by J. J. Gesher
Rosie smiled. “Amen to that.”
Rabbi Klein grinned and took a pen from his shirt pocket and a pad of scratch paper from his desk. He wrote three letters in Hebrew and explained, “The Hebrew word for ‘faith’ is emunah. The root for emunah is made of three letters: aleph - mem - nun.”
He then wrote the three English equivalents underneath the Hebrew: A - M - N. “Emunah,” he repeated. “Amen means faith. Every time we—all religions—say ‘amen,’ we are simply saying ‘faith.’”
Back in her car, Rosie took out the legal pad with the list of Jacob’s characteristics and added Jewish to the list. As she drove home, she felt energized. Her research into his past was finally paying off. Tomorrow she’d tell him what she had discovered, and maybe that would jog the truth free.
Hansom was eager to get to work at McDonald’s. The manager had promised him the drive-through window tonight, and that always made the time go faster. Sometimes he’d pretend he was from another country. As the customer pulled up to the window, he’d read back the order in an accent. He modeled his voice on old TV movies that he watched with his grandmother.
Tonight he was British all the way. “Thet will beeya two burhghars, three lahge freyes, and two koe-lahz.”
As he handed the order through the pass-through, he heard familiar contemptuous laughter.
In the driver’s seat was the student who beat him up in the hallway.
“Well, what do we have here? It’s Hansom, the faggot with a face like a maggot.”
The other guys rolled down the windows and checked him out.
“What was that stupid accent? You trying to pick up some fairy to fuck?”
“I’m working,” he responded, trying to sound professional.
“He’s working! He’s a workin’ girl. You mean you’re using the McD window to pimp out your gay ass,” the driver continued. The backseat was roaring, egging him on for more.
“You’re holding up the line,” Hansom stated again, trying to keep the hurt out of his voice.
“No I’m not. You were hitting on me. You think I’m a fucking fag.”
More laughter from the car.
“There are people behind you,” Hansom insisted.
“Tough shit. I’m complaining to the manager that you were using the drive-through to hit on customers. Everyone saw you take out your dick and ask me to suck it. They’re gonna fire your ass.”
Hansom couldn’t stop the tears from coming. “That’s a lie and you know it.”
There was a flash. One of the guys in the car had taken his picture with a cellphone. Hansom heard their taunts as they pulled out into traffic.
Hansom knew what that picture looked like. Him with his stupid McDonald’s uniform and hands on his hips, crying like some indignant girl.
It would be all over Snapchat and Instagram tomorrow. He was a dead man.
On Thursday afternoon, Jacob scanned the bench he’d arranged in the churchyard. On it were the handyman’s essentials harvested from the church’s toolbox: various hammers, pliers, and wrenches, a manual wood saw, and an assortment of nails and screws. Jacob wasn’t sure how much this kid Hansom knew of the basics, but it couldn’t hurt to start from the beginning. He vividly remembered how Gil, his woodworking counselor in rehab, had taught him to tell a Phillips screwdriver from the others.
“It’s the goyisha one,” he said, using the Yiddish for non-Jew. “It has a cross on the head.”
He’d avoid that explanation with Hansom.
Jacob was eager to meet the boy. He kept scanning the street and checking his watch. Rosie had confirmed the time with him. The kid was twenty minutes late. That would be the first lesson—respect other people’s time. He filled his wait productively, organizing the loose nails that had mysteriously accumulated at the bottom of the toolbox.
Ten minutes later, he put all the carefully displayed hardware away. Jacob was disappointed. Hansom wasn’t coming.
CHAPTER 36
After quizzing Langston on his spelling words, Rosie crossed the street for choir practice. She grabbed the legal pad with all her notes about Jacob. She wanted to have a word with him before the others arrived.
When she walked into the chapel, he was seated at the piano. “Listen to this.” He played a few notes. “We’ll start with the altos”—he played a few more notes—“then add the bass.”
She approached the piano as he continued. “Everyone will expect the sopranos to lead, but I’ll have them do harmonies.” He played with both hands. She heard the beauty in the blending of the notes.
Jacob stopped and smiled. “Thank you for bringing my song to the choir.”
“My pleasure,” she stuttered, unsure how to bring up the real reason for her early arrival at practice, the knowledge she’d garnered from Rabbi Klein.
Edmond, Mr. Day, and a few of the other choir members entered the chapel, so she took her regular seat in the soprano section. Although she was bursting with new insight into Jacob’s past, she was afraid to ruin his newfound joy. She’d show him the notes on her legal pad tomorrow. What did one more day matter?
At practice that evening, Mr. Day announced that they had to make their final decision for Gospel Sunday. Almost immediately, the choir divided into two camps: one to sing Jacob’s “Narrow Bridge” and the other “There Is a Balm in Gilead,” one of their most popular Sunday worship songs. The dividing lines were fairly predictable, with the exception of Edmond. The younger choir members made their case for new material, while the older ones wanted to stick with tradition.
Mr. Day opined that traditional songs usually placed better in the competition. “A new arrangement, yes, but a new song? Pretty risky.”
The hour was growing late, and Mr. Day put the decision to a vote. Even though Jacob abstained, his song was chosen by a slim margin. He felt the heat rising in his face as choir members congratulated him. He quickly slipped out so he wouldn’t have to join the prayer circle.
The house was quiet when Rosie walked in. As much as she wanted to go straight to bed, she couldn’t resist the temptation of Facebook. She was disappointed that there were no comments or messages from her old friends in Birmingham. Moving to Brent had been a good decision, but she missed her friends and the stimulation of a city. Absentmindedly, she clicked over to her emails and then the FBI database.
Rosie scrolled through many pages of faces. She passed the picture of Jacob that she’d seen earlier but hadn’t recognized. This time she paused and looked carefully. She read the text and zoomed in on the bearded face. Rosie held her breath. She had found Jacob.
From the FBI picture, she then Googled “Brooklyn bus bombing.” With another click, she looked at the headline from The New York Times of the previous year: “Thirty-two Perish in Terrorist Attack.” She read the text over and over and then found a sidebar with a photo of Jacob’s wife and children: “Mother and Three Children Die on Bus, Leaving Father and Community Bereft.”
So his name was Jacob Fisher: an Orthodox Jew from Brooklyn, a teacher and a cantor, a husband and a father—with no living wife or children. She couldn’t imagine anything more painful than losing your family. But the newspaper article said he witnessed the explosion. That was beyond comprehension.
Rosie finally understood what he had lost, and how he had become so lost himself. She closed the computer and wept.
She had trouble falling asleep that night. She should have been proud of herself for putting together the clues to Jacob’s identity, but instead she felt burdened. She hated being the only one who knew who he was. It was too late to go back now. How could she tell him that she knew what happened? And when could she tell him?
Look what Nosy Rosie had discovered. Again, she questioned her motivation—why had she been so driven to pry? She hated to admit that she had feelings for this man. But she did. He was wounded—certainly not his fault—but wounded all the same. Why was she trying to fix something that could never be repaired?
Some time in the
middle of the night, Rosie made a decision. She’d tell Jacob what she knew and accept the fallout. But she’d wait a few more days, until after Gospel Sunday, for selfish reasons. The choir needed him.
CHAPTER 37
Rosie felt she was moving forward with her Hansom project. She’d waited until he turned eighteen, then she called Kala’s husband, who’d graciously agreed to treat Hansom for no charge. Now all she had to do was arrange to get him there. His grandmother would blow her top when she discovered the deception, but Rosie could handle her. In their conversations, Hansom had revealed that he did all the shopping and housework. He still held the part-time night job at McDonald’s. No wonder the kid fell asleep in class. He was responsible and inappropriately burdened. Bad skin was only a small part of his problem.
She was gratified that she could help the boy with a practical solution. Wouldn’t he feel better about himself if he could hold his head up high? Maybe he’d even live up to his name. She was concerned that he hadn’t shown up for the meeting with Jacob, and he’d been absent for two days. Rosie decided to go by his house to tell him about the doctor’s appointment. She’d pretend that she was dropping off an assignment.
As Rosie turned the corner to approach Hansom’s house, she saw the street filled with gawking neighbors, a police car, and a bright red paramedic truck, lights flashing. Her stomach dropped. Here she was bringing the kid good news about something as trivial as his skin, and his grandmother was dying. She got out of the car to see if she could help. He could use a friendly face. As she approached the huddle of neighborhood gossips she caught tidbits of news.
“His grandmother was having trouble breathing.”
“She wasn’t making sense.”
“She was shrieking for help.”
Rosie walked through the people toward the house, but her legs refused to move when she heard the next sentences.
“I heard his grandmother found him kicking.”
“She couldn’t get out of the chair to cut him down.”
“Her screams sounded like someone was killing her…an awful sound, just awful. Leon had to break down the door to get to them.”
Rosie ran toward the house. A police officer stopped her. “Are you family?”
“I’m his teacher.”
The grandmother’s wheelchair appeared in the doorway. She was wearing the old ratty daisy robe with a wrap on her head. Rosie heard her panicked wailing as the paramedics wheeled out a gurney.
“I ain’t lettin’ no one take that boy away from me. No one takes him away from me. You hear? He’s my blood. He belongs with me.”
Hansom was on the gurney. The paramedics were pumping him with a manual breathing pump.
Rosie could barely process the possibility that he was dead when all attention fixed on her.
The grandmother was pointing and accusing. “It’s her. That evil woman killed my boy…she made him unhappy with who he was. It’s her fault.”
Amid the chaos, Rosie pushed her way to the paramedics who were urgently ministering to the limp teen. The snippets of conversation began to make a picture: Hansom had taken his own life, and now the old woman blamed her. Rosie felt the shock of losing Hansom and the fear of somehow being responsible. If she had minded her own business, Hansom would be alive.
One of the paramedics muttered a steady count as he pumped the breathing device. His partner pushed the gurney forward. Rosie’s reasoning returned. Those would be wasted efforts if Hansom was dead. Either he was still alive or they were hoping to bring him back. She scanned his body for cues. Ever so slightly, one of his hands twitched. It was a barely perceptible movement, but she noticed. They wouldn’t have to bring him back from the dead. He was still living.
The paramedics loaded the gurney onto the ambulance, and Rosie said a silent prayer of thanks for the neighbor who had broken down the door.
The next day, all of Brent High was buzzing with word of Hansom’s attempted suicide. Rather than let the rumors and half-truths explode, Kala and Principal Hayes called for an assembly to explain what had happened. In recent years, the dynamic of public education had changed to accommodate tragedy. Counselors were prepared to handle all forms of trauma. Kala had been suggesting for months that the district initiate a curriculum on bullying. It took this boy’s torment to make them take her seriously.
After the assembly, Rosie went to have a word with Kala in her office. Kala had been in touch with the psychiatric hospital in Birmingham, and Hansom was doing as well as could be expected. He was in good hands. Hospital staff had begun the evaluation process.
“Did I meddle too much?” Rosie worried. “His grandmother blamed me.”
Kala’s unruffled demeanor quieted her self-reproach, “It will take time to sort out what triggered him,” she explained calmly. “Certainly, you are not responsible.”
Despite Kala’s words of comfort, she felt guilty. Paying extra attention to the boy was supposed to help. Her meddling had backfired. Why was she always trying to fix people? Instead of being the hero, she’d been the catalyst for damage.
The bell rang, and Rosie had a class to teach. As she left the office, Edmond entered. He looked tired and preoccupied. He’d been up all night trying to get information about Hansom’s condition. After a comforting hug, Rosie and Edmond agreed to meet after school. They both needed to talk.
Edmond brought back a doughnut to share along with their coffees. For the first time since she’d seen Hansom on the gurney, she felt hungry.
“I talked to his grandmother,” Edmond confided. “They’re holding him on a thirty-day psych evaluation but…who knows. He’s already eighteen. Most likely they’ll let him be in charge of his own life.”
“Is that a good thing?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’m thinking about going to visit on Saturday,” Edmond said. “Do you want to come?”
Rosie was afraid to see Hansom, but she couldn’t admit it. Despite Kala’s reassurance, she needed to shake off the feeling of responsibility.
“Of course I’ll go. He needs us.”
CHAPTER 38
The following Sunday, the First Baptist community gathered in the church parking lot to get ready for the trip to Birmingham for the Gospel Sunday competition. Although the spring weather in Brent usually fluctuated between blazing hot and freezing cold, the day was mild—scattered clouds in a crystal-blue sky.
Parked in the lot was a large school bus draped with a hand-lettered sign for “GOSPEL SUNDAY.” The entire community was there: young and old, choir members, deacons, and clergy. They carried baskets and picnic boxes for the gathering afterward.
Langston and a few of his friends shot hoops at the far end of the parking lot. Although it was confining to play ball in their Sunday best, the kids were clearly having fun. When Langston got the ball, he scored. His basketball skills had greatly improved.
Mr. Day loaded the freshly pressed choir robes into the rear of the bus and then took his place behind the driver. Jacob shepherded the young boys onto the bus. Mo and Rosie, carrying a cooler, boxes, and bags for the picnic, were among the last to board. Jacob helped Rosie secure the cooler on the overhead rack. Rosie had been avoiding him since she found out about his past. The timing had to be right for such a powerful disclosure. She didn’t want to cause him further pain.
Rosie looked at him. “Are you ready?”
Jacob responded, “A little nervous.”
She sat down next to Langston while Jacob looked for an open seat.
Langston scooted closer to the window, “Come sit with us.”
“If it’s okay with your mom?”
Rosie moved in and patted the seat. The bus pulled out of the parking lot. Jacob tried to keep his thigh from knocking Rosie’s, but the bumpy ride forced them to touch. She pulled her leg away by pretending to straighten her skirt. She moved slowly so the action wouldn’t be offensive.
By the time the bus reached the main highway, congregants and choir members
joined together in song. Rosie was relieved she didn’t have to talk.
On their way to 16th Street Baptist in Birmingham, Rosie told Langston about the church’s importance in the history of the South. It had been a meeting point for desegregation and voting-rights activists. In 1963 the Ku Klux Klan had detonated a bomb under the steps of the church, killing four young African American girls who were at Sunday school. The anger that the incident generated galvanized the civil rights movement.
“You should ask Uncle Mo what life used to be like. When he grew up, Brent was still segregated. Our folks couldn’t even drink out of the same water fountain as white people. It was against the law.”
Jacob listened as attentively as Langston. He knew so little about African American history. Although he’d studied US history in high school, the rabbis glossed over anything controversial or “irrelevant” to the world of Orthodox Judaism.
Jacob expected 16th Street Baptist to be a larger version of First Baptist in Brent, but this was light years away from that simple clapboard church. It was a lushly landscaped, neoclassical brick structure on a broad downtown boulevard. Out front was a sign, “Welcome to Gospel Sunday.” Inside was a majestic sanctuary—cavernous ceilings, row upon row of polished wooden pews, a magnificent pipe organ behind the choir loft, and a mezzanine with extra seating.
There was a palpable feeling of expectation in the air. Clusters of people, dressed in their finest, greeted one another in the parking lot jammed with cars and buses. License plates revealed that some church choirs and their supporters had come from hundreds of miles away. Many participants knew each other from previous competitions. They backslapped and hugged in greeting.
Once inside, Jacob saw that the church was filling rapidly. Mo and Langston found seats in the front row of the mezzanine.