by Rhoda Lerman
“Women.” His father cackled with his joke.
“Yeah, yeah. Tell me who’s going to figure out where I get the money to buy another house now that I find out the Arizona is in Colorado, twelve, fourteen hours away from the house in Kansas. Maybe I should wait for my SL Bernie sold to come back to me loaded with cocaine?”
“I don’t understand, Yussele. Where’s all your money?”
“My money? Of blessed memory, my money. You have a pencil, Totte? Two million for your mishugge Indian Joe. Maybe a hundred grand to pay off the personal loans you made for which the world calls you a saint. For which the banks you borrowed from call me a debtor. You know how many people I had to feed for your funeral?”
“I saw. I saw. That was something.” His father, having cleaned, shined, polished himself and his accoutrements, was napping like an old lion, a little wounded.
Yussel went on anyway. “Some more for the move across country, the rest for the kids, which I won’t touch. I have to pay attention to the details. But I’ll manage. I can borrow. I have friends. It’s only for a year.”
His father stirred, smiled, nodded.
“Totte,” Yussel spoke softly, apologetically, almost hoping his father wouldn’t hear, wouldn’t wake up. “I’m an ordinary guy, Totte. Even though I’m your son. I’m good with numbers. I sell insurance. I was once a wealthy Jew. I hope to be again. That’s it.”
His father snapped awake. “Bite your tongue, Yussele!” His father shouted, gasped between shouts. He broke his Q-Tip in three places. It was orange with wax. “A Fetner talks like this? A prince talks like this? A man with generations that go back to the Baal Shem of blessed memory, back to David, back to Adam, talks like this? When you ask that it be revealed to you, Yussel, it shall be revealed to you!”
“I’m not asking.” Yussel winced at his own words. He was a very coarse seed.
“I’m asking.” His father closed his eyes.
“The answer’s no.”
“It’s in you, Yussele.”
“No.”
Yussel drove west toward the Rockies, then picked up a two-lane road following the mountains. The land dried up, flattened out, turned to burlap. Barbed-wire fences lined the road, the sun warmed the car. The morning was brilliant blue. The shadow of the Shanda slid along the land. The fourth time Yussel’s father cleaned his ears, Yussel exploded with a venom that surprised both of them. “You know why a dead man has wax in his ears? You know why? Because when he was alive he never listened to anybody! He never listened then and he doesn’t listen now! So listen to me! I’m not going to be a saint for you!” Yussel’s veins danced against his temples.
His father looked at him, eyes widened, said evenly, “Wax in my ears? I’ll buy that. At least you’re thinking like a Jew.” He shrugged. “By your ears you have sinned; by your ears you are punished.”
“You or me?”
“Both of us.”
8
NEAR THREE IN THE AFTERNOON, YUSSEL, WHO WAS DRIVING AS fast as the Shanda would allow him, picked up a familiar line of mountains and headed southeast. Something was wrong with the time. The drive from the Arizona back to his father’s house, with his father in the car, using the same scribbled map, had taken three, maybe four hours. Now, in the opposite direction—from his father’s house to the Arizona—it had already taken ten hours and he wasn’t there yet. Why was it taking him four times longer to get to the Arizona? Maybe his father had the Baal Shem Tov’s charm for swift travel. That’s how the alte cockers would explain it. They’d shrug, raise their hands, palms up. “Why shouldn’t it take him three hours? Your father was a saint. Insurance salesmen it takes longer.”
The road snaked as it had the last time he’d driven it. He saw a double rainbow in an orange sky. Three lakes became mirages. Three mirages became lakes. Umbrella irrigation systems spread over endless stretches of spinach fields. Warehouses collapsed beside rusted ore cars. Above the road, in corrugated cliffs, old gray timber sluiceways swung loose against mine entrances. The road pounded in Yussel’s head. Bolts of pain zapped his shoulders, his neck, his thighs. At last he passed the historical marker about Coronado, backed up, pulled in, turned off the engine. The last line on the marker read: CORONADO, FINDING NO GOLD, NAMED THE MOUNTAINS, AND RETURNED TO MEXICO.
He looked around to see what Coronado had seen. The sun crept low through the pines like an animal, hit a clearing, splashed its last rays against the flanks of the mountain range like blood, which was of course only something red in the rock. Standing right here, maybe seeing this moment, Coronado probably didn’t intend to name the mountains the Sangre de Cristos. Probably he was cursing them. “Blood of Christ,” Coronado said. “Let’s go home. Blood of Christ, where’s the ocean?” Coronado couldn’t find gold, couldn’t sell bananas, packed up his mules, went back to Mexico. And Yussel, the schlemiel, goes on. To what? To the shmegeggies who killed his father, waiting now to kill Yussel, and a handful of newcomers who’d learn fast how to suck a rabbi as dry as the land, spit his blood out against the mountainside, order up a fresh rabbi from the Yeshiva, put up a triumphal arch: THIS IS WHERE YUSSEL THE RABBI GAVE UP, TURNED AROUND, WENT BACK TO FAR ROCKAWAY. The Sangre de Yussel. Yussel washed his hands from the thermos, made a blessing, ate the last meat loaf sandwich, did not pack up his mules, did not turn around, drove on.
Golden aspens followed the snow-melt down mountain folds, fanned out into meadowlands, lost themselves in cottonwood groves, died alone at the edge of the high desert land.
From each utility pole along Moffat’s main street, a basket of dead geraniums hung like a vulture’s nest. Yussel passed boneyard railroad beds, rotted freight cars, hundreds of white-faced cows waiting in yards to be slaughtered. He thought about Auschwitz, shivered, stopped at the Texaco Station, bought two Hershey’s bars with almonds from an attendant with a yo-yo for an Adam’s apple, who didn’t seem at all surprised at Yussel’s prayer cap or beard, bought a map of the Southwest to find out where he really was, where he’d come from, called Shoshanna to tell her he’d arrived.
The phone rang in his father’s house. Yussel opened the map. Four states on the map had Moffats. Moffat this and Moffat that. Especially and particularly Kansas had a Moffat. Yussel laughed. He laughed harder until he laughed so hard he had to lean against the door of the phone booth and hold his stomach. He remembered Chaim at dinner saying, “Out there.” The joke was on Chaim. If Yussel didn’t know the Arizona was in Colorado, Chaim didn’t either. They both thought it was in Kansas. Only his father had known. So now all of Chaim’s money was tied up in Kansas real estate and Yussel was free of Chaim the Parasite.
The Flower Child answered the phone. Tapioca slid through the wires. He saw her stretched out in bed, lifting her arms, reaching for the phone. She tried to make conversation. “Yussel, how was the trip? Are you okay? Are you there yet? What’s so funny?”
“Get Shoshanna. I don’t have much time.” A Jewish man doesn’t make conversation with a sex machine.
Shoshanna had to come to the split-level from the bus. He waited, hummed a table song that was once a march from Napoleon’s army, “Lai lai lai, de lai lai lai.” He cradled the phone under his chin, with one hand made a fist and marched on the phone book with Napoleon as he crossed the wintry steppes of Russia, with the other hand ate both Hershey’s bars.
“Yussel?”
He adored Shoshanna’s little voice. “Listen, Shoshanna, wonderful news. I’m in Colorado. The Arizona’s in Colorado!”
“Yes?” Sometimes Shoshanna was slow.
“That schlemiel Chaim bought his eighteen houses in Kansas. Kansas, Shoshanna! He had to outsmart me, see? He had to do what I did. He should lose a fortune on it.”
Her voice was very soft, very small. “Words like that should never leave the lips of a Fetner, Yussel. You’re a rabbi.”
“I don’t want to hear what a Fetner should do or not do because you aren’t a Fetner and I’m not going to be a rabbi.”
&
nbsp; “You will be for a while. I may not be a Fetner, but I have to share in your destiny.” Her voice dropped to a whisper. Something was wrong. “The Flower Child thinks I should shave my head.”
“Why?” Yussel didn’t want to talk about the Flower Child. He could feel his breath getting short.
“She says things will fall apart with your father gone so it’s up to the women to be more observant, more frum, and we should all shave our heads.” Shoshanna was crying. “When she gets to the desert, she’s going to make everyone shave their heads.”
“Don’t bother me with the Flower Child. Nothing’s falling apart. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“You don’t have anything more to say?”
“I have a headache. I feel faint. I think it’s the altitude or the meat loaf.”
“It’s not my meat loaf. Do you miss me?”
“Of course I miss you. What kind of husband would I be if I didn’t miss you? I’ll call you tomorrow.”
First he smelled Lemon Pledge. Then he saw his father’s huge dark eyes reflected in the phone booth glass. His father was slouched fashionably against the phone booth, hands stuck in the pockets of a gorgeous paisley smoking jacket with a fringed silk belt. Underneath he wore black satin pajamas. He had his hat pushed back, looked worried, knocked on the glass. “Be nice, Yussele. Be nice.”
And then he saw the reflection of Shoshanna’s SL pull in behind the Texaco sign. And then he saw Chaim the Parasite. How did Chaim get Shoshanna’s SL? Bernie sold the SL to Chaim? It wasn’t just a reflection. Chaim wore a white beaded cowboy hat with a big brim, his side curls tucked away. Yussel hit the phone book with his fist. If the phone book had been a brick, it would have powdered under Yussel’s blow. Instead something crackled in his hand, flew up his arm, into his chest. He cheered his heart on. Go on, attack. Better you than them. Go on.
Like a tennis champion Chaim leaped over the door of the SL, reached into the phone booth, tried to hug Yussel, tried to pull him out and hug him. Yussel gripped the door jamb of the phone booth, wouldn’t budge. Yussel tried to close the phone booth door. His father pushed to keep it open. Chaim pushed to keep it open. Chaim reeked of Brut. “It came to me you would be here today. It came to me. Oy, Yussel, my friend, am I happy to see you!”
“Sure, Chaim, you must be out of blood.” Yussel turned his back to Chaim, wouldn’t look at him, wouldn’t look at the SL.
“You promised Shoshanna you’d talk to me out here, Yussel.”
Yussel smashed one fist into the other palm not to hit Chaim in the face. “I’m talking to you, aren’t I? You want to talk? Let’s talk about greed. Let’s talk about envy.”
Chaim put on his visit-to-the-dying-face: a little pain, a little concern. Everyone learned it in Yeshiva, that look. “So, these things are troubling you, Yussel? You want to talk about envy, greed?”
Yussel remembered Waterloo. The horses pounded inside his head. With whatever he’d torn up punching the phone book, his hand pounded in time to the horses. He couldn’t control his face. What showed, showed. His father climbed into the phone booth. Yussel shoved past him, closed the door, leaned against it so he was out and his father was locked in.
Chaim leaned back against the door of Yussel’s SL. His head was shrunk into his shoulders, expecting a blow, brows knitted, eyes pinched, shoulders tucked in. His whole body said, “Hit me.” He, however, said, “I also think we should talk about charity, Yussel.”
“Charity, Chaim? Charity? Maybe I should have given you my SL?”
Chaim wet a finger and wiped off a spot on the chrome of his door handle. “You’ll get Bernie’s check, you’ll see. You did give it to me.”
One move, Yussel would really give it to him. In the face. One move, maybe tipping his cowboy hat forward, maybe touching Yussel on the arm.
“You having trouble breathing, Yussel?”
“What’s it to you?”
“I care. It’s wrong to care?”
“It’s the altitude.”
“Baruch HaShem. I thought it was your asthma.”
Yussel’s father yelled from inside the phone booth. “Yussele, listen. If HaShem wanted you to have the SL, believe me you’d have the SL.”
“He wants Chaim to have it?”
“If HaShem didn’t want Chaim to have it, Chaim wouldn’t have it.”
“Don’t give me your trick Jewish logic, Totte. You sound like Kissinger.”
“Trick logic? I’m giving ancient wisdom, the Ari, Akiba, the Baal Shem Tov.”
“Okay, don’t give me your ancient trick Jewish logic.”
“It’s truth, Yussele. Everything’s intended. There are no coincidences.”
“This universe is intended? Hah!”
“It’s truth. Hitler, hot dogs, camels. Even Chaim is intended.”
“And what about free choice, for God’s sake?”
“Yussele, maybe you should think about whether free choice is also intended?”
“This is no time for such a discussion.”
“Sure it is. You have murder in your heart.”
“Not to worry, Totte; it’s intended.”
“Oy, Yussele. Do we have a long way to go.”
Chaim talked fast. The Brut made Yussel woozy. Chaim’s hands rotated in little mechanical circles as if what he was saying had nothing to do with what he was doing. “I’m laying all my cards on the table, Yussel.”
Yussel hadn’t heard a word. “Yeah, yeah.”
“Listen, Yussel, you’ll come over to my house …”
“I wouldn’t step a foot in your house. Also I have to get back. I have problems.” Yussel watched Chaim’s face. First he saw pain from the insult. Then he saw pleasure that Yussel should have problems. The smell of Chaim’s Brut reminded him of the baby powder on the Flower Child. An idea came to Yussel. Chaim looks at women. Yussel had seen him looking at women. Also the story about the mixed mikveh was going around. Also Yussel had to defend himself. So he would put his dreams on Chaim. Why not? Yussel didn’t owe Chaim a couple of bad dreams? “Chaim, you know how lonely widows are. She’s too young to be a widow. I hate to leave her alone too long.”
“Filth, Yussele, filth. You’re asking for it, Yussele.”
“Listen, Totte. I went to Yeshiva too. To save somebody’s life you’re allowed to do anything. I’m saving my life. See the shrunken shoulders? That’s a disguise. He’s after me and I have to protect myself.”
“Vey iz mir.”
Chaim’s mouth was open a little. “I’ve heard your stepmother is a wonderful woman, very beautiful.”
“He drives my car, Totte. He sucks my blood. Why shouldn’t he dream my dreams? Better him than me.”
Yussel smiled down at Chaim. “The moon and sun beautiful. And very frum. A little too sexy if you know what I mean, but that’s not her fault. She’s a wonderful human being with a broken heart. I told her about you.”
“I’m a married man,” Chaim protested too mildly.
“Who isn’t?” Yussel held his hand up. “Just kidding, Chaim, just kidding.” Yussel had him. You want to talk about envy, Chaim? I’ll show you envy. The horses stopped running around in Yussel’s head. “You’ll meet her. She’ll be here. Maybe we can find her a husband.”
“Yussele? It’s my wife.”
“Stay out of this, Totte.”
“My own son bargaining off my wife? I’m hearing this?”
“Maybe it’s intended, Totte, huh?”
“Gottenyu.”
Chaim forgot to shrink his shoulders. He gripped Yussel’s arm. “Yussel, my friend, before you go. I need some homeowner’s on the new houses here. I’m offering you business.”
Yussel shook loose, retreated to the side of his father’s car. “I don’t do business with you.”
“I offer you business and you refuse? You’re a pig, Yussel. Who do you think you are? You wouldn’t recognize charity if it danced down the street in a shroud. You with your three stories and your moss-brick and your wif
e and her designer clothes and your … your fancy name.”
“And my gorgeous stepmother. Don’t forget my gorgeous stepmother, Chaim.”
“Stay off my property, Yussel.”
“Don’t cross my threshold, Chaim.” Yussel climbed into the Shanda, slammed the door. The handle fell off.
Chaim picked it up, smiled. “See? A sign. You don’t do mitzvahs, the Gates to Heaven are closed to you.” Chaim flipped the handle from one hand to the other. Yussel wrenched it from Chaim and left.
Yussel drove for ten minutes before he looked for Chaim’s house. The streets were named for minerals. He passed an elementary school, a Woodpecker’s Hardware, a superette, a Rexall, a Sears, a diner, more waiting white-faced cows, a bank. Big FOR SALE INQUIRE WITHIN signs sat on the overgrown lawns of a lot of houses. Some of the signs had blue stars on them.
Chaim’s SL was parked in front of the biggest house in town on the corner of Molybdenum and Carbon. New wooden fences were built around Chaim’s property and a dozen other homes.
Chaim’s house had red roof tiles, blue stucco walls, a kennel with an electric fence, the kind to keep schvartzes out in the city and cattle out in the country. It was a nice house, one of the $100,000 ones for sure. Yussel could no longer afford such a house. Except for the rental on his Far Rockaway house, he had no income anymore.
Yussel pushed his hat back, lay his head on the neck rest, closed his eyes. They were burning. Then he pushed his skullcap back and forth, pressed his eyes inward with his thumbs. On his screen the SL was burning, smoke, fire, fire engines lined up outside, cars with blue gumball lights, a crowd watching, a blazing red pickup with ROSEBUD painted on its door panel in loving golden tendrils, the SL melting, men running around, a sofa that looked like a grilled cheese sandwich. He thought he saw Chaim’s goon, Mendl, from Rikers Island. For some reason, the firemen were standing around, drinking coffee, strangely inactive. He decided with shame that he was seeing what he wanted to see, not real information. So he shut off the screen and headed for the Arizona.