The Orchard

by David Hopen

  “Something to declare, Mr. Davis?”

  “I think,” he said, attempting to compose himself, “some dear friends may be in peril.”

  I spent the day holding my breath each time another student was summoned. Oliver, of course, was among the first wave. (“I told them not to bother,” he said, shrugging, “to keep their little urine container and mail another bill to my old man.”) Evan was summoned, too, along with Gabriel, Donny, Niman and, to her amusement, Kayla. (“It’s fine,” she said, “expected, really. They need to balance clear-cut offenders with someone unable to so much as identify the scent of marijuana.”) Noah was a nervous wreck, insistent he’d lose Northwestern were he to test positive; when he was called he blamed Evan, rambling on about divine retribution for casting the name of God into the lake. I was increasingly nauseous at the thought of being tested, not because I was scared for my college prospects—I had none—but because I was desperately afraid of disappointing my poor mother. Drug usage, I knew, was something even my tireless advocate could not defend, and the thought of her fallen face was too crushing to bear.

  The call came at the end of the day, as I was suffering through double biology. Dr. Flowers paused mid-sentence and frowned. “Better be clean, Eden. Good Lord, you better be clean as a whistle.”

  “Yes, well, I am,” I said unconvincingly.

  “Good.” She played with her chalk, white dust landing on her blouse. “Because I’m guessing you’re already skidding on thin academic ice.”

  I caught Sophia’s eyes on the way out. She gave me a hopeful nod—hands at her side, those painted, frescoed eyes narrowed—but I made a point of avoiding her gaze.

  Davis was the only other student in the office. I was greeted with a smirk. “Afternoon, Aryeh.”

  “Here you go, Mr. Eden,” Mrs. Janice said, handing over a nondescript plastic cup, eyeing me suspiciously. “I’m sure you know what to do.”

  “I’ll walk with you, old chap,” Davis said, empty cup in hand, shooting Mrs. Janice an unrequited wink.

  “Surprised they bothered testing you,” I said, annoyed he was following me into the bathroom.

  “What choice did they have? Would look odd otherwise, wouldn’t it?”

  “What does that mean?”

  He clapped my back. “These tests are expensive. Helps when people donate to the cause.”

  “This is your family’s idea?”

  “Hardly their idea, per se,” he said. “Though do we see anything wrong in bringing to the attention of the administration problems regarding the abuse of narcotics? It’s our civic duty, after all.”

  “Civic duty. You’re a jerk.”

  “Please.” He held open the bathroom door. “Don’t let this come between us. It won’t really affect you, will it? I know your friends are . . . astonishingly delinquent, but you don’t seem like the sort of fellow to get caught up in that, a guy from Teaneck.”

  “Brooklyn.”

  “Right, sorry. But I swear, truly, I’d no intention of harming you.”

  I hesitated at the doorframe. “You’re after Amir?”

  “Samson?” He scoffed. “Can’t stand the guy sometimes, but I respect him. And I know him. He isn’t foolish enough to be vulnerable. Stark, on the other hand?”

  We approached the urinals. I took the one on the far left. Davis, despite an open row of urinals, took the one beside me.

  “You really have to stand right here?”

  “Come on, Eden.”

  “I can hear you breathing.”

  “A man’s got a right to breathe. Don’t be trigger shy on my accord.”

  I fumbled to open the lid of the container and listened to his whistling as we filled our cups, my heart pounding in my chest. We finished and went to wash our hands, setting down our samples on the counter. I ran water, splashed my face, felt as if I were on the verge of hyperventilating. The door flew open. In barged Gio, vacuum in hand.

  “You two—back to class,” he barked, plugging in the vacuum. “I got work to do.”

  “Just a moment, Giovanni, my good sir,” Davis said. “We’ll be right off.”

  Gio threw the vacuum to the floor. “What you say, Davis? Talking down to me? Talking shit?”

  “Mea culpa, Gio.” Davis raised his arms in peace. “But please. Are the profanities necessary?”

  Gio threw his sanitation gloves to the floor. “You walk around, doing whatever you want? I tell you something, little shit, if you think you—”

  “Now, listen here,” Davis said, turning his back to me and jabbing his finger toward Gio’s chest, “you can’t talk that way to a student. My father—”

  Allowing Davis to lecture on, Gio nodded, almost imperceptibly, at the two containers of urine at the sink. Staring in confusion, I realized what those head movements signified. I hesitated, despite Gio’s frantic blinking in my direction, until, my mother’s disappointment in mind, I switched the samples, just as Davis finished his diatribe and groped for the nearest cup.

  “Okay, okay, you’re right, Davis, very right, now get out, yes?”

  “Yes, well.” Davis took a deep breath, holding my cup. “I will be off, thanks very much.” With that, he stalked away, humming some Harvard ballad.

  “That guy, huh?” Gio glanced under a stall to make certain we were alone. “Not as bright as they say.”

  “Gio, I don’t understand.”

  He stroked his chin. “Just take cup and be on way. My eyesight’s bad. Cataracts. Didn’t see thing.”

  “Seriously, how did you—”

  “Christ.” He grabbed the sample from the counter. “That story the rabbis tell? The flood and the guy praying and the boats come but he says no and keeps waiting and waiting until the bastard drowns? Where’s help, he asks God when he gets to Heaven, I wait for You, I turn down boats? Moral of story, very practical, don’t drown in own urine. Catch my drift?” He shoved the cup at my chest. Reluctantly, I took it, holding Davis’ warm, yellow liquid. I gagged. “Not a word, okay? Hand it in, run to class.” He swore in what I think was Italian. “They think I don’t listen but old Gio listens. When boat shows up, get fuck in, don’t ask questions.” With that, he moved me out of the bathroom and slammed the door.

  * * *

  DONNY HAD A BIRTHDAY PARTY on Saturday night. He was permanently grounded for his role in what had transpired after sunrise minyan, but his parents took pity and threw a small, contained backyard gathering, inviting just the basketball team. There was cake, some ice cream. We milled around the pool, aware of the Silvers’ inquisitorial looks, pretending we’d never before been to his house. (“What a lovely home, Mrs. Silver,” Oliver made a point of exclaiming early on, much to Donny’s mortification. “So tasteful. Can’t believe I’ve never been over!”) The party lasted fewer than two hours.

  We were still hungry when it was over, so Evan suggested we try the late-night Israeli pita place. It was a small shop, two tables, tucked away in the far end of a dingy plaza. Next door was a neglected office with rusted windows and a lit-up sign that read: PSYCHIC VISIONS & READINGS.

  “How does that place stay open?” Amir asked over a mouthful of shawarma. “Like, how has local government not shut that down?”

  Tahina dripped from Oliver’s mouth. “Why should they?” He didn’t bother reaching for napkins. “It’s a legitimate business.”

  “Yeah,” Noah laughed, “no different from that brothel in Key West you tried checking out.”

  Amir shrugged, taking another bite. “In both places you pay to get screwed.”

  “Cute and clever,” Oliver said, checking his phone. “You’re not going to MIT by any chance?”

  Evan pushed his plate toward the middle of the table. “Fuck it. Let’s do it.”

  I frowned. “Do what?”

  “Visit the psychic.” Evan spun his knife absentmindedly. “It’d be fun to try.”

  “Makes sense,” Amir said, watching the knife in motion. “Your idea of fun is re-creating the splitting
of the Red Sea, so yeah. This is totally on brand.”

  Evan checked his watch. “Come on, it’s not even midnight. We have anything else to do?”

  Oliver tucked his phone back into his jeans. “Fine, I’m in. Gemma just canceled on me anyway.”

  Noah picked at the scraps of his baba ghanoush. “Gemma?”

  “We’ve been hooking up.”

  “Since when?”

  Oliver shrugged.

  “Romance of our time,” Amir said.

  “Thought that title belonged to Drew,” Oliver said.

  Evan placed his palm on the table. Slowly, he allowed the knife to pass back and forth between his fingers. “Eden and whom?”

  “Aren’t you getting with Gross, Drew?” Oliver said.

  “Dude,” Noah said, “chill.”

  Oliver raised his hands in protest. “What? Simple question.”

  “Don’t phrase it like that,” Noah said. “And it’s not your business.”

  “Sorry. Drew, are you not currently seeing Ms. Gross?”

  Unsure how to answer, I nodded noncommittally, finishing my Sprite.

  “Now that we’ve settled that important issue,” Evan said, increasing the speed with which he stabbed, “are we ready to go?”

  “Jesus,” Amir said, cringing, “can you stop? I’m anxious watching you.”

  Evan went faster. The serrated edge, at the very end of the cycle, nicked his pinky.

  Noah recoiled. “Shit, you okay?”

  “It’s nothing.” Red drops pooled into the web between Evan’s pinky and fourth finger.

  We piled back into the Jeep and, the plaza looking sufficiently abandoned, broke out Oliver’s stash. Y100 was on, playing Kanye, proclaiming itself Miami’s number one hit station. The windows fogged. In the distance the streetlights glowed red.

  When we finished, nighttime bent slightly, we pushed open the psychic’s door. Beads rattled overhead, announcing our arrival. The office was nearly pitch-black, save for the glow of a computer screen, reflected through a back mirror. The room smelled vaguely of dead flowers and burnt incense. Under the mirror, I realized, was a woman at a desk. She was tan, with sunspots and leathery skin. A turban sat on her desk, beside her computer.

  Evan approached her. “You open?”

  The woman glanced up at us and swore in what sounded like Romanian. “You scared the shit out of me.” She was wearing Beats, we realized as we stepped closer. She removed them and put her turban back on. “Apologies. I was doing some work.”

  “You’re watching The Office,” Oliver said.

  “I’m studying astrology, actually.”

  “I literally see Steve Carrell’s face in the mirror.”

  She swore again, minimizing the tabs on her screen. “Yeah, well. It was getting late. You boys here for a reading? Because I close at one.”

  “Your sign says two,” Evan said.

  “Tonight I’m tired, so. Quick reading but still good. Does that work? Perfect, take seats around my desk, yeah? You, strong one,” she said, pointing to Noah, “bring that chair from the front and we have five. Lovely.”

  Noah dragged it over and we assembled before her. We could see, up close, that she had her nails painted black. She wore enormous hoop earrings and several low-hanging, fake-pearl necklaces. Astrology charts and hamsa hands and anti-vampire amulets adorned the walls. On her desk was a large bottle of wine, accompanied by a picture of a toddler.

  “My son, Abner,” she said, catching me looking at it. “But let’s begin, yeah?” She screwed up her eyes. “When did we all last meet?”

  Noah cackled. “What?”

  “That’s how I start.”

  “Oh, sorry.”

  She gave an irritated look. “You guys been smoking?”

  Noah shook his head spiritedly. “Course not.”

  “Right. Well, want the usual package? Seventy dollars and I’ll read your palms, ninety and I’ll include tarot cards.”

  “Quick question,” Amir said, leaning forward, “but do you by any chance know God’s secret name?”

  “What?”

  “Never mind. I’m surprised they didn’t teach that in witchcraft school.”

  “I’m no witch, kid, I’m a healer. Or a, uh, what do you call it, a possessor. A spiritual ventriloquist. Don’t laugh, I studied hard for my degree.”

  “Your degree?”

  “College of Transcendental Pursuits. Graduated with honors.”

  “Maybe we should apply there, Drew,” Oliver said. “Where is it?”

  “Online. Anyway. Cash or credit?”

  “We’re not interested in readings,” Evan said.

  My phone buzzed. A text from Kayla: haven’t heard from u, so i’ll bite: where art thou?

  “No phones!” she barked. “Screws up ethereal waves. Also, no recordings.”

  “Sorry,” I said, holstering my phone.

  Evan dug inside his jeans for his wallet. “How much to talk to the dead?”

  “That’s what you want?”

  “Can you do it?”

  “Sure I can do it, but it’s, you know, a rare thing. People usually want something—comforting.”

  Amir crossed his legs. “This isn’t comforting?”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. The future is one thing. The dead are unpredictable.”

  “Right,” Amir said.

  “Plus it’s a little frowned upon these days, to be honest. But if that’s what you want, I’ll do it. It’s more expensive, though.”

  “How much?”

  She examined us, calculated how much she thought we’d pay. “Two seventy-five.”

  “Two hundred.”

  “Two twenty.”

  “Deal,” Evan said.

  Amir laughed. “I’m out.”

  “Yeah, same,” I said. “I can’t pay that.”

  Evan rifled through his wallet and handed her a credit card. “My treat.”

  “Okay, let’s go,” she said, putting on reading glasses to run the card. “Some ground rules. One, no refunds. Whatever you get, you get. I don’t control the deceased, I’m just a conduit. Once a woman came in and had me rustle up her grandmother and then didn’t want to pay because the old lady told her to screw off. Family squabbles are not my problem.”

  “Understood,” Evan said.

  “Second, summoning a spirit is very complicated. And it’s much more complicated depending on when they passed. Once a body is interred, the spirit roams earth for twelve months, yeah? During those months it’s much easier to summon, because the spirit is still restricted, whatever. But after that, the spirit is free and doesn’t have to show up when I call unless it actually wants to give over a message. Got that?”

  “Yeah,” Amir said, “sounds super scientific.”

  “It’s bad luck to insult a healer,” she told Amir. “Very bad.” Inhaling, she turned to Evan. “If he gets me pissed, I cannot perform with a clear head.”

  “Let her do her thing, Amir,” Evan said.

  “All right,” Amir said, “go ahead.”

  “So, who do you want to talk to and did they die recently?”

  We went silent, each thinking the same thing. The psychic frowned. “What’s the issue?”

  Noah passed a hand through his hair. “Ev?”

  “I think it should be Samuel,” Evan said.

  I frowned. “Who’s Samuel?”

  “Like the story in Navi,” Evan said. “When Saul is ignored by God and so asks the Witch of Endor to communicate with Samuel.”

  A look of intense relief passed through Noah’s eyes. “Ah, okay. Yeah, I mean, incredibly random, but that works.”

  “Of all the people in human history,” Amir said, “that’s who we want to chat with?”

  “What about that dude you love, Ev?” Oliver asked. “Freddy from Prussia? The Marvelous Mr. Frederick the Second?”

  “That’d be Friedrich Nietzsche,” Amir said, “of Germany.”

  The psychic lit a cigarette. “Don’t
know how I feel about that. He’s a downer, I hear. Care if I smoke?”

  “I’d much prefer Shimon bar Yochai,” Evan said, “but I think it has to be Samuel.”

  “Why Shimon bar Yochai?” Noah asked.

  “He wrote the Zohar.” I looked up at Evan. “But this is why you wanted Pita Haven tonight, isn’t it? So we’d end up in here for another experiment?”

  Evan didn’t blink. “Well, of course.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Amir said, tapping his foot restlessly.

  “It’s getting late,” the psychic said. “Let’s make a decision, yeah?”

  “Wouldn’t it better prove your divinity if you merit summoning a different Samuel to shoot the shit?” Amir asked. “Like, I don’t know, Samuel Clemens, let’s say.”

  The psychic nodded. “I like Twain.”

  “Or Beckett,” I said.

  “Or Adams,” Oliver said. “The real one or the cutie plastered on the beer bottle. Either works.”

  Evan shook his head. “Samuel the Prophet.”

  “Okay, Samuel the Prophet it is,” the psychic said. “Beautiful. So we use a very strict procedure. When the spirit comes, show respect. Don’t shout questions, don’t speak out of turn, don’t frighten it off. Only I can hear the spirit, but the spirit can hear all of you. Okay?”

  “How convenient,” Amir said.

  She reached inside a drawer for a sheet of paper. “Pass it around,” she said, dipping a quill into a bottle of ink, “and write your name and one question you’d like to ask our guest. Just one, since there’s five of you.”

  I watched as Noah, Oliver and Amir each turned strangely quiet when receiving the quill and paper, avoiding eye contact, hesitating before writing. I went second to last. I tried, unsuccessfully, not to survey the questions above my slot:

  Noah: I’m definitely supposed to marry Rebs, right? (College or after?)

  Oliver James Bellow . . . will I ever make my parents proud

  A.S.—should I forgive my father?

  Horrified at the prospect of what I really wanted to write being revealed, to Evan or to the others, I asked instead whether I’d find a college I liked and hurriedly passed the sheet to Evan, who immediately wrote something down and handed it to the psychic.

  She scanned the list, powered down her computer. “Let’s begin,” she said, putting out her cigarette and lighting a candle. Producing a kitschy goblet from underneath her desk, she began muttering incantations, picking up the candle and allowing five drops of wax to fall into the goblet before adding five drops of wine. Eyes closed, she swirled the cup. “Last part,” she said, reopening her eyes. “Someone needs to make an offering.”