Raphael shakes his head and drops into the matching leather love seat across from his father, then lowers his head into his hands for a second before looking back up at him. “Mitzpe Ramon, really? I mean, are you serious?”
Raphael’s mother, Sylvie, rolls down the ramp into the living room in her wheelchair, engages the safety latch when she is still several feet away from the loveseat, and clears her throat. Raphael swings around and looks at her. “Did you know about this, Ima?” Sylvie meets his stare with her deep blue eyes, and Raphael averts his gaze. This is the first time she has looked at him in months.
“Your father and I agreed with the rabbi that you need a change of environment. We’ve been discussing this with him for several weeks now.”
Raphael looks back up at her. “Weeks?”
“Yes, weeks. We don’t feel Los Angeles is healthy for you at this point in your life. You’ll need to leave, I’m afraid.”
Isaac holds up his hand at Sylvie and looks at Raphael. “We came to our final decision today, thanks to the abrupt end of your therapy. The timing of that couldn’t have been more fortuitous.” Isaac rises to his full height and towers over Raphael. “The rabbi agrees it’s best.”
“I don’t get it!” Raphael stands and faces off with his parents. “Jerusalem wasn’t right, so you dragged me away from Saba and Savta and Uncle Shimshon, peace be upon him, and all my friends, and dropped me here in LA, where I didn’t even speak the stupid language. And now, after eight years, you freaking want to send me back to Israel?”
Isaac points at Raphael. “Respect!”
“Yes,” Sylvie shouts, “Respect your father; lower your voice.”
“What’s going on in here?” Gabriella steps into the living room. Tall, slim, and small breasted, with handsome Middle Eastern features, large, deep blue eyes, a strong aquiline nose, and dark wavy hair that she wears neatly pulled back into a thick ponytail, she looks like an eighteen-year-old clone of Sylvie.
“Ima and Abba, and Rabbi Mordechai,” Raphael says, “they want to send me back to Israel.”
“Israel?” Gabriella looks at her parents. “What’s that about?” She steps over to Raphael and gives him a hug, which he gently shrugs off.
“Never mind, young lady,” Sylvie says. “This has nothing to do with you.”
“And not just Israel,” Raphael says. “To Aunt Penina’s place in Mitzpe Ramon!”
“Why there?” Gabriella asks. “Isn’t that in the middle of nowhere?”
“Thank you!” Raphael says. “You see, Ima? You see, Abba? In the middle of nowhere. And, besides that, Aunt Penina totally hates us! She still blames Abba for what happened to Uncle Shimshon, peace be upon him.”
“The rabbi agrees with your mother and me that Raphael should go back to Israel at this point and experience life from another perspective,” Isaac says to Gabriella, ignoring Raphael’s comment.
“You mean, from a poorer perspective,” Raphael says.
Sylvie brings her hand down hard against the armrest of her wheelchair. “Away from all the distractions of a big city!” She wheels around to face Gabriella. “Your brother will become a part of another household for a while, a household that could use another man around.”
“What do you mean another man?” Gabriella says. “Aunt Penina already has three sons!” She steps forward again and puts her arm around Raphael. “You can’t just send him away like that! It’s not right. Besides, if he goes now, he won’t be able to claim deferral from military service.”
Isaac and Sylvie exchange a glance that doesn’t escape Gabriella’s notice.
“Is that what this is about?” Gabriella says.
“Military service won’t do your brother any harm.” Sylvie wheels her chair to face Isaac. A fleeting wince of pain ripples across her face and quickly subsides.
“This is unbelievable.” Raphael moves away from Gabriela and snatches up his backpack. “After all the progress I’ve made here, top of the class in all my subjects, intramural swimming champion, shortlisted for the National Young Artists award”—he points at his mother—“something you encouraged by the way, Madam Landscape Artist.”
“Raphael, stop!” Isaac says.
Raphael faces his father and lowers his voice. “And nobody at the esnoga, nobody except Rabbi Mordechai, can hold a candle to me in the study of the Talmud. Not even you, Abba.” He looks back and forth between his parents. “Please, Ima. Please, Abba, don’t do this, I beg you. I have a future here. There’s nothing for me in Israel.”
“We’re not going to debate this with you.” Sylvie unlatches the safety on her wheelchair and rolls to her husband’s side. “I’m afraid it’s all settled.”
Isaac places his hand on her shoulder. “Your mother’s correct, son. We’ve arranged your flight after the High Holidays, and your cousin Assaf will be waiting for you at Savta’s when you arrive in Jerusalem.”
Raphael glares at both his parents. “Fine!” He pulls on his backpack and grabs his camera, hanging it around his neck, “But I swear, you’ll regret this.” He starts toward the foyer.
“Where are you going, young man?” Isaac says.
“To my art class! It’s Wednesday, remember?”
“That’s not for another two hours,” Gabriella calls out. “We’re serving dinner in ten minutes.”
“I’m not hungry.” And with that Raphael disappears into the foyer.
“Well, that went swimmingly,” Gabriella says with a dismissive shake of her hair and storms out without waiting for a response.
She catches up with Raphael as he reaches the front gate and grabs hold of his backpack.
“What’s the big idea!” He yanks the bag out of her hand.
Gabriella takes hold of his arm. “Don’t fight them on this, Rafi,” she says, her voice low and intense.
“Don’t fight them? You freaking just told them you didn’t think it was fair.”
“I was a bit shocked is all. To be honest, though, I’m not sure whether it’s fair or not.”
“What do you mean?”
“They’re our parents, remember? And they have the rabbi’s support on this, too.”
“So you do think they’re right!”
“They’re the people who are supposed to know what’s best for us. Besides, you haven’t exactly been the easiest person, what with the lying and stealing.”
“That was only one time! And I’ve paid for that. Everything else has been perfect.”
“I’m just saying, maybe Israel isn’t such a bad idea. Think of it as a vacation. You’ll get to spend time with Saba and Savta.”
“Whatever!” Raphael pulls away from Gabriella and unlocks the gate.
“I’ll pick you up after class,” Gabriella calls out as he heads down the driveway, “on the steps of the art building. Wait for me!”
Raphael jogs down Mapleton Drive, past the hedges, walls, gates, and driveways of the several majestic estates lining either side of the road, forcefully kicking stray twigs and branches left by the gardeners into the gutter. He rounds the corner at Charing Cross Road East, hops onto the sidewalk, and picks up the pace, racing past the smaller mansions of that part of Holmby Hills, most of them either mock-Spanish or mock-Tudor, as he descends the hill toward UCLA.
Crossing the road at Hilgard, he accesses the campus via the sculpture garden outside the art centre. Then he takes his camera out of its case and makes his way across the university snapping pictures of his favourite landmarks as he goes: the world-class sculptures, the fountains, the courtyards, and the various hidden spots between buildings where he would often escape to read a book or have his lunch.
When he reaches the grass-covered quad between Royce Hall and Powell Library, the school’s iconic Romanesque red brick buildings, he takes in the sight of them, a deep sadness welling inside. Scores of students crisscross the grass. Some of them smile at Raphael or nod a greeting as they pass.
Once the rush is over, and the square is relatively clear of
people, he takes his time to frame shots of the facades and towers of the buildings set against the deep blue sky of the late afternoon, keen to preserve the memory of them. Then he runs up the stairs of Powell Library and snaps some pictures of the mosaics in the entryway before rushing off for a swim.
The lanes of the Olympic-sized swimming pool are all taken by the time he arrives in his black competition Speedos. He recognises one of the swimmers, a freckled redhead university student in red-and-white striped Speedos with an enviable butterfly stroke and an even better body. Kneeling at the head of the lane, Raphael waits until the swimmer reaches him and signals for him to stop by slapping the water. The swimmer grabs the edge of the deck, bringing himself upright and lifting his amber-coloured goggles.
“What’s up, kid?” he asks, catching his breath.
“Mind if I share the lane with you? I’ll give you to the middle of the pool before I start.”
“Yeah, no problem. I’ve only got a couple more laps anyway. So you’ll have it all to yourself.”
Without waiting for a response, the swimmer kicks off, arching through the water with the grace of a dolphin. Raphael admires him from the pool’s edge, broad back, muscular arms, small waist, before diving in and cutting through his wake with a ferocious Australian crawl, his fastest stroke. The swimmer makes room for him as they pass each other, and Raphael counters by edging toward him, taking any opportunity to brush against the swimmer’s water-slicked body.
After a few more laps, the swimmer lifts himself out of the pool and quickly dries off. Then he ties his towel around his waist like a sarong and exits the wet area. Raphael climbs out and follows him into the locker room, which is empty at the moment, and watches from a corner bench as the swimmer strips off his Speedos and crosses the floor to the communal showers.
Raphael pokes his head into the shower room and finds the swimmer already lathering up at the far end. Peeling off his Speedos and kicking them to one side, Raphael crosses the blue-and-white tiled floor and takes the showerhead next to the swimmer, turning on the tap and running warm water over his hairy body.
The swimmer glances at him and looks around at the many available showerheads ranged around the room. “Don’t tell me you want to share my showerhead, too,” he says with a smirk.
“I don’t mind,” Raphael responds. “Do you?”
The swimmer laughs and splashes Raphael with some water.
“You’re very daring, kid. But no thanks.”
Raphael shrugs and finishes washing up.
Afterwards, back in the locker room, as they finish changing into their street clothes, the swimmer breaks the silence.
“Where are you off to now?” he asks.
“I have a class in a half hour. I only came by for a quickie.”
“A quickie, eh?”
“Yeah, a quick swim and whatever.” Raphael winks at the swimmer and flashes a crooked smile.
“You don’t look old enough to be taking classes here.”
“I’m sixteen, nearly seventeen,” Raphael says. “I’m taking college prep extension classes here. You know, like, for geniuses.”
The swimmer barks a short laugh.
“No, seriously, I’m a genius.”
“Ah, I see.”
“But this is my last week. I’ll be leaving the country soon. So you won’t see me again. I mean, if you’re up for something…” Raphael nods at a utility closet and raises his eyebrows expectantly.
The swimmer looks Raphael in the eye, and they stare at each other for a few moments, then he slowly lowers his gaze past Raphael’s chin, neck, chest, stomach, then back up at Raphael’s eyes. He glances around the room and takes Raphael by the arm. Raphael’s heart pounds hard at the touch of the swimmer’s hand, and he moves toward the closet. But the swimmer holds his place.
“I can’t say I’m not flattered,” the swimmer says in a low voice. “But I’m not a homo.”
Raphael feels his stomach drop. “Neither am I. It’s only a bit of fun, that’s all.”
“Listen, kid. Here’s some advice: Be careful with who you proposition around here. Not everyone is as understanding as I am, if you get my drift. Someone might very well take offence and kick your teeth in.”
Raphael pulls away from the swimmer. “Thanks. But I’m pretty good at reading people. I’m not your type; I get it.” He digs his kippah out of his pocket and clips it into his hair, and grabs his backpack and camera.
The swimmer blinks at him.
“If you change your mind, I’ve got a class in the art centre,” Raphael says over his shoulder as he swaggers away. “I finish at eight.”
Raphael pulls open the glass door of the art centre and speeds down the empty hallway to the studio classroom where his life drawing class will be taking place. As it is still a half hour before the start of class, nobody has arrived yet. He strides across the room to his locker and takes out his easel, his sketchpad, and a box of pastel pencils and sets up in his favourite corner of the room, the one he considers optimal for capturing the models. Then he steps back into the hallway, runs up the steps to the mezzanine, and knocks on the office door of his art teacher and mentor, Shona Reilly.
After a moment, he pushes open the door to Shona’s office and looks inside. He finds her speaking on the telephone, both elbows resting on her desk. She looks up and nods at him, signalling for him to take a seat. But he remains standing and waits while she finishes her conversation, taking the opportunity to admire her emerald green eyes and her long, straight auburn hair, which she pulls away from her face with a tarantula-shaped black hair claw.
Shona smiles at Raphael and mouths I’m almost finished, then turns her attention back to the telephone, which gives him a chance to examine the way her creamy coloured breasts rise out of her low-cut, white blouse accentuated by a thin rust-red cardigan, which she combines with a Catholic schoolgirl-style plaid skirt. He imagines, not for the first time, what she would look like naked. Then, realising he has gotten aroused, Raphael positions his backpack in front of his crotch, shuffles over to the sofa, and drops into it. After a moment, Shona hangs up and swivels her chair in his direction.
“Sorry to interrupt, Miss Reilly.”
“What is it, Ralph?”
“I wanted to let you know that tonight’s my last class. My parents are sending me to Israel in a couple of weeks. So, that’s it. Sorry.”
“But it’s mid-course,” Shona says, her voice pregnant with disappointment. “How long will you be gone?”
“Forever, I think.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that. You’re my best student. The youngest and the best! So much promise.”
Raphael wraps his arms around his backpack and nods his head absently.
“I seriously believe you have a future in art if you keep at it. I don’t think I’m telling you anything you don’t already know, right?”
“Don’t worry, Miss Reilly. I’ll try to keep it up. I just wanted to thank you for everything. I’ve learned so much from you.”
“That’s sweet of you.”
“No, honestly, I appreciate all your encouragement and support. I know my work is difficult to take sometimes.”
Shona nods. “I’ll never forget what you told me the first time we met last year—”
“Whenever I paint, I’m both artist and exorcist.”
“Yes, that’s it. I think that explains a lot.”
Raphael glances around Shona’s office, and his eye comes to rest on a pair of antique silver candlesticks sitting on the highest shelf of her bookcase.
“What I didn’t tell you,” he says, looking back at her, “is that once all my demons are gone, I imagine I’ll have nothing left to paint.”
“Oh, yes?” She glances up at the candlesticks and furrows her brow. “And how do you feel about that?”
Raphael flashes a tight grin. “That’s both my greatest hope… and my greatest fear.” He points at the candlesticks. “Those are beautiful, by the way.”
“They are indeed. They were my great-grandmother’s. She brought them with her when she emigrated from Ireland. She gave them to my parents as a wedding gift.”
“Was she Jewish?”
“Who? My great-grandmother? No, not at all. Why would you think that?”
“They look exactly like Shabbat candlesticks. You know, like, for the Sabbath. My grandparents have a pair back in Israel that look a lot like those.”
“My great-grandmother was a Catholic as far as I know.” She looks up at the candlesticks again and back at Raphael. “I’ve been keeping them safe for my mother ever since my father passed away.”
Raphael and Shona stare at each other in the silence that follows. Their moment is interrupted by the chirping of her telephone.
Raphael grabs his backpack. “I’d best be heading to the studio to get ready for class.”
Shona holds up a finger, picks up the telephone, and puts the caller on hold. Then she stands and smoothens out her skirt with a sweep of her hand. “I’ll be down in about fifteen minutes.”
Raphael nods. “Can I ask a favour, Miss Reilly?” He looks down at the floor for a moment and back up at her.
Shona cocks her head to one side.
Raphael shakes his head and takes a last glance at the candlesticks. “Never mind, Miss Reilly. It’s cool. See you in a few.”
Raphael races downstairs, the image of the two antique silver candlesticks burning in his mind’s eye. He swaggers into the classroom, which by now is nearly full of his fellow students setting up their easels. The model, a hairless twenty-something albino, removes his robe and positions himself on the posing block. His eyes track Raphael as he crosses the room. Raphael sneaks a quick wink at him. The model responds by discreetly shifting to face Raphael’s easel.
Shona enters and leans against her desk, surveying the room. Raphael moves past her and takes up his usual position. Once he has his pencils in place, he glances up and finds Shona staring straight at him. Averting his eyes, he turns his attention to his sketchpad.
Shona claps her hands. “Let’s get started, shall we?”
Halfway through the session, Shona calls a break. The model grabs his robe and strolls over to Raphael, who steps away from his easel and sips water from a bottle. The model moves around to the other side of the easel, and his smile evaporates. He narrows his eyes at the sketchpad for a moment and looks at Raphael.
The Death of Baseball Page 12