Joshua: A Brooklyn Tale

by Andrew Kane

  “Nothing. You’re okay. Thank God you’re okay,” she heard her mother say.

  “The baby?” she asked.

  “Everything is okay, you’re going to be fine.” Again, her mother’s voice.

  “But the baby?”

  No one answered.

  “Oh my God,” she screamed. “Oh my God!”

  “Don’t worry,” her father said, grasping her hand. “Don’t upset yourself. You need your strength.”

  She read the anguish on Binny’s face. “I’m sorry Binny,” she cried, “please forgive me.”

  He reached out and touched her. “It’s okay Rachel,” he said, fighting his own tears. “Everything will be fine.”

  “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” she repeated.

  Binny and Hannah started to cry.

  “There’s no reason to be sorry,” her father offered.

  She was deaf to the world, lost in her anguish. “I’m sorry,” she repeated through her tears. “Forgive me!”

  They didn’t understand, they couldn’t understand. Why was she blaming herself? But she understood. Only too well. For it was truly her fault; she had killed her baby, and it was no different than if she had used a knife. Her day of judgment had arrived, and with it the wrath of an angry, vengeful God. He’d been watching all along, just as she’d always been taught. Nothing is hidden from Him, a fact that had never been so compelling as it was now.

  You shall not chase after your heart and your eyes, after the things for which you lust.

  She had ignored everything she’d ever believed in, and had placed earthly desire above the purity of her soul. And now she was paying the price.

  “Forgive me!”

  She loathed herself for her iniquities.

  “Forgive me!”

  She loathed God for His harshness.

  “Forgive me!”

  She loathed Binny and her parents for her own inadequacy.

  “Forgive me!”

  She loathed Joshua for her agony. She would never see him again!

  During her first week home, her mood remained unchanged. Her mother stayed with her. Binny and her father were around all the time, and Esther visited daily. Rachel seldom left her room, and didn’t say much to anyone. They catered to her and tried to cheer her up, but she was intent on her suffering.

  One evening, after about two weeks, she finally came down and joined the others for dinner. She didn’t talk much, but it was a good sign. The next day, in the afternoon, she was sitting in the living room with Esther. Her mother had gone marketing.

  “You seem to be coming along better,” Esther observed.

  “I’ll be okay.”

  “I know you will, you’ve always been the strong one.”

  Rachel considered the observation. “Compared to whom?”

  “Compared to anyone.”

  “I think you meant something else.”

  “You’re right.” Hesitation. “Compared to me, I guess.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Just that you manage to figure things out and rise above unpleasant situations. I’ve never been quite as good at that as you.”

  Rachel raised her eyelids, still curious.

  “Well,” Esther continued, “you’re married—and to a pretty good guy, as far as these guys go. You have a beautiful home, you will have children, you’ll have it all. Because you’re strong. You know what’s right.”

  “Funny, I always thought I have all this because I’m weak.”

  “I suppose it depends on how you look at it.” Sadness.

  A moment of silence. Rachel took Esther’s hand. “Tell me, what’s happening with you?”

  Esther proceeded to confess. It was the first time she’d told Rachel, or anyone, about Stephen Butler and, at this point, things had gotten rather spicy. She had finally managed to attract his attention; it had been a simple matter of wearing the right outfit. Those long skirts and ample blouses hadn’t been doing the trick, so she had purchased some sexier apparel at a boutique in the village. She had also found a place to change clothes en route to class. She would stop in a coffee shop, order a coffee or soda to please the owner, put on her new ensemble in the bathroom, go to class, and change there again on the way home.

  These days, however, she was taking an additional detour on the way home: Stephen’s studio apartment. It had all begun on the third night of her new image. He had approached her after class, and asked her out for a drink. A quaint little pub a few blocks from school, a couple of drinks, and next thing she knew, his place.

  “What can I say, darling? I’m just a harlot, like one of those pitiful vixens in the Bible.”

  Rachel sat there, eyes fixed, ears glued to every word. “You mean you’ve been…”

  “Just as you’ve been, my dear.”

  “But I’m married.”

  “Are you passing judgment?”

  “I’m sorry, I have no right to…”

  “It’s okay, I know you didn’t mean it.”

  “I really didn’t; I shouldn’t have said that; I’m sorry.”

  Rachel was obviously still fragile. Esther took her hand, and reiterated, “It’s okay, it’s okay.”

  “It really isn’t,” Rachel responded. She had never told Esther of her meetings with Joshua, and this seemed to be the opportune moment to change that. Whether for her own sake, Esther’s, or both, it was time to tell someone.

  Esther was stunned by the confession, and Rachel had spared not a single detail. The telling had been heart wrenching, and also cathartic. It seemed to ease both of their guilt.

  “So it’s over?” Esther asked.

  “It’s over.”

  The two friends looked at one another intensely. Suddenly, Esther started to laugh. Rachel hesitated at first, but couldn’t keep from joining in. They began to laugh harder; it felt good. Much better than crying. Oh, the mess they’d made of their lives.

  “What are you going to do?” Rachel asked, trying to calm herself.

  “Who knows? Maybe I’ll marry him; he’s Jewish, you know. I suppose I can’t hold that against him, can I?”

  “No, I suppose you can’t.”

  “What are you going to do?” Esther asked.

  “Me?” Rachel contemplated her response, then: “I’m going to keep things simple. I’m going to love my husband, have lots of children, and make chullent and kugel every Shabbos.”

  More laughter.

  Rachel returned to the synagogue the following Shabbos. She hadn’t fully recuperated, and could have gotten away with staying home, but she wanted to go. She knew that sooner or later she would have to face the sympathetic stares from the women in the balcony. It might as well be now.

  There was also another reason for her decision. It had been announced throughout the community that the Rebbe was going to deliver a major speech, the topic of which was known only to a select few. Rabbi Weissman had been one of those few, and he had shared what he knew with his family during Friday night dinner. Rachel had been shocked: the Rebbe is going to talk about racial issues in the neighborhood, unheard of.

  The Rebbe had always been aloof from such unseemly matters. And now that was going to change. Notwithstanding her vows of ending her relationship with Joshua, and her belief that this was all behind her, she felt compelled to hear what the Rebbe had to say.

  She and her mother arrived at the synagogue just in time. They climbed the stairs, and found the usually vacant balcony filled to capacity, standing room only. Rachel was glad to be hidden in the crowd, virtually unnoticed, able to avoid spurious consolation and inquiries as to her well-being.

  They stood in the back for less than a minute before silence descended upon the hall. The room was never this quiet, not even during the Torah reading. Rachel had always found it disturbing how the Rebbe commanded more decorum than the Almighty Himself, but that was the way things were.

  She couldn’t see beyond the heads in front of her, but she heard the Rebbe’s
voice emanating from the podium below. He spoke softly, barely loud enough to be discerned, and in Yiddish, the preferred tongue of all Hasidic sects. Rachel had no problem with that; her teachers had all taught in Yiddish, and her parents had often used it around the house. She listened intently, her hand cupped behind her ear for better acuity. Around her, the women were shuckling, swaying back and forth with their bodies, believing that doing so enhanced their concentration. Rachel stood still, as did Hannah. The shuckling thing wasn’t in their blood.

  “My friends, this small section of Brooklyn has been our home since the early 1940’s, and it will remain our home until, God willing, the Messiah comes to gather us.” The Rebbe paused for a moment, for words of the Messiah usually inspired cheers and singing among his followers. The crowd responded as expected: We want Moshiach now! We want Moshiach now! We want Moshiach now . . .

  Rachel looked at her mother with humor. Neither of them chanted, and they knew that, down below, Isaac wasn’t chanting either. Isaac Weissman had always stressed that prayer and deeds would hasten the coming of the Messiah, not screaming and yelling.

  The crowd quieted after a few minutes, and the Rebbe continued. “Our neighborhood has also been the home of many groups other than ourselves, and over the past few years, some have been leaving for one reason or another.”

  Rachel knew the Rebbe was being intentionally vague, it would be unfitting for him to be more specific.

  “This is unfortunate, and much has changed. There is more crime, there is more tension on the streets.” The Rebbe stopped, as heads all around him nodded in fierce agreement. The Rebbe is going to take us to live somewhere else, they thought, the Rebbe is going to save us.

  “I know that many of you have waited for a sign…”

  Again, chanting: “We want Moshiach now! We want Moshiach now!”

  “Many of you have waited patiently for me to consider our problems.”

  Silence.

  “And now, it is time for me to speak out.”

  “Bring Moshiach now! Bring Moshiach now!”

  “My friends, it has always been our faith that the Messiah will be arriving any day to deliver us from exile, return us to our holy land, and rebuild the temple in Jerusalem…”

  “Moshiach is here! Moshiach is here!”

  At this point, just about everyone in the hall was perspiring from the frenzy. The heat was unbearable. Hannah turned to Rachel, seeing that her face was peaked, and asked, “Do you want to go home?”

  “No, not yet.”

  The Rebbe continued: “I believe that the day is near. I believe that the day is tomorrow!”

  More chanting.

  “And that is why I say that we must remain here in our home, that we must not leave like the others. For this is the place where God has delivered us from the hands of the Nazis. This is the place where God wants us to wait for His final redemption: the coming of the King Messiah, to gather us, and bring us back to Jerusalem.”

  A song erupted: L’shana haba’a b’Yerushalayim, next year in Jerusalem. The Rebbe looked out at his followers, and began to clap along as they sang the words of hope. Within seconds, there was dancing throughout the hall. A joyous occasion. The Rebbe has spoken. We will stay in Crown Heights until the Messiah arrives. We will not run!

  Even the many who had hoped to be leaving Crown Heights danced. For it was the Rebbe’s desire that they wait for the Messiah, and the Rebbe had said that the Messiah was at hand. Soon, they would leave.

  Rachel and Hannah made their way through the crowd and down the stairs. As they came out of the synagogue, some men were standing around and talking. Rachel could have sworn she heard one of them say, “The Rebbe is the Messiah.”

  “Of course, there is no question,” another added.

  She turned to her mother. “Did you hear… ?”

  “Yes. There’s been a lot of talk like that lately. Your father doesn’t like it; he thinks it’s blasphemous. The first time he heard it, he almost had another heart attack.”

  Rachel suddenly felt awful. She’d been so wrapped up in her own suffering, she had forgotten about her father’s condition. “How is he doing?” she asked, embarrassed.

  “He’s okay. This thing with you has upset him, but he’s handling it.”

  “I’m going to bring him joy,” Rachel said tearfully. “I’m going to give him grandchildren.”

  “I know you will,” her mother answered. “He loves you more than anyone in the world.”

  Rachel read the jealousy in her mother’s comment, feeling ashamed that she had never completely appreciated Hannah’s predicament. True, she’d had her own albatross, measuring up to a dead half-brother, always fearful of disappointing her saintly father. But Hannah was doubly cursed, having to compete with Isaac’s lost wife, and his obsession for his daughter. That was more than anyone should have to bear.

  Rachel looked at her mother. The once stalwart enchantress was growing delicate and weary. Years of unspoken aching had taken their toll. “I’m going to bring you joy, too, Mama,” she said, putting an arm around her.

  “You already do.”

  CHAPTER 36

  Joshua wasn’t surprised at not having heard from Rachel for the past six months. Their last rendezvous had left him doubtful about their future. He knew that staying away from him was a difficult choice for her, but it was one he would honor.

  He escaped in his studies and, after his first year, it paid off with an A average and a place on the dean’s list. He had also decided to take Professor Thompson’s advice to pursue law as a career, not out of fidelity to the black plight in America, but because he started believing he could actually become one of those criminal lawyers he used to watch on TV. Perry Mason Eubanks.

  He tried getting past his feelings for Rachel, and was frequenting social functions on campus. Lectures, dances, holiday parties; he forced himself to attend all of them. Loretta had also given him a push: “You can’t sit around all the time waiting on something that just isn’t going to be!”

  It was hard for him to meet new people. He was fearful of rejection because of his cane, always came late, stood alone, and left early. Until a few weeks earlier, one Saturday night, when everything changed.

  Her name was Constance Henderson, or Connie as she called herself. She wasn’t the greatest looker: a bit chunky, bespectacled, frizzy hair. But that didn’t seem to bother him. He thought she was nice, real nice, and sharp too. An adept conversationalist, quick sense of humor, and brassy—considering the way she had approached him.

  She had recognized him from Thompson’s class. He hadn’t recalled seeing her, but politely pretended he had. He wasn’t proud of being remembered from that class; his notoriety there had been far from his finest moment. But at least something good had come from it. Another one of those silver linings.

  He liked that she laughed a lot, and that she wasn’t one of Thompson’s blind devotees. Their mutual interest in studying law was the proverbial icing on the cake. They had much in common and, while he enjoyed her immensely, he knew in his heart that they weren’t destined for a flaming romance.

  Since the night they’d met, they had eaten lunch together daily, seen two movies, and she’d been to his house to meet his mother. They’d started holding hands now and then, and had even shared a few tender kisses. Neither of them seemed particularly ecstatic, but it was okay. They liked one another, and that seemed to be enough.

  So here he was, Saturday evening, getting dressed for another date with Connie. He glanced in the mirror, then went into the living room to say good-night to his mother. She kissed him, and said, “Good luck, now. You act polite and gentleman-like, and things will be just fine.”

  She was referring to the fact that he was meeting Connie’s parents. He dreaded the occasion, for Connie’s family was from Trinidad, and Caribbean blacks usually preferred their children socializing amongst their own. Joshua loathed the ever growing divisiveness in his own community, the deep prejudice
s regarding shade of color, purity of heritage, place of birth, and rearing. He couldn’t understand any of it, as if there weren’t enough problems from the whites.

  Connie lived in East New York, a predominantly black neighborhood abutting Crown Heights. It was a clear, warm summer night. He walked two blocks to East New York Avenue, and noticed the hookers gathering around the park. A lump formed in his throat as an image of Celeste came to mind. A day seldom passed without the thought of her, wondering where she was and if she was all right. He continued on his way.

  He took the East New York Avenue bus, got off at the corner of Snediker Avenue, and walked the rest of the way. She lived on a block of red-brick, two-family row houses. He looked for her address, and arrived at her doorstep ten minutes early for a Seven-thirty date. He climbed the cement stairs to the front door, and pressed the buzzer.

  Her father answered the door. A large man, rotund, dark brown complexion, sharp mahogany eyes, coal black hair, gray at the temples, and a well trimmed goatee also with a touch of gray. His most notable feature at the moment, however, was an angry expression.

  “Hi. I’m Joshua Eubanks.” Joshua offered his hand.

  “Mat Henderson.” Frigid. No eye contact. Obligatory shake.

  Mr. Henderson showed Joshua in. The living room was nicely decorated.

  Wall-to-wall, grass-green carpet, gold and mint patterned wall paper, landscape paintings, an impressive burgundy couch with two matching sitting chairs, mahogany coffee table, and a brown leather recliner. Joshua knew that Connie’s father was an auto mechanic; now he knew that auto mechanics didn’t do too badly. Mr. Henderson offered Joshua a chair, and took the recliner for himself.

  Connie’s mother emerged from the kitchen. A short but pleasant looking woman: shapely, café au lait complexion, stylish hairdo, and a nicely contoured face. Connie looked more like her father.

  Mrs. Henderson, who didn’t bother to offer a first name, also appeared somewhat inimical. She attempted a smile, obviously transparent. “Can I offer you something to drink?” she asked.

  “Sure.” Nervous.

  “Pepsi?”