Bed-Stuy Is Burning

by Brian Platzer

  “I don’t know. Maybe.”

  “You’re nowhere, girl.” He sipped his Snapple. “You’re not even close. You’re as close to that money as if you were holding an IOU. Ha! I wish I could help you, but wait until I tell Gerard. A girl with busted handcuffs on her wrists walks into the store with a fifty-thousand-dollar check that looks completely legitimate and no way to cash it. Jesus fucking Christ. And they tell me gentrification isn’t changing the neighborhood! Why don’t you go home and see if you have a social security card. That would be a start. And if you can find it, you can apply for a nondriver’s state ID. Doesn’t take more than a few weeks. I know it seems like a long time to you, but six to eight weeks? If I were sitting on fifty grand, I’d wait six to eight weeks.”

  “What if I don’t have a social security card?”

  “You were born here, right? In this country?”

  “I can’t ask my mother. She won’t know. I don’t know.”

  “I’m sorry. Who wrote you that check anyhow?”

  Chapter 52

  “I’m going to take Simon today,” Aaron said the afternoon Antoinette told them she wouldn’t be back. “He’s been inside too many days in a row. We’ll be careful. You try to write.”

  “Yeah?” Amelia said.

  “It’s safe,” Aaron said. “As long as you’re not a cop, the city’s safe.”

  “You sure?”

  She hadn’t been away from Simon for more than an hour since the day.

  “I’ll take him to the Children’s Museum,” he said.

  Amelia wanted to write. To get her thoughts down before they got away from her, and to figure out whether she had the beginning of something. She had to find the beginning of something. This couldn’t have all been for nothing. For suffering. Hers and Simon’s.

  She had to marry Aaron now that she had no money. Or she could come clean and apologize for doing what she’d always fear he’d do—frivolously losing their money. Though it hadn’t been frivolous, giving that check to Sara. It had been necessary.

  When she wrote a book that sold, she could replace the money.

  The money! Even if a book sold, which it wouldn’t, it would take years! She called the 1-800 number on the back of her credit card.

  “Yes!” she said when she finally got a live person. “I’m calling to cancel a check.”

  “Check number?” Amelia told it to the woman, who wasn’t in India. The woman had a midwestern accent. “Okay,” she said. “I’ll find it.”

  “Yes,” Amelia said, “for fifty-thousand dollars.”

  “No,” Amelia said, “the check wasn’t stolen.”

  “No,” Amelia said, “the goods or services were not misrepresented.”

  Sara had said she’d leave and Amelia had said she’d pay, and Sara had left, and Amelia was safe, and so was Simon, and now Amelia was reneging on her end of the deal. Amelia had moved into this neighborhood and taken everything, and everything was hers.

  The demand Sara had made was reasonable in its way.

  “Never mind,” Amelia said. “Forget it.”

  Amelia hung up the phone and breathed. She could always call back later.

  She had time now that Aaron was taking Simon out. The Brooklyn Children’s Museum in Crown Heights had reopened the day before. The extended neighborhood of Jews (not the religious ones because it had been Yom Kippur) and Muslims, blacks and whites had lined up—highlighted by local news outlets looking for positive stories—to demonstrate solidarity. Amelia and Aaron had watched together on TV, and now Aaron would get a kick out of carrying Simon around in the Ergobaby and mixing in. He could share his story about racing home to be with his family. Others could sympathize. He could tell stories and make friends, maybe invite other parents with young babies over for drinks.

  Since the day, Aaron had been eager to show himself. He’d wanted to have opinions on aspects of the day that were difficult to have opinions about. He’d planned on working full days but had come home before lunch. To supervise the repairs. To hold Simon because, with Antoinette gone, he wanted to share the burden of child care. Or just because he wanted to hold Simon. But Simon had been catatonic. Simon had been replaced by a doll Simon who barely ate, hardly slept, but didn’t cry, just lay there in his crib and waited for morning to come.

  So let Aaron mingle with other parents, Amelia thought. Counsel other parents. Give speeches to them. Let Simon be around other babies. Be read to in the infant area. Aaron could read him I Am a Bunny five hundred times as she had the last time they’d gone. I am a bunny. My name is Nicholas. I live in a hollow tree. They could watch the older children play in the water area. It might liven Simon a bit to be around other children. She’d be eager to find out.

  • • •

  Forty-five minutes later Aaron removed Simon and the diaper bag from an Uber on the Upper East Side in front of the synagogue where Aaron had spent six years working as an assistant rabbi.

  Simon had just finally fallen asleep after staring backward, eerily silent, for most of the ride. Aaron scanned through his phone after that. Facebook was dominated by people all over the world expressing unity with the citizens of New York. Twitter was full of hot takes about how the unity was misguided because either the police or the looters were to blame. Aaron couldn’t empathize with either side, so he checked LinkedIn and connected with a few people he didn’t know. He checked Snapchat for the first time in days and saw the ten-second photo Amelia had sent him of Jupiter’s dead body lying in his entryway. He was in the back of the cab so there was nothing he could do. By the time he could focus on the photo, it was gone. And he couldn’t get it back. By the time he understood what he was looking at, there was no record of it. The dead man’s legs had been closest to him. To Amelia, when she’d taken the photo. When he’d been at the track. Now it was the ghost of an image. A ghost that Amelia and Simon had lived with for those two hours while he’d been at the track, then racing home, then delivering a sermon out on the stoop. His wife and baby had been alone with the dead body that had been shot four times and was bleeding into the wood. He’d covered the stain with the Turkish carpet from the office. Eventually he cleaned up his books from the Pack ’n Play.

  Simon wore overalls and slept heavily in a bucket Snap-N-Go car seat that Aaron carried in his right hand. The diaper bag slung over Aaron’s right shoulder and bounced against his left hip. Aaron wore jeans, a brown button-down, heavy cotton shirt, and a gray hooded sweatshirt.

  This was the first time Aaron had been back to Rohr Shalom since the senior rabbi had fired him. He walked in though the heavy wooden front doors. The front of the building was covered in its familiar milky crimson marble. The familiar bronze handle on the door was being polished by an African American maintenance man who nodded to him. The man was new. Aaron had avoided this block for the past six years. He had worked here for six years then avoided the block for six years. Aaron didn’t know whether to walk straight to the synagogue or turn left up to the offices to say hello to the temple president and rabbis, assuming the same people worked here. The senior rabbi would be the same. The others, Aaron wasn’t sure. A freestanding black sign with white letters listed

  Rohr Shalom Bible & Bagels 8:15 a.m.–9:00 a.m.

  Volunteers at Head Start 10:00 a.m.–11:30 a.m.

  Weekly Torah Study noon–1:15 p.m.

  TSBP noon–2:00 p.m.

  Book of Samuel: The Road to Kingship 1:30 p.m.–2:30 p.m.

  It was after three, so congregants would be gone for the day. Aaron walked straight past the forty rows of pews to the bimah and took a seat in the front row with Simon in his car seat beside him on the bench. The diaper bag lay by Aaron’s ankles. Aaron suppressed simultaneous urges to vomit and reminisce. His voice had echoed off these walls. The synagogue was empty except for two maintenance men, one who’d worked there the entire time Aaron had but who was pretending not to recognize Aaron; the other, who had been polishing the doors and was new. The Torah ark was majestic,
the tapestries behind it surreal with swirls of purple and yellow. Fresh-cut flowers bloomed on the bimah and in front of it; the podiums were thick and sturdy, one with a closed siddur resting on top of it. Aaron couldn’t help himself.

  He left Simon on the bench buckled into the car seat and circled around the side to climb onstage. The bimah creaked. The maintenance men looked up. Aaron waved.

  “Rabbi,” the one he knew saluted.

  “Max,” Aaron said, just at that moment remembering his name.

  He looked out at the synagogue from the bimah, and the size of the place was overwhelming. It was mostly made from light wood, though the pews in the mezzanine on top were dark wood, and the chandeliers were metal. The stained glass was purple and white. The balcony and the pillars that helped hold it up were white and copper. This had never been Aaron’s place. He had never held High Holiday services in this, the main synagogue, but he studied here, sometimes was on the bimah for Shabbat, led prayers occasionally, felt the power of the room repeat after him. The lamps—dimmed now—when fully lit, shined bright and combined with the voices echoing off the wooden pews to come close to the feeling of God. The effect of the voices in song did something similar. As close as anything had until—Aaron looked down at his son—the feeling of talking to the angry crowd on his stoop.

  “Modeh ani lifanecha, melech chai vikayam, she-he-chezarta bi nishmati be-chemla – raba emunatecha!” Aaron whispered, not knowing where he was going with this. The mic wasn’t on. No one was there except for the maintenance men. Aaron was going to begin daily ritual prayers of gratitude. He was thanking God for the day, for returning his soul to him with compassion.

  Simon stirred.

  Steps echoed down the main corridor. From their rhythm, Aaron knew the senior rabbi had been radioed.

  Aaron looked to find Max, but Max’s head was down, sweeping.

  “Aaron,” the senior rabbi said, still twenty paces away.

  “Rabbi,” Aaron said.

  “And who do we have here?” the senior rabbi said.

  Aaron put his finger to his lips. He whispered, “Simon.”

  “Sorry,” the senior rabbi whispered.

  The senior rabbi wore a suit. Aaron had never seen him in anything else. He was in his late sixties. He was casual, beardless, and friendly. Always had been, but Aaron hadn’t seen him in more than six years, and he’d lost weight, was a little bit crooked now. He’d always been serious when he led services. But was gregarious and warm in his offices. Offered the other rabbis a drink of good wine after 6 p.m.

  Now he joined Aaron on the bimah. He hugged Aaron very hard. The senior rabbi seemed to have lost some of his vanity along with the weight. He wouldn’t have hugged Aaron a decade ago when they had been working together. Maybe he wouldn’t have hugged Aaron because they had been working together? Or maybe because his suits had always been just so. Aaron, midhug, realized that much of his—Aaron’s—recent vanity had been borrowed from the senior rabbi. Aaron had only over the last year been able to afford the kind of suits the senior rabbi wore, and he’d been keeping them pressed as the senior rabbi had done, wearing pocket squares in the style of the senior rabbi. Today, the senior rabbi wore a charcoal-gray three-piece suit with a white shirt and a white pocket square. The senior rabbi had a full head of gray hair, and the vest beneath the suit filled him out. The suit was very soft against Aaron’s cheek.

  “It’s wonderful. It’s so wonderful to see you, Rabbi,” the senior rabbi said. Aaron remembered the senior rabbi’s affectation to always call the other rabbis “rabbi.” “And that’s your son? It’s so wonderful to see you and to meet your son. We’ve missed you around here,” he said. “It’s so wonderful to see you. And your wife? You’re married?”

  “Of course,” Aaron said.

  “And she’s Jewish?” the senior rabbi said.

  “Of course,” Aaron said.

  The senior rabbi took a step back to look at Aaron in the manner of a doting mother. He never would have expressed this kind of pride when Aaron had worked there. Aaron was buoyed up by it. He was full of gratitude and pride for his own son and new life. The senior rabbi stepped forward and hugged Aaron again.

  When they separated, the senior rabbi said, “You’re a man now. You left us younger. Unformed. Look at you! It’s astonishing. You filled out. You’re a man now. And you’re married with a son. And the look in your eye. It’s wisdom. I can tell. It’s real wisdom.”

  “Thank you,” Aaron said, tearing up. “Thank you.”

  “And you’ve come to visit?”

  “Something like that,” Aaron said.

  “Well why have you come?”

  “I’ve come to consecrate my son to the Lord,” Aaron said, thrilled to feel empowered when he said it as opposed to silly.

  “What?” the senior rabbi said. “I don’t understand. What are you talking about? He didn’t have a bris?”

  “No, I mean. He didn’t, but that’s not what I mean. I mean. He was circumcised. At the hospital. It just seemed more sanitary. But that’s not what I mean. I was in the riots. Right in the middle of them. And, like Hannah, I promised that I would consecrate my son to the Lord if he and I and my . . . my wife came out okay. And we did. So here I am.”

  “What have you been doing? It’s awful what happened. And what’s happened, with the policemen killed, since. Innocent men, taken in anger. You’re not a rabbi anymore, correct?”

  “I’m a financial manager. Doing well.”

  This was when he felt juvenile.

  “I see,” the senior rabbi said. “Can I tell you? You don’t look lost anymore. It’s extraordinary. When I think about you, I think about someone who every day was utterly lost. Who didn’t know if he was going right or left. Up or down. Who was trying so hard to help people but couldn’t help himself. I can’t tell you how often I’ve thought of you since. How badly we treated you here. You weren’t equipped to be a rabbi. But we took you in and didn’t support you. After you left us, we changed the entire system. We changed our intern rabbinical program. I work much more closely with the new training rabbis. They are not so much on their own now. We have more group study. And social gatherings. We have bowling nights, and we watch Knicks games together. Which this year isn’t so great, but you know what I’m saying. I’ve thought many times about reaching out to you. We could have stood by you. For all you did or tried to do for members of our community. And, though you had strengths and weaknesses, you showed potential. We could have stood by you in your shame. I’m so happy you’ve come back—”

  “I’ve come,” Aaron said, cutting him off, “to read Simon the story of Hannah, and bring Simon here and dedicate him to God. That’s the reason I’ve come.”

  Aaron didn’t want to be pitied. He didn’t want to be a source of a second layer of shame from the people who once respected him. First he’d committed the crime, and then they weren’t able to tolerate their memories of him. He wanted to read his son the story of a woman who’d made a promise to Adonai and then kept her promise.

  But equipped to be a rabbi? Aaron hadn’t come here to be told that even when he was leading services and serving the community, meeting with families, leading prayer groups, teaching Torah, he wasn’t equipped? Every day for six years that was his job. And he did it. He did his job, and he did it well.

  “Yes. I see,” the senior rabbi said. “So bring him here. Let’s do it. Come on.”

  “Do what?” Aaron asked.

  “Let me pray over him. Let me dedicate him to God. So that he will no longer be yours, is what you are saying. Correct? You are saying that Simon will no longer be yours. He will be God’s. That you would like him, like Hannah’s son, to be God’s.”

  Aaron had planned on reading the verses himself, but maybe they would be more powerful coming from the senior rabbi. The senior rabbi waited for an answer, so Aaron nodded. “Yes. I want him to be God’s, not mine. That was what I promised.”

  The rabbi gestured down towa
rd Simon. Aaron hopped off the bimah and returned with his son in the bucket car seat. Simon was awake, wide-eyed. Aaron held Simon up to the senior rabbi as the older man read the verses in Hebrew, which Aaron knew well, having focused on them every Rosh Hashanah. They translated to: “Please, Adonai, as you live, Adonai, I am the woman who stood here beside you and prayed to Adonai. It was this boy I prayed for; and Adonai has granted me what I asked of Adonai. I, in turn, hereby lend him to Adonai. For as long as he lives he is lent to Adonai.” Simon remained silent as Aaron placed him at his feet.

  “You understand?” the senior rabbi asked. “You want to change his name, too? Does he have a Hebrew name?”

  “No,” Aaron said.

  “So call him Samuel from now on.”

  “I will,” Aaron said, feeling a rush of pleasure.

  “And have your wife—his mother—call him Samuel. She knows you are here?”

  Aaron looked at the rabbi, at his face attempting to understand, and at the radiant synagogue behind him.

  “No,” Aaron said. He wanted to be honest.

  “What’s wrong?” the senior rabbi said.

  “I shouldn’t be here.”

  “Do you want to be here?

  “Yes,” Aaron said. He could be honest, and it could be okay.

  “Then what do you mean you shouldn’t be here?”

  “I have a new life,” Aaron said. “With a son and a new house and a new job. I’ve moved on. I’ve spent the last six years moving on.”

  “Does it feel successful? That you want to move on? That you are happy with your life as a successful financial manager and you don’t want to be here anymore?”

  “Happy? Is that what I should want to be?”

  The senior rabbi looked at Aaron and believed he understood.

  “You are a rabbi.”

  “You fired me,” Aaron said.

  “Then apply for work elsewhere. See if you get hired. It’s a saturated market, but I’ll write you a good recommendation from me, from here—that will go far.”

  “I have a job.”