Orchard (9780062974761)

by Hopen, David

  “Got yourself a girlfriend?” He slung an arm around my shoulder. He wore far too much cologne.

  I shook my head, my nose smarting, and fought for inches in my seat.

  “But aren’t you about Noah’s age?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, my boy here”—he pointed to the middle-schooler to his right, at the moment engrossed in a particularly laborious effort to probe his right nostril with his index finger—“has a girlfriend, and he’s only in the sixth grade.”

  I lowered my siddur to my lap.

  “Noah’s girlfriend—what’s her name? Michelle?”

  “Rebecca,” I said.

  “Right, Rebecca, great girl, nice girl. Have her set you up.”

  “I’ll consider it.”

  “Had myself several girlfriends at your age.” A gabbai, patrolling the back of the sanctuary, unleashed a valiant shush upon Mr. Cohen, who reciprocated with furious fist waving until the gabbai slunk off in defeat. “Nerve of that guy. Remind me what I was saying?”

  “I believe we were just finishing.”

  “Right, listen, if you manage to land yourself a girlfriend, take her on a picnic, but don’t bring wine and cheese. No, sir. Bring M&M’s.”

  “M&M’s?”

  “Green ones. Works like a charm, just ask my second wife.” He elbowed my ribs, laughed too loudly. I turned red and glanced at my father, praying he hadn’t overheard.

  I spent the long hours this way, subject to Mr. Cohen’s stories—the time he beat up a rival goalie, the time he accidentally snorted glue. When overcome with boredom I’d observe my scenery: Amir davening intensely beside his grandfather, whom people constantly approached, offering Gut Yuntif wishes; Noah snickering violently into Eddie’s ear; Oliver asleep near the bimah, his father, a short man in a pin-striped Armani suit, popping a steady stream of Tic Tacs. I made out a glimpse of Sophia—simple white dress, straightened hair, grave eyes—on the women’s side of the mechitza but failed to catch her attention. Much to my father’s displeasure I brought along Macbeth, which we were reading for Mrs. Hartman, and leafed through it during slower moments. When the rabbi stood to speak I felt the need for air and wandered into the library, where I found Evan, a Talmud on his lap.

  “Didn’t expect you in here,” I said, taking the seat beside him. “What a sight.”

  Annoyed, Evan scratched at his chin, his solitude disturbed. “Surely you didn’t expect to find me out there?”

  “I guess I thought you were home,” I said.

  “My father’s the opposite of a pious man, but even he insists I attend shul during the Yamim Noraim. For appearances more than anything else.”

  “Right.”

  “Of course, he already left for the day. But what’re you doing out of services? Hopefully not seeking relief from the marathon of prayers we subject ourselves to each year?”

  “Everyone needs a breather.” I put my foot up on a chair in front of me. “What’s with the Gemara?”

  He flipped back to an earlier page. “‘Four things avert the evil decree passed by God on man,’” he read. “‘Charity, prayer, change of name and improvement.’”

  “So I’ve heard.”

  “You’re the Talmud chachum. What’s your opinion?”

  “On what?”

  “That formula. Think it’s real?”

  I shrugged. “The first three seem a bit too good to be true.”

  “Agreed, as much as I hope they’re effective antidotes.”

  “Why’s that?” I asked. “Need some forgiving?”

  He folded and unfolded the corner of the page of Gemara. He did this several times, before eventually tearing it off entirely. He rolled the paper into a ball. I watched with strange abhorrence. “I’m afraid so.”

  “What’d you do?” I eyed the page’s deformity. It looked as if someone—something—had bitten off an inch.

  “Something I’m not awfully proud of.”

  “I wouldn’t worry too much,” I said. Unwillingly, my mind replayed the bizarre occurrences I’d experienced since arriving in Florida. “We all have.”

  “This might be different, I think, from what you have in mind. Not that I feel guilty too often anymore. Thankfully, I’ve mostly rid myself of that.”

  “Of guilt?”

  “Conscience is a dismal thing, Eden. Take last Yom Kippur.” Evan dropped his voice, drew closer. “At that time, I was particularly displeased with the Almighty.”

  “Why?”

  “For killing my mother.” I recoiled, despite my best efforts, though managed to disguise my reaction in a forced coughing fit. “She was gone only a few days when Yom Kippur came around. And so, like the naïve boy I was, I tried exacting vengeance. I was in a state of blind anger and I wanted to make God feel me in any way that I could. But I don’t want to be in that state anymore. I mean, do you think that’s foolish? Believing we can make God feel us?”

  I played with my tie, which was now too tight around my neck. My throat hurt when I swallowed. “What’d you do?”

  “I settled on three small sins.”

  “Idolatry, adultery, murder?”

  Evan smiled. “I’m a man of simpler pleasures. I went to Mass, I tried pork, did some other things.”

  I felt the need to tug at my collar. My Adam’s apple throbbed. “You actually did that on . . . Yom Kippur?”

  “Take it from me,” Evan said. “Turns out those things don’t make you feel better.”

  “But did they make you feel guilty?”

  With some measure of sadness, or perhaps just a trace of nostalgia, Evan shook his head. “No. Empty, yes, but clean as a whistle, no guilt. Impressive, isn’t it?”

  “That’s one way of looking at it.”

  “It’s the only way of looking at it. Guilt is pointless. Guilt is our way of legitimizing self-cruelty. It’s a basic human tendency to take pleasure in inflicting suffering, but seeing as we shouldn’t inflict suffering upon others—and seeing as we cannot harm the divine, even if we wanted to—what do we do? We turn on ourselves. We make ourselves suffer instead. We feel guilt.”

  “Okay,” I said, processing his logic, “but then why feel guilty now?”

  He traced the spine of the Gemara with his fingertips. “Someone I care for has been wounded.”

  We sat in silence a few minutes longer. I didn’t want to think about what this meant. Part of me, a small part, an ugly part, hoped he was referring to his family situation and not, say, a recent girlfriend, but I didn’t think this was true. I surveyed the bookshelves, admiring some companions from my youth: Mesillat Yesharim, the Shulchan Aruch, the Mishneh Torah. Eventually I told him I was going back to pray.

  “Enjoy yourself,” he said, remaining seated.

  When I returned the chazzan had begun wailing. Who will live and who will die?

  Hidden under his talis, my father glared. “Where were you for so long?” Who by water and who by fire?

  “Went for a walk.” Who will rest, who will wander?

  “You nearly missed shofar.”

  The shofar sounded long, defiant blasts. I tried thinking about guilt, teshuva, the destruction of the Temple, all the suffering in the world: genocide, poverty, terrorism, human rights violations. Instead, all I could think of was Macbeth, hearing the horns of war a final time, crying, “My way of life is fall’n into the sere.”

  October

  Surrounded by hordes of men, absorbed in all sorts of secular matters, more and more shrewd about the ways of the world—such a person forgets himself, forgets his name divinely understood . . .

  —Kierkegaard, The Sickness unto Death

  On Sunday night, after an hour-long failed experiment with styling mousse, I headed to Sophia’s recital. The evening, advertised as an exhibition of Kol Neshama’s brightest musical talent, doubled as an important annual fundraiser. Tickets ranged from one hundred dollars to well over a thousand for our most esteemed donors—the Bellows, the Harrises—though I procured
a student rate of thirty-six dollars. My mother tried accompanying me, eager as she was for anything vaguely cultural, but I convinced her it would mostly be a student affair, that I was better off attending with friends and that adult ticket prices were, anyway, prohibitively expensive.

  In truth, I wanted to go alone. I wanted, after our lakeside conversation, to impress Sophia, to be the conspiratorial eyes in which she could find refuge when her parents proved overwhelming. Such hope was delusional. I spent a solitary moment pacing through the model temple outside, the Kohen Gadol observing me as I tried fixing my tie and forcing deep breaths and guessing which notecards belonged to whom (Get into Michigan; Stop eating nonkosher pizza; Score 3 goals in soccer game). Then I walked inside to find her real friends—Remi, Rebecca, Noah—in attendance.

  “Ari?” Noah excused himself from his parents at the cocktail reception, greeting me and examining my outfit and hair with an amused, almost paternal smirk. “So they let you in, huh?”

  “It took some convincing.”

  He raised his glass. “What’re you doing here?”

  “Seemed like a cool event,” I mumbled.

  “Yeah, silly me,” he said. “Forgot you’re a die-hard classical music lover.”

  “And you are?” I asked stupidly, hands buried in my pockets.

  “Hell no, though Sophia makes it tolerable. But Rebs said attendance was nonnegotiable. Obviously I’d rather be at the Heat game. My dad’s client offered second-row tickets tonight.”

  “Right.”

  “Listen, I don’t mean to dissuade you. Keep planting seeds, my man. You know that I applaud the effort.” I reddened. He slapped my shoulder, straightened my tie for me. “For future Sophia pursuits, though, and all things cocktail related? Wear a jacket, yeah?”

  Rabbi Bloom, from the center of the room, tapped a fork against his champagne glass and announced that it was time to wander into the hall. He looked at ease in a tuxedo, more like a college dean than a yeshiva principal. I imagined him in decades past, in his previous life, regularly attending such soirées. I wondered if he ever woke on certain mornings missing what he’d given up, experiencing those stabs of remorse to which my mother, I was certain, was not infrequently subjected.

  “Mr. Eden.” Rabbi Bloom caught me by the door and offered his hand. “Have you come alone?”

  “Yes,” I said, immediately irked that my presence at such an affair proved glaringly, perhaps laughably, conspicuous.

  “Wonderful of you to support your classmate.”

  “The music’s pretty good, too.”

  He readjusted his bow tie. “You’ve heard Ms. Winter perform before?”

  “Only informally,” I mumbled. “She was just practicing.”

  “Sometimes such sessions prove more meaningful than the real thing, don’t you think?”

  “Er, yeah,” I stuttered, regretting having unnecessarily provided such information. “Maybe.”

  “And from what I hear, that’s something of a rarity. Ms. Winter is rather private about her music. Not everyone earns that privilege.”

  “I got lucky.”

  He smiled faintly, as if registering useful data within an extensive mental filing cabinet. “In any event, enjoy the performance. You’ll continue to find Ms. Winter most extraordinary, I’m certain.”

  My assigned seat was in the very last row of the assembly hall, next to the entrance. The hall had been transformed. Large TV monitors, positioned strategically around the room, provided detailed views of our pianist. A band of pale light shone beneath the piano. The lights were dimmed, making the possibility of Sophia spotting me, I realized, my heart sinking, wildly unlikely.

  “Ladies and gentlemen.” Rabbi Bloom took the stage, microphone in hand. “Thank you for supporting Kol Neshama and for joining us for what will undoubtedly be an evening of magical music.” Light applause. “The Aseret Yemei Teshuva are a fitting time for this event. With Rosh Hashanah behind us, with Yom Kippur nearly here, we are tasked with self-improvement: through penitence, through charity, through prayer. Yet equally critical is the effort we put into self-reflection, for change hinges on both the spiritual and emotional hemispheres of our souls. It’s for this very reason, indeed, that our Academy bears its name—Kol Neshama, Voice of the Soul. In this light, what better way to engage in self-reflection, in singing out to God, than through music? A soul moved to dance, whether in shul or in the concert hall, is a soul yearning for holiness. Tonight, I am confident, our neshamas will receive this opportunity to be given over to music. Without further ado, I introduce a true virtuoso, our very own Sophia Winter.”

  The room fell into abrupt silence as she ascended the stage. She wore a blue strapless dress, hair pinned back, no makeup. Her face was expressionless, her eyes vacant, as she made her way to the piano. Ignoring the delayed, polite applause, she sat unnaturally, her back perfectly straight. She studied the piano for half a minute, unblinking, the muscles in her neck straining. As the house lights dimmed further and her hands hovered above the keys, a shadow crept down the aisle, climbed over my knees and assumed the seat beside me.

  “Evan?”

  She began to play—softly, deftly, eyes closed. It was a soothing opening, a slow tempo. The screens showed a close-up of her fingers moving leisurely. Her nails were unpainted.

  “I suspected I’d find you here.” Evan wore a navy suit, no tie, his hair gelled back. Even in the dim light, I could tell his eyes were red.

  “Are you seriously high right now?”

  He put a finger to his lips, nodding toward the stage. Sophia was playing freely now, lingering over certain notes, allowing them to reverberate through space, gradually adopting a feverish pitch, quietude giving way to a fury of sound. I watched her hands convulse, fly backward, dance arrhythmically. The older woman seated directly before me drew sharp breaths and fanned herself.

  She began a somber minor-key episode that made me feel physical, almost violent despair. “This is it, Eden,” Evan said. I imagined myself alone with her at the piano, sitting there while the external world decayed. “The black pearl variation.”

  The variation seemed to stretch longer than the piece entailed. At Oliver’s party, Sophia appeared out of control, and yet here, detailed in white light, she was restrained, even as soft tears leaked from the corners of her eyes. Beside me, Evan hardly breathed.

  The music lasted nearly forty minutes. When she finished, she stood and, in a swift motion, delivered a single bow before gliding off the stage. The lights returned: rolling applause, standing ovations, dazed looks. Sophia hastened toward the side exit near the front of the room but was engulfed by her parents, her mother blond and heavily made up, her father lean and well dressed with what looked like newly gray hair and a habit of arranging his lips arrogantly as he searched the room. Wearing an unfocused smile, Sophia bobbed her head at admirers.

  “My cue,” Evan said, sidling from our row.

  “What’s with the weird entrance and exit?”

  “Sometimes you respect when you’re persona non grata.”

  I looked to the front of the room. Sophia was taking pictures with her brother. “She told you not to come?”

  “I just don’t think she’d be delighted to see me.” The hardware in my chest, irrationally, felt lighter. Evan moved toward the aisle, only to pause suddenly. “On second thought.”

  “What?”

  He pointed a dozen rows up, where Rabbi Bloom was conversing with someone in an expensive navy suit. The man had dark hair, a sharp jaw, a vaguely familiar coldness to his features.

  “Who is that?”

  “Don’t recognize him?”

  “That’s not—your father?”

  “The great Julian Stark,” he said. “He doesn’t know I’m here.”

  Julian whispered into Rabbi Bloom’s ear. Rabbi Bloom, in turn, listened carefully, nodding on occasion.

  “Are they friends or something?” I asked. “They look close.”

  “Bloom s
hould have nothing to do with him.”

  I frowned. “Why are we watching this?”

  “I want to see how Bloom reacts.”

  “To what? What are they talking about?”

  “I have a feeling my father is about to make him an offer.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “Long story,” Evan said. I stood with him, staring blankly while Rabbi Bloom made a concerted effort to maintain an expressionless face as Julian whispered. After a minute or so, however, Rabbi Bloom began blinking unnaturally, almost as if in involuntary recognition. Seeing this, Evan nodded and turned away. “Need a ride home?”

  “I walked.”

  “Why don’t you join me for a drink. Maybe I’ll explain then.”

  “I, um, I think I’ll stick around a bit longer,” I said, awkward at the thought of revealing my motivation for remaining behind.

  Rabbi Bloom locked eyes with Evan. Blood drained from Rabbi Bloom’s face; he whispered hurriedly to Julian and started in our direction. Yet Evan, without another word, disappeared into the exit, leaving Rabbi Bloom behind to struggle against the crowd.

  I lingered awkwardly in my row, watching as the room emptied, hoping to catch Sophia on her way out. Davis, wearing oversized coattails, introduced me to his father, and I stood idly by as they worked themselves into a fiery debate over whether Watergate catalyzed the millennial obsession with high school internships on the Hill. I excused myself and tried inching toward Sophia, who briefly met my eyes from afar, but I was quickly swallowed by Eddie and Cynthia. Just as I finally broke free—after doing my best to offer handshakes, receive kisses to the cheek, present absentminded impressions of Zion Hills—Sophia was whisked away by her mother to meet a bald man in a garish suit. I conceded defeat and left.

  * * *

  WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON, FOLLOWING AN IMPROMPTU quiz on the Golden Age in early Muslim Spain for which I was wildly unprepared (Mr. Harold grinning vengefully when we turned our papers in), Mrs. Janice announced over the intercom that sixth period was canceled and that all grades were to file quietly into the assembly hall. Rabbi Feldman greeted us at the door, instructing us to quickly and respectfully find seats. Sitting onstage beside Rabbi Bloom was none other than Julian Stark, dressed in a pin-striped blazer, legs crossed, fingering his phone, whispering to Rabbi Bloom.