by Rhoda Lerman
“Listen, if a hundred chickens need four gallons of water, why put them out in the desert where there’s no water? Why don’t You just give the chickens enough water in the first place? Why don’t You give all of us enough? You can’t do a budget? My wife can do a budget, for God’s sake. You put the chickens in the desert so they can learn about death? So they can learn to be grateful? So they can learn who’s boss? So they can be challenged and become rabbis?” Yussel rubbed his chin. “If You need the water someplace else, reduce their need to two gallons. Maybe You want us to want? Maybe you want me to want? Is that why You’re shooting me up with strange and filthy thoughts about my father’s wife?
Okay. I’m going to make a deal with You. I’ll stay for Shabbas on two conditions: One, You give the shmegeggies plenty of water; two, You get rid of the Flower Child … out of my blood, out of my head, out of my sight.” Yussel felt really stupid. He should be asking to win a lottery not to find water in the desert. With a lottery, at least there’s a chance. “Okay? Okay, that’s all I have to say. I know it’s crazy.” He stepped down from the rock, climbed back up again. “Listen, You set it up, don’t blame me. None of this was my idea.”
Yussel stepped back down, climbed back up. “All I ask for myself is that I’m comfortable, me, my family, comfortable. Amen.”
It made him feel good. It made him feel so good he went back to the pool by the side of the road, stripped, stood for a moment in the scatter of sunlight, then plunged into the icy water. The tips of the pine trees scratched his destiny in the parchment of sky. It was his father’s universe. Under he went. On his knees he could get his head in, every last hair. Except that it was freezing, it was a perfect mikveh. Every hair, every bit of his 613 parts, under for his dreams, for his thoughts. It was the right thing to do, to cleanse himself. He held his nose and stayed under. He said the name of God, intertwined it with other names of God, looked on his screen to see which way he should drive back to Far Rockaway, examined the route across Kansas up to Chicago, to Buffalo, over to the Thruway, south to Far Rockaway. There was heavy rain on the Thruway, a slow-moving convoy, so he drove the southern route across to Knoxville, then up to Pennsylvania, onto the Palisades Parkway, across the George Washington Bridge, until his lungs felt like bursting and he popped up and just as he popped up he felt the ground shaking and a mass of flesh, muscle, red hair, belly, hoof hitting his head—like the Behema—blotted out the sky, his screen, the George Washington Bridge. Yussel yelled.
A woman yelled back. A horse whinnied. The horse landed on the other side of the stream, reared up. The woman, who looked like part of the horse—her hair the same red as his tail—yelled over her shoulder at him as she struggled to pull the horse down. “You think this is funny, Minchas Pinchus?”
Yussel scrambled out of the water, but his clothes were on the other side. So, what does a Jew do in the wilderness, bareassed, kicked in the head by a horse, freezing, a stranger accusing him of perversion? He smiles. Yussel smiled, pulled one shoulder up in a shrug, spread his hands, and smiled. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.” He really was.
She stared for a moment at his face. Looking back, he could swear in a court of law she’d never looked down, just at his face, not at his body. Also that she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. She shook her head No! as if he’d offered her something, which he hadn’t except for the smile, wheeled her horse around, took off in a storm of mud that rained on Yussel. He jumped into the pool. The hoof-beats pounded through the forest, turned into runaway heartbeats, so he pulled himself out of the water. His skin was blue; his baitzim shrunken like a little boy’s. He’d been run over by a horse, a half-inch more he’d be dead. So why was he apologizing? Why was he smiling? Because he was Jewish.
Shaking, looking in his head for his screen, his head pounding like Con Ed, he dried off with the dishtowels, squeezed out his beard, despised himself for apologizing, for giving her even a smile, wrapped his side curls back into their little anchovies, tucked them under his hat, put on the rest of his clothes, lay belly-down by the pool in a bed of pine needles, dipped all the kitchen goods into the pool, piled everything back into the car, drove down the mountain road across the flats toward the Arizona. He tried to reactivate his screen but couldn’t get anything on it, worried that maybe he had a concussion from the horse. Maybe HaShem was taking away his gift of prophecy, which was okay with Yussel because if he lost his gift he wouldn’t owe Anybody Anything. Yussel decided that Jews didn’t belong in such a place. Everything was larger than life: Indians, redheads, horses. People who dunk in the ocean don’t get kicked in the head by horses.
As he left the dark of the woods and headed out on the dirt road of the flats, he said to the redhead, under his breath, “Pig. Anti-Semite pig.” From the phone at the Riverside, he said to Shoshanna, “Shoshanna, Shoshanna.” With the first Shoshanna he was talking to her; with the second to her soul because maybe her soul would hear what he was really trying to say and he wouldn’t have to say it. “Shoshanna, Shoshanna. I don’t care what you say.”
“So why are you calling?”
“So you can start packing.”
“What will people say, a Fetner running away?”
“You don’t understand.”
“Explain, then.”
“You won’t understand. It’s very complicated. I just don’t want to get involved. You don’t understand how involved this can get.”
“You should at least stay for Shabbas.”
“I can’t.”
“Please, Yussel, don’t be melodramatic.”
“Okay, Shoshanna, okay. Okay, I’ll see.” He’d drop the pots off, talk to no one, walk out. Just like that. Fetner or not. You want to see simple, Shoshanna? I’ll show you simple.
What he was saying to her soul was that the horse kicking him in the head just as he came up from the pool was too precise to be an accident. That losing his screen was too intentional. That he had a horrible feeling he’d moved over into his father’s universe and he was going to be trapped in its infinite cause and finite effect, in its decision-and-punishment routine, in the chaos of his father’s universe that he wanted no part of. Hadn’t he thought just before he dived in that he was in his father’s universe? This was the way his father wanted him to think, to be afraid, to look for signs. This was the trap. Gorgeous women, wild horses. He didn’t need any such tricks. He was leaving.
His father sat beside him in the Shanda, happy, shaking his head, beating both of his fists on the dashboard. “Yom diddle yom diddle ai diddle dai dai.”
“You’re happy I got kicked in the head?”
“Maybe that’s how HaShem gets your attention. The lady has, God help you, two legs. The horse four. He hit you over the head with a two-by-four. Yom diddle yom diddle ai diddle dai dai.” His father cackled at his joke and sang and banged his fists until the Shanda reached the highway, then he sat up straight, alert for something Yussel could not yet see.
14
TRAFFIC ON THE HIGHWAY WAS BACKED UP LIKE THE FDR DRIVE at rush hour. Yussel maneuvered the Shanda around cars, trucks, Winnebagos, a horse van, hundreds of people. “Sacred lake,” someone shouted at Yussel, pointed down to the Arizona, to a smooth shallow lake rippling on the flats. Yussel could see how the universe worked—with mirrors. A tower of water shot up under the water tower, reflected back into the lake, crashed on the roof of the Arizona. Babe’s chickens were belly-up. The lake lapped at the Arizona, the adobe houses, the tents. Grisha held forth like a prophet, claimed a victory for HaShem. Rosebud stood in the middle of all this, scratching himself, his head. The Arizona listed, tilted at a crazy angle. His father was yelling from the water tower, dancing in the water tower, laughing, praising, dancing to HaShem, swinging his doors. His pipe glinted in the sunlight, his face lit up like the moon. Now he wore red silk pajamas with a black velour hooded robe, embroidered with green-and-yellow mallard ducks, a large hand-painted mallard duck on his pocket. The water tower had a leg
up in the air as if it were about to pee. Yussel covered his eyes with a hand, rubbed his forehead, rubbed his eyes, dropped his head onto the cracked plastic of the steering wheel. Was HaShem in on this one? He asked for water, he got a flood. He asked to get rid of the Flower Child. He expected soon to see her belly-up with Babe’s chickens.
“What I want to know is how you did this!” His father swept his arm over the disaster below. “I don’t know how you did this but you did this. With the power that’s in your blood, Yussele.” His father shook his head. “We shouldn’t let you walk around loose. You could be dangerous just by not paying attention.”
Yussel knew how he did, if he did. He knew precisely how he did, if he did. But he doubted if he did because even though the shmegeggies got their water, when he closed his eyes the Flower Child was still zooming around on her motorcycle under his eyelids. So HaShem hadn’t really answered him. Right? Right. The little flood was pure coincidence, accident, stupidity, not part of any cosmic computer program. Yussel had not made it happen. However, Yussel decided, if it were even vaguely possible that such a mess as was below him was the kind of answer he was going to get if he talked to God, he was finished talking to God. He didn’t want the power; he didn’t want to have to pay attention. He didn’t want to be involved.
Grisha descended from his stool, carried it over his head, moved like a small snail through the water, up the slope to the highway toward the Shanda, his eyes glazed with ecstasy. “Hear oh Israel. The Lord is One and His name is One!”
The folks leaning against the cars, watching the water, chorused, “Amen, Brother. Amen.”
“Bless the Lord for the miracles of His creation.”
The six-packers took a look at Grisha’s wispy side curls, the fever-red cheeks, the white beard, the ancient gabardine suit, crossed themselves, took off their shoes and socks, offered him Gatorade, a Dos Equis, rolled up their pants, tucked up their skirts, ran down to the new water, the sacred lake, hung around waiting for Grisha to come back and baptize them, but from baptism Grisha did not know.
Yussel drove the Shanda down the slope through hubcap-high water to the kitchen door of the Arizona, kicked off his shoes, rolled up his pants, shlepped kitchen goods inside, holy goods outside. The tower of water hammered on the roof of the Arizona, slid off its sides down into the new thin blue silvery lake rising fast around the Arizona, spreading faster toward Ernie’s huts and Alma’s tents.
He thought about Pharoah’s chariots. If he were Moses, he’d split the water. He thought about the River of Paradise, the heavens opening, the ground opening, male and female waters copulating.
He thought about unplugging the freezer, the speaker system, the telephones, the Indian. He wondered why no one else had thought these thoughts, done anything.
Grisha danced with his stool. “Yom diddle yom diddle ai diddle dai dai.” A cowboy tried to get his attention. He wanted a blessing on his bad back. Grisha was beyond listening.
Yussel ran by him. “You can’t help?”
Natalie had her skirts tied around her hips, danced in circles, made paddlewheels with her arms. Yussel had no time for her. Babe he told to call the fire department before the phones died. Babe told him they don’t come unless you’ve joined and for fire, not flood. Yussel told her to call anyway.
“Right now I should call?”
“Yes.”
“You’re crazy …”
“Don’t tell me what to do, Babe.”
“So who will?”
“Just do what I say and call the Fire Department.”
“You’re telling me what to do, Yussy?”
“I’m asking.”
“Don’t get upset, Yussy. You’ll get cramps.”
“I’ve got cramps.”
From her pocket, Babe gave Yussel a handful of Godiva chocolates in the shape of acorns.
His father leaned over the great bucket of the water tower.“Yussele, watch my remains they don’t get loose.” Roof tiles floated in the lake. Ernie’s adobe shacks were collapsing into pancakes. The tents worked at their ropes. Like corks, stakes popped out of the ground. The Blondische organized onlookers to dig ditches with spoons, shovels, their hands, tried to direct the water away from the Arizona. Grisha’s tent was on its side, picking up wind like a sail, cruising out toward Babe’s bus and the cottonwoods.
Yussel worked his way through the people, passed Indian Joe, who was arranging his sticks as fast as a kaleidoscope, sloshed through the water, arrived at Rosebud, who stood like a statue in the middle of the tower of water, grinning, yelling, “Sacred lake, sacred lake!”
Yussel punched him on his back. “Hey, Cochise, turn it off!”
“Can’t, Your Highness. Needs a four. This here’s a three and a half.” Rosebud moved his testicles steadily from one side to the other as if such movement would have an impact on his understanding of fractions.
“You said you had a four!” Yussel shouted over the crash of the water.
“Then we need a three and a half.”
“Why didn’t you get the right size in the first place?”
“Goddamn. Goddamn, Your Highness, how was I supposed to know I was going to hit water? Goddamn.” And scratched himself at the peculiarity of the world and how things happen.
“You Tonto shmuck! You have a four. You need a three and a half!”
“I’ll get a four. You wait. I’ll be back.” He sloshed through hip-high water to his truck, revved up, rammed it up the hill and down the highway, left a great white wake, the likes of which hadn’t been seen in the desert in a million or more years. Someone, something gorgeous with a lot of red hair, maybe the other part of the killer horse, stood in front of Yussel, speaking very softly with great calm. “You’ve hit the aquaclude. You need a pump. Do you want me to get you a pump?”
But it was at the precise moment Yussel saw a corner of his father’s shroud lifting from the grave, the casket opened at its pine seams, the piece of shroud floating in a pool of water, so he could do nothing else but charge past her. “Excuse me. Excuse me. My father’s grave. My father.” He reached his father’s remains as it/they/he was slipping off the spur into the lake.
His father screamed from the water tower bucket, “Yussele, my remains!”
Yussel tossed his father’s remains, shroud and all, into the front seat of the Shanda and turned on the engine. He was turning the car toward the highway when he had a brainstorm to back up, turn around, and drive into the tower of water.
“Not the Shanda!” Grisha stood between the car and the tower of water, banged fists on the hood. “Not his car!”
“Out of the way, Grisha!”
“It’s almost sacred, Yussel. It’s family!”
“So, it’s a sacrifice.” Yussel said good-bye to the Shanda, thanked it for its years of loyal neurotic service, drove straight into the tower of water, and stopped the Shanda over the well. The car rocked. The water split in half, went this way and that way but no longer onto the roof of the Arizona. His father sat in the car next to his remains, lifted the hood over his face as gently as Yussel had pulled it down, measured his dead beard against his grave beard, “Look at that. A half-inch I grew in the grave. Will you look at that.” He shook his head over his remains. “I wasn’t such an old guy. I look pretty good. Maybe because it’s so dry in the desert. Look at that, Yussele. No decomposition. Will you look at the beard I grew. How about this beard?” He fluffed the beard, squeezed water from the bottom of the shroud, brushed dirt from the feet.
Yussel didn’t want to look. Half-inches were becoming a new organizing polarity for the universe. He was crawling with half-inches. A half-inch too much, a half-inch too little, not enough this, too much that. Maybe the half-inch on his father’s beard came out of the cap for the pipe or vice versa. You get involved in this kind of thinking you can go crazy. Also, if you start watching for half-inches you find them.
“I must be a saint.”
“They don’t have saints in Hell.�
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“Maybe that’s the trouble with Hell. Maybe they need saints. Listen, Yussele, you’ll have to bury me again when nobody’s around. And wash yourself, your clothes, from my putrefactions.”
“I know.”
“You see how HaShem works?”
“I see how shmuck Indians work.”
People were still digging trenches. The books were up on the highway, the chairs, the altar, the Torahs, boxes of noodles, electrical appliances. The torrent was a graceful double fountain, with a shimmer of colors promising a rainbow. A bird had already landed on the hood of the Shanda. His father was pointing at the woman with the red hair. His father was jumping up and down, pointing at this woman.
“Look, look. You think all this is an accident? You want to see intention? You want to see purpose? You want to see the cosmic computer grinding away in your program, Yussel? Right in front of you, you can see how the computer works, every detail, every second. That’s no accident. That is pure living breathing juicy intention. HaShem doesn’t put together a package like that without a good reason. Is that something?”
The woman who had said “aquaclude” to him had hair like the horse. She was saying something about a pump to him. She held a geodetic map. She wanted to show him the map. He stared at her. She smelled of horses and wore shiny black leather boots. She had amazingly long legs, riding pants like skin, amazingly short underwear. Yussel wanted her off his property, out of his sight. She recognized him as he recognized her. She smiled. “You nearly killed me.”
“You nearly killed me. Look.” He pointed to the bump on his head. She reached to examine it. He moved backward. “Also I didn’t mean to scare your horse.”
“You’ll learn not to joke around out here. A half-inch more my horse would have killed you and maybe me. You, of course, first.”
“Yeah, yeah, and a half-inch tighter on your pants you’d have a cleft palate.” Where had that come from? He’d never said anything like that to a woman in his life.
She flushed. She was so beautiful. “I’m trying to help you.”