Before Dave sat down he quietly handed Michael his yartmelke. As Michael put it on Yale looked at Dave and said quietly, "If you don't mind, I would like to observe this custom with you."
"He can wear Lennie's," Cynthia said. She quickly got Lennie's prayer cap from the buffet and handed it to Yale.
"Perhaps, he would like to say the Shema," Michael said sarcastically, inferring that Yale would not understand his reference to the Hebrew prayer.
Yale smiled, as he put on the cap. "I would like to say it, Michael. If I make a mistake will you please correct me?" Yale noticed the startled expression on all their faces, except Cynthia's, as he intoned in perfect Hebrew: "Shema, Yisroel, Adonoi, Elohenu Adonoi Echod." He continued in English . . . "and thou shalt love God with all thine heart, and with all thine soul, and with all thine might. . . ." When he finished saying the verses, Yale said, "I'm sorry I couldn't say it all in Hebrew." He smiled at Cynthia. "Cynthia taught me the Hebrew words."
"She gave you a good accent," Dave grunted, and passed a plate full of chicken. Yale could tell by his abrupt and gruff manner that he was pleased. They passed the dishes quietly to each other. Dave asked Yale about his courses at Midhaven College, and whether he planned to work with his father when he graduated.
Yale wondered what Cynthia might have said. He decided to be truthful. "I hope to go to Columbia," Yale said. "I am not interested in business. I would enjoy teaching. Cynthia and I hope to be married a year from now with your blessing, Mr. Carnell."
Aunt Adar gasped. She started to sob.
"Hush, Adar," Dave said. "This is no surprise. All that Cynthia has talked about for two years is this young man. Now at least we have no more secrets. We know what they are planning." He chewed thoughtfully for a minute. "A year is a long time. I won't say I approve or disapprove. If my daughter cares for you and you care for her, sometime soon we should meet your family. There are many things for families to discuss."
Yale tried to conceal his dismay. Of course, he thought, the normal thing was that Pat and Liz and Barbara would meet Dave and Aunt Adar and Lennie and Michael. He had a vision of Pat, towering, red-faced, examining this hard-fibred rock of a man, Dave Carnell. The immovable force and the irresistible object, for sure. Between them Cynthia and Yale reduced to ashes in the explosion.
"Yes," he mumbled, avoiding Cynthia's glance. "You should meet my mother and father soon." For a moment he felt the hopelessness of their love for each other. While he would be willing to defy Pat and marry Cynthia tomorrow even . . . he sensed that Cynthia, rooted to her family, would want to have a more traditional marriage. A marriage surrounded by relatives from both sides of the family. A marriage where hatred did not exist.
He was still thinking about it as they walked into the synagogue. There was no solution. He and Cynthia would have to be married quickly in a civil marriage. He was so occupied with his thoughts he almost missed Dave's question.
"Have you ever been to a Kol Nidre service, Yale?"
"No. I have been to the synagogue in Midhaven with Cynthia during Passover, and on several Sabbaths."
The synagogue was a small unpretentious building. At capacity it couldn't accommodate more than a couple of hundred people. About fifty people were sitting quietly waiting for the Rabbi.
"There aren't many Jews in this area," Dave said, "but those we have are strongly religious. We have a very learned Rabbi."
To his surprise Yale discovered that Cynthia and Aunt Adar sat together with a group of other females. Evidently, Yale thought, this was a more orthodox Jewish group than in Midhaven where males and females sat together.
Sitting beside Michael, a Pentateuch in his lap, Yale watched as the Scroll of Laws was taken out. Then the cantor began to sing in a melodious chant that was familiar to Yale.
"That's the Kol Nidre prayer!" Michael whispered.
Yale nodded. "I never heard it sung before, but I know the music. It's very beautiful." Yale looked at Michael and smiled. "I'd like it if you would sort of guide me as Cynthia does. Otherwise, I get lost."
For the first time since they had met, Michael's remote and distant manner toward Yale disappeared. "It's not always easy to understand. You almost have to be born a Jew," he grinned. "I doubt if we'll convert you."
During the remainder of the service he guided Yale in the translated Torah. In whispers he explained the Al Het, and how the congregation response asks for the forgiveness of God.
Dave drove back to the farm. They talked of mundane things as if none of them wished to be the first to probe Yale's reaction to the Kol Nidre service. Each of them in his own way had seen the ceremony for the first time through the eyes of an outsider. For Dave and Aunt Adar it was slight annoyance, as if Yale had been admitted to a sanctuary in which he had no right to be. For Michael therewas a sense of being mocked, as if Yale were watching like an anthropologist enjoying some primitive tribal rite without ever being able to understand its meaning for the participants. But for Cynthia there was only pride and her sure knowledge that Yale with his searching and curious mind had enjoyed the evening on a plane of understanding equal to theirs.
Sitting in the hammock on the veranda, Cynthia beside him, Yale listened to the warm sounds of the October night; an occasional cricket, and the faint rustling of nearly dead leaves in the lonely elm that guarded the house like a tremendous black sentinel in the night.
Dave sat in a rocking chair. Despite Adar's protest he lighted his pipe. "God would not object to the solace it gives me, even on Yom Kippur. I miss your mother, Cynthia. Even more on the holidays. . . ."
Aunt Adar, in a stiff-backed wicker chair, knitted silently. Michael sat on the rail, clinging with one arm to a post that supported the porch roof. Occasionally, Dave Carnell sucked on the pipe. The flare from the pipe's bowl lighted his face for an instant, and then, like the others, he became a dark shadow again. It was a pleasant way to converse, disembodied voices in the night, not revealing their facial expressions, daring them to say the thoughts they might not wish to reveal in full light.
Dave confessed his worries first. "We only want Cynthy to be happy. I'm afraid she doesn't know too much about hatred."
"Mixed marriages don't work," Aunt Adar said bluntly. "Families won't let them work."
Yale squeezed Cynthia's hand. He felt the pressure of her response. "I enjoyed the service tonight," he said, trying to divert their thinking. "You see, for two years now I have been really studying religion on a comparative basis. Tonight when they sang the Yigdal I recognized in the translation the creed of Maimonides. . . ."
"The thirteen Principles of our faith . . ." Dave interrupted. Yale could see the outline of a pleased nod. A puff of smoke surrounded his head.
Yale continued, "The first five Principles are at the basis of most Western religions. The first: 'I believe with perfect faith that the Creator is the author and guide of everything that has been created, and that He alone does make and will make all things' . . . Even Mohammedism accepts that." They listened in silence as Yale spoke. "The second: 'I believe with perfect faith that the Creator is a unity, and there is no unity in any manner like unto His, and that He alone is our God, who was, is and will be.' . . ."
"The Catholics won't accept that," Michael said. "They have a Trinity."
"I don't know," Yale said. "From a philosophic point of view the Catholics have provided for the bridge between the perfect and the imperfect with the concept of Christ."
"Well, it took a Jew to do it," Michael said, laughing.
"Anyway," Yale said, "I think even Catholics actually accept this Principle in the idea of an indivisible Trinity. The third and fourth, also: 'I believe with perfect faith that the Creator is not a body, and that He is free from all the properties of matter, and that He has no form wihatsoever.' And fourth: 'I believe with perfect faith that the Creator is the first and last.' . . ."
"The fifth . . . here is a horse of another color," Michael said triumphantly. "'I believe with perfect fai
th that to the Creator and to the Creator alone, it is right to pray, and it is not right to pray to any being beside him.' Here your Jew goes his own way."
"Followed by quite a few Protestants. . ." Cynthia said.
"What about the other eight Principles?" Dave asked. "These are what make a Jew, is it not so?"
Yale nodded. He listened to the squeaking of the hammock chains. It was strange, he thought. Men always wanted to be unique; to have their little groups that set them apart from their fellow men . . . to give them a delusion of importance. In a smaller way, functioning within the larger religious groups were the Masons, the Knights of Columbus, the Rotarians, the Moose, the Elks and thousands upon thousands of societies and associations that existed basically only to convey a sense of distinction and individuality. Maimonides' final Principles codified for Jews their uniqueness. Yale spoke his thoughts aloud trying to show Dave and Michael that all men should seek to share their common beliefs and build their lives on their humanity rather than the divisive factors in their experience.
"This boy of yours is a lambden," Dave said. "But even scholars must commit themselves. What do you believe?" They waited in silence to hear what Yale would say. Yale, forced for the first time in his life to commit himself on his beliefs, knew that whatever his answer would be it would not satisfy Dave or Aunt Adar. He decided to be painfully honest. "I accept your beliefs, Mr. Carnell, and the beliefs of all men, but I see no need to believe in a Jewish God or a Protestant God or a Catholic God or any God conceived by men. Since all we can ever know is man himself . . . I see no reason to go further. Each day to me is a revelation of the endless wonder and dignity of man."
"Man can hate," Dave said. "Man can kill."
Yale grinned. "Man has given God the same abilities, but this does not prove that God is a hater or a destroyer. If there is any reason to believe in God at all, it is in the simple fact that buried in each and every man is the possibility of love for another person. I don't mean sexual love. I mean love that transcends most human acts. Love that properly cultivated from birth in the human mind would bind each man to another in a chain so strong that the twelfth Principle of Maimonides would come true."
Dave got up and patted Yale on the head. "Cynthy, this boy is too idealistic. I fear for him. I'm going to bed before he confuses me. Come on, Adar, and Michael. Let them have the night alone for awhile."
As they walked in the house they heard Aunt Adar say to Dave, "This conversation I do not understand. Simple people just believe . . . no 'pilpul.' What is the twelfth Principle? I have forgotten."
"I believe in the coming of the Messiah," they heard Michael say. Cynthia turned to Yale. She hugged him, kissing his face fervently. "Oh, God, God. I love you," she breathed huskily. "Why does it have to be so complicated?"
10
Driving toward New York City, Cynthia seemed unusually quiet. She sat beside Yale, legs curled up beneath her, her skirt primly tight over her knees. She stared at the flat New Jersey landscape, the endless rows of filling stations, ice cream and hot dog stands, and innumerable roadside restaurants dedicated to a particular aspect of exotic dining vanishing before her eyes.
Occasionally Yale would look away from the road. The graceful line of her jaw, the fullness of her lips, the animation of her hair blowing in soft waves against her forehead and cheeks, seemed to have a personality and essence of their own that was Cynthia and at the same time, unbeknown to her, carried on an independent existence. Yale felt a strong desire to stop the car and hug her, and say, "Oh, Cindar. I love you so very much. I am so happy that we are going to have this night together. It will be good and beautiful, I'll always love you and years from now when we are married we will look back and remember this." Instead he said, "What's the matter, Cindar? You're so quiet. Are you getting cold feet? Do you want to forget it and just go back to Midhaven?"
Actually she was wondering what was going to happen. She couldn't picture herself walking across a hotel lobby and standing near a registration desk while Yale signed the register "Mr. &Mrs. Yale Marratt." She was sure she would blush. They looked too young to be married. The clerk would know. What if he refused to give them a room? Maybe he would ask for their marriage license? It had been different going to that cabin last spring with Sonny and Beatrice. Then, it had been flagrant and out in the open. They weren't pretending to be married and there were four of them. If they had been refused, so what? . . . it was a lark. There was something about this that was secret -- a sharing between two people of the guilt and deceit necessary to be together as well as the physical love that would follow. Did she love Yale that way? Was it wrong to go to bed with someone when you weren't entirely sure you loved him? But she did love Yale. Only sometimes when he looked at her and she could see the naked hunger and yearning in his eyes, and in the gentleness of his touch, she was frightened. She wondered whether she deserved -- or anyone deserved -- such devotion . . . bordering on adoration.
"Of course, I want to go, Yale." She touched his arm. "Only, I can't help feeling guilty. Daddy looked so pathetic when he hugged me. These last few weeks since I got back from camp have been real family weeks. Lennie, Mike and Aunt Adar, all of us have been so close. Being the youngest and the only girl I guess it has been hard on Daddy -- my going away to school, and then taking the counsellor's job. Gosh, it seems only yesterday when after supper I used to climb on his lap and snuggle against his neck, and play with his ear while he told me about the work he had done that day. Aunt Adar used to look at me in her prudish way and tell him that he was spoiling me, and I was getting too old to act like that with my father. You know, Yale, he has had a lonely life since my mother died. You would have liked her, too. She came from Vienna. She was very pretty and gentle -- the kind of woman you would call a real lady. Very feminine . . . not like a lot of mothers."
"Not like Liz, you mean," Yale grinned. "Well, Liz is the epitome of the modern woman, and most modern women lack that femininity. Actually they probably prefer not to show the soft and quiet approach. Not you, Cindar, you are very much a female. You know, I think that American men may be at fault. They want their wives to be self-sufficient. Women being women adapt to their environment, very readily. Result . . . very thorough, efficient wives. I read in Fortune the other day that a fellow died who owned a big glass factory. His wife is running it better than he did. Showing a profit for the first time in years. I would guess she was not very feminine, somehow."
They were approaching the Pulaski skyway. "We'll go in through the Holland Tunnel." Yale laughed nervously. "Don't know any other way as a matter of fact."
"Don't you feel guilty, Yale. . . ."
Yale shook his head. "No, I love you. For the next twenty or so hours I want to be with you and have fun and make love to you, and I don't feel anything wrong about it. When we finish college I want to marry you and live with you until you are a gray-haired little old lady."
"It says in all the books that girls read that a girl should wait until she is married. That when you let a boy have intercourse with you before you are married it cheapens you, and the boy will think you are just loose. I read somewhere that every man wants to marry a virgin." Cynthia's voice was wistful. She wondered if she should tell Yale. It was so silly. How could you tell such a thing to even your husband? And Yale wasn't her husband! How could she tell anyone that one rainy afternoon two summers ago when she had been alone in the house . . . not knowing what had possessed her, but feeling a terrible loneliness and a hunger to be loved, she had taken off all her clothes. She had walked idly around the house and then into Lennie's room and sat on his bed and smelled the boy smell of sweaty football clothes and the musty odor that clung forever to the boards of the old farmhouse. She had stopped in front of Lennie's mirror. Slowly she shook her breasts at her own image, and then her hand had touched her belly and felt her wiry pubic hairs.
As if in a dream she had walked downstairs into the cold closet where Aunt Adar kept the vegetables and she had surrend
ered wildly to some unknown and primitive desire. When the terrible emotion vanished, she was on the floor with blood on her legs. The shock, the fear, the utter distastefulness of what she had done to herself left her emotionally spent. She had cried until there were no more tears, and her eyes burned, and her throat was wracked with sobbing. Somehow in the ensuing days the act was forgotten, although occasionally the memory would return and she would hastily try to think of something else. But now it would come out. Sin never has its remission, she thought, because even in a thing like that you sin not against yourself but against the strong moral fibre of the world that one day will catch up with you. She was a virgin. If she told Yale, he would think she was horrible, a sex maniac. Or worse, he would think she made it up to cover up that she had actually had intercourse with another boy. Maybe he would even think she had had intercourse with many boys. Jewish girls were supposed to be very hot. What a horrible untruth. All last year at college she had listened with prim dismay to her roommate, Sue Wallace, describe her sexual encounters. "Sure, I've been laid (the word made Cynthia shudder). Every once in a while, I need it." Sue told her, "I don't let the boy know. I even fight him off. But if he's nice, I know I'll end up doing it with him eventually." That was Sue. Sue was typical of many of the girls she had known in high school and at Midhaven College.
But Yale was the only boy Cynthia had ever gone steady with. Even with Yale and despite the many times they had been together, he had never touched her "there."
And she knew, too, that he had held back because of a strong aesthetic sense. A desire to love her to the limits of his devotion -- alone in beauty. Not furtively clutching in a parked car or rolling on a blanket in the woods, near the college, as some of her classmates had done. She knew that Yale's love had a strong religious coloring -- not fanatic -- but adorational. Now she was going to have to reveal herself as more common clay.
Sensitive, as always, to the nuances of her emotions, Yale turned off the road in front of a roadside ice cream stand. "Honey, what's the matter? You think because I didn't answer you that I think you're not a virgin."
The Rebellion of Yale Marratt Page 14