A Narrow Bridge

by J. J. Gesher

  The melodies brought him back to a simpler time—sitting with Lenny on his hand-me-down couch, the ancient turntable spinning, listening to the history of jazz. He remembered Lenny’s face, eyes closed, head nodding, clutching his prized recording of “Black, Brown, and Beige” by Mahalia Jackson and Duke Ellington. That was Jacob’s introduction to gospel, but it was only a recording. What he heard at First Baptist was the real thing.

  Jacob pictured the record collection that Lenny had willed him lining the shelves of his boyhood bedroom. He’d kept the records in the same chronological order that Lenny had—from the early days of ragtime and blues, to Dixieland and swing, to the great vocalists, and on to the more improvisational jazz of Miles Davis, John Coltrane, and Herbie Hancock. The records were vinyl, in their original jackets, worn with use.

  He remembered how his parents had fought about his “inappropriate” taste in music. His mother had been his champion, arguing with his hardheaded father that listening to Lenny’s records was a temporary phase to be tolerated. He could see his mother standing by the door of his bedroom in her pastel housecoat, exhausted, waiting for him to turn off the music and go to sleep.

  His mother. He had not allowed himself to think of her since the day he’d tried to call. She would have had her sixty-fourth birthday since he left. He pictured her at the kitchen sink at his own home, bathing one of his babies—was it Sarah who was kicking and splashing and making his mother laugh? He smiled at the memory. He missed his mother’s all-encompassing love, but he did not miss her stifling anxiety.

  His mother. Trench had called her in desperation from the emergency room. He’d waited for her to arrive and then he disappeared. When Jacob finally gained consciousness, there she stood, her scarf half off her head, asking the doctor to repeat over and over exactly why her son was in the hospital.

  “This is a mistake,” Hava told the doctor. “My son doesn’t do drugs. He doesn’t even smoke cigarettes.”

  Jacob recalled the hysteria in her voice. The doctor offered to show her the chart, but Hava swatted it away. “He comes from a good home. Two parents who love him. A fine education.”

  The young doctor assured her she was not alone, that many children from good families get in trouble with heroin. He explained the treatment and offered some hope. When Hava finally accepted the doctor’s assessment, she blamed Trench for Jacob’s downfall, demanding that he be arrested. Even when the doctor explained that Trench had saved her son, Hava wouldn’t apologize for her anger.

  Jacob’s father never came to the hospital. After a confidential conference with the rabbi, Aaron learned that Jacob wasn’t the first observant boy to fall prey to addiction. In fact, the problem was so pervasive that a reputable rehab program had been established in Israel. Nonetheless, the family had to conceal Jacob’s transgressions from the community. He was weak, and this character flaw would make him unmarriageable. Aaron made plans to ship his son off for a year, away from the bad influences.

  Jacob realized he was more like his father than he thought—Aaron had wanted to avoid gossip about his son’s addiction, while Jacob wanted to avoid the look of pity on peoples’ faces. In Brooklyn, the laws of his religion would tell him how to eat, pray, and grieve—all within the tight framework of his insular community. In Brent, Jacob was free for the first time in his life. His anonymity gave him freedom—freedom from religious obedience, from public opinion, and from any obligation to the concept of God.

  Jacob pushed all thoughts of home away and concentrated on the music.

  Each week Mr. Day, the choir director, introduced different selections. The congregants listened to the choir with their whole beings, clapping in rhythm, raising arms in praise, and shouting responses. When Rosie came forward for her solo, her voice was clear and authentic. The service could not be more different from his Orthodox synagogue in Brooklyn. In Jewish worship, the individual moved through the scripted, unchanged prayers at his own pace, and the cantor would occasionally bring the congregation together with ancient liturgy or responsive song. There was little visible emotion. The Sunday-morning service at First Baptist, by contrast, was a communal sharing of both pain and joy.

  Jacob looked forward to the Sunday service. He’d settle into his secret perch in the alcove above the chapel before the congregants began filing in. The men wore suits and ties. The women looked like a flock of brightly colored birds as they greeted one another, bobbing their heads to kiss cheeks and admire children. They wore an array of gemstone-colored suits and dresses, surpassed only by flamboyant hats perched atop well-coiffed hair. It appeared that some of the women even wore their hats over wigs. His mind leapfrogged to his wife.

  Julia’s greatest bone of contention with Orthodoxy was the sheitel—the wig. It was required that an observant married woman cover her hair to indicate modesty. As the Muslim woman dons the hijab when she leaves her home, so does the religious Jewish wife tuck her hair away. For everyday errands in the outside world, a fashionable cloche or colorful scarf would do, but for Julia to look presentable in any public social situation she had to wear a sheitel. Her natural hair had always been unmanageable—everything from corkscrew curls to loose ringlets. Any moisture in the air, and the strands on her head would coil.

  She complained that the sheitel was hot and itchy. No wonder the older women all cut their own hair so short. She wore her wig only for synagogue or dressy occasions. She couldn’t wait to get home and free the sheitel to roost on its wig stand in her closet. Her wild curls and a scarf were good enough for her immediate family. Jacob would have loved her if she didn’t have a hair on her head.

  To distract himself from the memory of Julia, Jacob focused on the arriving parishioners who filled the chapel with energy. The little girls twirled in party dresses with flouncy skirts, while the young boys tugged at ties and fidgeted in their polished oxfords. Even the adolescent boys, who usually wore baggy jeans and T-shirts, dressed up on Sunday.

  This Sunday he watched the Christian ceremony of baptism. A young couple cradling a new baby stood beaming in front of the congregation. The mother was dressed in a bright blue dress, barely squeezed into its slim cut. Jacob could see that she’d recently been pregnant—her belly hadn’t yet returned to its natural shape, her hips strained at the fabric, and her breasts were milk-filled and waiting. The father stood proud in his brown suit, new shirt and tie, and shined shoes. His face was a beacon of light as he tentatively took the tiny infant from his mother’s arms and handed him to the pastor for the blessing.

  “Please note that young Tolliver, like his parents, has dressed for the occasion,” Pastor Johnson said as he lifted the baby so all could see his tiny tuxedo T-shirt. The congregation cooed, and the baby wailed.

  The pastor turned to the parents. “Your presence today indicates your dedication to raising this child in the ways of the Lord.”

  The crying infant. The milky mother. The nervous father. He recognized the primal, instinctive sensation of pride and paternity. He had cradled Yossi, his firstborn, at his bris, the ritual circumcision performed eight days after the birth of every Jewish male. Julia cried throughout the ceremony, fearing the pain to her newborn son. But after she nursed him, she could see that he hadn’t suffered.

  As the congregation filed out, Mo leaned into him. “They’re servin’ good food in the social hall after this is over.”

  Jacob turned to Mo, his voice trembling. “I am a father.”

  “What are you talkin’ about?”

  Jacob responded, “I know that feeling.” He gestured toward the father holding the infant. “I’ve done that.”

  The unplanned confession scared Jacob. Why was he telling Mo what he wanted to hide? He bolted for the exit, needing fresh air. Mo followed.

  Jacob felt wild and frightened. This man was being kind and compassionate and all Jacob wanted to do was run. If he told Mo about his family, he’d have to tell him everything. No more hiding, no more pretending. Mo placed a hand on Jacob’s sho
ulder to steady him, but Jacob cut him off.

  “Let me be.”

  Mo, surprised at Jacob’s intensity, raised his hands in surrender. “Take your time.”

  Jacob muttered quick thanks and left.

  Rosie was putting away dishes when Mo came into the kitchen carrying some loose dirty clothes. He approached the washing machine and began fiddling with the dials.

  “I’m gonna throw Jacob’s dirty clothes in the wash. Man’s only got three shirts, and two of them used to belong to me. He’s been rinsin’ them out in the basement sink. And they ain’t gettin’ clean.”

  Rosie got up. “Let me do that. Last time you did the laundry, everything turned pink.”

  “I didn’t think one red sock could do that much damage,” Mo said, grinning.

  Rosie took the clothes from Mo. “Does he talk to you?”

  “This morning at the baptism—clear as day—he said he was a father,” Mo said.

  “Just like that?”

  “The service musta jogged his memory.”

  “That’s all he said? No details?”

  “If I push him, he shuts down. He opens the door a crack, but he don’t invite anybody in for coffee and cake.”

  “He’s a strange one. I can’t figure him out,” Rosie said as she stuffed the clothes into the washing machine, but Mo was already halfway up the stairs and out of earshot.

  Maybe Jacob wasn’t at all what she thought. She looked at the label of the shirt he’d been wearing when he arrived: Meyer Brothers, New York.

  Later that night, Rosie sat at the table, sipping tea and reviewing her lessons. She couldn’t keep her mind on school. The legal pad with the list of Jacob’s characteristics rested next to her. She added father and New York to the list.

  Jacob stood in the doorway to the empty sanctuary. The room smelled of wood and people, leftover hints of Lemon Pledge mingled with perfume and aftershave from the congregants at the last worship. The smells had become familiar, yet he was far from content. In the last few days Julia and the children had taken up residence in his thoughts. The memories were clouding his eyes like swarming gnats. He filled his waking hours with manual labor so his exhausted body could fall asleep at night.

  He crossed the sanctuary and sat at the piano. His hands caressed the shape of the casement. There was nothing fancy about this old upright: It had dings, scratches, and fingerprints all over the wood. Although he’d dusted it many times in the past months, he’d never tried the keyboard.

  Jacob leafed through the sheaf of music that sat on top. He studied each piece for a few moments. Then without conscious effort, he read the music, humming each melody, until he found the bluesy hymn that had been replaying in his head.

  In his world, the world he had come from, the world he now purposefully ignored, liturgical music was unchanged. Chants and melodies had been handed down for thousands of years. Little innovative music was written for worship. Both prayers of lament and those of celebration were instantly recognized by Jews the world over. Here, in this new world, worship and creativity were intrinsically linked.

  Jacob set out the music for the song that had intrigued him, sat down at the piano, lifted the keyboard cover, and played. He played the melody line with his right hand. After a few moments, his left hand added the chords. The action was natural and unforced.

  He didn’t realize that Rosie was standing in the sanctuary doorway as he played. He began to sing the lyrics in a pure and full-voiced tenor. Rosie moved toward the piano.

  Jacob stopped abruptly when he became aware of her presence.

  “Don’t stop.”

  “I had the song stuck in my head.”

  He lightly played a line from the hymn. The notes hung in the air.

  “Such a beautiful melody,” Rosie offered as she moved closer.

  Jacob stood up awkwardly. Rosie showed him the neatly folded laundry. “I brought you clean shirts.”

  She couldn’t resist asking, “How long did you study piano?”

  Jacob gently closed the keyboard cover and looked directly at Rosie. He knew she meant well with her concern, but he couldn’t engage. One question would lead to another, and he would have to claim his history. He chose to continue his deception. “I can’t remember.”

  He could tell she didn’t trust him. He wanted to placate her. “I studied music my whole life, mostly classical.” He launched into “Clair de Lune” by Debussy. “But then I learned about jazz.” He segued into “Take the ‘A’ Train” by Duke Ellington. “And that turned me from someone who studied music into a musician.” He finished the segment.

  There was a long moment as the final chord hung in the air.

  “You should play the piano more often,” Rosie said. She placed the laundered shirts on the nearest pew and left.

  Jacob did not move to claim his shirts until he heard the front door of the church close behind her.

  CHAPTER 26

  Rosie had been waiting all day to talk to Kala. She intercepted her in the teachers’ lounge and requested a confidential meeting. Kala’s office was the repository for all things behavioral at the school; every sort of problem was handled behind her doors, from learning and psychological issues to suspected abuse in a student’s home. As a school guidance counselor, Kala had heard it all. Her insight—and pragmatic advice—was invaluable.

  Rosie took a moment to gather her thoughts. She wasn’t sure if she was stepping on uneven ground with her concern for Hansom. There was a fine line between helping and butting in.

  “Listen, Kala, I have an issue with one of my students, and I’m not sure about the best way to handle it.”

  Kala put her pen down and waited for her to continue.

  “Hansom Willis…he’s getting the emotional shit kicked out of him. I notice that during passing periods, he sticks close to the lockers so he won’t have to bump into anyone. They make fun of everything about him—his skin, his name, his effeminate behavior. The other day I found him in the janitor’s supply room putting bleach on his face to clear up the acne.”

  “Bleach,” Kala said with no inflection, the one word a statement of fact.

  Rosie nodded, “He’s floundering and needs help. I don’t know where to get it. His grandmother has zero resources.”

  Kala typed notes from the conversation into her computer. “Is he ostracized by other students?”

  “He’s got one friend, another oddball who jousts with the pack. Janine Marshall. The heavyset girl who always wears black. She was the one who suggested bleach. No ulterior motive. She meant well.”

  “Why don’t you call his grandmother?” Kala suggested. “Maybe there’s something going on at home?” Kala jotted down the phone number on a Post-it and handed it to Rosie.

  Rosie opened Kala’s office door and hesitated. “Can I ask you something else—not school related?”

  “Ask away,” Kala responded patiently. She knew that a “door handle” question was often more pressing than the educational matter, especially if it was about a teacher’s personal life.

  “Remember I told you there was this mysterious guy working at my church?”

  Kala nodded.

  “Well, I’ve got red flags waving all over the place.”

  Kala pressed her fingers together in a peaked triangle, leaned forward, and listened. Rosie pulled out her notes. She told her everything she had gathered about Jacob. “I can’t figure this guy out. He doesn’t talk for weeks, then he tells us his first name but nothing else. Makes out like he doesn’t remember his past. But then it turns out he can fix anything, teach basketball, and he plays the piano. Is he bullshitting us?”

  Kala took a deep breath and then answered in her gentle Mumbai accent. “Sometimes a person can remember how to perform skills, like playing piano or shooting baskets, and not remember specifics about his past. Rare, but it does happen. Usually this behavior is caused by physical or emotional trauma. It’s like the hippocampus is stuttering. The hippocampus is the sorting c
enter for memory.”

  Rosie absorbed the information. She’d expected Kala to tell her that she was gullible, but instead she was saying that Jacob might be genuine.

  “How long will this stuttering business last?”

  “Depends on what triggered him. He might never remember or he could suddenly recall everything. Or…maybe he knows who he is, but he’s choosing not to tell you.” She paused for effect. “Or he could be bullshitting you completely.”

  “What if he’s on the run, or a con man, or an addict?”

  Kala took her glasses off, cleaned them, and put them back on. “Yes…and maybe he’s drifting because something happened. Sometimes people are so desperate, so hopeless, that they go ‘down river.’ They get on a raft and let the current take them wherever it goes.”

  “Is that from Hindu philosophy?” Rosie asked.

  “No. From life.” Kala smiled.

  The image of Jacob floating down a river felt right. Rosie wanted to find out what had pushed him into the current.

  She thought about what Kala had told her about Hansom for days, and then she decided to take action. She had to do something to help him, and getting him medical care to clear up his skin would be a good first step. She took out Kala’s note and called Hansom’s grandmother. The recording on the other end informed her the number was no longer in service.

  Rosie took the address from the school’s file and drove to his grandmother’s house. She had known, by the address, that Hansom had little money, but she was alarmed at how far below the poverty line he lived. His grandmother’s home was little more than a shanty. The roofline was crooked, the exterior hadn’t been painted in a generation, and old bed sheets covered the windows. There was no hint of lawn or garden, just lumpy spots of dirt and wayward patches of gone-to-seed grass. She sat in her car for the longest time. Going uninvited to a student’s house verged on crossing the line.

  As she approached the front door, she stepped carefully on the termite-ridden front porch. Rosie knocked on the door. It rattled in the loosened framework.