The Orchard

by David Hopen

  “—pulmonary arteries and right ventricle, left atrium and, yes, pulmonary veins.”

  “Oh. Wow. Cool, thanks.” I paused to pretend to scribble notes. “You didn’t need to look that up?”

  “Nope.”

  “You have a pretty impressive memory,” I said.

  “I’ve been told. Any other pressing questions?”

  “No, that’s perfect. Really helpful, actually.”

  “I can tell. Well, then, I’m returning to the piano. Sleep well, Hamlet.” She hung up. I fell back on my pillow, the sound of her voice, in that moment, enough to overcome anything Evan could say to me.

  * * *

  TWO DAYS LATER, WE WERE greeted at the school’s main entrance by the following poster:

  עַד מָתַי מֵאַנְתָּ לֵעָנֹת מִפָּנָי שַׁלַּח עַמִּי וְיַעַבְדֻנִי

  It wasn’t harrowing until I recognized that silvery ink. It was a harmless phrase, though somewhat esoteric divorced from context, a line that might appear on a Tanach test. Yet that Evan had selected it gave it a strangely sinister quality. Until when will you refuse to humble yourself before me? Send my people, and they will worship me.

  The sign stayed up longer than expected. Gio assumed it was an inspirational Torah quote the school was promoting—“I can’t read this fucking language, what you want from me?”—while the Judaic faculty figured one of the rabbis had posted it for a class.

  “Isn’t it a bit obscure?” I asked Evan during davening. It was one of the rare times he’d bothered to show up at Minyan X. When Noah and I arrived, Evan was wandering the room, huddling people together, drawing worried looks from Rabbi Schwartz.

  “And kind of creepy, bro,” Noah added. “What’s with all the creepy shit lately?”

  “It’s for Bloom. Don’t worry about that,” Evan said. “He’ll get it.”

  “Okay,” I said, curious whether Noah found this as odd as I did or if my library conversation with Evan had rendered me slightly paranoid, “but what’s it for?”

  “I have something planned for third period,” Evan said. “Something big. Spread the word. I expect compliance.”

  Noah laughed. “You expect compliance. What the hell does compliance mean?”

  Evan turned away. “It means you follow me when I leave.”

  * * *

  WE WERE SITTING IN TANACH, listening to Rabbi Feldman drone on about a little-known instance in Joshua in which God split the sea, when Evan stood. Rabbi Feldman paused to give him an amused look. “Rear-end cramp, Evan?”

  Evan didn’t answer. He was staring level-eyed at the front of the room.

  Rabbi Feldman frowned. “Everything all right, Ev?”

  Evan stepped forward slowly.

  “Evan?”

  He turned to face us, nodded and then, without explanation, walked out of the classroom. On cue, the majority of the class followed.

  “What in the world?” Rabbi Feldman growled, veins in his temple throbbing.

  I turned to Noah. He stared in confusion, only to shrug and join the walkout. Unsure what else to do, I closed my notebook and trailed along. Amir, begrudgingly, came, too. Davis remained alone in the classroom.

  “Halt!” Rabbi Feldman threw open the classroom door and yelled into the hallway, where we marched steadily and in menacing silence after Evan. “Get back immediately!”

  Hallway doors opened abruptly, students pouring out to join us. There was Oliver, leading a battalion from the classroom to our right, and Gabriel, a room full of juniors in tow, emerging from the classroom to our left. Out of the staircase appeared Remi, herding seniors—Rebecca laughing in bewilderment, Nicole recording the event on Snapchat—until the first floor overflowed, bodies merging in line behind Evan, himself wraithlike and refusing to meet anyone’s eyes. In my peripheral vision I saw Sophia lingering in the stairwell, watching gravely.

  We followed Evan through the long hallway, past the front office, past Rabbi Bloom’s glass windows—behind which he stood, arms folded over his chest, blood draining from his face—until we were outside. Evan continued marching through the basketball courts, where teachers pleaded for us to stop. Evan kept moving, undeterred, even as Rabbi Schwartz was barreled over, until he reached a large bush just off the soccer field. I looked about in disbelief. There were at least a hundred and fifty of us standing obediently, eyes dilated with adrenalized reverence.

  Evan took in our silence before raising a fist. “Two choices,” he called out, his face dark. “Rise above a broken system or be crushed by it. Submit to yourself or fail to discover whether you’ll ever be exceptional.” This was met, absurdly, with thunderous applause. He dug into his pocket, pulled out his lighter, flicking it on and off. “To the rebellion,” he cried, holding the lighter to the bush, allowing it to catch fire. “My friends, your burning bush,” he said, orange sparks at his elbows. “Let this be your divine voice.”

  Wild cheering. Sacrilegious flames. I remember the white circles in Evan’s eyes, the smell of burning shrubbery, wisps of smoke rising heavenward, Rabbi Bloom and Sophia and the others, hundreds of yards away, watching us bow before Evan Stark.

  * * *

  DURING MY FREE PERIOD THAT next day, I tucked Rabbi Bloom’s Yeats under my arm and, making certain no one saw me, knocked on his door.

  “Mr. Eden.” Rabbi Bloom looked up from a pile of papers and motioned for me to join him at the conference table. Looking worn and bleary, he eyed the book. “Tell me about your time with the schizophrenic seer.”

  “I loved him,” I said. “I came to return it and to thank you.”

  “I’m glad to hear that, Mr. Eden. Some people are fatally disenchanted by Yeats’ revolutionary intensities, not to mention all the cyclical talk.”

  “The gyres?”

  “The gyres,” he said, “and those tricky phases of the moon.”

  “Yeah, they were—odd,” I said. “And pretty hard to get through, actually.”

  “I advise you refrain from subjecting yourself to reading A Vision. Pure mystic torture.” He leaned toward me. “But you made it out the other end of the wormhole. What was your favorite poem?”

  “‘Adam’s Curse.’”

  “A noble choice as any. Why so?”

  “I liked the interplay of narrative voices,” I said, trying to remember key phrases I sketched mentally while walking to his office.

  “And which voices would those be?”

  “Two stand out to me. One is the fearless poet and then the other I guess is what I’d call the weary lover.”

  “Congratulations,” he said, “you’ve discovered Yeats’ much beloved anti-self.” He reached across the table for his book and flipped distractedly through it. “I presume you recognize that term?”

  “Yeah, it was all over the place,” I said. “Other selves, antithetical selves, Daemons.”

  “‘When I come to put in rhyme what I have found, it will be hard toil, but for a moment I believe I have found myself and not my anti-self,’” Rabbi Bloom recited from the book. He looked up at me, smiling cautiously. “What do you think Yeats meant by all that?”

  “When he puts it that way,” I said, leaning on the table for momentum, “I guess the anti-self is something almost, I don’t know, aspirational. You’re dissatisfied with the current image of yourself, which feels maybe inadequate or too nebulous, and so as a remedy you picture another self, a superior life, one attached to excellence or virtue or, in this case, to art.” Abruptly I trailed off, wondering if I’d overdone it.

  Rabbi Bloom, however, nodded earnestly. “I like that, Mr. Eden. I daresay you have a knack for this sort of work.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t mind if that’s true,” I said. “I’ve got to be good at something.”

  “Being a tad behind, coming from your old school, is no crime. Certainly it shouldn’t diminish the confidence you should have in your capabilities. Have more assurance in yourself. You’re a fine thinker with a lot of potentia
l, as I believe I’ve pointed out.”

  I felt unreasonably pleased with myself. “Thank you.”

  “Now, of course, the follow-up. Why the fascination with the anti-self?”

  I rubbed a hand on my knee. “Right, so I think Yeats was essentially suffocated by consciousness and by, I suppose, the burden of being his own—”

  “Yes, yes, quite so, Mr. Eden. Certainly Yeats suffered from internal fracturing, often to the point of unintelligibility. But what I mean to ask is why you are so taken with the anti-self?”

  “Oh.” I blinked. Now, I could tell, he was, in fact, studying me, waiting for a specific answer. “Well, maybe in a way that’s not entirely dissimilar from Yeats,” I said carefully, “I find it comforting to reimagine myself.”

  Unself-consciously, refusing to allow myself the internal humiliation of actually processing what I was doing, I envisioned myself, suddenly, as Evan. In this reverie I was slightly taller, slightly tanner, slightly more muscular. I had a sharper nose, I had a more interesting cut of lips, I had hair that no longer curled into thick confusion but instead framed my face to be angular and striking. All symptoms of my depersonalization were gone. People could look at me now and I could hold their gaze. People could meet me now and remember what I looked like. I could glance into the mirror now and mentally reconstruct what I saw hours, days, weeks later. I was not some reflection of a reflection. I was Evan.

  “Precisely. It’s what we all need, and we need it desperately, this ability to remodel our world, to be recast poetically, to constantly make and unmake ourselves. It’s part of having an identity, part of coping with being human. Most people, most serious thinkers, at the very least, cannot lay claim to a single vision of the self, don’t you think? There are gains to be made when what we are in the flesh comes into conflict with what we think is our true being. In this way, our chronically unfulfilled daily self can sometimes grasp parts of that ideal reality toward which we aspire.”

  A moment of polite pause while I pretended I didn’t have an immediate question. “But do you think too much self-division can be—well, dangerous?”

  A look of concern passed over his face. “In what way?”

  “I guess theoretically you could lose sight of your true self amid many other artificial selves.”

  “Not if there is no true self. Not if we’re always in flux, always evolving.” He folded his arms. “So, the task is to find balance. To let both selves, all selves, live together, clashing in harmony.”

  “So how do you do that?”

  “One way, perhaps, is to find your anti-self externally.”

  “In another person, you mean?”

  “In dreams, illusions, experiences that drag you outside the confines of your self. But yes, at an extreme, in another human, someone to whom you’re linked, even as that person resembles quite your opposite.” He made a show of shutting the book and sliding it toward the other end of the table. “If you can find an anti-self, you can achieve a sort of harmonious self-expansion, a oneness within the power of your mind.”

  “So you’d become divine, in a way.”

  “Perhaps. But anyway, that’s enough mystical metaphysics for now.” He walked to his bookcase. “So would you enjoy another assignment? I won’t be offended, just saddened, if you tell me our conversation served only to bore you.”

  My head spun in uneven circles. “Yeah, definitely, if you don’t mind.”

  He grabbed a book, slid it toward me. The Sickness unto Death. “In keeping with current themes but exposing you to existentialism. It’s a bit more affirming, I hope you’ll find. Plus, Kierkegaard, at the very least, wasn’t a fascist.”

  Gratefully, I placed the book in my backpack.

  “May I ask, by the way, how you’re finding Minyan X these days?”

  “It’s, well . . . chaotic, as per usual.”

  “Maybe,” Rabbi Bloom said, stroking his chin, “it’s high time to break you out. Clearly you’ve no business being there.”

  “I’d very much not object.”

  “So here’s an idea. I propose we make today’s meeting something of a regular occurrence, just for a little while. If you promise to daven on your own before school—”

  “—of course.”

  “Wonderful. Then why don’t you come see me when Minyan X meets? We can use the time to discuss your readings. How does that sound?”

  “Perfect,” I said, standing, making my way toward the door. “Thank you, Rabbi.”

  Rabbi Bloom leaned a hand on his the table. “For the slightest moment, you know, I thought you came in to discuss another self-appointed seer.”

  “Sorry?”

  “I’m referring, of course, to yesterday’s excitement.”

  I blinked, immediately wondering whether it’d all been a guise, whether I’d erred showing up. “Oh. No, I—”

  “I’ve never seen something like that, Mr. Eden. Something so—disturbed.” He paused. “‘And what rough beast, its hour come round at last / Slouches toward Bethlehem to be born?’”

  I only nodded, unwilling to offer anything self-incriminating or, worse, incriminating of Evan. Surprisingly, Evan had received only a one-day suspension, for the minor sin of committing arson on school grounds.

  “Mr. Eden?”

  I hovered at the door, waiting to be released. “Yes, Rabbi?”

  “Do be careful who you follow into the dark.”

  * * *

  “MEIR’S BAR MITZVAH IS NEXT Shabbat,” my father reminded us at dinner. “You’ll be able to go home with us, won’t you, Ari?”

  I had been avoiding answering this question for weeks, offering a wide array of halfhearted excuses: homework, essays, group projects. In truth, I couldn’t bear the thought of standing in our old shul, attempting to make Shimon, Mordechai and Reuven understand the incommunicable—the sight of Remi White nude, for instance, or hearing Sophia play the piano. How could I explain what it was to curl tefillin around my fingers, to curl my fingers around Nicole’s body, to curl tefillin around my fingers once more? How could I explain what it was to change but remain unchanged, to enjoy the perverse thrill of experience but still bentch after meals and undulate during Shemoneh Esrei and pull tzitzit over my shoulders each morning? To return to Brooklyn, even for forty-eight hours, would be to force myself to reckon with a tension I did not want resolved. “I don’t think so, Abba.”

  He set down his utensils. “You don’t think so?”

  “It’s just that I’ve got important tests coming up,” I said, which wasn’t a lie. “Plus my second game is Saturday night.”

  “Your game?” He frowned, rubbing his chin. “You realize Meir is your cousin. Your first cousin.”

  “I can’t just miss it,” I said after too long of a pause.

  “He made a commitment, joining the team,” my mother said. She spoke in an oddly unanimated voice. “Besides, traveling will interfere with studying.”

  I bobbed my head too animatedly at this suggestion.

  We three drank in a moment of awkward silence.

  “I’m sure Norman will understand, Yaakov,” my mother finally said, playing with the rim of her glass.

  My father nodded distantly. “So I’ll cancel your ticket.”

  “I’m sorry, Abba,” I said.

  “You’ll be all right alone?” my mother asked, shifting gears with a tone of finality. “Should I ask Cynthia if you can stay over with Noah?”

  “No, I’ll be fine. It’ll give me time to study.”

  Dinner concluded without further discussion. Soon enough, my father gathered his plate and disappeared into the kitchen to wash dishes.

  “He seems pretty angry,” I said.

  My mother dabbed at the tablecloth with a wet napkin. “Just slightly disappointed. Give him time.”

  “I am sorry, you know,” I said, uneasily. “I do realize it means a lot to him.”

  “Does it mean a lot to you?” She asked this without making direct eye contact.
<
br />   “Meir’s bar mitzvah? Or going back in general?”

  “Either. Both.”

  I shook my head. Now we were each avoiding the other’s gaze.

  She gathered the rest of the dishes. “It’ll be strange to be back,” she said. “I don’t think I’m looking forward to it.”

  * * *

  THEY CAME LATE FRIDAY NIGHT. I’d already eaten—my mother, worried I’d starve, left behind an enormous amount of food—and was sprawled on my living room couch, reading drowsily. Just as my eyes were beginning to grow heavy, Kierkegaard a potent sedative, I heard knocks.

  I jolted awake, rubbed my temple. I tried ignoring them, but they began ringing the doorbell. I threw open the front door. “It’s freaking Shabbos!” I hissed. “Don’t ring the bell.”

  “Sorry, but how long were you going to make us wait?” Oliver stepped inside and brushed past me. “It’s inhumane.”

  “I was hoping you might give up,” I said irritably.

  “Sorry, Drew,” Noah said, following Oliver. “Thought maybe you passed out.”

  “No,” Evan said, “I knew you were just ignoring us.”

  “Can we blame him?” Amir asked, the last one in.

  I locked the door. I was grateful, at least, that Oliver hadn’t brought anyone else.

  “So. This is the humble abode, huh?” Oliver surveyed my living room, holding a bottle of Jameson. “About time you invited us over.”

  “I didn’t invite you,” I said.

  “Real hospitable, Eden,” Oliver said. “And after all the times we’ve hosted you, no less. After you and Nicole desecrated my poor brother’s room!”

  My neck burned. “No one else is coming, right?”

  “Just your favorite four schmucks, no need to fret.” Oliver found his way into the kitchen. “Where are your shot glasses?”

  “You really ingratiate yourself, Oliver,” Amir said.

  I lingered at the kitchen entrance, hands attached to my pockets. “Why would we have shot glasses?”

  “Silly me,” Oliver said. “I assumed all parents drank as much as mine.” He made a fuss throwing open cabinets, eventually finding dust-laden wineglasses above the stove. “These’ll do.” He lined them up, poured gratuitously.