The Orchard

by David Hopen

  Painfully self-conscious, I handed back the page.

  “I’m not sure you realize this, but as a matter of policy we do not typically accept transfer students beyond sophomore year. Our curriculum requires a period of trial and error, and so the arrival of new students, after a certain point, causes disruptions and generally makes for failure. As far as I’m aware, in fact, we haven’t accepted a single other senior transfer in at least a decade and a half. Did you know that, Mr. Eden?”

  “Not entirely.”

  “Do you wonder why someone from a school called Torah Temimah proved to be the exception?”

  I allowed my head to undergo a noncommittal rotation, neither nodding nor shaking.

  He closed the folder and rejoined me at the conference table. “That essay reveals a sophistication of thought and a willingness to grapple with perplexing questions that extend far beyond your years. It made you too intriguing to pass up. And so far, I’d venture to say my impression of you was absolutely right.” He crossed his legs. “I’ve been doing this a long time, Mr. Eden. Longer, frankly, than I care to admit. But, sitting in my office, facing the hallway, seeing you with Mr. Stark and Mr. Harris and Mr. Samson and even Mr. Bellow?” He leaned forward, placed both palms on the table. “I’d be lying if I didn’t admit I’m fascinated.”

  Strange silence. I realized he had finished and now expected some response on my end. “I—I don’t really know what you mean.”

  “I mean only that you possess what I believe to be extraordinary untapped potential.”

  “I imagine others might disagree.” I thought, in particular, of Dr. Flowers and Dr. Porter. “But thank you.”

  “Most people are shockingly nearsighted, Mr. Eden. You learn that quickly in adulthood.”

  I glanced at a diploma hung in the far corner, nearly forgotten.

  PRINCETON UNIVERSITY

  hereby confers upon LAURENCE ISAAC BLOOM

  the degree of DOCTOR OF PHILOSOPHY

  together with all the rights, privileges and honors

  appertaining thereto in consideration of the satisfactory

  completion of the course prescribed in

  THE DEPARTMENT OF POLITICAL SCIENCE.

  Under the diploma was a framed poster:

  My guide and I went into that hidden tunnel;

  And following its path, we took no care

  To rest, but climbed: he first, then I—so far,

  Through a round aperture I saw appear

  Some of the beautiful things that Heaven bears,

  Where we came forth, and once more saw the stars.

  “Students never fail to express shock when seeing that,” he said, registering my surprise. “Teenagers fancy themselves smarter than the decrepit man behind the glass window.”

  “Sorry,” I said hurriedly, “I didn’t mean to be rude. It’s just, where I’m from, my rabbis didn’t often have—well, doctorates.”

  Rabbi Bloom smiled. “Perhaps you’re not the only anomaly.”

  “Did you teach? In a college, I mean?”

  “Once upon a time.”

  “Wow. In what field?”

  “Political theory, mostly. I was an assistant professor for a number of years. And then, of course, I left the academy to build my own.”

  “Why’d you leave?”

  “It was unsatisfying. Intellectually, I loved academia—I still do—but on an emotional level it felt divorced from something larger. I wanted Torah Umadda, the beauty of Western thought supplemented by a more spiritual sensitivity to the human condition. So, naturally, I went for the rabbinate, started this school and here I am all these years later—aging, withering, beating along to that same belief.”

  I pretended to sip at my water. “Do you miss it?”

  “Certainly. And at times it’s difficult not to imagine what life would’ve looked like had I remained on my original trajectory. My friends from my doctoral cohort have, largely without exception, gone on to achieve outstanding careers. Meanwhile, being principal of a yeshiva high school, I’m sure you’ve noticed, can be a thankless position. But it helps to be reminded why this is important, why Orthodox Judaism enriches lives, why rabbis can catalyze a lifelong impact in a way a professor cannot. And, to make the deal a bit sweeter, now and again you encounter exceptional thinkers who stand out, who make the whole thing worthwhile.”

  He stood, moved to his glass bookcase. “I’ve accumulated, along my journey, a wonderful assortment of books that collect dust, unappreciated as they are by most students. Unfortunately, until now, there’s really been only one student who gave a damn about such things. I suspect, however, you might be the second.”

  Leibniz, Spenser, Locke, Chaucer, Hobbes, Rousseau. I blinked in awe, thinking of my own sparse collection.

  “Do you happen to know that student, Mr. Eden?”

  I picked at my fingernails. “It’s Evan.”

  “We’re quite fortunate to have an astonishing number of impressive minds here at the Academy. Top standardized scores, elite college acceptances, wonderful future graduate school and employment outcomes, all of which we track meticulously. But it’s very easy for students, in the moment, to get caught up purely in their studies and their extracurricular commitments and their applications. It’s rare to see someone take an active interest in the broader scope of things during their high school years. My point, really, is that I think you might be interested in finding intellectual companionship in Mr. Stark. In fact, you two might very well discover considerable overlap in your interests.”

  “Yeah, I, well—I don’t think Evan would be too intrigued or flattered by that proposal.”

  Rabbi Bloom gave a soft smile. “Probably not, at least to start. But my unsolicited advice would be to avoid taking his detachment, let’s call it, too seriously. He has a way of opening up eventually, once he’s comfortable.”

  I thought of Evan flinging his naked body from a rooftop. “That hasn’t been my impression.”

  “The year is yet young. You’d be surprised how things change. And I’d know, to speak candidly—Mr. Stark isn’t particularly delighted with me at the moment, and from what I hear about today’s events I don’t think I’m especially pleased with him, either. But I also know this is temporary.”

  I didn’t say anything. Rabbi Bloom moved through his bookcase. After a moment of consideration he handed me a book with a faded red cover and a worn spine. “Have you studied much of Yeats?”

  “Uh, no, actually.”

  “Then you have homework. Drop by when you’re finished. I want to hear what you think.”

  I left, confused, Yeats in hand.

  * * *

  BACKLASH OVER SUNRISE MINYAN CAME the next day. Almost everyone received a cut—which, as I learned, lost you half a grade point on the semester—for missing a full period, while Donny, Evan and Oliver also received half-day suspensions for failing to show at all. Somehow, I avoided any punishment, which may have actually been worse, as it fueled unpleasant rumors.

  “What do you mean you didn’t get a cut?” Evan asked, sitting on his usual spot on the balcony.

  Oliver looked up from rolling his joint. “How’s that possible?”

  I was relegated to the floor. I still didn’t have a chair. “I showed up for Tanach.”

  “True,” Oliver said, “which, may I remind you, was mighty shitty.”

  “What do you care?” Noah unwrapped a high-powered protein bar. His mother had been making a big deal lately about him bulking up before basketball season. Personally, I didn’t see how much more muscle mass he could gain, but I was also not someone from whom people sought bodybuilding guidance. “We should be happy he got lucky. I wish I got lucky.”

  Evan ignored this advice and turned back in my direction. “So I heard you talked to Bloom.”

  I frowned, uncrossing my legs. “You did?”

  “What were you doing in his office?”

  “He called me in.”

  “Why would he do th
at?”

  “Just to talk,” I said nervously. Amir looked up from his physics textbook to glance uneasily at Evan.

  “About?”

  I considered, for a moment, sharing Bloom’s suggestion with Evan. I imagined we could have a laugh, lighten the mood. “Not much, really.”

  “How nice,” Evan said, smiling coldly. “Did you talk politics? Social theory? Did he make you feel special?”

  “Evan,” Amir said. “Chill.”

  “Why is this a big deal?” I said. “He was just introducing himself to me.”

  “I’d be careful, if I were you.” Evan accepted the joint from Oliver. “The man can be a bit of a liar.”

  “Jeez, Ev,” Noah said, now working his way through a second bar. “What’s with the new anti-Bloom aggression? Usually you guys are freaking inseparable.”

  “It’s strange,” Evan said, “that’s all.”

  I leaned defensively against the wall. “What’s strange?”

  “Well, Eden,” Evan said, “you’re the only one to speak with Bloom, and coincidentally the only one who didn’t get a cut.”

  “I really don’t know what you’re talking about. I didn’t say a thing.” This was true: I hadn’t commented on Bloom’s references to whatever was happening between Evan and him, nor had I even mentioned Donny’s party. Unless agreeing to read Yeats constituted treason, I hadn’t done anything remotely improper.

  The bell rang, signaling the end of lunch. “That remains to be seen.” Evan stamped his joint and climbed back through the third-floor window.

  * * *

  SUNDAY WAS MY FIRST SESSION with the SAT tutor. His office was on Lincoln Road, sandwiched between a run-down bar—grime-streaked windows, dozens of TVs broadcasting the Dolphins game, motorcyclists sitting aimlessly—and a trendy, well-lit breakfast place. I arrived early and considered loitering in the restaurant, taking in the white decorations and bustling crowd and frenzied waiters. Instead I walked several laps, reconstructing Yeats poems in my head.

  I buzzed into the office and then knocked politely on a tarnished door that had the name A. BEARMAN plastered in faded paint.

  “A moment, please,” a gravelly voice called back.

  I sat on the lone chair in the hallway, which apparently operated as a makeshift waiting room. After a few minutes, the door opened slightly, revealing a disembodied head. “Might you be—Ari Eden?” Bearman had a ragged beard, an impatient voice and enormous glasses that gave him large, startled eyes. He looked like a cross between an academic hipster and a disheveled drug dealer.

  “Yeah, hi,” I said, standing. “Mrs. Ballinger sent me.”

  “That jackass.”

  I raised my brows in shock, unsure if I’d heard him correctly.

  “Only fucking with you.” He opened the door fully. “Don’t work yourself up.”

  “Right.” I extended my hand.

  He waved me off. “I don’t shake. Personal sanitation policy.” He allowed me inside and bolted the door. It was a claustrophobic room: bookshelves, sagging under the weight of too many encyclopedias, covered every inch of the walls; a menacing poster of Hitchcock filming Rope loomed over us; his desk displayed a strange assortment of items, from antique lamps and Marvel comics to A Treatise of Human Nature and a baseball mitt. Before his desk was a single wicker chair, where a girl sat scribbling in such desperate concentration she didn’t so much as glance up when we entered.

  “This is Donna. She’s just finishing,” Bearman explained, reaching for hand sanitizer and lathering meticulously. “Want some?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “It’s good stuff.”

  “No, really, I—”

  “I must insist,” he said, dousing my hands with Purell. “Let’s see. She’s got”—he checked a pocket watch—“seventy-seven seconds, and if she doesn’t get eighty-five percent of the problems right I’ll disown her. Don’t need her screwing my averages, right?” He lumbered over to his side of the desk, leaving me to stand awkwardly as Donna, on the verge of a meltdown, finished.

  “Time!” Bearman roared, lunging toward her to seize her pencil and snap it in two.

  “I hate when you do that,” she said, “as I’ve told you many times over.”

  “Test conditions must be simulated.” He dropped the halves to the floor and scanned her test, mostly nodding, occasionally grimacing with exaggerated effect. “Donna, I am nothing if not merciful. You live to see another week.”

  “Enjoy this guy,” she whispered as she left. “He’s psychotic.”

  I smiled awkwardly, took her seat.

  Bearman smiled, too. “A ringing endorsement, huh?”

  Awkward silence as I tried determining whether he was joking. He crossed his legs.

  “I have a friend who told me you were great,” I said.

  “Who’s the lucky student?”

  “Noah Harris.”

  “Noah Harris? The chiseled basketball Adonis with the impressively long hair?”

  “The very one.”

  “You don’t look like someone who’d know Noah Harris.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  “Don’t take it as an insult. Take it as—well, yes, it’s almost certainly an insult.” He shuffled through papers. “Have you taken a practice test?”

  “No.”

  “Lazy. Would you say you’re a math guy or an English guy?”

  “Uh—”

  “If you’re neither, there is no more ideal time to admit so than the present.”

  “English,” I said, trying to muster confidence.

  “Never the math kids who come knocking. Very well. I’m guessing you’ll want my spiel.”

  “Your spiel?”

  He leaned back in his chair, swiveling back and forth. “You’re ready to walk into some dingy office and fork over cash to a neurotic schmuck without so much as a sales pitch?” He began playing with his mitt. “I’m thirty-three, I went to Berkeley, I dropped out of three different law schools on three different occasions—never ask me about that. I’ve taken the SAT three times a year, every year, for the last nine years and have never scored outside the ninety-eighth percentile. I demand cash and no, I don’t report all my income, sue me. Somehow I take home just south of one hundred and thirty a year, enough to get my mother off my back about burning out of law school and never marrying, not nearly enough to give me purpose. But who needs purpose? Satisfied? Lovely, let’s begin.” He handed me a practice test. “This is something I give all my clients, to gauge where you stand. See what you can answer.”

  I gave the math a cursory glance. What is the average mean of 5x + 7, 8x–5 and 3x + 3? In a classroom of 50 students, 35 are male: what percent of the class is female? The equation 4x2 = 7x − 10 has how many distinct real solutions?

  “Anything look familiar?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Love the confidence.”

  “Fine. Not especially.”

  “What’s your math background.”

  “Nonexistent.”

  “Excellent. For me, that is. Less so for you. I’ll look great when I bump your score. What’s your target, if I may ask? Which I may, considering I’m now your tutor, a very sacred position for the Greeks.”

  “I have no idea.”

  “You don’t know much, do you? You remind me of myself in high school.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah, only a lot dumber. But with far less acne. So there’s that.”

  “I’m thrilled.”

  “Go home, take this test and see if you can come up with anything. Next week we’ll go from there. Capeesh?”

  “Capeesh,” I said stupidly. “But is that all we can do today—”

  “Yeah, you have to get out now. My next client chews my ear off and I’d like to grab a burrito before he shows up.”

  * * *

  SCHOOL SWUNG INTO HIGH GEAR. I received my first grade, a flat B on my math test, and threw myself into writing my first English paper, an anal
ysis of the clash of Diomedes and Glaucus in the sixth book of the Iliad. Election season, meanwhile, intensified.

  “Davis made a list of every freshman clique in the school, subdivided into tiers of influence to target swing voters,” Amir ranted over lunch. “Is that not completely pathological?”

  Davis, as it happened, was in the parking lot beneath us. He was lecturing at unsuspecting sophomores—“This is a delicate time for the trajectory of this school, requiring neoconservative leadership patterned after the inimitable Lincoln”—all of whom looked as if they wanted nothing more than to stop existing.

  “Maybe it’ll help,” Noah said. “Everyone wants to hang themselves when he speaks.”

  “Yo! Davis! Shut the fuck up, will you?” Oliver, without my consent, grabbed the remains of my lunch and aimed for Davis. A marvelous throw: blots of tuna connected squarely with his forehead, splattering over his clothing.

  “What in God’s good name?” Davis wiped mayonnaise from his cheeks and scanned above until he spotted the five of us on the balcony.

  “I think the two people least likely to do anything even remotely effective in this school are Davis and Amir,” Evan said, ignoring Davis’ shouts below.

  “Right,” Amir said. “Meanwhile you’re a regular Machiavelli.”

  “Well,” Oliver said, relishing the opportunity to goad Amir, “if anyone were to shake things up it’d be Evan, wouldn’t it?”

  “Don’t fret, Amir,” Evan said. “Bloom has no intention of letting me be president.”

  Amir scoffed. “Oh, he told you so, during your little meetings? Or maybe Schrödinger himself rose from the grave to tell you to follow your heart by running for president?”

  Evan smiled. “Schopenhauer. Not Schrödinger.”

  “Schrödinger, Schopenhauer, Soprano, whoever the hell you read these days.”

  Noah laughed. “You think Bloom wouldn’t let you, Ev? You’re like his mini-me intellectual apprentice. His pride and joy.”