The Orchard

by David Hopen

  “Amir?”

  “Rebecca and Noah, too,” I said, trying to prove myself.

  “Harris?”

  “He’s my neighbor.” I offered my hand. “Aryeh Eden.”

  “How biblical. Do you have an English name?”

  “I don’t really use it.”

  “But it exists?”

  “Yes,” I said cautiously. “Andrew.”

  “Andrew Eden,” he said. “That’ll do.”

  “And your name?” I asked after a few confused beats.

  “Evan Stark,” he said, finally accepting my hand. “The pleasure is mine.”

  “Oh. I’ve heard of you.”

  “And I’ve heard you’re quite the Shakespearean. What’s your favorite play?”

  I bit my lip, attempted an expressionless frown, unsure whether to feel a burst of kinship or insecurity. “Why?”

  “I’m curious.”

  “Uh. Antony and Cleopatra.”

  “‘Give me my robe, put on my crown,’” Evan said. “‘I have immortal longings in me.’”

  I stared for a moment. “What made you say that?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “That quote. Why’d you say it?”

  “I don’t know, I’ve always liked it. Gets at what it means to be human, how we have to pine for things.” He looked at me with amusement. “Why do you ask?”

  “Nothing, no reason,” I said, opting not to mention that the very line had featured prominently in my application essay, had indeed served as my title. “So what’s yours?”

  “Lear. But nothing comes close to the sonnets.”

  “Really?”

  “My mother read them to me when I was a child,” he said. “‘Nor Mars his sword, nor war’s quick fire shall burn / The living record of your memory. / ’Gainst death, and all oblivious enmity / Shall you pace forth.’ Probably it was weird to find that kind of thing soothing before bed, right?”

  “Yeah,” I said, aware I was being challenged, though I didn’t grasp why. Unsettled, I again scanned the crowd for a glimpse of Noah, eager for someone—anyone—to drag me away. “It was.”

  “Have a drink.” Evan offered me a cup, this time with more force. “The way you’re looking around is making me anxious.”

  “No, I—”

  “Come on, Eden. To new friendship, emboldened by liquid courage.”

  “I’m driving.”

  “Who isn’t? One drink. It’s rude to refuse. By the time you leave you’ll be perfectly sober.”

  I took the cup, raised it to my lips.

  “Wait,” he said, stopping me. “You’ll need to make a toast.”

  “A toast?”

  “We’re not savages, are we?”

  “I don’t know any toasts.”

  “And you claim to be a man of letters. Nothing?” He shook his head. “‘He who makes a beast of himself gets rid of the pain of being a man,’” he recited solemnly, raising his cup before finishing what was left of it. I took a deep breath and gulped, throat burning as I drank. “Know that one?”

  “No,” I said, eyes watering.

  “Never neglect Dr. Johnson.” He pushed my cup toward my chest. “Finish it,” he said, and I did. “That should loosen you.”

  “What was that?”

  “Homemade cocktail.” He grabbed two Keystone Lights from the hands of a passerby. The boy turned to say something but, registering who had stolen his beers, decided not to object. Evan handed me a can. “Relax, enjoy, be yourself.”

  I opened the beer, drank with him. He asked where I was from, what brought me to Zion Hills. Things were becoming hazier, the room condensing into an indeterminate shape, illumined in vertiginous light. I tried walking it off, shaking my head.

  He finished his beer, tossed it to the floor. “Feeling okay?”

  “Sure,” I said, ignoring the growing fog. When I looked up I saw two girls wandering our way. Through my internal vapor, I was still made aware of Sophia’s pale beauty. I didn’t care about Remi, standing beside her. Something about Sophia—light-dazzled eyes, sharp gaze, lips pursed haughtily—siphoned oxygen from my brain.

  “Sophia,” Evan said in a small voice, his face turned slightly pallid. He looked at Remi, at me, glanced about the room before returning to her. Their eyes met. They were alone before us. “It’s good to see you.”

  She turned slowly, nodded, looking through him.

  “How was—Kenya?”

  “It was fine.”

  “When did you get back?”

  A pause. “Recently.”

  “I see.” More silence. By now I was too woozy to concentrate on what anyone was saying. I was focused, instead, on remaining upright. Finally, Evan plunged his hands in his pockets and nodded in my direction. “I’ve met your new friend.”

  “He doesn’t look well,” Remi said, chiming in, “does he?”

  “He’s fine. Aren’t you, Drew?”

  My name isn’t Drew, I tried to say. Nothing came out.

  Sophia eyed me suspiciously. “What’s wrong with him?”

  I was in a cold sweat, glassy-eyed, the music receding into the background, elastic, disorienting. “Nothing,” Evan said. “He had one drink.”

  Sophia looked me up and down. “Why does he look as if he’s—” Her tone unnerved me. I wanted to ask what she meant. Instead, I examined the indents of my palms. “He wasn’t like this before.”

  Evan shrugged. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “This is what you do?” she said. I was aware now, to my sedated dismay, that I’d become an object of her pity. “Corrupt everything in your radius?”

  “Sophia.” The way he said her name made her fall silent. Evan, himself, appeared momentarily startled.

  She shook her head and, without giving me a second glance, slipped away.

  “Well, then.” Evan gave me a look. “You good?”

  The nausea was passing. I nodded, unsure what else to do.

  Evan turned to Remi. “Let’s get you something to drink.”

  Evan brought Smirnoff. By the fourth or fifth shot it was tasteless, at which point things began churning at a mind-bending velocity. We danced, music in everything, Remi’s legs against mine. There was beer pong—Evan and Remi competing against Nicole and me—until Nicole, realizing we’d met at Niman’s party, convinced me to chug our cups and some massive kid (Donny was his name?) slipped rear-first on the table, snapping it in half.

  I was in a dark room, Nicole rocking against me, her hair falling over my face, our breathing warm and heavy. Soft lips, nimble fingers tracing my skin, the room spinning unbearably, walls closing in, the floor a black puddle, something disfigured on the wall, dipping in and out of consciousness. Panic gave way to desire, pleasure to heaviness. I am falling, I thought, a boy from Brooklyn. And then: my father’s face in the window. I blinked, realizing where I was. I moved away, opened the door. She frowned and asked where I was going. I told her I was sorry and stumbled back into light.

  * * *

  WHEN I WOKE NEXT I knew only that I was not in my room and that the previous night was no nightmare. I sat too quickly but was forced to slink back down, overcome by an earsplitting headache. I closed my eyes, gave myself to the fear rising in my chest. Was I at Oliver’s? Were my parents searching for me? I visualized a massive manhunt, spanning the coast of Florida. I forced deep, steady breaths.

  I opened my eyes and tried sitting again, slower this time. I was in a nice room: clean, bright colors, trophies lining the windowsills, autographed jerseys of Dwyane Wade and Dan Marino on the walls. I massaged my temple and heard the sound of running water. My first instinct was horror: was I with Nicole? The nausea returned.

  And then that distant sound of water stopped, giving way to throaty laughter. “First hangover?” Noah entered from a connecting bathroom. He wore only boxers and had a toothbrush in his mouth.

  I nodded.

  “Mazel Tov.” He returned to the bathroom and spat. �
��Figured it’d be wise for you to spend the night and avoid your parents.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Nearly two.”

  “In the morning?”

  “In the afternoon,” he called from the bathroom.

  “Oh, God,” I moaned, scrambling to my feet. I was wearing pants but had no idea where my shirt was. “I’ve got to get home.”

  “Relax.” He came back, pulling a jersey over his sculpted body. The dizziness returned: blotches of red, swirled vision, my eyes smarting from sunlight. “I texted your parents from your phone to say you’d be sleeping at my house. You’re good.”

  I exhaled gratefully and sank back down, trying to will away the nausea.

  He handed me a bottle of water. “Drink this, shower, later we’ll get you eggs and coffee.” He proceeded to knock out several dozen push-ups, breathing steadily with each dip. “You’re quite the drunk, you know that?”

  I drank, blinked furiously, trying to piece everything together. “Thanks,” I said, between furious gulps. Water dripped down my chin. “For helping me.”

  He sat up, rested. “What’re friends for, if not dealing with your comatose, vomiting corpse?”

  “I don’t know what happened.”

  “Neither do I. Weren’t you supposed to be our driver?”

  “I’m really sorry.”

  “No worries, dude. We’ve all been there.”

  I opened my mouth, closed it, tried again. “Was it Evan?”

  He moved to his drawers, pulling out NBA-branded socks and then applying Old Spice under his arms. “Was what Evan?”

  “I think he gave me something.” I gave my attention to Marino and Wade, allowing the question to hang delicately in the air.

  “Damn right. He kept pouring shots. We need to teach you to say no, my friend.”

  “I don’t mean alcohol.”

  “You smoked?”

  “No.”

  “So what’re you talking about?”

  “I don’t know, that first drink he gave me was this mix, and then Sophia said something about how I looked kind of—”

  “Drunk?”

  “Maybe, but I mean, I don’t think so. More like I’d had something that was, I don’t know, spiked or whatever?”

  “Your drink? With what, like a Xanax?”

  I shrugged. I had never heard of Xanax.

  He sat on his desk chair, swiveled back and forth. “He wouldn’t do that,” he finally said. “At least not intentionally.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Sleep more,” he said, rising suddenly. “I’ll leave you to it.”

  * * *

  I WAS THIRSTY WHEN I woke. I stretched—stiff, wobbly—and headed to the bathroom. I studied myself in the mirror: my hair was a ragged mess, my eyes red, my facial features incongruous, having drifted, the longer I stared, into a state of self-incoherence. I looked scrawny and worn. I dumped my face into the sink and checked the clock. Seven-thirty. Guilt boiled in my stomach, a lump formed in my throat: it was the first day in my entire adult life I’d forgotten to daven with tefillin. From the window I could see the sun beginning to fade, casting a quiet, orange glow over the Harris backyard. Below, Noah—basketball jersey, white soccer shorts, a backward Nike cap—tossed red golf balls into the air and whacked them over his fence onto the golf course. I watched the balls soar higher and higher until they vanished into specks of red against the sky.

  I wandered out of his room, down the spiral staircase, through the long hallways. I found my way into the kitchen, where, desperately thirsty again, I poured myself a cup of water.

  “Hello, dear.”

  I nearly jumped. Cynthia was seated at the long kitchen table, flipping through a cookbook.

  “Mrs. Harris,” I said, my voice raspy. “I’m sorry I—”

  “Oh, don’t be. Help yourself,” she said, nodding at the cup in my hand. “Can I offer you anything to eat? You’re probably—famished.”

  “No, thanks, I’m fine. I should be heading out.”

  “You sure? I make pretty fantastic dishes, if I do say so myself, just ask my daughter. I’m allowed to admit that only because I’m a chef.” She gestured at a row of books stacked neatly at the center of the kitchen table, all of which had her face plastered on the cover. Kosher Kravings. “I’ve written a few cookbooks in my day.”

  “Wow. But I’m fine, really, thank you.”

  “Feeling any better, at least?” She smiled knowingly. “Must’ve been a long night.”

  “Yes,” I stammered.

  “No need to look that ashamed, hon. I was young once. Plus you’re much more polite in these circumstances than Oliver. You know Oliver, don’t you?”

  An image of Oliver, robed, tap-dancing on his countertop, came to mind. “I sure do.”

  “As you’d guess, he’s a bit more rambunctious when he overdoes it.” She laughed to herself. “You know, I just saw your mother a few hours ago.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “Don’t worry, I covered for you. Said you boys were out golfing.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Harris.”

  “Please,” she said lazily, waving me off. “And it’s Cynthia, that’s not up for discussion. Now go find Noah. He’s out back. But do me a favor. Hit some balls with him so that what I told your mother wasn’t a lie.”

  I went out through the stained-glass backdoor. Noah turned, his club slung over his back. “Morning, sunshine.”

  I managed a weak smile. “Morning.”

  “Feeling all right?”

  “Much better now.”

  “Good.” He tossed another ball into the air and swung. His contact was impressive. The ball sailed into the distance. “You play?”

  “Golf or baseball?”

  “The toss is just an extra touch. We golf a lot, my dad and I. A client got him into it.” He handed me his club, dropped a ball for me. “Not much golf to be played in Brooklyn, is there?”

  “No. But that doesn’t mean we were terrible at everything athletic.” I lined up, swung, missed wildly.

  “Yeah, I can definitely see that.” He picked up another club from the grass and resumed knocking shots over the fence. “So aren’t you going to tell me how it was?”

  “How what was?”

  “You know—with Nicole.”

  I took another horrible chop, sending the ball two yards. “Nothing happened.”

  “Nothing at all?”

  “Well, yeah, some things.”

  “What sort of things?”

  “Things,” I said uncomfortably. “But not, you know, the thing.”

  Noah laughed. “It’s not exactly rocket science, Ari. Want me to draw a diagram?”

  “No, I—”

  “I’m kidding, dude. Obviously I didn’t mean that.”

  “Right,” I said, red-faced. “I just meant that I kind of, I don’t know, left in the middle.”

  Noah lined up, took another swing. “Wait, what? You’re kidding.” He looked me over. “Have you ever before, you know, done any sort of—?”

  “No,” I said embarrassedly.

  He looked dumbfounded. “But you still just walked away? From Nicole? Nicole Honig? The person who wouldn’t even talk to you at Niman’s?”

  “Yeah,” I said, “pretty much.”

  He whistled, pointed his club at me. “Why in God’s glorious name would you do that?”

  I shrugged and finally knocked the ball over the fence.

  * * *

  THAT NIGHT I DREAMT I was in shul. A redhead entered the sanctuary, took my hand and guided me up a spiral staircase into dusk.

  “Where are we?” I felt myself sinking deeper and deeper into the ground, though somehow remained upright on my feet—the sinking was occurring in my chest. I could feel the spell of unreality dissolving: I was aware that I was asleep, but knew with equal certainty that if I didn’t wake now I never would.

  She put a finger to her lips. “Bind them as a sign upon your hand,” she recite
d, eyes unblinking, “a reminder between your eyes . . .”

  I woke in a sweat. For a while I stared at the ceiling, trying to fall back asleep but thinking instead of the day my father presented me with my tefillin. They had belonged to his father, had been smuggled into the Dachau concentration camp. My grandfather never missed a single morning of laying tefillin. My father hadn’t, either, and I knew he never would. It took only several days in Zion Hills for me to break this chain.

  I gave up and turned on my bedside lamp. One who stays awake at night, I couldn’t stop thinking, has forfeited his life. I read until nearly six thirty, wiry shadows cast against my wall, until, just before daylight, I killed the light and succumbed to restless sleep.

  * * *

  THURSDAY WAS THE FINAL DAY of summer. I spent it in a frenzy, cursing myself for being so unprepared for the start of school, scrambling with my mother to purchase supplies and clothing. Kol Neshama’s dress code was more lenient than I was accustomed to—a button-down of any variety sufficed—so we drove from store to store, searching for inexpensive shirts that were vastly cooler than whatever currently lined my closet.

  “I like this.” My mother held a striped, fluorescent green to my chest. We had wandered around the local mall into some place called Bohemian Terrain: dim lights, tinny music, posters of grim-faced guitarists. “It’s on clearance. Want it?”

  No one would have accused me of being a great dresser, though I had gained sufficient self-awareness to stop wearing only white button-downs on all occasions. So while Oliver and Noah looked as if they dressed each morning in strict accordance with a J.Crew catalog, I couldn’t tell if the shirt before me was moderately fashionable or if it’d been selected by a color-blind mother recently transplanted from Borough Park. I crossed my fingers and went with the former.

  “Perfect. Let’s get out of here,” she said, adding it to the rest of the cart and heading to the front to pay. “This place reminds me too much of my teenage years.”

  I poked around while waiting, running my fingers over shirts I couldn’t afford, admiring a pair of sleek white tennis sneakers that I noticed Noah wearing. The music in the store was beginning to make my head throb.

  “Hamlet?” From behind a mannequin stepped Sophia, so suddenly and wonderfully that, for a moment, I thought I was imagining her. Hermione, restored from statue to life, came to mind. Bequeath to death your numbness, for from him / Dear life redeems you.