by P. D. Cacek
Like he gave a shit.
When Ryan finished pouring the water, he set the measuring cup down and reset the timer for three minutes – no more, no less – three – and punched go. After forty-two seconds he got bored with watching the countdown and, picking up his mug, walked into the living room.
The place still smelled of the lemon Pledge, carpet shampoo and Lysol, which helped counteract the tea stench. He’d been cleaning almost non-stop – every night after work and all day on the weekends – since getting his new roomie.
And what a roomie he turned out to be. The outside wrapper might still say ‘Twinkie’, but the ingredients inside were decidedly different – one hundred per cent kosher…and straight.
Ryan realized too late that he should have been a bit more specific when he’d secretly asked God, the ultimate prankster, not to let Jamie die.
Some joke, huh, bubbeleh?
As roommates went, however, Aryeh Rosenberg wasn’t bad. Granted, everything he cooked was either under-salted and overdone or was made from boiled buckwheat groats called kasha and smelled like raw sewage, but he was clean and quiet and tended to stay out of Ryan’s sight as much as possible.
Which was as good as it was going to get, apparently.
Ryan knew Aryeh – good ol’ straight, homophobic Jewish Aryeh – wasn’t comfortable with the living situation any more than he was, and he sure as hell didn’t have any vested interest in this new ‘person’, but he couldn’t just throw a cripple out on the street.
Could he?
Well, he could, of course.
Jamie was dead. And Jiro had concurred with what the hospital lawyer said about legal responsibilities, regardless of the fact that Ryan was…had been authorized to act on Jamie’s behalf.
But Jamie was dead, and the moment that happened Ryan’s legal obligation was over and, legally, did not extend to the new man living inside Jamie’s skin.
Jamie was dead.
It was hard to remember that with ol’ Aryeh Rosenberg rolling around the house, and as soon as he became a real, living and breathing human being in the eyes of the federal government the better it would be.
And maybe then the nightmares would go away.
But until then Ryan would continue making smelly tea and maybe even grow accustomed to hearing the sound of the guest room door lock click shut each and every night.
As if.
Ryan took another sip of coffee and looked at nothing in particular because there was nothing in particular to look at. He’d taken down the framed portrait of him and Jamie that hung over the gas log fireplace, and put all the smaller framed photographs and photo albums into boxes.
Some things – Jamie’s clothes, Jamie’s cologne, Jamie’s CDs and DVDs – went into boxes that were taped shut and put into the storage unit the day after Jamie died. Other things, small things, he gave to friends.
Jamie was dead.
Ryan bought new towels and threw out the ones Jamie had used, bought new sheets and pillows to go with the new mattress so there wouldn’t be even the faintest scent of him. Jamie was dead and Ryan kept nothing…
…except one picture.
It was small, only four by six, and set in a silver frame they’d found in an antique shop in Fort Bragg. It was the last day of their first summer vacation together. Neither of them had wanted it to end and even though they were facing an eight-hour, 536-plus-mile trip back to L.A., they’d dawdled and dragged their feet and revisited every shop and tourist trap the town had to offer.
Jamie found the frame and oohed over it for a good three minutes before a display case of antique pocket watches caught his eye. Ryan bought the frame when Jamie wasn’t looking. A week later, while Jamie was at the gym, Ryan pored over their vacation photos and finally selected one he thought would look best in the frame: Jamie sitting on the rocks, his back to the camera, watching the horizon.
Ryan gave Jamie the framed picture that Christmas and he cried, then put it on the small table on his side of the bed where it had stayed ever since.
Ryan kept the picture because it could have been a picture of anyone.
Just someone looking away.
When the timer beeped Ryan walked back into the kitchen to retrieve the perfectly steeped, foul-smelling cup of tea. He’d been told, with the utmost politeness, that tea – with honey – tasted better in tall glasses and he should think about maybe getting some, but a cup was fine.
Subtle, real subtle.
Honey he could do, but Ryan drew the line at buying new glasses or a whole new set of dishes and flatware and pots and pans so milk and meat or whatever could be kept separate.
He’d already bought enough new things.
Setting his mug down, Ryan poured the stinky tea into a cup then picked up the plastic Honey Bear from the counter, thumbed off the little yellow cap, and squeezed out a dollop. It wasn’t what you’d call an exact measurement, but his houseguest hadn’t complained yet, either about the amount of honey in his tea or the paper plates and plastic utensils he used at every meal.
If anything, he seemed genuinely touched by the effort Ryan had made in consideration of his dietary restrictions, and Ryan hadn’t bothered to correct him or tell him it was Oren who’d come up with the idea of using disposable dinnerware after trying to explain the whole ‘kosher’ thing.
Kosher was one thing, but crazy was another and he could deal with crazy.
Hadn’t he held a memorial for Jamie at the church his parents attended and sat there watching and listening while Jamie’s extended family and their friends got up and told stories and anecdotes about Jamie, before saying their goodbyes to an empty silver urn?
Hadn’t he then given the urn to Jamie’s parents and told them how sorry he was, and hadn’t they told him to go to hell? Hadn’t he told the truth to Oren and Jiro because Oren was Jewish and could talk to his new roommate, while Jiro could help him cut a path through the legal jungle ahead of him – them.
Hadn’t he already done enough crazy to make him an expert?
Finished with the preparations, Ryan put the cup, on its matching saucer and with a spoon for stirring the honey, on the tray next to the insulated coffee carafe and headed for the patio. He could hear them through the open door and it sounded like they were arguing…not that he could understand a word either of them was saying.
Dr. Ellison, who’d arrived a half hour late for his weekly Saturday afternoon session with Aryeh, was shaking his head, muttering something, either in Yiddish or Hebrew, Ryan hadn’t heard enough of either language to tell which was which, that brought a momentary halt to the conversation that had been raging back and forth like bullets across a battlefield.
Then Aryeh said a word: ah-were, or something like that, and repeated it twice. Ah-were, ah-were.
Maybe he was complaining to Dr. Ellison about the quality of the paper plates Ryan was using. Maybe ahwere meant cheap.
Ryan cleared his throat to let them know he was coming and stepped out onto the patio.
It was one of those rare late-September days that made the California Tourism Council cream their collective jeans and send out squadrons of photographers to capture the event. Soft white clouds rode the bright blue sky and, for once, the gusting west wind kept the smog where it belonged, in San Bernardino and Riverside.
Autumn was coming and the light had changed from the blue-white of summer to a mellow gold that couldn’t be described in words. You had to recognize it when it came and the only reason Ryan could do that was because Jamie had shown him.
Jamie had shown him so much.
They were sitting on opposite sides of the bistro table at the far end of the patio. Dr. Ellison sat facing the patio door, his briefcase at his feet and a stack of papers and a small digital recorder in front of him. Aryeh sat with his back to the door, a small silver-and-black yarmulke pinned to the
top of his head, the pile of books within easy reach.
Aryeh was always reading and what he read was history. Not surprising since he had over ninety years of history to catch up on, and books, as Ryan discovered – being the brain-dead dumb ass that he apparently was – were the safest way of doing that.
And regardless of what Aryeh, Dr. Ellison or his friends thought, he hadn’t done it on purpose, at least, not consciously. Why would he? To hurt the man who’d stolen Jamie’s body?
Well, maybe…but not this way.
No, it’d been a mistake, a stupid one and he should have known better, but just a mistake.
Ryan hadn’t even thought about it – history was history, what could it hurt? – it just seemed a harmless thing to do. Why read about history when you could watch it on TV?
So one night, after KFC – because chicken was more or less kosher – Ryan turned on the History Channel for his new roomie and went into the study to do some work.
In hindsight, it might have been a good idea if he’d checked the TV guide first.
Just a stupid mistake.
Aryeh watched for two full hours while a retrospective of the Holocaust and the atrocities that had been committed on his people at Dachau, Treblinka, Ravensbrück, Buchenwald and Auschwitz played out in front of him.
If he had screamed or shouted or cursed or called Ryan every name under the sun, in Hebrew and English, it might have been better for both of them. But he never made a sound, even after Ryan came in to check on him and saw what he was watching.
The last time Ryan remembered moving that fast was at the pool in the rehabilitation center. He punched the power button so hard he almost broke the remote control, and in the silence that followed he’d tried to explain, to say he was sorry, God, he was so sorry, that it was a mistake.
“Mistake, yes,” Aryeh had said, then nodded and wished Ryan a gute nacht as he rolled the wheelchair down the hall to the guest room.
Books were easier, especially books without pictures.
“Ah, Ryan, there you are,” Dr. Ellison said, turning off the digital recorder as he looked up.
Ryan set the teacup down next to the history books and lifted the carafe.
“Ready for a refill, Dr. Ellison?”
Dr. Ellison looked at the mug Ryan had set down in front of him when he first sat down. The mug was full and there was an oil slick covering the surface.
“Um, no thanks…I’m good.”
“A dank,” Aryeh said, picking up the teacup. “Thank you, Ryan.”
Ryan nodded and set the carafe down on the table. It was Aryeh’s voice, the strange, low voice coming out of Jamie’s mouth, that still turned him inside out.
“Aryeh said he spoke with your lawyer?”
Good ol’ Jiro. “Yeah. There shouldn’t be any problem getting his name legally changed, although the social security department seems to be dragging its feet a bit.”
“Your lawyer gave them the letter from the hospital, didn’t he?”
“Yep, but you know government bureaucracy.”
Dr. Ellison sighed. “That I do, unfortunately.”
“Yeah. Uh…can I get you guys anything?”
Dr. Ellison asked Aryeh.
“Nein…. No,” Aryeh said. “Thank you.”
Ryan nodded, all out of pithy comments.
“Well, I should be going,” Dr. Ellison said and Ryan stood there, awkwardly and silent, while the man stuffed the papers he’d brought into his briefcase and stood up.
Ryan backed away even though there was more than enough room.
“Aryeh was telling me about your pancakes,” Dr. Ellison said, snapping the case shut. “He says they’re delicious but he thinks you’re trying to make him fat because you make them so often.”
“Vos?”
Dr. Ellison repeated what he said in Hebrew…or Yiddish…and Aryeh looked up at Ryan and smiled, nodding his head. His hair was longer than Jamie’s had been and he was growing a beard. The faint lines around the chocolate-drop eyes – brown eyes…they make him look older – and across the forehead that Jamie had just begun to fret over were a little deeper now, but somehow they suited him. It was the face of an older man, a man who only vaguely resembled Jamie.
“Ah…yoh, yes. Meh ken lecken di finger! Very gut, pond cakes very good.”
Neither Ryan nor the doctor bothered to correct him.
“Yeah, well, it’s one of the few things I can make well. Jamie—”
His throat tightened around the name. Ryan could think it, mentally pick at it like a scab until it bled, but the moment he said the name out loud it felt like he was strangling. Drowning…yeah, it felt like he was drowning.
He cleared his throat. “Sorry. Jamie used to say the same thing…about me trying to make him fat. Funny, isn’t it?”
“Then I’m envious. The last time I tried to make pancakes they came out like hockey pucks.” Briefcase in hand, Dr. Ellison walked around to the opposite side of the table and offered his hand. “I’ll see you next week. Shalom, Aryeh.”
The man shook the doctor’s hand and nodded. “Shalom.”
“Ryan, see me out, will you?”
Oh-oh, Ryan thought, now what? Nodding, he stepped back and let his guest go ahead of him. Behind him, and echoing off the overhang, came two distinct metallic clacks. It was the sound of the wheelchair’s handbrakes being released. His houseguest was going for a little roll-about.
Ryan stopped just far enough back from the sliding glass doors that he could see out without easily being seen. The man never looked back as he rolled past the raised beds of late-summer flowers and early chrysanthemums and rusting exercise equipment.
The pond cakes were very gut.
Dr. Ellison was waiting for him by the front door, balancing the open briefcase in one hand as he shifted through the papers inside.
“Looking for your bill?”
“Funny man.” The doctor looked up and winked, then handed Ryan a clear plastic folder. “Here.”
Ryan hefted the file while the doctor latched the briefcase and lowered it to his side. “This is some bill, doc.”
“It would be, wouldn’t it? But this is something another doctor at the hospital, Dr. Stanton, put together. The original idea was to give them to the Travelers when I felt the time was right.” He nodded to the folder. “That’s his family’s history.”
“Okay.”
It was obvious by the look on his face that Dr. Ellison had expected Ryan to be a bit more…something…about the information. Ryan yielded to the pressure and gave him a one-shouldered shrug.
“I’ll just give you the rundown, shall I? His wife and children are gone, although it’s interesting to note that his son, Leben, died just a little over a year ago.” Dr. Ellison paused, eyebrows raised in expectation – and was disappointed again. He cleared his throat and continued. “Leben had six children, two of whom died in infancy, and Aryeh’s youngest daughter, Esther, had four. Jaffa, the eldest girl, stayed home to take care of the mother and never married. According to census records, Aryeh had eight grandchildren, seventeen great-grandchildren, twenty-two great-great…. Well, let’s just say he had a rather prolific family, some of whom are living in the L.A. area.”
Now Ryan got excited.
“Great! Does he want to go live with one of them? I mean they are his family.”
“I didn’t tell him, Ryan.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t know what this will do to him.”
Ryan looked down at the folder in his hand. “Did you tell the others?”
“Two of them, yes,” Dr. Ellison said, his lips curling into a sad smile. “Timmy, that’s the little boy, wouldn’t understand, but I gave his caregiver, Mrs. Rollins, the file. We decided, she and I, that it will be better for him not to know any details.”<
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“So why is he – ” Ryan jerked his head toward the back of the house as he looked up “ – so special?”
“Because Aryeh was…is a man who is deeply rooted in his religion and history, but now that history has been taken away and his faith challenged. He doesn’t know who or what he is or where he belongs.”
“He belongs with his family. Don’t you think that’s the best place for him?”
“Yes, but we also have to think about them, his family members. What can I say to them? – ‘Hello, you don’t know me, but I’m a psychiatrist and we have your great-great-grandfather’s reincarnated spirit in the body of a young paraplegic. Would you like him back?’ They’d dial 911 faster than you could say psychotic break.”
Ryan couldn’t argue with that. “Yeah, I know if anyone suddenly came up to me and told me my best friend in the world and the love of my life had died and his body had been taken over by some Jewish wandering spirit I would have called the cops.”
Dr. Ellison cleared his throat. “Touché.”
“So what am I supposed to do with this?”
“I know he’s asked you about his family so I thought, when you think the time’s right, you could show it to him.”
“Why me? You’re his doctor.”
“Exactly, I’m his doctor, but you’re the closest thing he has to a friend right now. Of course, I understand if you’d rather not.”
Dr. Ellison held out his hand and Ryan felt the muscles in his arm tighten. All he had to do was hand it back and—
“No,” he said, “it’s okay. I’ll tell him.”
“You’re a good man, Ryan.”
“Spare me.” Ryan opened the door and watched as Dr. Ellison stepped down onto the Welcome mat. “I do have one question.”
“Yes?”
“What does…ah-were mean?”
“I’m sorry? Ah-were?” He shrugged.
“Yeah, I heard him say it a couple of times when you were talking.”
Dr. Ellison thought a moment. “Oh, you mean averah?”
Ryan nodded even though the word sounded exactly the way he’d pronounced it.