slapped Amir in playful protest.
“Ladies, this is Ari Eden. Ari, this is Lily,” he said, gesturing to the shorter one, “and Nicole,” gesturing to the other, whose smile conveyed palpable disinterest.
Lily tossed the empty cup aside and grabbed Amir’s hand. “Let’s get refills?”
Amir gave me a final nod and allowed himself to be led away. This left me with Nicole. I stared, bit my lip nervously. A few moments ticked by. I tried a feeble smile. “Nice to meet you,” I said, finally, wincing at how high-pitched my voice sounded.
“Yes,” she said, her voice—low, sweet—trailing into silence, as if to dissuade me. She stood on her toes until she spotted a friend. “Excuse me a moment—”
Red-cheeked, hair on end, I watched her leave, praying no one had seen. Sure enough, I felt a clap on my back. My ears filled with familiar laughter. “Lord, that was excruciating.”
Rebecca, standing with Noah, grabbed my hand affectionately. “Leave him be,” she soothed, scolding Noah. “And don’t mind Nicole, Ari. She’s always been a bit standoffish.”
A charged hush descended over the room. At the kitchen doorway stood a bearded, middle-aged man, stout and sloppily dressed, arms folded across his chest.
“Shit,” Rebecca said. “Isn’t that Niman’s uncle?”
The room froze, eyeing him cautiously. Niman, dumbfounded, let out a pained squeal, but her uncle only went on staring. The rest of us stood in perfect stillness, camouflaging from a predator. Then, on cue, in stumbled Oliver from the bathroom, drunk, squinting, breaking the silence with an enormous belch. “What happened to the music?”
“Oliver!” Rebecca hissed. “Come. Here.”
Oliver laughed, walking up to Niman’s uncle. “Who the fuck is this guy?”
“Leave.” The uncle shook with rage. “I advise you to—”
A moment of horror as we watched Oliver slowly raise his cup and, before Niman’s uncle could finish speaking, dump its contents over the uncle’s head. Reflexively, the uncle swiped Oliver with the back of his hand, sending Oliver stumbling. “Out!” he yelled, surging to life, tequila dripping from his raggedy beard. “Out or I call the cops!”
An avalanche of cups, a great exodus toward the door. Noah grabbed Oliver, who cursed drunkenly and staggered about, a bright-red handprint tattooed across his right cheek, and steered him away. Outside, we raced to the cars. Rebecca seized the keys from Noah, whom she deemed too drunk to drive, and we piled into the Audi.
“Wait,” Noah said as Rebecca started the engine. “Where’s Amir?”
Screaming from the front of the house, Niman’s uncle had Lily and Amir by the collars and was attempting to throw them off the property.
“Get off me,” Amir yelled, struggling to loosen the uncle’s grip. Lily, hair tussled, went bright with embarrassment.
“In my brother’s house!” Niman’s uncle shouted. “In my own brother’s house!”
Suddenly, Niman, a blur of flaming hair, launched her diminutive frame onto her uncle’s back, allowing Amir and Lily to break for the car. Amir slid over my legs toward Oliver while Lily squeezed onto my lap, slammed the door and yelled for Rebecca to drive, all without giving me so much as a backward glance. Invisibility suited me.
I rode in silence, inhaling the rich leather of the Audi’s interior, astonished at what I’d witnessed: smoking, drinking, an adult striking a teenager. It was past one when I walked through my front door. I removed my shoes outside, tiptoed to my room. In bed, I considered the long way from Brooklyn, imagined Shimon’s reaction to finding Lily on his lap. As I drifted into sleep, I thought of Socrates reminding Simmias that a simple way leads to Hades.
* * *
I WOKE EARLY TO ACCOMPANY my father to shachris. I was sleepy-eyed in the car and said little, grateful for my father’s silence. We sat in the back of the sanctuary, a change for us, considering my father insisted on claiming the first row in our Brooklyn shul, and wrapped the straps of our tefillin around our biceps and foreheads. My father, talis over his head, asked whether any of the boys with whom I was out the previous night were present. I shook my head. During Shemoneh Esrei, while my father swayed and I studied the glass-stained mosaics lining the sanctuary—a celestial ladder, a divided sea, a variegated coat—I noticed Amir shuffle quietly through the side door. He had his arm underneath the elbow of a beefy, elderly Israeli who maneuvered with a cane. I was floored: Amir, a few hours after being caught with Lily, now doubled as a ghost from my old life.
Amir was still bent in prayer when minyan ended, so I couldn’t catch his eye. I pointed him out to my father as we left. He smiled to himself and seemed, in some small way, more content for the rest of the day.
* * *
I SPENT THE MORNING EDITING Noah’s paper. It was, at best, mediocre. I fixed grammatical errors, struck a particularly far-fetched suggestion about Shade’s sexual proclivities and then deposited the paper in his mailbox. Later, as I sat by my pool, revisiting my own work—I realized, with alarm, that the start of school was marching closer, only days away now—my cellphone rang.
“Hello?”
“It’s your favorite neighbor.”
“Hey, Noah.”
“The edits were fantastic. Really a game changer. I have to thank you again.”
“My pleasure.”
“I can totally pay, by the way.”
“Pay?”
“Yeah, a lot of people don’t do this for free.”
“No, no, that’s okay.”
“You sure? You know, you could really charge for this. People would pay good money if you started ghostwriting essays. You’ve got skills.”
“I think I’m good, thanks.”
“All right, well, if you change your mind let me know. I could spread the word.”
“Right,” I said uncomfortably. A mosquito landed on my arm and attempted to steal my blood. I crushed it against my skin. “Thanks.”
“So,” he said, “how’d you sleep after the big night?”
“Fine,” I said, opting not to mention my nightmare of a cartoon version of Uncle Norman chasing me with an ax.
“Glad to hear. We’re hitting the beach now. Be outside in ten.”
* * *
HE ARRIVED WITH THE ENTOURAGE: Rebecca in front, her hair braided, one of Noah’s oversized muscle shirts over her bathing suit; Oliver, donning chrome-red sunglasses, and Amir, shirtless, in back.
“Know something,” Amir told me as I climbed in and took my place in the middle, “you’re the only other kid from school I’ve ever seen attend minyan.”
“I didn’t think you saw me.”
“He’s intense when he prays, isn’t he?” Oliver said.
“Sorry if my praying upsets you, Oliver.”
“Don’t be,” Oliver said. “I just think you’re a fascinating dude.”
“How’s that?” Amir asked.
“Boys,” Rebecca said, “let’s not.” Noah switched lanes, cutting off the car behind us, which honked madly. Oliver and Amir, in unison from opposite ends of the back row, stuck middle fingers out the windows.
“You’re an enigma, that’s all,” Oliver continued, rolling up his window. “Ari, tell him he’s an enigma.”
“Really, can we not start this please?” Rebecca called from the front, fidgeting with the air-conditioning. “And leave Ari out of this.”
“Why am I an enigma?” Amir said.
“Because you’re out with Lily, and then you scamper to minyan in the morning.”
Amir resumed that anxious knuckle cracking. “Does no one else think Oliver’s a bit too obsessed with me?”
“Don
’t be so sensitive. I’m just explaining things to our new friend—right, Ari? I mean, wouldn’t you say you’re kind of confused about how things work around here?”
“Nope,” I said quickly, yielding to a sudden urge to examine my fingernails. “I mind my own business.” In truth, of course, I did not quite understand how faith functioned in this quasi-secular world. Noah and Oliver, for instance, despite the fact that they attended a yeshiva high school, had not yet worn yarmulkes in my presence. (Amir, for his part, currently had his head covered with an aqua Dolphins bucket hat.) Such behavior in Brooklyn would have been unfathomable, and yet here it appeared perfectly normal. And so while I wondered to what extent their families maintained kosher homes or observed Shabbat, I understood that, though perhaps never articulated formally, selectivity functioned as the organizing principle of Zion Hills’s breed of religiosity. Here, apparently, one enjoyed the luxury of embracing mitzvoth deemed enjoyable or meaningful while neglecting those deemed burdensome or outdated. Shimon, my former rabbis, even my father would scoff at such freedom of choice, would lament a Jew unilaterally discarding centuries of tradition. I, however, was beginning to recognize the value of adhering to ancient rituals without sacrificing participation in the modern world.
Oliver smiled. “Is that right? So if I asked you, for example, whether you would turn on your bedroom lights during Shabbat, you’d say . . . ?”
I cleared my throat. “I don’t do that.”
“But if I asked you whether Noah does it? Whether I do it?”
“That has nothing to do with me.”
“It sure doesn’t. But what would you guess?”
“Oliver,” Rebecca said. “Enough.”
“You’re allowed to speak up, dude,” Oliver said. “Nobody actually cares.”
“Look, I really don’t know,” I said.
“Do you think Amir does it?”
“Does what?” I asked.
Oliver shrugged. “Violates Shabbat.”
Amir opened his mouth to say something but decided against it. “No,” I decided, avoiding Amir’s gaze. “I guess not.”
Oliver smirked. “Well, allow me to break it down for you. Here are the rules, as actually practiced. On Shabbat, we don’t drive, we don’t work, but maybe we send a few texts or brush up against the TV so that the Heat game magically comes on. No meat out, Heaven Forbid, but go ahead and stuff your face with dairy, especially if you’re on vacation and no one’s looking. Do we really believe in the Flood or in the splitting of the sea or in, I don’t know, Balaam’s talking donkey? Maybe we do, maybe we don’t, but either way we’re sure as hell going to make sure you understand it’s imperative that you drop several years of what’s basically college tuition to ensure your kids learn these stories and develop the very same ambivalence!”
An awkward pause ensued during which I stared self-consciously out the windshield. Rebecca shook her head, returning her attention to her Twitter feed. Noah lowered the music slightly. “Jeez, Oliver,” he said, “have you been FaceTiming Evan for lessons or something?”
“Say whatever you want,” Amir said, rubbing his exposed shoulders, “but just because you’re too shallow or too stupid or too, I don’t know, too depraved to appreciate the complexities of Orthodox life doesn’t mean it doesn’t have depth.”
Oliver raised his hands in peace. “All I’m saying,” he said drolly, “is that Modern Orthodoxy is quite the experiment.”
The beach was breathtakingly hot: great beams of sun, the sand a blinding white. Rebecca picked a spot for us near the waves. It was my first time at a real beach and I was in a slight daze. Two women to our left were facedown, topless. Oliver squeezed my shoulder blades as I averted my eyes. “Welcome to the land of flesh, tzadik,” he said. If only Mordechai were here to see this, I thought.
Noah and Rebecca waded into the water. Amir, Oliver and I hung back, sprawled on towels, staring at the cloudless sky. Soon, Oliver grew bored and pulled out a carefully concealed baggie, some rolling paper and set to work.
“Risky,” Amir warned. Oliver scoffed. He finished rolling, licking the ends so they stuck together, and then admired his craftsmanship. He lit up and took a masterful drag, leaning lazily on his skinny elbows, hacking up a lung. When he finished he extended the joint my way. I shook my head, turning my nose at the smell.
“Mr. Samson?”
Amir, head buried in a book, refused to look up.
“Right,” Oliver said, tapping the jay with his forefinger, ash falling to sand.
We sat in silence. Noah and Rebecca had drifted so far out they were specks against a linear blue. After some time, Amir joined Noah and Rebecca in the water, leaving me with Oliver, who was busy retching pillars of smoke.
“Oliver,” I said, watching Amir voyage farther and farther into the ocean, “you know what you were saying at Niman’s party? About Amir’s family?”
“Sorry, officer, I don’t recall.” Oliver covered his face with a towel. “I say lots of things about Amir.” A small fixed-wing plane grumbled overhead, pulling along an advertisement for some club in Coconut Grove. “Good place,” he said, gesturing above. “Want to go tonight?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Ever been clubbing?”
“Can’t say I have.”
He made a show of burying the remains of his joint. “Give me enough time, I’ll make a degenerate out of you.”
I readjusted my yarmulke, the black velvet scorching in the sun. “Yeah, let’s hope not.”
“You were asking me something?”
“Amir was in shul this morning with an older man. Who was that?”
“His grandfather. Bit of a frightening dude. Yom Kippur War hero. Led some famous tanking expedition, then moved to America and went to MIT and became an architect or something.”
“He lives with him?”
“Yeah. Kind of a weird situation. Amir’s dad took off when we were younger. Nice guy, but decided he didn’t want to be Orthodox anymore and moved back to Tel Aviv. Pretty sure he’s in touch with Amir’s older sister, but Mrs. Samson doesn’t let Amir have anything to do with him. She’s no walk in the park, Mamacita Samson, let me tell you. She’s a spitfire, to put it mildly. Rides Amir hard. Like, real hard. Like, he-doesn’t-go-to-the-bathroom-without-consulting-her hard. She’s the reason he’ll go to MIT. Well, she and the legacy of Grandpa War Hero, who moved in after his son bounced. Some tale, huh? Remind me to major in history if I ever get accepted to college.”
“So it’s the three of them? And the grandfather is . . . Amir’s mom’s ex-father-in-law?”
“Yeah, but do yourself a favor and don’t bring this up to Amir. He doesn’t really talk about his father.”
We fell back into silence. Soon enough, drowsy from the heat, we nodded off.
When I opened my eyes again I found two faces over me: one sun-soaked with bleached-gold hair, the other uniquely pale. In that warm, oozing realm between waking and sleeping I watched these faces—hazy, provocative—with a dreamy smile. Then, in a cruel moment, the fog burst.
“Hamlet?”
“Sophia,” I said too quickly, jolting upright, immensely relieved I’d kept my shirt on. “How are you?”
The blond stood silently, eyes drifting between her cellphone and me.
“Sorry to wake you,” Sophia said dryly.
“Just resting my eyes.” I leaned forward, stiff from sand. Sophia was wearing a short, black sundress. Her friend, tall and slender with a rather absurdly toned stomach, wore a crocheted white bikini. Sophia strained her neck toward the sky, now smudged with clouds. The sun had slipped away.
“This is Remi, by the way,” Sophia told me. “Remi, this is—Aharon?”
“Ari,” I said, humiliated she’d forgotten my name. “Ari Eden.”
“—Ari. He’s just moved to town and he likes his Shakespeare.”
Remi paused. “He likes his beer?”
“What? No,” I said. “Shakespeare.”
&
nbsp; Smirking in acknowledgment, Remi returned to her phone.
“Nice to meet you,” I said.
She gestured at Oliver, who snored loudly. “Smoked himself unconscious?”
“He, well—”
“I’m aware of his bullshit. It’s why I dumped him.” Remi lowered her phone. “Can’t expect much else from the boy. It’s what he is, after all. A boy.”
Noah, Rebecca and Amir stumbled from the ocean. On cue, a loud crack overhead.
“Let’s bounce,” Amir said, gathering towels.
“Must we wake him?” Remi asked. Oliver’s chest moved softly up and down.
“I’m totally cool with leaving him,” Amir said. “It’s only rain.” An electric bolt to the west. “Fine. And minor lightning.”
Noah shook him awake. Oliver rubbed his eyes groggily. “Remi?” he said, that wispy smile returning. “Always pleasant waking to your face. How was your summer, doll?”
“Divine,” she said. “Yours?”
He got to his feet, pulling on a vintage Alonzo Mourning Heat jersey. “Little this, little that.”
“I see.”
“London, was it?”
“Paris,” Remi said, already reabsorbed in her texting. I decided not to share the fact that I’d been outside the country but once—for the funeral of my father’s father in Jerusalem.
Oliver got to his feet, rolled his towel. “Parisian admirers?”
“A parade.”
Oliver stretched his limbs. “Sounds about right.”
More thunder, followed by chill, summer drizzle. We hurried to the lot, the girls ahead, Oliver limping behind. Sophia and Remi threw themselves into a red Porsche while we loaded into Noah’s Audi. I nearly laughed at the absurdity of this scene: two sports cars, each likely worth more than my house; a cast of wealthy strangers; me, tzitzit thrown over my T-shirt, lagging behind, fleeing from a beach, a real beach.
“What’d you think of ol’ Rem?” Oliver asked when we were settled in the car.
“Well,” I started, aware she was his ex-girlfriend.
“Go ahead, say it,” he said, nestling back into sleep against the window, “she’s a goddess.”
Amir laughed. “You screwed up, Oliver. You know that?”
