“Well, a student mentioned that she was going there to look for some herbal remedies that a ‘witch friend’ had told her about. The plan made me uncomfortable, but I didn’t want to raise an alarm if I'm just being silly.”
“It would depend upon the student, I suppose.” He shrugged, suggesting that the idea did not trouble him much.
“Yes, well, this one isn’t the most stable personality.”
“Might be a good idea to warn the cooks to keep an eye out and chase away any snooping kids. But I don’t think there’s anything dangerous there anymore. There might have been at one time. I know the nuns had quite a reputation for being able to put an early end to an unwanted pregnancy, for example. But there’s no telling what they might have been using. And as for poisons, well, there’s an old yew tree out there, but there’s only one, and it appears to be a male. It’s the female variety that produces its lethal red berries. Nothing to worry about. I wouldn’t make waves over it.”
“Thanks for that. I just wanted to be sure.”
“No problem.”
Chapter Fifteen
Holidays
December 2008
Sarah accepted David’s offer to drive her to Nashville and see her on her way to the boarding gate. He had been helpful and as thoughtful as usual. He brought Elijah a new catnip mouse and gave it to him in his new stroller before they even left Sarah’s apartment. By the time they were ready to board the plane, Elijah was zonked out on catnip and sleeping with his furry little cheek resting on a damp and battered mouse.
The cat didn’t wake up through the takeoff and landing, nor in the taxi heading home. In fact, he didn’t open his eyes until they were in Brooklyn. He sat up in his little stroller and looked around with a puzzled expression, as if he was wondering how he had ended up back here in this old but familiar setting.
Preparations for Hanukkah were already underway in the Chomsky household when the travelers arrived. Fresh applesauce bubbled on the stove, and chocolate cake layers were cooling and waiting for someone to assemble them into the Hanukkah surprise cake, which would contain foil-wrapped chocolate coins. The kitchen air smelled of bubbling yeast, hot oil, and grated onions. And in the window, the menorah1 waited for its daily ration of Hanukkah candles.
Leah Chomsky had been looking forward to her daughter’s arrival, but once Sarah was in the house and Leah had hugged her, kissed her, and bedecked her with an apron, she handed her a grater. “Potatoes, Sarah. Grating the potatoes for tonight’s latkes2 is your task.” Sarah was home, and all the worries about her new job faded away.
During the eight days of celebration, family members and friends drifted in and out of the house in a blur of greetings and well-wishes. Children littered the floors with their games of dreidel3 and the teenagers devoured the sufganiyot4 faster than anyone could fry them. Love and joy were the rules of the day, and the evenings resonated with prayers of gratitude for the miracles of the lights.
But on the tenth day of Sarah’s homecoming, as the Christian world prepared to welcome a new year, Leah Chomsky sat down at the kitchen table with Sarah and took her hand. “Talk to me, my daughter. You appeared to enjoy our holidays, but your inner soul is unhappy. Talk to me and tell me your concerns. Let me be your mother again, if only for a little while.”
“I love my new job, Ima. The campus is beautiful, the students are bright and eager, and my colleagues have welcomed me. My apartment is cozy, and my neighbors are friendly. I wake up early, ready to go to work, and I sleep well at night.”
“But . . .?”
“But there’s a boy. Oh, not a boy. He’s very much a man, even though he matches your definition of a ‘Nice Jewish Boy.’
“So he’s not a goy5? This pleases me.”
“We attend prayers at the same shul, although that’s not where we met. Oh, I know, the perfect answer would be that Rabbi Leibowicz introduced us, but we met by accident.”
“So what is there to be wrong? Is he married?”
“No, Ima. Nothing like that. I don’t know how to explain.”
“Try harder.”
“He’s a cop.”
“Not a dirty cop?”
“No. He’s a good, kind man, honest and gentle . . .”
“So, what’s not to like?”
“Nothing. I like him very much.”
“Then what . . .?”
“I met his parents at a charity function. They are rich. Very rich. His father is a prominent lawyer. They live in this big house with a cook and a housekeeper, although it’s just the two of them there now.”
“This boy . . . he doesn’t live with them?”
“No. He and his father do not speak to one another.”
“Ah. So now we get to it. What did he do?”
“He rejected their plans for him. They sent him to college. While I was at Boston College, he was across the river in Cambridge. He went to Harvard Law and was editor of the Harvard Law Review. That’s top of the class. He passed the bar, and his father brought him into his law firm as a junior partner. But he hated it, and he walked out—applied to the Police Academy and became a cop on the beat.”
“In some ways honorable then, in that he chose a profession that he could love. But it must have also been a slap in the face to his father.”
“Yes.”
“But what has this to do with you, daughter? Why does it matter to you so much?”
“Two reasons. First, because from the time we first met, I judged him on his working-class occupation. He was fun to be with, we clicked, but I couldn’t imagine myself in a relationship in which people addressed me as Doctor Chomsky and he was ‘Hey, Sarge!’ That sounds awful, and I’m ashamed of myself for letting that bother me. I didn’t realize I was such a snob until I learned the truth about him.”
“And the second reason?”
“Because when I learned the details about his background, I felt as if he had lied to me. He didn’t lie. He hadn’t told me because to him, it didn’t matter. He wanted me to like him for himself, not for his degrees. But I had been ashamed of him and then ashamed of myself for being ashamed. And I don’t know how to get beyond that.”
“Oy veh! What a harsh judgment you have faced. Like a policeman, you have charged yourself with a crime. You have built the prosecutor’s case against you. You are the jury who finds you guilty and the judge who sentences you to your punishment. And every day you are the prison guard, making sure you are paying for your mistakes. How can you escape if you are your own judge and jury?”
“Is that what I am doing?”
“It is a Jewish curse—that we are our own punishers. And guilt consumes us if we let it.”
“I am a victim of Jewish guilt. I understand that. But recognizing it doesn’t make it go away.”
“No. Only Jewish love can banish our kind of grief, and that may be long in coming.”
“What are you saying? Do I grin and bear it?”
“Give yourself time. You say you are friends. Fine. Hold on to that friendship and nourish what you have. Accept the fact that you are human with human flaws and weaknesses. And accept this man for what he is, not for what you think he should be. If HaShem has love in store for you, it will come when it is ready.”
“It is good advice.”
“Ah, what do I know? I’m only your mother. But I see in you a goodness, a decency you have yet to recognize.”
During the last days of her New York visit, Sarah learned even more about herself. One of those lessons came during a lunch with her former advisor, Doctor Kaplan. She met him in a small Parisian restaurant near the Morgan Library, where he had been doing research.
“Is the Morgan still as delightful a place as I remember it?” she asked.
“Always. They have modernized the entrance, as perhaps you have heard, but in the reading rooms, the red velvet atmosphere never changes. I can walk into those rooms and find myself in another world. Do you miss it?”
“In some ways, I suppose
I do, but to be honest, I’ve been too busy and too happy to be nostalgic.”
“You like your new job, then. So, what are you growing in your garden, Doctor Chomsky?”
“I was waiting for that question. I can’t tell you how different Smoky Mountain is from all of this.” She gestured around the intimate dining room, where people spoke in whispers and savored tiny morsels on silver spoons.
“Different . . . in what way? And I’m not referring to the menu. How is the school different? I don’t remember seeing your face light up that way when you talked about Columbia or Boston College. What is it you love?”
“The students. You were right when you told me I was a hothouse plant. I had always studied in a homogenized classroom. My classmates and I were little copies of one another. We came from homes that valued education. Our parents expected great things from us, so we studied hard and earned all the requisite degrees. We were all the same age, with shared experiences and tastes. And while we made friends because of proximity, we had little to learn from one another.
“At Smoky Mountain, the student body is different. I don't face a room full of hothouse plants. Instead, I see a wonderful bouquet of wildflowers. There are the usual kids in their late teens, but they rub elbows with people of all ages and all backgrounds. When a discussion arises in class, they hear, not the canned patter of students parroting their teachers’ viewpoints, but opinions that often oppose everything their teachers have taught them. Ideas run rampant in those hallways, and challenges face them every day. One of my undergraduates is a girl with severe bilateral cerebral palsy. For four years, she has attended classes in a wheelchair with the help of a beautiful golden retriever guide dog and a medical attendant. I see more courage in one day at Smoky Mountain than I saw in all my days at Boston College.
“Let me give you a run-down of my first graduate-level class in research methods. Around a small table sat a retired Marine gunny sergeant still dressed in fatigues, a fresh-faced kid who owned a bar and referred to himself as the tattooed gay guy, a harried housewife who was once a nun, a vegan writing a cookbook, the wife of a politician running for Congress, the wife of an uneducated street corner evangelist, a woman trying to become a public school teacher, and a young man desperate to get out of his public school job. Eight people so different, they might not seem to belong in the same century, let alone the same classroom.
“I loved that class. Their discussions were vibrant, informed, opinionated, and knowledgeable. I discovered for the first time that teaching could be both fun and rewarding. And as much as I enjoy being back in New York for the holidays, I miss the closeness that developed within that group—the new understandings they were developing, the growing they were doing. I even ended up teaching some of them how to make bagels.”
“You’ve just made me feel ancient, you realize. I envy you that experience. It sounds both enjoyable and energizing.”
For a few moments, as she tackled her French onion soup in silence, Sarah considered asking his advice about the campus stalker. She had told him of the flowers blooming in her Appalachian garden, but she hadn't mentioned the weeds. Would he understand her concerns? She was sure he would, but one annoying thistle in a garden of roses seemed unimportant at this distance. She let her worries rest in peace.
Next on her list of places to revisit was the Grand Hyatt Hotel where the American Historical Association was holding its annual meeting. The soaring height of the lobby, the floor-to-ceiling glass windows of the restaurant, the elegance of the chandeliers—all spoke of New York City luxury and abundance. At one time it had intimidated her. Now it whispered “Welcome back.”
The wide-eyed expressions of new graduate students, the prerequisite pin-striped suits that identified first-time job-seekers, the harried looks of scheduled speakers with typed presentations clutched in hand—all were familiar but dated. She was looking at a world she had left behind, a world she had no desire to re-enter. Were there old friends moving along in the hordes of passing attendees? If so, she had no desire to find them. As she lingered over a mid-afternoon cup of tea, looking out over 42nd Street, she longed for the sight of mountains and greenery.
Sarah reported on time to the meeting room where she was to preside over a panel discussion. With confidence in her own identity, she soared through the introductions, transitioned to her own opening remarks on the topic, handed off the podium to the first presenter and sat back to listen. At the end of all three papers, she called for questions and stepped aside again as the speakers defended their conclusions. The allotted time expired, the session was over, and she walked away knowing she would not return. It was time to go home, and home was no longer New York City.
Chapter Sixteen
Two Steps Backward
January 11, 2009
“That cat was the best passenger on this entire plane,” the flight attendant remarked as Sarah pushed the pet stroller up the aisle.
“He’s only asleep because he overdosed on catnip. It works for him, although it would not have the same effect on the other passengers.” She was still smiling as she exited the tunnel and turned toward baggage. It felt good to be home.
“May I be of help, ma’am?” The voice came from behind, but she recognized it.
“David? What are you doing here?”
“Waiting for my favorite cat.” He grinned back at her and took over the stroller handle. “How were you expecting to get from here to Birch Falls?”
“I planned to rent a car. I didn’t want to put you to the trouble of driving over here, which is why I didn't let you know our flight schedule. And how did you know when we were arriving, anyhow?”
“Well, there’s only one flight a day direct from New York to Nashville, and you have to be back to work in the morning. When you weren’t on yesterday’s flight, I . . .”
“You mean this is your second trip? Oh, David . . .”
“Quit fussing at me, woman. I was hoping you’d be as glad to see me as I am to see you.”
“I am, but you can’t keep taking days off work just to cater to me.”
“Sure, I can. A police lieutenant does pretty much whatever he pleases.”
“A . . . what? Lieutenant?”
“Yep. The promotion was my surprise Hanukkah gift.”
“Mazel Tov! Although I’m not sure what the title means.”
“Ah, come on. We can talk about it later. Let’s get your bag and get underway. I hate airports.”
He led the way to the escalator and passed the stroller back to her at the bottom. “Wait here. I’ll recognize that bag with its bright pink ribbon.”
Once they were on the road, he glanced over at her. “How was your vacation? Was it good to get back to the big city? And how did our furry friend manage?”
“Well, Elijah was fine. Just as he’s doing today, he slept clear through the flight. He was a little puzzled when he woke up and found himself at his old house, but he went right to where his dish had always been and then settled in like he had never been away. I found it a little more disconcerting.”
“How so?”
“It was lovely to see everyone, and I quite enjoyed being put to work shredding the potatoes in my mother’s kitchen. But, you know, I think I’ve outgrown the New York scene. I’d forgotten how tall the buildings are, how hard it is to see a piece of sky. It’s too loud, too crowded, too noisy. The smog was awful, and we had more than our share of slush in the gutters. And the people! They’re like little marionettes, dancing to some unknown tune while somebody else pulls their strings.”
“Ouch. That’s quite a condemnation.”
“It is. I missed the quiet pace of the Smokies. I visited with the family, had a lovely fancy French lunch with my doctoral advisor, and sailed through the formalities of the AHA conference. But when someone offered me fois gras, I hungered for sliders and popcorn. I contemplated Camus and wished for Ghostbusters. And the scarred old halls of Columbia did not call to me the way the Cloister Garden beckon
s me here. I am so glad to be home! Now, enough of me. Tell me about this new title.”
“It caught me by surprise because it came outside of the regular schedule of yearly promotions. I gather someone decided that my legal background would serve the department better from a position where I could use it.”
“What is a lieutenant's position? I mean, how does your job change?”
“I’ll be doing more supervising of the younger men and overseeing more important investigations. It’s still active police work, but with not so much pavement-pounding and ticket-writing. It pleases my mother to know I won’t be the one chasing a shoplifter or breaking up a nasty domestic dispute. She figures I won’t be in the direct line of fire when foolishness erupts. And my father is delighted that the higher-ups appreciate the same proper education that he values.”
“Is he starting to come around, then?”
“Yes, I think he is. We chatted through all the Hanukkah candle-lighting and feasting. And like my mother, he’s happier knowing I have a real desk instead of a patrol car dashboard as my office. Even my sister Hannah noted that I’m working more regular hours and can be available for holidays and sabbath services.”
“And you? You won’t miss the excitement, the hands-on, everyday police work?”
“I’m not out of it—not entirely, at any rate. But I can make my own calls and get involved only when I know I can add something useful. There’s a dreadful sameness to writing speeding tickets and hauling drunks in to sleep off their latest binge. Present company excepted,” he called out to the snoring cat in the back seat. “Now the question is, how do you feel about it? Does it make our friendship seem a little more balanced?”
“Balanced? I’m not sure that’s the word I would use. I had some time over the holidays to think about how we met. And I came to realize what was bothering me.”
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