by J. J. Gesher
Lenny had often functioned as the Shabbos goy, a non-Jew who could perform prohibited tasks on the Sabbath for the religious Jews who rented in the building. The strict rules of Orthodox Judaism dictated that no work could be done on the Sabbath. Flipping a light switch or turning on a heater could be construed as breaking the rules. On occasion, someone would forget to set the automatic timer on the lights before the Sabbath, or the weather would take a cold turn after the day of rest had begun. That’s when they’d call on Lenny, who could throw the switch without consequence.
Jacob remembered the exact moment he first heard the blues. One Saturday, his elderly uncle was staying with them, and the temperature inexplicably ratcheted up over one hundred degrees. Jacob’s mother sent him down to Lenny; they needed the Shabbos goy to turn on the air conditioning or his uncle would be ill. Jacob went to Lenny’s basement apartment with the urgent request.
As he descended the four stories to ask for Lenny’s help, he acknowledged the building as a living entity. All of the windows and doors were open in a futile attempt to catch a breeze. Jacob heard toilets flushing, babies shrieking, and snippets of human conflict.
Even before he knocked on Lenny’s half-opened door, he was aware of the sound from the record player and the woman singing. The voice wasn’t merely singing. She was storytelling and praying all in one.
Over the next year, Jacob visited Lenny with any excuse he could invent, and Lenny, enjoying the company of a fellow music lover, introduced him to the great blues singers. Jacob would sit on the old brown couch, the one Lenny had scavenged from Mrs. Strauss’s apartment after she died. No relative had laid claim to the worn upholstery, so Lenny hauled it down to his place. He’d put duct tape over the hole on the arm where her cats had shredded the fabric. Lenny tried to drape an afghan over the silver tape, but the metallic swath always revealed itself. Other than that hole, the couch suited Lenny—comfortable and warm, like the music that came from the old vinyl records.
Jacob loved the way Lenny’s face softened when he listened to the blues. Lenny would close his eyes and move his head back and forth. Sometimes he’d pretend that he was drumming and bite his lower lip while he acted out his fantasy.
“You hear that? That rhythm is the heart of the blues. You know what makes it special? The music lives on the two and the four beat. The snare, not the kick. You know what I mean?”
Jacob nodded, not wanting the lesson to be interrupted. He studied piano, but Lenny was talking about a whole different world of sound. Once Lenny felt that Jacob understood the blues, he moved him to the next circle of learning, jazz. The two of them would sit on that old brown couch, eat crackers, and listen to the intricacies of Miles Davis and John Coltrane.
Lenny’s music became his own. In his teens, Jacob had expanded his taste to include rock ‘n’ roll. Listening to the radio late at night, he’d fantasize about wearing jeans and T-shirts and having sex. He longed to be a typical American, and he’d argue with his father about the worth of being observant and living isolated from the mainstream.
His father grumbled that Lenny was poisoning Jacob’s mind. Jacob spent too many hours in that basement apartment listening to old records instead of learning. But Jacob was learning. Lenny had a small electronic keyboard on which he experimented, modifying his years of classical piano lessons to the rhythms Lenny had taught him to love. Jacob had a natural aptitude for the blues.
After one inspired riff, Lenny pointed at him, wiggled his finger, and declared, “You’re an old soul, my friend.”
Jacob was elated. He couldn’t wait to tell his parents.
His father shattered his pride. “That man doesn’t know anything about your soul. You’re a pisher. Stay away from that shvartza and his immoral music.”
Jacob flared. “There’s nothing immoral about him. And don’t use the word shvartza. It’s offensive.”
His father roared with rage. “Not abiding by my rules is what’s offensive!” Jacob braced himself for a physical confrontation, but this time his father was satisfied getting the last word. “There’s nothing offensive about shvartza. It means black.”
There was no winning this argument, or any others in their combative relationship, so Jacob withdrew. He kept his opinions to himself and his mouth shut. He feared that if he didn’t, his father would forbid all visits to Lenny’s apartment. Not that he would have obeyed. Jacob suspected there was something wrong with Lenny when he didn’t eat the crackers anymore. He got so thin that his hands shook when he swept the hallway. The jazz lessons became erratic and soon stopped altogether. When Lenny died, he left a handwritten note giving his turntable and record collection, the only things he truly valued, to Jacob.
The night he received his inheritance, Jacob heard his parents argue over whether or not he’d be able to keep the gift. He sat on his bed and listened through the walls.
“He needs to spread his wings. If we chain him then he will always be drawn to tref,” his mother argued. She was talking about music, but she used the Yiddish word tref, which referred to any food that was not kosher.
His father was less amenable. He barked back, “Stop indulging him. When he wanders, it won’t be my fault.”
His mother countered. “You don’t lose someone from listening to music. You make them more curious about what they’re missing. That’s why they wander.”
Jacob heard his father turn over in the creaky old bed, away from his mother. This signaled that his mother had prevailed. He was relieved that she’d stood up for him—she usually deferred to his father and followed rules strictly.
Jacob’s parents let him keep his inheritance from Lenny. He played the records softly whenever he could. His father had been right—listening to tref music would never be enough. He needed to get closer to the music. An instinctive drive compelled him to seek out the source of the sound. No longer satisfied by a recorded artifact, he craved the intensity of live performance. For months, he scoured the entertainment section of The New York Times for names of familiar jazz musicians. If any of them were scheduled to appear, it was always at some uptown hotel or Lincoln Center. The price of admission presented an obstacle. How could he come up with the sixty-five dollars required for even the worst ticket?
One day, while waiting for the J train, Jacob noticed a small advertisement plastered on the subway wall. A jazz club in the Village was hosting an evening called “Famous Surprises.” This was the club that Lenny had always talked about. Coltrane had played there; Miles Davis, too. Maybe one of Jacob’s heroes would be playing that night.
It didn’t take long for him to make up his mind. He concocted a lie about a late-night study lesson and sleeping at a friend’s house. His parents never questioned him.
Jacob’s heart raced—he had never been in a nightclub and didn’t know what to expect. He must have walked back and forth in front of the club a dozen times before he decided on a course of action. He knew that he’d have to blend in and intentionally wore a Yankees cap instead of his kipah. Clearly the cap alone was not going to allow him to mingle unobtrusively. He walked halfway down the block and tucked his fringed undergarment inside his pants, pulling out the tails of his shirt and rolling up his sleeves.
He loitered momentarily under the canopy that read “Village Vanguard.” He could go home, tell his parents that the night ended early, and that would be that. No harm, no foul. As he debated, the door to the club swung open and the sound of a jazz combo flooded his senses with longing as surely as fresh baked bread made him hungry. He walked through the door and descended the stairs into a dingy, smoke-filled basement club. He found a seat at a back table. The card on the table said ten-dollar cover, two drink minimum. Jacob figured his thirty dollars would carry him for the cover and two Cokes.
The sounds of that night rooted themselves in his body. The performance changed him. With each measure, beat, and improvisation he became more alive. He sat transfixed through multiple performers until a very specific magic happened
.
Two aides led an old African American man to the stage and helped him get seated at the piano. His mobility was compromised, but his playing was superb. As the song settled in, he became a young man, his fingers agile and playful. Jacob found himself, like others in the audience, tapping the table and keeping time with his head. Sitting with people who felt about music the way he did—even if he didn’t know them—felt like a religious service without the dogma. He couldn’t stop grinning. He belonged here. Jacob studied the club’s schedule carefully. He would return as often as time and money allowed.
The sound of First Baptist’s choir rehearsal seduced Jacob. The gospel music was authentic and powerful, an expression of raw emotion. As it had in Brooklyn, the music pulled him out of hiding. He made his way down the darkened hallway and quietly crept up the stairs that led to an alcove. From here, he could watch unobserved as the choir moved into the first song of the evening. Listening to the passionate vocals, he could forget his emptiness, if only for a few moments.
Mr. Day bounced from the sopranos to the altos to the tenors, persuading them to open their voices. The song was energetic and upbeat, reflecting the joy of the lyrics.
You turned my mourning into dancing,
My sadness into gladness;
My glory will sing your praise
Forever
On the word “forever,” the sections of the choir echoed each other in harmony. Mr. Day was not satisfied and made them repeat the phrase several times.
At the end of rehearsal, Mr. Day closed his notebook. “Great work, folks. That’ll be it tonight.” The choir members came together and joined hands in a circle, bowing their heads. They hummed and swayed in unison.
Mr. Day began. “Jesus—bless these souls who lift their voices in prayer and joy.”
The choir responded with a quick “Amen.” They continued to sway, all heads down. The rehearsal had been disciplined, but now the prayers were personal, more urgent.
A big woman slowly lifted her head and claimed focus. She asked the community to pray for her nephew who was battling a crack addiction. Then a distinguished gentleman in his sixties, dressed in suspenders and a bow tie, asked them to pray for his granddaughter who was taking her nursing exams.
The group swayed for another moment. When no one else spoke, Mr. Day, obeying the silent conclusion, broke up the circle. “See you all on Sunday morning.”
The members of the choir returned to their seats to claim their belongings. As the singers dispersed, Mr. Day climbed the narrow stairs to the alcove where Jacob had been watching. Jacob stepped into the shadow and held his breath. Humming to himself, Mr. Day flipped off the sound system for the sanctuary and left without noticing him.
Down below, Rosie gathered her music, oblivious to Edmond standing next to her. As she put her arm through the sleeve of her jacket, she accidentally poked him in the eye. He instinctively flinched and covered his face.
“I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize you were that close.”
Edmond blinked rapidly. “No problem. A patch will make me look mysterious.”
He stood in front of her with one red eye tearing. His grin reminded her of Langston when he had a new joke to tell, an upturned mouth that twitched at the corners with anticipation. She waited for the punch line, but it never came. He just grinned and rubbed his eye. He could be charming.
“Do you remember when you asked me for coffee?” she said, lifting her purse to her shoulder.
Edmond’s grin vanished, leaving a serious expression in its place, “No. Why do you ask?”
Rosie stood there, embarrassed. Had she misinterpreted events? There was a quick spark on Edmond’s face. He was teasing.
She remembered how to play this game. “You should know that I’m not a big coffee lover, but I do like a glass of wine every now and then.” She turned to leave, and as she walked to the door she waved her hips a little more than usual.
“Wine sounds good to me.”
Relieved, she looked back as she went through the church door. There was that grin again.
CHAPTER 14
Robert Yarber stood in the dressing room at the Gap trying to find a pair of khakis and a crisp shirt that would read like standard-issue middle-class-guy. The reflection in the mirror wasn’t half bad. Twelve years ago he might have been a model. Twelve years ago was a long time. He rubbed his still-square chin and pulled his shoulders back. The mirror reported that he could throw on a blazer and a solid tie and not look like he was trying too hard.
There were too many lawyers in this world. When he got fired from his last firm, he found it difficult to find an opening. His drinking hadn’t made job hunting any easier. Tomorrow he had an interview with an old law school friend from a downtown firm who said they were looking for some research help. It was a step down, but he knew if he nailed the research, he could work his way back into a caseload. There was only one other Black lawyer in the firm. They needed the diversity.
Robert was willing to start at the bottom if need be. He was five months sober. His skin was looking healthy again, and his waist had shrunk from bloated to familiar. Tall and long-legged, he could always walk into a store and walk out with a 32-32, no alterations. At least that hadn’t changed. Nothing else about his life was even remotely the same as before.
He wasn’t sure when his downward spiral first began. Was it about money? Or was it having to bill out ridiculous hours at the firm? Or his wife’s neediness? Or was it fatherhood—the actual act of producing a child—that had flipped the switch?
Most men kicked ass when their families began. He’d done a complete reverse, heading so fast toward irresponsibility that he gave himself whiplash. First, the drinking became an unforgiving habit, and then came the random one-night stands for nothing more than sheer, conquering entertainment. Some of them involved good sex, even memorable sex, the kind he mentally hauled out when the mood hit in the shower. But those hookups were always hollow. He’d tried to explain that to Rosie, but she didn’t believe him. Robert had never thought of himself as callous, but Rosie’s unforgiving condemnation wore him out. He’d shut down any feelings for her, but he refused to shut down his love for Langston. So he stayed.
One day he came home and Rosie had packed his clothes. A part of him knew the end was coming, and he found himself strangely relieved. He’d tried to make the marriage work, but there was no way around her most annoying personality glitch: The woman was a meddler. At first, her interfering felt like concern, but he came to understand it as her way of controlling the world. Even when they made love, her hand would rest lightly on his, always ready to stop him or to interfere with the natural flow. Rosie used her bossiness to distance herself from passion. That was why he’d stepped out on her. He missed the passion. Damn all her intellectualizing.
Yes, he could live without Rosie, but his son? He didn’t realize how much he loved Langston until the threat of not seeing him daily became reality.
Robert’s drinking had begun to control his life. Months of his life felt hazed over. Alcohol anesthetized his ability to connect on any level.
At first he wouldn’t drink until the end of the workday, but that social boundary quickly expanded. Lunch would include a glass of wine or a beer, and hard liquor began mid-afternoon. He kept a bottle of Jack Daniels in his office and by the end of the day, he’d have nursed two or three drinks. On the weekends, he’d begin as early as 10 a.m. and continue until he fell asleep in front of the television. One weekend in particular was his undoing.
The pressure to deliver on an important case had been all consuming at the office, and he had also begun an intense sexual relationship with one of the female partners. The difficulty in hiding the affair from Rosie was weighing on him. Two fingers of gin downed first thing in the morning would make a long day tolerable. When Rosie would ask him to watch four-year-old Langston on a Saturday afternoon, he wouldn’t complain. He’d put on an animated movie, throw back a few, and enjoy himself. This would h
ave been like any other Saturday if he hadn’t indulged too much and fallen asleep on the couch. When the movie was over, Langston decided to go outside in front of their apartment building, where Rosie found him sitting on the curb. He wanted to cross the busy street and go to the park, but he knew he wasn’t allowed to cross without an adult. Langston never got to the park that day, but he did witness a horrific argument in which Rosie ranted at the inebriated Robert and kicked him out.
Months later, when he lost his job, he knew that it was change or die. His sponsor was an older man, twenty years sober, who steadied Robert, gave him footholds for finding his way back. Step by step: acknowledgment, apology, amends. Each day Robert claimed back a bit more of himself. What he couldn’t reclaim was his ruined marriage or his son. He had damaged Rosie and Langston as surely as he had poisoned his body with gin. Livers regenerated, injured cells healed. Souls were another matter altogether.
Robert took out his cellphone and texted Rosie. Miss the kid. Visit Sunday?
He stood in the dressing room and waited for a response. Maybe she was in class. Maybe she wasn’t and had chosen to ignore him. Seconds later his phone buzzed.
After church, 1pm. RU keeping this promise?
I’ll be there.
Last time you bailed. No more excuses.
Robert was about to send back a reassuring text, but her reminder that he hadn’t shown up infuriated him.
I forgot I have a phone conference. Another time.
He instantly regretted the decision.
I’ll reschedule the call. See you Sunday.
Robert waited for her response, but none came. Suddenly, he missed gin more than he missed Langston.
During lunch period, Rosie patrolled the schoolyard, as was required of all teachers once a month. As she scanned the herd for signs of altercation or discontent, she spotted Hansom and Janine in the farthest corner of the yard. From her vantage point, Rosie watched them interact. Sometimes one friend was all it took to make a difference.