by J. J. Gesher
Hansom and Janine had learned through painful experience that this time of day was fraught with danger. Their fellow students were set free from the expectations of classroom order and teacher supervision. At lunch, camouflaged by the hubbub of food and socialization, the student population indulged in its favorite pastime—ferreting out the weak among them and exposing their vulnerabilities. Hansom and Janine had learned to avoid the most adept hunters. They sat far away from the herd, half hidden in shadows.
Hansom seldom brought anything to eat. He said he didn’t get hungry during the day, but Janine didn’t believe him. She always packed extra, and they’d share. Today, he eagerly accepted her offer of an American cheese sandwich on a hamburger roll and a small bag of corn chips. As they settled into their routine, Janine noticed that Hansom was picking at one of many new facial eruptions.
In her best maternal voice she said, “Don’t do that. You’re only going to make it worse.”
They chewed without further conversation. Hansom started to touch his face again but stopped himself.
“You know, if you wash your face with bleach, it will dry up the bad ones,” Janine offered. “Clorox kills bacteria. When someone has a disease they wash everything down in bleach so other people don’t get it. Or if you get mildew on your clothes, you bleach them and the stink goes away.”
He pointed to her pudding cup. “Are you gonna eat that?” She shook her head and gave it to him.
“You’ll have to slurp. I forgot a spoon.”
Hansom made an exaggerated slurping sound.
Janine moved a few inches away, “Did anyone ever tell you you’re disgusting?”
Hansom repeated the sound. “Only the ladies.”
Jeanine snorted in appreciation of his lowbrow comeback, “Yeah, right. Like you’re interested in girls.”
Sunday afternoon would be Robert’s first visit since Rosie and Langston moved to Brent. Their communication had been tense, but she knew Langston needed his father, so she was accommodating. She didn’t even bring up the back payments in child support. On Saturday, she checked her emails, texts, and voicemails obsessively, expecting him to cancel or make an excuse. No messages.
On Sunday, Mo helped Langston put his tie in place for church. The boy couldn’t stand still and kept up a steady stream of questions.
“What time is Daddy coming? Will we have lunch together? You think he’ll bring me a present?”
Rosie shot Mo a look and mouthed “help.”
Mo took the boy’s hand as they crossed the street to First Baptist. He tried small talk to draw Langston away from his anxiety about his father’s visit. Langston wouldn’t give more than one-word answers. But when Mo suggested they play I Spy, all of a sudden, he became animated. Sometimes, Mo figured, the best way to talk about something was not to talk about it at all.
The congregants shook hands, kissed cheeks, complimented one another, and caught up on the week’s gossip. As they settled into their seats, the deacons, identified by their burgundy ties, and the deaconesses, in identical white dresses and hats, passed out prayer books. Mo and Langston took their seats in the front row.
Rosie buttoned her robe over her dress and took her seat with the other choir members on the pulpit. For the next two hours, she’d block out thoughts of Robert, school, and money, and concentrate on her relationship to God.
Pastor Johnson, First Baptist’s spiritual leader, entered the sanctuary in a shimmery cream robe with a colorful hand-embroidered surplice. The garment conferred a regal bearing on his portly figure. He smiled broadly, shaking hands and nodding to congregants as he worked his way up to the pulpit. As he ascended the steps to his throne-like seat, the worshippers quieted down. Pastor Johnson signaled for the congregation to rise, and Mr. Day led the choir in the opening hymn. This was the moment Rosie waited for all week. The organ played a few introductory bars, and the choir joined in song.
As the music died down, Pastor Johnson stood, his arms raised. Then he opened Scripture. He was ready to preach. The pastor’s words brought comfort to lives battered by the corrosive force of a struggling economy. Brent had suffered in recent years from high unemployment, poorly funded schools, and the devastation of drugs and alcohol. As he spoke, there could be heard the occasional “Amen.”
When the service ended, Rosie and Langston left the church, hoping to find Robert waiting in his car by the curb as agreed. No luck.
As they entered the house, Rosie suggested, “Why don’t you change out of your church clothes before your father gets here?”
“I want him to see my new suit. Are you sure he said this Sunday?”
Rosie took out her phone. “Yes, he texted me.”
She showed Langston the text in which Robert asked if he could visit. She didn’t scroll through their sniping.
While she fixed Mo and Langston some lunch, she kept monitoring the street, hoping to see Robert pull up. Langston posted himself in the front window, his enthusiasm waning by the minute. He maintained a sullen silence during lunch. Rosie did not offer any excuses. Finally, Langston pulled off his tie and jacket and turned on the TV. His father had forgotten.
A few days later, Mo went to meet Langston after school on their designated corner, and when Langston didn’t show up, he immediately called Rosie. Perhaps she’d picked him up early and didn’t tell him? Neither Langston’s teacher nor the school office had noticed anything unusual. Maybe he’d gone to a friend’s house and didn’t tell his mother? Mo returned home to wait.
Rosie found Mo pacing the living room. She called every parent in Langston’s class, but no one knew where he was, and their children had been home for hours. Her mouth went dry, and her palms began to sweat. She forced herself to think rationally, pushing the worst-case scenarios out of her head. Child abductions seldom happened in small towns, but she wasn’t going to wait another minute. She would call the police.
As she dialed, there was a knock on the door. Mo raced to open it. Robert stood there with an exultant Langston riding high on his shoulders.
Rosie forced herself to sound calm and pleasant. “Mo, why don’t you take Langston in the kitchen for a snack so his father and I can talk?”
She saw Robert’s shoulders tense as he braced himself for the inevitable scolding. The excuses started flowing, “I had a free afternoon, and I thought it would be fun. Langston was so happy to see me. He forgot to tell me he was supposed to meet Uncle Mo.”
She cut him off. “Why didn’t you call on Sunday? Why didn’t you call today?”
“I lost my cell,” Robert shrugged. “Didn’t mean to put you out.”
“Have you been drinking again?”
“One hundred eighty-one days sober.” Robert continued proudly, “We went for a picnic and played at the park. I am truly sorry if I made you worry.”
Rosie was silent. At that moment, she hated him. She couldn’t see the man she once loved. She would be perfectly happy never to see his face again. But that was impossible. He was the father of her child. She felt trapped.
Robert tried to ease the tension by blathering about hanging out with their old friends from college. She stood up and walked to the door. “Go. I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”
He stopped and gave her one of his soulful looks, the look that used to make her knees weak and now made her stomach turn. “I told you I was sorry. I should have called, you’re right.” He tried to mollify Rosie by admitting his culpability.
She wasn’t buying. She snapped. “I will not allow you to hurt my son. It’s one thing that you’ve hurt me, but you cannot hurt my son. You ever want to see him again, you go through me.”
Robert opened his mouth to protest, but Rosie hustled him out the door. “I know I said you could have him on Thanksgiving, but I’ve changed my mind.”
As she closed the door, she had a flash of guilt. Kicking him out was harsh. He might stay away indefinitely—and Langston would suffer. It was a no-win situation—given the choice between an
absent father and an irresponsible one, what was best for Langston?
Mo sucked his tooth as he stood in the doorway. He had witnessed the entire scene.
“That man gives new meaning to the word ‘fuckup,’” Mo muttered.
CHAPTER 15
Jacob found solace in making order out of chaos, in working his body until he sweat. He cleaned the storage closet in the basement of First Baptist. It was one of those closets where people shoved things they didn’t have the heart to throw away.
The confines of the closet reminded him of his windowless office in the yeshiva. There he would immerse himself in study and preparation for teaching. He taught the fourteen-year-old boys, a challenging age, some almost full grown and shaving, others with squeaky voices and scrawny bodies.
The curriculum was an intense study of the Talmud, the long tractates of Jewish law, analyzed in small student groups. He delivered a daily lecture emphasizing the teachings of the rabbis—lessons that helped the students find the necessary soulfulness and joy of Jewish observance.
He could see himself at the classroom podium, busying himself with notes and marking a page in his heavy Hebrew textbook. The students wandered in, dressed like Jacob in the dark suits of Orthodoxy. As each boy entered the classroom, he took off his fedora and centered his kipah. They joked and roughhoused on the way to their seats.
Jacob hummed a wordless tune, the traditional method for bringing a classroom to order and to prepare for the serious study ahead. The tune began softly, but as the boys settled into their seats, they joined in. The humming grew more ecstatic. Although the tune still had no lyrics, they added a syllable, a ya-ya-ya. The room buzzed with energy. Finally, he gestured for the boys to stop singing and listen.
“Kol Ha’olam kulo gesher tzar me’od, ve’haikar lo lefached,” he chanted. As he sang the verse, Jacob closed his eyes and entered a spiritual trance. Many of the students were also absorbed by the music. The singing came to an end, and Jacob began to teach.
“What do these words mean?”
He pointed to a boy in the front row. “The whole world is a narrow bridge, and we must not be afraid.”
Jacob held out his arms as if balancing on a thin beam. He treaded carefully, one foot in front of the other, peering at the imagined dangers below. The boys were absorbed in his performance.
“A narrow bridge,” he said as he feigned a fall and caught his balance, “but what’s down there? Rushing water? Jagged rocks? Animals with sharp teeth?”
The boys were hooked.
“Pretty unlikely in Brooklyn. So what’s down there? What are we so afraid of?”
Hands shot up around the room, but he knew to give the boys some time to think. He pointed to a small boy in the back of the classroom.
“I’m afraid of pain.”
“That’s because you’re a pain in the ass,” said the boy next to him. The room erupted in laughter.
“This is not an anatomy lesson, gentlemen,” Jacob responded.
He pulled out the heavy Hebrew book. “Let’s open our texts and see what the rabbis have to say.”
Jacob’s memory of teaching felt like it belonged to someone else. He no longer cared what the rabbis said. Their words were useless, like the jumble of castoffs in the church storage closet he was cleaning out. He sorted the junk into neat piles: leftovers from rummage sales, faded choir robes, membership records, and boxes of old cooking utensils. Within minutes, his hands were grimy, and his hair had a layer of dust. He caught sight of his barely recognizable self in the blade of an old kitchen knife. The image undulated, as if distorted by heat waves rising off a summer street.
Thoughts of Brooklyn assaulted him. What if his family was alive? Maybe they were waiting at home for him, and he was the one missing. He would go to the front door as usual. The children would run to him with kisses and complaints, and all would be normal again. Jacob kissed the air. The weight of his imaginings pulled him to the floor. They were gone. If only the knife in his hand could perform grief surgery.
Furious at the universe for allowing him to pretend, for sanctioning one moment of fantasy, Jacob thought how simple it would be to use the knife to end his life. He could slowly bleed to death as an unnamed stranger on the floor of a church’s supply room and the pain would be over.
He stayed on his knees for a long time, until he felt nothing. He rose slowly and put the knife in a box marked “Utensils.” He washed the walls and floor of the closet and put the contents back in neat, orderly piles. Once again, his mind was occupied with only the task at hand.
Mo found him engrossed in his work. “Well, I’ll be damned! Nobody’s touched this room in years…except to throw in something that don’t have a proper place.”
Mo examined the well-organized shelves and slapped Jacob on the back. Jacob attempted a smile. He was pleased that Mo liked his work.
“You remind me of my old friend Sam. We were in the service together. He’s been dead now about forty years. Boy, was that guy a stickler for order. Even lined up his shoes by color.”
Mo took a step back. “That’s what I’m gonna call you—Sam.”
Mo showed him the reason for his visit: Chinese takeout. “Come on, Sam. Let’s eat.”
Spending time with her daughter and helping with the grandchildren was Hava’s reason for getting up in the morning. She especially enjoyed taking the toddler out in a stroller. This way Hava had a captive audience. She could introduce him to the world: “Look, I see a boy on a bicycle!”
“What does a doggie say?”
“The taxi is yellow!”
She kept up a steady patter, pointing out all the little things of interest at the child’s eye level. The new stroller was cumbersome. Up the curb, down the curb, straining her back. Talk, feed, clean, comfort. The routine kept her occupied. She was offering the baby a cracker when, out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a man. In the sea of black suits, she recognized his profile. The familiarity took her breath away; he was only ten feet ahead of her.
“Jacob…Jacob.” She could barely get the words out. Why was he walking so fast?
Twenty feet away.
She couldn’t leave the baby and run after him. Jacob didn’t hear her.
“Jacob!” her voice sounded shrill. Other people turned to look at her, but not Jacob. She pushed the stroller past the other pedestrians, as fast as she could.
Thirty feet away. Soon he would be out of sight.
Hava wanted to scream for somebody to stop Jacob. But miraculously, he turned toward her. Her heart was beating triple time. It was in her throat, her arms, her hands.
“Thank you God, thank you G…”
It took a moment to compute the reality. He didn’t look anything like Jacob. Had she lost her mind? The only trait similar to her son was his height and coloring. She stood frozen in the middle of the sidewalk, trying to absorb the crushing disappointment. She had dared to hope. Abruptly, she needed to sit down. She maneuvered the stroller to a bench at the closest bus stop.
Why couldn’t she get her heart to slow down? Her head felt like it had come loose. As Hava lowered her body onto the bench, she reminded herself to breathe, and she heard her body respond with one ragged intake of air after another. Slowly, her rhythm returned to normal, but each time she exhaled, she heard a high-pitched wail. Someone was crying. It was only when she noticed the baby staring at her that she realized the sound was coming from within.
A cold autumn rain battered Brent, but inside, First Baptist was warm and inviting. It was Tuesday evening, and the choir had been rehearsing for two hours. The pianist stood, stretched his back, and rubbed his hands. Mr. Day was sweaty and disheveled from the exertion of conducting the choir.
Mr. Day concluded his announcements. “I want everyone here at eight forty-five on Sunday. No more stragglers.”
The members grumbled an acknowledgment.
“One more thing,” Mr. Day continued over the din. “People, are you listening?”
&
nbsp; They begrudgingly gave him their attention.
“Plan to work on the songs for Gospel Sunday at next week’s rehearsal. Unless you’re dead or dying, I expect you to be here for rehearsal every Tuesday. No exceptions.”
The prospect of Gospel Sunday sent a spark through the group. Each year the gospel radio station sponsored a spring festival for the regional churches. Local music celebrities judged the performances. The winner got a donation to their church fund and bragging rights for the year. After the competition, there was a huge picnic in the park, with barbecue cook-offs and pie-making contests. The hospitality was the South at its best.
Rosie appreciated that Gospel Sunday still stirred such enthusiasm. It’s not like the winners would be featured on some slick televised talent competition. At the most, there might be a thirty-second sound bite on the local news and some poorly filmed YouTube clips on the singers’ Facebook pages. Nonetheless, the competition was genuinely heated and the tradition sincerely honored. The whole county came together to celebrate this throwback to a simpler time. Gospel Sunday was human, real, and spiritual. She loved it.
Mr. Day approached Rosie. “Will you lock up tonight? My wife’s neck is out of whack, and she needs help with the kids.” He turned to go and added, “Don’t forget the lights in the balcony.”
She began the rounds of locking up, a routine she remembered from following her father around after services. She first turned out the lights in the small office wing off the chapel, then on the pulpit. She passed the basement and checked that it was dark and quiet. She climbed the stairs to the organ alcove and utility room and stepped into the closet to shut off the sound system. Her instincts told her something was off. She noticed the unmistakable smell of a living creature. The hairs on the back of her neck stood up. Damn raccoons. They must be nesting again.