by J. J. Gesher
The service was already in progress when Hava and Jacob quietly entered. He sat near the back of the men’s section, took out his prayer shawl, and reverentially put it over his shoulders. Hava sat with his sister in the women’s section. Several women embraced her, and a buzz traveled through the sanctuary. Slowly, the congregation turned to Jacob.
The men crowded the podium as the sacred Torah scrolls were removed from the ark. Rabbi Weiss led a processional with the scrolls through the synagogue. As is customary, congregants leaned forward to touch the sacred scrolls with their prayer books and prayer shawls. When the rabbi saw Jacob, he stopped, leaned over, and extended his hand. Rabbi Weiss pulled Jacob from his seat and brought him up to the podium, where he could see the loving faces of his mother, his sister, his students, and his friends. There was value in this tradition.
CHAPTER 43
In the days after Jacob left Brent, Rosie had a peculiar burst of energy. She began by scouring the house from top to bottom. She moved furniture and vacuumed even the most neglected corners. She scrubbed walls until sweat poured from her face. She sorted through closets and made bags for the Salvation Army, culled through the bookshelves and gave old volumes to the church library. Then she began on the garage, a project she had postponed for over a year. She filled a dumpster with her parents’ outdated and useless possessions. She found a box of her own childhood clothes and toys, but she didn’t allow herself to wax sentimental. The stuff was tattered and stained, and it went in the dumpster with everything else.
When Mo tried to wheedle out the cause of the cleaning frenzy, she nearly bit his head off.
“Fine line between cleanliness and mental illness,” Mo muttered. Luckily for him, Rosie didn’t hear.
Truth was that as the days turned to weeks and the weeks to months, she threw herself into the whirl of activity for a reason. She wanted to forget about Jacob. Whenever she’d experienced tough periods in her life, cleaning had been the best therapy. But this time the therapy didn’t work. If she sat still long enough, she realized how much she missed Jacob—his gentle face, his voice, his touch. She moved on, hoping that the next project would block out her feelings for good.
Robert had become a steadier presence in Langston’s life. His girlfriend Denise had been a good influence, making sure he paid child support and showed up for parent-teacher conferences. Rosie allowed Langston to visit his dad in Birmingham one weekend a month.
One Sunday, Rosie was in the kitchen making dinner when Robert brought Langston into the house instead of dropping him at the curb. Langston gave her a perfunctory kiss and ran to his Xbox. Robert stood there awkwardly as she peeled the potatoes, making small talk about Langston’s precocious abilities. There was no mention of his girlfriend. Rosie could see he wanted to talk. She asked, “How’s Denise?”
Robert plunked himself down at the kitchen table. She could see the disappointment in his face, but she didn’t really want to ask what had happened. It was none of her business.
“It didn’t work out.” He dropped his voice. “Is it me? Is there something wrong with me?”
Rosie wiped her hands and sat down across from him. “Why do you think that?”
Robert looked stricken. “I can’t seem to maintain a relationship.”
Rosie put her hand gently on his, suddenly aware that he needed her, and that she cared about him deeply. He no longer had power over her. She had let her anger go, and now he was an old friend from college who happened to be the father of her son. She could live with that. She let him talk.
Rosie got to Sunday services early and took her seat with the sopranos. She noticed that Edmond was not with the tenors and wondered why he was missing worship. As Pastor Johnson welcomed the congregation, she saw Edmond enter pushing a wheelchair with Mrs. Fredericks, Hansom’s grandmother. He parked her on the aisle and took his place in the choir. Mrs. Fredericks wore a paisley dress that pulled over her massive chest and house slippers on her swollen feet. Hansom, his complexion improved and wearing his Sunday best, took the seat next to her.
Rosie admired how Edmond had stepped in as advisor and mentor. Edmond had rolled up his sleeves and become fully involved, and Hansom had blossomed under his attention. There was an easy connection between them that allowed humor to surface. That’s how Rosie knew Hansom was getting better. She heard him laugh, his tentative smile evolving into an audible hoot.
Rosie was eager to catch Hansom’s eye. Since his return to Brent, she and Edmond had been tutoring him. There was no way he could return to school and the bullying that led to his suicide attempt. The twice-weekly sessions had allowed her to know Hansom on a deeper level. He had revealed himself as much more than a troubled adolescent. He was bright, responsible, and loving. He was learning how to manage emotions and create coping mechanisms. She and Edmond agreed that if Hansom pursued higher education, they’d make sure his books were funded each semester.
As the choir rose, Rosie could feel Edmond staring at her. When he caught her gaze, he mouthed the words, “Lunch?”
Rosie nodded. Why not give him a chance?
CHAPTER 44
The Jewish cemetery in Staten Island was impossible to reach. Jacob had to travel by subway, bus, and taxi. The journey had taken ninety minutes with traffic. When he finally did arrive, he was transported back to a ghetto in prewar Europe. A large cement arch with a wrought iron gate marked the entry to the burial ground. Baron Hirsch Cemetery and the year 1880 were etched into the arch. Inside the gate were containers of stones that a visitor could bring to the gravesite and place on top of the headstone, evidence that a loved one had been there. The custom of leaving a small stone on the grave came from the awful truth of long-ago burials. If the bereaved did not cover the gravesite with rocks, then wild animals could dig up the remains. Now, a stone was a calling card.
The graves were a tangle. Headstones leaned at odd angles, all different shapes and sizes—like the people they represented. Jacob’s grandfather had purchased the family plot years ago. His grandfather had immigrated to New York from Poland in 1937, in time to escape Nazi atrocities. A few other survivors from his village relocated to New York after the war. These wanderers banded together and bought family plots adjacent to one another on Staten Island. Together in death, they re-created their long-abandoned village. The Weintraubs rested near the Plonskys, the Feinsteins overlapped the Goldbergs.
Jacob knew where his family was located—the far west corner, the corner facing Jerusalem. His grandfather was proud that he could pay extra for this choice piece of real estate. In life, the man rented a cramped tenement. In death, he faced Jerusalem—a landowner. He was, at last, a wealthy man.
Jacob came upon Julia and the children’s resting place. He had been here only once, on the day they were buried. There was little he could recall of that day. He’d never seen their headstone. The family had put the marker in place when he was gone. The children had been buried with their mother.
One headstone spanned the graves:
Julia Fisher—Age 32
Beloved wife, mother, and daughter
Yossi—Age 8
Miriam—Age 6
Sarah—Age 4
Beloved children of Jacob and Julia Fisher
Generations from now, a stranger in this cemetery would look at the singular end date and know that they had all died together. They would shake their heads and wonder what tragedy could have befallen such a young family. The vision of an exploding bus assaulted him.
“I’ll wave until you disappear,” he heard himself say out loud.
Jacob lightly traced the engraved names of his wife and children. He kissed the granite, disappointed that it was inanimate. Jacob wanted to say Kaddish, the mourner’s prayer. He had said it only once, on the day his family was buried. Was the desire to pray so ingrained that he would say the words even if he no longer believed? Validating God was the reason for the prayer. Orthodox Judaism required him to say Kaddish daily for a year after his family�
�s death. The ancient rabbis knew that if they required people to recite the prayer each day—a prayer that never mentions the dead, but instead praises God—then those who hated God for taking their loved ones would be pulled back into the community by simply following the laws.
The laws. They were meant to tell you how to be Jewish, but more importantly, they were meant to keep you Jewish. Jacob was compelled to say the words of Kaddish, but without a minyan, the requisite ten men, he was breaking a rule. He’d been breaking rules for so long, this transgression didn’t matter. His need to say the prayer—with only the sky as his witness—reached far beyond any religious restrictions.
He began reciting the mourners’ prayer in a whisper, but slowly his voice increased in volume until the final phrases echoed his powerful voice throughout the cemetery. The word “amen” bounced off thousands of headstones. The dead served as his minyan. Here were his witnesses.
Jacob lingered in the cemetery as long as possible. There was a chill in the air as the sun went down. He spoke softly, telling Julia and the children all about Brent, the choir, and Mr. Day. He told them about Rosie and Mo and Langston. He sang the song he wrote for Gospel Sunday. He whispered words to his wife and asked her for understanding, pressing his face close against her engraved name. Before he left the cemetery, Jacob reached into his pocket and took out a stone, Langston’s lucky rock. He placed the treasure tenderly on the headstone, turned, and walked away.
Once a week, Jacob joined his mother for dinner. Hava would take great care to prepare his favorite foods, and she’d pack up leftovers to tide him over for a few days. They were polite with each other, talking about safe subjects until they could go back to their own corners.
One night Jacob cleared the dishes and turned on the water to wash up. He stood at the kitchen sink, looking out at the Brooklyn night. His mind wandered. The tap water whined as it left the spout, the same sound it made in Brent. Jacob allowed his mother’s kitchen to become Rosie’s.
Hava approached and turned off the tap. “You’re wasting water.”
Deep in thought, he didn’t react.
She touched his arm. “Your life is here.”
Jacob shook his head. “I can’t find my way back into this life. I don’t fit.”
Hava knew her son was tormented. His mental health depended on structure and familiarity. He needed to put one foot in front of the other and slowly walk back to some kind of normalcy.
“You know David’s grandmother, Esther?” Hava asked. “She was the only member of her family to survive the concentration camps. Even after her baby was taken from her arms, she moved on. Even after her husband was killed, she moved on. She’s ninety-one now, a lifetime beyond that horror. I once asked her how she had the strength to start over. She said, ‘It has nothing to do with strength. People are meant to love.’”
Jacob took in the story. The message was clear. His mother and his community expected him to make a new life.
He leaned down and kissed his mother’s cheek.
Jacob slept fitfully. The covers were askew and one arm was flung over his forehead. His face was knotted in concern. The recurring dream plagued him. Each time familiar, each time disturbing.
In his dream, Jacob made his way to Penn Station in a taxi and magically found himself on a train, like some chaotically edited movie. While he was waiting in line in the dining car for a cup of coffee, Yossi appeared next to him and asked him where they were going. His response was instinctive: “We’re going home.” Jacob was shocked that he could ever—even momentarily—consider anywhere else but Brooklyn home, but that was the word that came out of his mouth, and it felt right. He took Yossi’s hand and returned to their seats, where Miriam and Sarah sat coloring.
Even in deepest sleep, Jacob smiled.
The train slowly pulled into the station. His children were no longer with him. Jacob disembarked. He wore a simple white shirt and black pants. His beard was full, specked with first grays, neatly trimmed. He wore a black kipah on his head. As he stopped on the platform to breathe the loamy, damp smell of the South, he heard the insistent greeting from the cicadas. He shifted the cumbersome duffel bag on his shoulder and began to walk. Julia, suddenly at his side, begged him to slow down. She always complained when they walked together that his legs were so much longer than hers.
Now was the time he half awakened.
Now was the moment he willed himself to complete his mind’s imagining.
Jacob slowed his gait to accommodate his wife’s. Her smile was serene, and her eyes, reassuring. When they were shoulder to shoulder, she took his hand, and they walked through the magnolia-lined streets of Brent, past the diner and the market, past the familiar steps of First Baptist.
Finally, in a desperate haze of memory and heartache and restoration, they arrived. Together, they stepped into Rosie’s welcoming embrace.
The growing light pulled him to the surface of reality. His body unfolded filling the mattress with a satisfying stretch. As he did each day, he sat on the side of the bed and permitted the nourishing dream to ebb.
His cellphone buzzed—his mother was texting him. She must have forgotten the time difference. He’d answer her after coffee.
Purposefully, Jacob walked across the sparsely furnished apartment, opened the window, and allowed in the day. The air was fresh, the sky perfectly blue. He treasured the vitality of this hour, when beginning felt sacred. On the horizon he could see the sun glinting off the iron beams of the Golden Gate Bridge. No time to idle. A roomful of boisterous teens expected him. He taught his first choral class at nine.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Our profound appreciation for the many hands, eyes, and hearts that contributed to our creative process. Thank you to our husbands, Sandy Weintraub and Avi Fattal, for support and feedback, to our children for inspiration and encouragement, to Terry Corbin and Theresa Barker for reading and rereading, to John Paine and Caroline Leavitt for their editorial skills, and to Michelle Brafman, Rabbi Steven Z. Leder, Jeffrey Richman, Margery Schwartz, Dorie Bailey, Caitlin Ek, and Anna Russell. Gratefully, we acknowledge Colleen Dunn Bates of Prospect Park Books for believing.
ABOUT THE AUTHORS
J.J. Gesher is the pen name for co-authors Joyce Gittlin and Janet B. Fattal. Together, Janet and Joyce have won several screenwriting awards, including the Geller Prize and the Screenwriting Award at the Austin Film Festival. Their first screenwriting collaboration was a Lifetime Television feature.
Joyce Gittlin has written and directed such television shows as Frasier and Everybody Loves Raymond and has written more than ten feature films for Disney, Paramount, and 20th Century Fox. She has an MFA from NYU.
Janet B. Fattal has a master’s in comparative literature from UCLA and has taught literature and writing at the college level. She leads many Los Angeles–area book groups, including for the Skirball Cultural Center, Hadassah, and Brandeis.
Joyce and Janet both live in Los Angeles. You can learn more at www.jjgesher.com.