The Tribe

by Bari Wood

  He took her to a marina restaurant, and she had lobster for the first time in years. It wasn’t as good as she remembered, strings of it stayed in her teeth, and he got them both toothpicks and Irish whisky to go with their coffee. He asked if she’d kept kosher while she was married to Adam, and she told him she hadn’t after they’d left New York. Adam didn’t care much one way or another.

  “A rabbi’s son who doesn’t care?” Allan asked.

  “He cared,” Rachel said, “just not about being kosher.”

  Allan raised his hands in a truce gesture. “Rachel, I’m not looking for trouble with you.” They drank their whisky without talking for a moment, then he asked, “What about now?” She was getting high.

  “I keep kosher, now.”

  “Two sets of dishes . . . the whole shmeer.”

  “Four sets of dishes; two for Passover.”

  “Right. I forgot.”

  His family had been Orthodox, too, he told her, until his grandfather died. They quit then and he thought he’d be relieved, but he found he missed it. The dishes, the ceremony, checking out restaurants and hotels. “It made everything special,” he said. She nodded.

  “My mother was glad, though,” he said. “She hated the bother, she hated getting up to go to shul on Saturdays.” Then he asked, “Does it bother you?”

  “I don’t go,” she answered.

  He looked surprised. “Doesn’t your father-­in-­law insist?”

  She just stared at him, and after a moment, he laughed and shook his head. “No one insists on anything with you, is that it?”

  She still didn’t answer, and he changed the subject with the same easy good humor.

  They had two more whiskies and left to go home. As they drove, he told her about his wife, the JAP of all time he called her, from Bronxville. They had two kids, a co-­op on lower Fifth Avenue. Ninth Street. One hundred acres of the Poconos, a dog, and two cars. He smiled and said he’d gotten one of the cars.

  His voice was pleasant, she was high and tired, and she leaned back and just listened. At one point she thought of asking him if he knew anything about how clay fit in with cobblestone streets and crooked houses, but he was talking about his wife. Their divorce had only become final last week, and until then, he said, he’d been faithful except for one drunken night in Chicago where he’d picked up some tart in a bar. He actually said tart, and that struck Rachel as a kind word, better than slut or cunt or whore. Only a nice man, she thought, would call a bar girl a tart. She watched his profile, and that lovely silvery hair that came down the side of his face in short sideburns. He took her to his house, one of the most expensive in the Sutter section of Laurel, and from the moment he turned off the motor and lights and looked at her, the air was full of that sexual suspense that she hadn’t felt in years. That she’d forgotten existed.

  “I thought we’d spend some time here,” he said.

  She didn’t answer. She wanted to see the house, she told herself. After all, it probably went for two hundred twenty-­five thousand. It had a pool, a cabana, five bedrooms, four baths, a Florida room, a country kitchen. Golda would never forgive her if she didn’t at least look at the house.

  The living room was empty except for a huge sectional sofa of soiled light-­colored velvet. As far as she could tell it was the only furniture in the place. Their voices echoed in the beautifully proportioned foyer; the dining room was empty. The fireplace was cold and unswept, with bottles of liquor lined up in it. The glasses he poured the Irish whisky into were dusty.

  “I just moved,” he apologized. “And I wasn’t kidding, she did take everything.” When they finished the drink, he turned out the only lamp and in the moonlight he put his arms around her. She was sure she’d leave as soon as he tried to kiss her, but he rubbed his thumb against her bottom lip, which was unexpected, and Rachel felt a gut-turning excitement so intense she caught her breath. He heard her.

  “It’s been a long time for you, too, hasn’t it,” he said softly. Then he kissed her, and after a while he took off his clothes. He wasn’t self-­conscious, and she watched him. His body hair was as gold-­silver as the hair on his head; Adam’s had been black on his pale skin. Allan was thinner than she thought, not as tall. Shorter than Hawkins, taller than Adam, perfect, she told herself as he helped her take off her clothes. Perfect.

  It was, too, except at the end, when she was afraid that she’d imagine that it was Adam in her instead of this man; not living Adam, holding her with that odd, intense gentleness she’d never forget, that no one could match, but Adam’s corpse the way she saw it in her worst moments: fish-­green skin sunk on its bones; round, jellied, lidless eyes staring; corpse fingers like claws holding her. But she didn’t. She imagined she was with Roger Hawkins in the bedroom in Brooklyn. He was naked and excited. She was naked, too, and they were standing next to Levy’s big, old bed, with their bodies barely touching.

  In Laurel Jacob Levy celebrated Havdalah†† with the other men. They had a cold feast of rolls, butter and pot cheese, tea and whisky. A braided candle gave the only light. Levy poured the wine and blessed it. He opened the silver box of cloves and cinnamon, blessed it, breathed in the scent, then he passed it to Luria who sat next to him, and he smelled it and passed it to the next man. Finally Levy raised the cup of wine and drank most of it as was customary, then passed it so each man could have a sip. The cup came back to him and, with divided feelings—sorrow at the end of the Sabbath, and gratitude that it happened at all to give him this sense of peace—he extinguished the candle in the few drops of wine left in the cup. In the dark, he dipped his fingers in the wine, then ran them tenderly over Isaac Luria’s eyebrows. Luria smiled, and all the sternness left his face. Then Levy leaned over and kissed his friend. “Shabuoth tov”‡‡ he said, “Shabuoth tov.” They all embraced each other. A little light came through the basement windows and in it Levy saw Dworkin go to the light switch. In a second there would be light and the Sabbath would be over.

  For Levy, this was the most solemn moment. He remembered again, as he did every Saturday night, that the dead candle he held was supposed to be held by a child and that the symbol of the Sabbath was a woman, a queen, a bride. But there had been no women with them in the camp and the two little boys who had been inside the barracks weren’t children at all after a while. The men got used to being alone together and children were never invited to Havdalah. All men they were; like the long-­house Maori of New Zealand. Levy smiled at the thought, and then suddenly he longed for Adam. Or even Roger. He used to hope that someday, when Luria was older and calmer, Hawkins could come to Havdalah, share the wine and their little feast, and watch the dancing. . . . Dworkin reached for the switch and, in the last seconds of darkness, Levy remembered that in the old days, in Dabrowa, Levy’s father used to pretend to lead the Sabbath Queen out of the house and down the narrow village street. They would all imagine watching until she was out of sight, saying good-­bye in their hearts until next week. That custom died in the camp, too. But lately, as he got older, Levy imagined he could see her, tall, beautiful, stately, going through the basement door and out into the snow.

  Dworkin turned on the lights and the Sabbath was over.

  In Riverdale, Chaim Garfield and the men from his shul also celebrated Havdalah with the braided candle, the silver spice box shaped like a fish, the cup for wine, the dish to go under it to catch the overflow because it was tradition to fill the cup too full in hopes that the week would be full. The lights were dim, the way they were in Laurel, the men solemn. But in Riverdale, at Avaarith Israel, the candle was held by a little boy because the men here brought their sons with them, and at the end of the ceremony, when the Sabbath Queen left them, they didn’t eat and drink or dance together. They embraced, shook hands, wished each other Shabuoth tov, and went home to their families.

  Simon Leshman walked two blocks with Garfield. As long as he was with hi
s friend, Garfield was comfortable and animated. Then Leshman turned into his street and Garfield was alone. The cold hit him and went right through his clothes. He wrapped his muffler around his mouth and chin and hurried along the quiet street. The trees were covered with ice, the river was silver-­colored and looked like it wasn’t moving. He was freezing and lonely, and he would have liked a son to walk home with on this night.

  When he got home he ate while Ada dressed. They were going to Hartsdale to their daughter, who was having a card party with her husband’s parents, some friends, and the Melnicks from their old building in Washington Heights.

  Ada had put on a soft wool dress, in the new sleeker style, and he thought how slim and pretty she still was, and he told her in Yiddish that she looked so good he’d fuck her if it was earlier, and she smiled as if she believed him. But he was sixty, tired, and still cold and he was glad it wasn’t earlier. She bent to put on her boots, the dress caught in the crack of her behind and he wondered if she was glad, too; if they were both getting old.

  He’d been in Theresienstadt from 1940 to 1945. The Nazis had taken that five years and probably another five at this end. Too much abuse, Dr. Frank had told him. “The body’s not meant to take it. I know some live to be eighty, ninety, but most . . .” He’d looked at the lines on the first EKG. “Well,” he’d said, “we’ll see. We’ll see.”

  “That’s for sure,” Garfield mumbled, and when Ada asked him what he said he kissed her cheeks and answered, “Nothing, nothing.” Her English was terrible and even her Yiddish wasn’t so good. But in Russian his wife was a poet, a marathon talker. Every month when they got the phone bill, he was grateful that more people in Riverdale didn’t speak Russian.

  When they got home from Hartsdale, Ada went to bed and he went into the kitchen and filled a large lunch box with a jar of creamed herring, a small hard salami, butter cookies, a container of ikra baklazhan,§§ a slice of halvah. Milk and meat all mixed up, but he didn’t care. No one would see but Meyer, and Meyer didn’t care either. In the morning he filled two Thermoses, one for himself for the drive back and one with a cranberry drink that Mrs. Rostov made.

  When he got to Ossining he had to wait ten minutes while the guard, Carver, examined the contents of the lunch box. Carver opened the Thermos flask and sniffed. “Cranberries?” he said. Garfield nodded.

  “God, that smells delicious.” He paused delicately.

  Garfield said, “You can’t have that, Meyer’s waited for a month for that stuff. Next week get some more.”

  “Sure do appreciate it, sure do.”

  “You’re a shnorrer, William, a real shnorrer.”¶¶

  “Sure am,” said the guard. “Sure am.” He was opening the bag of cookies. “Take one,” Garfield said. He tried to dislike the man but couldn’t. He wanted William Carver to have a cookie, to enjoy it, and that was crazy. But he couldn’t help himself. One night at a meeting of the Habonim,*** thirty-­odd years ago, he’d had two cigarettes left and a man asked him for a smoke. The man had been in a camp, too, his false teeth fit badly, and even though he was still young, he was already getting bald. Garfield took out his pack of Camels and while his comrade Tepel watched in amazement, he gave the man his last two cigarettes, lit one for him, and thought, as the man drew the smoke deep into his lungs, that he enjoyed that smoke as much as the man with the cigarette. Tepel shook his head. Extreme generosity, Tepel had said, was the first sign of insanity.

  Meyer was waiting; he smiled and kissed his brother. He opened the lunch box, took out the plastic container of ikra at once, opened it, and breathed in the smell of garlic, olive oil, green peppers, and eggplant.

  “A mechaiah,” Meyer said, “a mechaiah.”†††

  He closed the container. “Later,” he told Garfield. Next to him on the table was a large box of Hershey bars. Garfield smiled.

  “The inspector has been here.”

  “Yeah,” Meyer said, “faithful as always; every sixth Sunday.”

  “Someday I must meet him.”

  “Why?” Meyer asked. He wasn’t being contentious, he really wanted to know, and Garfield said, “Because you love and respect him.”

  “Don’t get too excited,” Meyer said. “He tried to save David’s life, so I owe him. That’s all.”

  Garfield decided to drop the subject and he asked, “What else is new?”

  Meyer laughed. “This is the slammer, Chaimele. What could be new? I didn’t take it in the ass, I didn’t give no blow jobs. . . .”

  ** Beauty.

  †† The end of the Sabbath.

  ‡‡ Good week.

  §§ Eggplant caviar.

  ¶¶ Chiseler.

  *** Youth organization of the League for Labor Palestine.

  ††† Joy.

  Chapter 3

  The doorbell rang.

  “Don’t answer,” Allan groaned. He held her down on top of him; he was so close to finishing he barely moved. “Please . . . Rachel, Rachel . . .” He kissed her, the bell rang again. Leah woke upstairs and started to cry. Rachel tried not to laugh and Allan moaned, “Shit . . .” It rang again and they both laughed. “Oh God, answer it,” he said.

  He held her another instant, still not moving, then he let her go.

  She straightened her skirt and looked back at him from the living room door. He was lying on his back on the couch grinning at her, his erection pointed up, shining in the sun.

  “Hurry,” he whispered. “For God’s sake, hurry,” but she had to run back to him to kiss him.

  “Don’t move,” she said.

  The bell rang again and she went to the door and opened it. A tall fat man stood on the threshold holding his hat.

  “Sussman,” he said, holding a card up like a police badge, “Mort Sussman of Sussman and Raines. We’re brokers for this section, Mrs. Levy. We sold you and the other members of your . . . ah . . . community these houses.” His face was heavy, he had big pores in his nose, and he looked greasy even in the cold. “Can I come in?” he asked.

  “It’s not convenient. . . .”

  “Ah, I should have called. But what I have to say won’t take long, and it’s extremely important.”

  There was something wrong with the deed to the house and they were going to lose everything. She knew it was immigrant thinking, her grandmother’s thoughts in her head; they’d closed on the house with lawyers, and brokers, deed searches and title insurance. But the fear stayed and made her feel savage. She wanted to take this fat, ugly man right into the living room, to see Allan lying back on a chintz couch in the sun, member out and gleaming, pointing at his chin. When she was young, she’d have done it, out of defiance.

  They said she did everything out of defiance; her mother said she married Adam out of defiance, her father said she beat up her brother Danny for the same reason. She would trap Danny in the park, in a tent of willows at the foot of Seventy-­ninth Street. He was bigger and older but he wouldn’t fight, and once she got so enraged she bit him hard enough to draw blood. When her mother saw the wound, she sent Rachel to her room without supper, and Rachel sat on her bed without moving until her father came in with his glass of brandy. He sat in front of the window and looked at her for a long time. Then he said, “I love you, Rachel.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “Do you love me?” he asked. She nodded.

  “Then why do you hurt my son?”

  Thoughts came to her—because he won’t fight and he went to Hebrew School and had to go to shul on Saturday whether he wanted to or not. But no one cared if she was there Saturday, Sunday, or any other time. In two years, Danny would be bar mitzvahed, even though they weren’t religious, and she would be nothing. Fighting her meant recognizing her. He was strong and she knew he’d beat her good. But that wasn’t the point. Combatants were equa
ls of a sort, and that’s what she wanted. But she didn’t know how to say any of it, so she was quiet.

  Her father waited, then said, “You hurt Danny, to defy us, why?” She still didn’t answer.

  “Where does it come from—all this defiance? Do me the kindness to explain. . . .”

  He’d said the same thing when she decided to get a Masters in philosophy. They were in the kitchen. Her mother was ironing, her father looked out the window at the boys running after each other in the park. “Why philosophy?” he asked. Her mother listened.

  “I could teach,” Rachel said.

  “Do you want to?” her father asked.

  “No.”

  “Then why?” he asked. Then said again, “Do me the kindness to explain.”

  This time she could tell him why, and she told them about one night . . . one night only . . . that decided her. She was studying Hegel’s lectures on history, all alone in her room before exams. Everyone slept, except her, and she read the words over and over and thought they could have been broadcast from another planet for all the sense they made to her. Yet she kept trying. Defying the language that wouldn’t be understood, defying her adviser who said Hegel was very difficult for women, defying Hegel himself, who’d probably hated women and Jews, and she was both. Good. She’d beat him; she’d make sense out of the stilted German-­into-­English if she sat there until she was an old woman. She read commentaries and explanations. She read the notes she’d taken at Adam Levy’s lectures. His lectures were wonderful and if Levy were there, talking only to her, he’d make her understand. Then she was glad he wasn’t; she wanted to do it on her own. She went back to the words themselves. She paced the apartment and had a shot of her father’s brandy. Then she went back to her desk and started again. The text, the commentaries, the notes, and suddenly, as if he were in the same room with her, she heard Adam Levy’s soft voice with its faint accent.