A Narrow Bridge

by J. J. Gesher

  Jacob was miserable. The drugs were out of his body, and he resented the program’s regimented routine. He didn’t understand why he had to be stuck in a rehab facility so far from home. That first phone call, he begged Hava to let him return to Brooklyn. She hung up before his tears destroyed her resolve. The second month, he told her how much he hated the endless and repeated confessions of drug use and debauchery. He wasn’t like the other people. The third call hinted at transformation. He’d found a therapist who understood him and an elective, woodworking, which he truly enjoyed.

  Over time, he led prayers and read Torah for the group. The rabbi singled him out for the beauty of his voice and encouraged him to act as the rehab community’s cantor. Jacob slowly rediscovered his connection to tradition and ritual, becoming fully observant. Hava secretly worried that it was one addiction replacing the other.

  In his sixth month of rehab, Jacob was summoned to the office. As he walked into the rabbi’s private sanctum, he knew there was trouble. The rabbi motioned for him to sit.

  “There is no easy way to tell you this,” the rabbi stated. “Your father died today on his way to work. Massive heart attack.”

  Jacob’s mouth felt scorched, and he slumped into the chair. His father was gone. He remembered his father beaming at him when he cogently analyzed a Talmudic text. He also recalled his father’s face shouting at him, followed by door slamming, shoves, slaps, and ultimately, humiliation. He remembered the day when his father’s face registered defeat—he’d tried to break Jacob and failed.

  The dry mouth turned into that inexplicably appealing metallic taste he’d have in his mouth after shooting up. When he was high, he forgot how he’d disappointed his parents. Although he’d been clean for more than six months, he craved that feeling of euphoric indifference.

  The rabbi could see the confusion in Jacob’s face. “We can arrange for you to go home to be with your family.”

  “I can’t go back yet,” Jacob said quickly. “I’m not ready. They will have to bury him without me.”

  CHAPTER 34

  Rosie wasn’t one to pace. If something bothered her, she bit her cuticles or slid the small cross on her neck back and forth on its chain. Today, however, she was pacing. From inside her kitchen, she could see Jacob setting up a ladder to paint the church. Looking at him made her anxious. She wanted to ask him for a favor.

  An idea had been slowly forming. Hansom was good with his hands. He’d whittled the bird she kept on her desk. Jacob was clearly adept with tools and woodwork. If she could convince him to take an interest in Hansom, the boy might pick up some skills and feel valuable. Rosie stopped pacing. She made up her mind to broach the idea, and if Jacob was hurt because of that whole sex thing, then so be it.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Jacob could see Rosie cross the street and head in his direction. Maybe she’d change course and he could elude her. Nothing had been the same since the night they connected. That word struck Jacob as sterile, but that’s what they had done—connected, not only in a completely satisfying physical sense, but also in some perfectly human symbiosis. As Rosie approached, he became overly interested in his paint bucket. He continued painting like a bad actor in some poorly staged play.

  “Good morning,” Rosie said, straining to sound casual.

  “Morning,” Jacob responded. An eternity of silent seconds passed.

  “I have a student who could use your help.”

  Jacob stopped painting and listened.

  “There’s a kid in my class who has a difficult home life. He’s good with his hands…likes woodworking. I was hoping to send him around so you could teach him a few things.”

  Jacob remembered the gentle face of his counselor in the rehab program in Israel. Unlike the other counselors, Gil was a secular Jew, a successful cabinetmaker and business owner. He, too, had battled heroin. Jacob welcomed the distraction from endless hours of group meetings and therapy. Working with his hands had been an important component of his recovery. Jacob would be happy to share those skills.

  “Anytime,” he offered.

  “Thanks,” Rosie said. “I’ll let you know when.”

  She relaxed against the post and instantly pulled away, the entire back of her shirt covered in wet paint. Jacob tried to stifle his guffaw. The laugh escaped through his nose, shooting a small bubble of snot all the way onto the front of Rosie’s shirt. He was embarrassed, but she was horrified, not knowing what to clean first—the back or the front. She flapped her hands in disgust and hopped about like a frantic bird. Jacob yielded to full-out laughter, and then Rosie laughed harder. Eventually the two were bent over, gasping for air.

  Word of the skinhead incident quickly spread through Brent. In a small town where not much happened, a racially motivated attack was big news. The local paper reported that the men had come all the way from Mississippi. They had vandalized another church, held up a liquor store, and stolen the beat-up truck.

  Most Sundays, First Baptist was full. Today, it was overflowing. Other than the plywood sheets that covered the window openings once filled with stained glass, everything had been repaired.

  Jacob took his place in the tenor section of the choir. After the shooting, he’d thrown himself into work. He looked at Rosie sitting with the other sopranos, her attention fully given to prayer and song. Her short natural hair accentuated her perfectly symmetrical features and high cheekbones. Jacob had a powerful desire to touch her, to feel her warm body and gentle breath, but she’d been clear that that would never happen again.

  After the introductory hymn, Pastor Johnson stepped to the podium. Once the congregation stopped buzzing, he began. “Having others to share our burdens is the unspoken gift of belonging to a congregation. Last Thursday night, every one of us shared the burden of hate, when vandals defiled property and threatened our house of worship.”

  He paused for dramatic effect. “But look around—you will see little out of place. That is because we have a hero among us. That hero is our friend Jacob, who put his fear aside and acted for the good of this community.” He gestured toward Jacob. “On behalf of the entire congregation, I offer you thanks and benediction.”

  The congregation applauded. Jacob looked down at his lap, overwhelmed by the pastor’s erroneous adulation. He had wanted to die, not be a hero.

  Pastor Johnson nodded to the choir director. Mr. Day signaled for the choir to stand. Their voices blended in joyful celebration.

  Rosie kept her body facing forward. She willed herself to keep her mind on the music. The task was impossible. She recalled the way Jacob’s hands, roughened by manual labor, had felt on her body. They had pleased each other without words or instructions, a natural coming together of two souls. Robert had always been so critical of her lovemaking. Jacob made her feel sensual and desired.

  Perhaps the mystery surrounding Jacob created some of the attraction. But whatever the source of his allure, Rosie had allowed Jacob to chip away at her hard-won wall of defense.

  After the fiasco of his last visit, Robert had been contrite. He stayed in touch via phone but knew better than to ask for a visit with Langston until Rosie cooled off. He apologized repeatedly for his irresponsible behavior. He’d gotten a new job and was trying to turn his life around, even sending delinquent child support payments. When Robert finally asked for an overnight with his son, Rosie could not object. Langston adored his father.

  This time, when Rosie and Langston crossed the street after the Sunday service, Robert was waiting for them. He got out of the car to give Langston a big hug. He wore crisp jeans, a pastel button-down, and new Nikes. He looked like the old Robert, polished and smooth. Rosie waited with him on the sidewalk while Langston went to retrieve his overnight bag. Then she noticed a pretty woman—flat-ironed hair, big sunglasses—sitting in the passenger seat of Robert’s car.

  “And who is that?” she asked. She couldn’t mask the hostility in her voice.

  “Denise, my new girlfriend.” Robert signaled fo
r the woman to get out of the car. “We met at AA. She’s been dying to meet Langston.”

  Denise got out of the car, giving a tiny wave to acknowledge Rosie as Langston came barreling out of the house.

  “Langston, this is my friend Denise,” Robert said. He turned to Rosie. “I’ll bring him back on time, I promise. Are you okay with Denise?”

  “Absolutely not—but what can I do about it?”

  Langston jumped in the backseat, and Rosie leaned in to buckle his seatbelt. Denise got back in the passenger seat and turned to talk to the boy.

  Rosie smiled and waved feebly as the car pulled away.

  Inside she was fuming. How dare Robert bring a new woman into Langston’s life? The boy needed to spend time with his father, and this Denise would only get in the way. His “new friend” had fallen for Robert’s bullshit, just as she had. The man knew how to put on a show, and Langston was an effective prop. Damn Robert. She wanted to pull back the curtain and reveal him for the fraud he was, but she refused to inflict more pain on her son. Her job was to protect Langston.

  After working late at school, Rosie pulled up in front of the house and noticed that the lights were on at the church. Mondays were usually quiet—no choir practice or youth ministry. After the exertion of his Sunday sermon, Pastor Johnson always took Monday off. Muttering to herself about the electric bill, she crossed the street and entered the chapel.

  Jacob was seated at the piano, humming, playing, and writing on a piece of paper.

  Jacob was so engrossed that when Rosie came in, he didn’t notice. He tucked the pencil behind his ear and played with both hands. He stopped and made corrections on the page. When he looked up and saw her, he was embarrassed and abruptly stopped playing.

  “I saw the lights on. No one’s supposed to be in here right now,” Rosie stated.

  “Sorry. I had this song in my head and I had to get it down.”

  Jacob played a few bars, watching her face intently as his hands worked the keys. “It’s not quite there yet, but…”

  “Turn out the lights when you’re done,” she said curtly.

  Jacob continued to play.

  As Rosie opened the door, she stopped and listened. “The melody is beautiful. I’d like to hear it when you’re finished.”

  The chapel door closed behind her. Jacob plunked out a bum, bum, bum, bum, bum, bum—bum-bum. The notes rattled his memory. It was the same childish finale that he’d played with his daughter Sarah so many months before.

  He sat in silence remembering Sarah—her fidgetiness on the piano bench, her compassion for all living things. He let the memory wash over him. He closed the piano.

  Jacob tinkered with the song every night after chores were done and the church was quiet. The act of composing absorbed him. There were so many aspects of creating music that felt natural and familiar: the blues progressions he’d learned from Lenny, his fingers on the keyboard, the transcribing of both clef and treble on the page.

  He developed the lyrics carefully, matching the sounds of the words to the melody. The words were based on a meditation, a melody he’d sung with his students back in Brooklyn. How strange that here, in Brent, he could weave together Talmudic teachings, Hebraic melodies, and gospel rhythms.

  The following week, Rosie met Jacob before choir practice to listen to the song’s progress.

  “You know, every year we sing a traditional hymn for Gospel Sunday. It’s boring. What if you played your song for the choir?”

  Before Jacob could refuse her suggestion, the doors to the chapel opened and the choir members filtered in.

  “That’s not why I wrote it,” he said.

  Rosie ignored him and beckoned Mr. Day to the piano. “You should listen to this. It’s really good.”

  CHAPTER 35

  Pastor Johnson had finished his last phone call for the day and shut down his computer. As he put on his coat, he made small talk with Rosie, who waited by the buzzing copy machine. She was making copies of Jacob’s song for choir practice.

  She handed him a set of the sheet music. “Jacob wrote it.”

  Pastor Johnson looked at the page. “I don’t know anything about melody, but these are beautiful lyrics.” Then he pointed to some squiggles at the top of the page. “If I’m not mistaken, those are Hebrew letters.”

  “Really? What does it say?”

  “I have no idea.”

  The choir was waiting for her. She’d look into this Hebrew thing later. She gave the copies to Mr. Day and took her seat with the sopranos.

  Choir practice ran smoothly. Jacob looked apprehensive when Mr. Day distributed the sheet music for his song, but his fears dissipated when the choir responded positively.

  After prayer circle, Rosie watched Jacob talk to Mr. Day about some changes in the song’s arrangement. They were both enthusiastic, gesticulating about the harmonies and the flow of the song. But it wasn’t Jacob’s physical animation that caught her interest. The vibrancy came from within him. Jacob was alive and engaged, fully in his element.

  Edmond watched Rosie watch Jacob. What was that look on her face? Pride? Friendship? Attraction? Her expression made him uncomfortable. Territorially, Edmond touched her arm and redirected her interest to him by asking a mundane question about school. Her answer didn’t matter. She was talking to Edmond now. That’s what mattered.

  Hansom waited for Janine in their usual spot, the far corner of the yard. He scanned the throng of students looking for his friend. Today he’d brought Double Fudge Oreos, a snack she loved. He’d surreptitiously used a portion of his food stamps to buy them and had managed to hide the purchase from his grandmother. Janine always shared her food with him. The cookies were deserved payback. His arm shot up to wave her over when he spotted her. Janine saw him. Their eyes connected, and he waved again.

  He expected her lopsided smile and a nod of acknowledgment as she made her way over, but instead she turned her head away and back to the boys surrounding her. The sound of derisive laughter rose from the group. He told himself their joke wasn’t about him. When the group looked in his direction, and another chorus of insulting laughter catapulted toward him, he felt the ache of rejection. Hansom sat alone, his hand covering the cellophane-wrapped Oreos. Without deliberation, he threw them in the trash.

  After lunch, Rosie waited for Hansom to pass by so she could catch his eye. She crooked her finger and indicated that she wanted to talk to him.

  “Hey Mrs. Yarber.”

  “Hey Hansom.” Rosie hated the way the whole country now used “hey” as a greeting, but she wanted him to feel comfortable, not corrected.

  “You know, I can’t stop admiring that bird you whittled for me.”

  Hansom shifted his body uncomfortably. “Thank you. It wasn’t even that good. I can do better.”

  “I was thinking. You have a natural gift for woodworking, and I know somebody who is skilled in that field. He’s looking for an assistant. He would train you at first, so no money while you’re learning, but once you have it down, I bet you could pick up some cash.”

  Hansom fiddled with the straps on his backpack. “Okay, I could do that. I don’t work on Thursdays.”

  “Good. Then this Thursday after school would be perfect. His name is Jacob, and he’ll meet you in front of the church at four.”

  Hansom mumbled his agreement and moved on as the bell rang.

  Rosie used her free period at school to do some sleuthing. The mystery of Jacob’s identity continued to intrigue her. She had new information. Why were there Hebrew letters on his sheet music, and what did they mean? She found the number for the Birmingham synagogue and made an appointment with the rabbi for the next day.

  Rosie had never met a rabbi before. She had known Jews—a few of her teacher colleagues at the high school in Birmingham—but they weren’t religious. Once one friend had invited her to a Passover celebration, and she’d been deeply moved by the retelling of the story of the Exodus.

  Of course she’d seen Jews
in movies and television. She pictured the rabbi as a bearded old man in a dark suit. She was surprised when a sandy-haired man in khakis and a casual dress shirt opened the door of the rabbi’s office at Congregation Emanu-El of Birmingham. He introduced himself as Rabbi Klein. At first glance, he looked like he was recently out of college. But when she looked behind his trendy tortoise-shell glasses, she saw that he was probably closer to her age.

  Rabbi Klein ushered her into the office, offered a cold drink, and made small talk. When they sat, he quickly got down to business. “So what can I do for you?”

  She pulled out Jacob’s sheet music from her purse and pointed to the Hebrew letters in the corner. “I want to know what this means.”

  He quickly answered, “That’s the Hebrew abbreviation for Be’ezrat Hashem.” It literally means ‘with the help of God.’ It’s a sign of faith. Orthodox Jews put it on everything they write.” The rabbi examined the lyrics. “Who wrote this?”

  “Jacob. He’s someone our church took in. Turns out he’s a musician.”

  “You know, the expression ‘a narrow bridge’ has been around for a long time. This Jacob has done a nice job of interpreting the idea.”

  Rosie listened intently as the young rabbi explained the origin of the expression. He told her about a famous rabbi from the nineteenth century, Rabbi Nachman of Breslov, in the Ukraine. The phrase “All the world is a narrow bridge, and we should not be afraid” was part of his teachings.

  When he handed the music back to Rosie, he asked, “This Jacob…he never mentioned being Jewish?”

  “No. Never.”

  “Interesting. You know, there are groups of Jews all over the world who live according to Rabbi Nachman’s teachings,” he said. “He believed in the power of music. Joyful celebration connects man to God.”