The Orchard

by David Hopen

  “What is this?” I asked Noah. I looked around the room for Evan. “What’s he doing here?”

  Noah fidgeted with his collar. “You don’t know what today is?”

  “No?”

  “It’s been a full year,” Noah said, dropping his voice further. Julian, catching Noah’s gaze, bent his head in recognition. Noah nodded politely. “Today is Evan’s mother’s yahrzeit.”

  Amir slumped into the seat on my left and leaned over me toward Noah. “How’s this going to work?” he asked, covering his mouth. “This’ll be excruciating.”

  “Yeah, well, not if he’s not here,” Noah said, still searching for Evan.

  Finally, just as the room filled and Rabbi Feldman went to close the door, Evan and Oliver stumbled in, red-eyed and dazed. Evan stopped in place at the sight of his father. Rabbi Feldman, after hesitating momentarily, wrapped Evan—face slackened, body stiffened in surprise—in a bear hug before letting him pass.

  “Good God,” Amir said, clasping his neck, “they’re high, aren’t they?”

  Evan and Oliver took seats in the very last row. Rabbi Bloom, upon seeing Evan present, finally stood, turned on the microphone and cleared his throat.

  “Thank you all for coming,” he said tenderly. He faced Julian, who nodded in approval. Rabbi Bloom turned back to his audience. “One year ago today, Zion Hills lost one of its most magnificent residents. Caroline Stark, wife to Julian Stark, mother to Evan Stark, was a brilliant woman: an accomplished physicist, a leader in the community, dedicated to gender equality, to human compassion, to learning and, above all, to family.” I stole a side-eyed glance at Evan: tight-jawed, expressionless, eyes dark and unblinking. “Parsha Chaya Sarah emphasizes the ethics of grief. We are to come together, as Avraham Avinu did, lispode vi’livkosah, to mourn and to wail, to eulogize and to weep. Ours is a tradition that embraces the emotional vitality of the human spirit, that demands we reckon properly with loss. Gemara Shabbat teaches that attendees at a funeral are charged with shedding tears, and that such people are forgiven for all their sins. Why? Because an emotional life doesn’t just make us human, it solidifies our reality of being created Imago Dei, B’tzelem Elohim, in the image of God. As we learn in Gemara Sotah, worshipping Hashem—walking in His ways, cleaving to Him in all aspects of life—amounts to imitating Him. How do we do so? By emulating the Divine Attributes. By comforting mourners. By offering solace and love.”

  He surveyed the room. Handwringing, head bowing, gentle sniffling. Noah had his face in a tissue. Sophia had her face in her hands. Niman had been reduced to tears, despite my suspicion that she had never actually met Caroline Stark. Evan, however, remained perfectly stoical, even as Oliver, visibly panicking at the necessity of expressing some semblance of warmth, finally gritted his teeth and awkwardly placed his hand upon Evan’s shoulders, only to immediately withdraw and mumble an apology.

  “Later this year, you’ll learn how Gemara Berachot describes Rav’s vision of Olam HaBa: a world without earthly burdens, a world without hatred, a world where the righteous wear crowns and bask in kedusha. All those who knew Caroline Stark live with confidence that she is crowned among the righteous. For Caroline’s life was always devoted to others. Before beginning her doctorate at Stanford, she spent two years in South America, building homes, planting crops, teaching children. As a scientist, she encouraged young girls to become involved in her field. Upon moving to South Florida, she was a backbone of the community, constantly volunteering with underserved students, even as she battled illness. She led an exceptional life and raised a brilliant and, above all, fundamentally good son”—a brief pause, his eyes on Evan—“of whom I am immensely and continually proud. Alcibiades, eulogizing his teacher, praised three things: Socrates’ resolve, valor and originality. These three qualities, integral to Caroline’s character, remain equally applicable to her son.” The room tipped into sobs.

  “To commemorate this yahrzeit, as well as all for which Caroline Stark stood, I now welcome Mr. Julian Stark for a special announcement.” Rabbi Bloom pivoted toward Evan’s father. “Julian?”

  Julian stood rigidly, shook Rabbi Bloom’s hand. He rubbed his clean-shaven chin, offering a diffident smile. “Firstly, thank you all for having me and, oh—” He pulled back, grimacing, realizing he’d spoken too loudly into the microphone. “Sorry. Okay. Thanks also, Rabbi Bloom, longtime friend of the family, for sharing such thoughtful words.” He waited for a round of light applause. Eventually, catching on, we clapped clumsily, at which point he ungracefully cleared his throat. “I’m here to announce a new program I’m starting in memory of my late wife. These last years have been difficult, to say the least, for my son and for me. Caroline was sick a long time. She fought and she fought, but she was suffering and—well, now I know she is, at last, at peace.” A strained smile: he squirmed on his feet. “Caroline was tremendously talented. I took the more lucrative finance route but she chose physics, because science was her first and most enduring love. She especially valued sharing this love with young women. And so, I think it’s only fitting that I create the Caroline Stark Initiative to actively facilitate greater female participation in the sciences. We’ll provide grants for research projects, mentorship from local college professors, summer internship placements, support groups, whatever. No expense will be withheld. That’s—that’s my promise in Caroline’s name.” He was enjoying himself now, loosening his posture, raising his voice over another round of applause. “This upcoming summer, additionally, we’ll build a state-of-the-art science lab, named for Caroline.” Even more applause, this time led by Rabbi Bloom, whose own gaze was averted to the floor. “My vision is to do everything in my power to ensure that Caroline’s name lives on and that the causes she believed in—”

  Julian fumbled the microphone. I twisted in my seat to see Evan storming from the hall. Whispers, people moving about in their rows. Oliver, blinking in confusion, tried mouthing to Noah, uncertain whether he was supposed to follow Evan. Julian, mortified, turned to Rabbi Bloom, who sprung to his feet, urging us to retake our seats. And then Sophia, eliciting sharp gasps, sprinted into the aisle and out the door.

  * * *

  WE DARTED UP TO THE balcony after the assembly’s awkward conclusion—Rabbi Bloom hastily dismissing us, Julian lingering onstage, conferring furiously with Rabbi Bloom—expecting to find Evan, but he wasn’t there. Leaning over the terrace, Amir pointed out the absence of the parking lot’s lone Aston Martin. My heart hammered at the thought that Sophia had disappeared with him.

  Noah checked his phone for a message from Evan. Nothing. “Think he went home?”

  Amir shook his head. “Can’t imagine he’s going to want to face Julian right now.”

  “Jesus,” Noah muttered.

  I was still searching for signs of Sophia below. “Can someone explain what just happened?”

  Amir looked uncomfortably at Noah and Oliver. Noah nodded at him. “There are . . . rumors, let’s call them, about what happened between Evan’s parents.”

  Oliver snorted. “Rumors? Let’s not whitewash it. Julian’s a piece of shit and everyone knows it.”

  “There was always tension between Caroline and Julian,” Amir explained. “Even when we were little we could sense it. Stolen glares. Little remarks. Hushed conversations in the kitchen while we were in the other room.”

  “My mom was pretty tight with Caroline,” Noah cut in. “Smartest person she ever met, my mom always says. She noticed things weren’t entirely . . . cohesive in that house.”

  “I mean, you must’ve picked up on some of it during the speech,” Amir said. “The crap about career choices? The implication that she looked down on him for his job? I don’t know, just seemed like there was always resentment on Julian’s part for being made to feel guilty or lesser or something like that.”

  “And you have to understand, Drew, that Evan and his mom were like this.” Noah wrapped two fingers around each other. “Ev worshipped her. They’d do everythin
g together, they’d have these long debates nobody else could follow. She was the perfect mentor for him, and that definitely drove a wedge between Julian and Caroline. And when Evan lost her? It shattered him.”

  “Think that’s why Evan and Sophia broke up?” Amir asked. I examined my sneakers so as not to display the extent to which my face was suddenly reorganizing itself into a canvas of unjustified hurt. “Things were just . . . falling apart?”

  Noah shrugged noncommittally and looked away.

  “Bottom line,” Oliver said, cleaning his fingernails, “Julian’s an animal.”

  I glanced down at the temple, where freshmen were tossing a football from the inner to the outer courtyard. “What does that mean?”

  “It means his wife was freaking dying and that sleazebag didn’t even care,” Oliver said. “He was sleeping with anyone he could, barely hiding it. Right in her face, in her last months, while she was sick as a dog. Torturing her.”

  Noah shook his head. “Ev never ever speaks about it, but we all know.”

  “And so for Julian to play the part of bereaved widower, trying to fix everything with money?” Amir combed his beard with his fingertips. “You can see why that’d send Evan over the edge.”

  “At Sophia’s recital,” I said, putting pieces together, “Evan got really upset when he saw his dad with Rabbi Bloom.”

  “He probably figured they were planning something,” Noah said. “Must’ve been beside himself that Bloom would let Julian in like this.”

  “Maybe Bloom doesn’t know about these issues?” I asked, feeling inexplicably protective of Rabbi Bloom.

  Oliver laughed. “Bloom and Evan? There aren’t too many secrets there. But money talks, Drew. I’ll vouch for that firsthand. Offer a sizable enough donation, and maybe your kid isn’t expelled freshman year for hot boxing the first-floor bathroom.”

  Amir frowned. “That was you? I knew it.”

  For effect, Oliver pulled a ragged joint from his pocket. “Build a lab, create scholarships—how can a principal turn that down in good conscience?”

  “It’s almost kind of hard to blame Bloom, isn’t it?” Noah said, pulling at the ends of his long, blond hair. “Like, he knows he can do a ton of good with that money, even if he’s got to grit his teeth and shake hands with that asshole. He’s acting in the best interest of Kol Neshama. As a—what’s the word? Pecuniary?”

  “Fiduciary,” Amir said.

  “Right, that.”

  “But Evan blames him,” I said.

  “He expects real loyalty from Bloom,” Amir said. “They’ve been so close for such a long time, I guess Evan’s taking it as a personal betrayal.”

  Noah nodded. “So therefore Evan is making Bloom choose between him and the best interest of the Academy?”

  “Well,” Amir said, “Bloom’s made his choice, hasn’t he?”

  Noah tugged at his Adidas socks. “So, like, the shit on Donny’s roof? Or throwing eggs? All this is to get revenge on Bloom and basically just make his life difficult?”

  “I guess that’s why he’s running for president,” I said.

  The bell rang. Nobody moved. “Family,” Amir finally said. “It can really mess us up, can’t it?”

  * * *

  ELECTIONS WERE HELD BEFORE SUKKOT break. It was a chaotic stretch, Rosh Hashanah bleeding into Yom Kippur, our classwork disrupted. (“How the hell will we get anything done with another holiday every five minutes?” Dr. Flowers thundered, as if we were responsible for the timing of God’s revelations.) Presidential campaigns, meanwhile, reached a feverish pitch. Davis circulated a five-page manifesto (“A spectre is haunting Kol Neshama—the spectre of a lazy education . . .”) and Amir began tutoring underclassmen in exchange for votes. Evan did little, though The Rebellion posters resurfaced on occasion, something he denied doing himself. And, just days before the race, a fourth candidate emerged: Sophia Winter.

  “Sophia,” I called out, catching her at the end of biology. “Rumor has it you’re running.”

  She turned. “Why do you look so shocked?”

  “Not at all, I—”

  She tugged at the straps of her backpack. “I mean, I don’t think this race needs to be a boys’ club affair, do you?”

  “Wait, no, of course not—”

  “So,” she said, daring me with her eyes, “what’s the question?”

  “Nothing,” I said lamely. “I guess—I just didn’t know you were interested in that. But I’m excited for you.”

  “Well, I’ve been convinced,” she said briskly, breaking away to make her next class. “Now I want it.” The thought of her sprinting after Evan made its way unpleasantly through my mind. When she arrived at the classroom door, however, she turned once more. “But Hamlet?”

  “Yes?”

  “You’re voting for me,” she said, disappearing into calculus.

  * * *

  ELECTION DAY. EACH CANDIDATE WAS to give a short pitch before the student body voted. I took a seat in the back of the assembly hall. Kayla, to my surprise, plumped down beside me. “All right if I sit here?”

  “Yeah,” I said, “of course.”

  “Lovely. Just wanted to be sure you’re okay being seen with me.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  She shrugged. “Sometimes I get the distinct sense you prefer speaking only in private.”

  I felt strangely ashamed at the prospect of having offended her. “I have no idea why you’d say that.”

  I watched underclassmen filter into the hall. Oliver walked by, stationing himself toward the front. He presented me with a look of severe disapproval when he saw I was with Kayla.

  “See? That right there,” Kayla said. “Kind of what I’m referring to.”

  “He’s just being weird,” I said unconvincingly. “He does that to me all the time.”

  “Sounds like a great guy. Real mensch.”

  “A mensch he’s not, but he means well,” I said, mostly attempting to persuade myself. I realized I sounded awfully like Noah when he was defending Evan. “At least I think he does.”

  “You know who I like? Amir. He’s the only one in your group who acknowledges my existence, though probably because he wants to know my grades. But still. It’s something. I think I’m voting for him.”

  “Yeah, I mean, he is great.”

  “Still. I have a slight feeling I know who you’re supporting.”

  “I don’t even know who I’m—”

  “Ari, Ari.” She patted my arm. “Please. You’re voting for Sophia. That’s the one certainty in this entire school. Not that it matters. It’s inevitable he’ll win.”

  “Who?”

  “Evan, of course.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  She looked at me as if I were stupid. “Don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Look around the room. They love him, they fear him, but more than anything they want to be him.”

  I felt strangely deflated. I opened my mouth to object but stopped myself. It was true. Effortlessly brilliant, startlingly defiant and, as had quickly been established throughout my first weeks in Zion Hills, undeniably attractive: Evan, though intimidating, seemed almost universally revered. It was difficult to imagine him losing.

  Rabbi Bloom ascended the stage and raised his hands for silence. “Quiet please, ladies and gentlemen, for the candidates to whom we owe respect. The rules are simple. Each candidate has three minutes to best represent his or her ideology. These speeches have been approved by the administration”—his gaze landed on Evan, sitting in the first row, as if to issue a silent warning—“and candidates are expected not to improvise. Lots have been drawn to determine the sequence of speeches. So, without further ado, I invite Mr. Aaron Davis to speak first.”

  Davis smiled broadly and raised his fist, despite tepid applause. Wearing an old-fashioned corduroy suit, he accepted the microphone and gestured for someone in the back to begin playing “Battle Hymn of t
he Republic” from an iPhone. “Ladies and gents of this fine institution, as literary editor of the yearbook, I stand before you today much like Lincoln did in Gettysburg . . .”

  “Has he always been like this?” I whispered to Kayla.

  “Put it this way,” she said, leaning into my ear, “in third grade, he entered the school Purim costume contest as Henry Clay.”

  “. . . as school president I’ll seek knowledge, which, as is the case with all endeavors, requires a chemistry of Aristotelian virtues and an impeccable grasp of Tory political theory. I vow to sow virtue, not the mindless fun promised by my opponents . . .” He rambled on, undeterred by growing laughter, until Rabbi Bloom, watching for time, placed a forceful hand on Davis’ back.

  “Thank you, Mr. Davis, that was quite . . . rousing,” Rabbi Bloom said, signaling for the hymn to be cut off. “Our next candidate is Mr. Evan Stark. Evan, we look forward to hearing your preapproved speech.”

  Evan rose slowly, glared coolly at Rabbi Bloom as he accepted the microphone and then broke into a smile. “With deep apologies to Rabbi Bloom,” he said, inverting his pockets, “I’ve misplaced my speech and must instead speak from the heart.” Small laughs broke out. Rabbi Bloom, standing at the foot of the stage, paled. “Let’s keep this brief,” he said, pacing about. “Initially I had no intention of running for president. I was content to watch others serve ineffectively—”

  “Ad hominem!” Davis cried, leaping from his seat.

  “—until I realized this would endorse a certain status quo.” He trailed off, his gaze meeting Rabbi Bloom’s. “And that’s something I can’t do. Why? Because our current way of life is corrupted. We attend a school supposedly dedicated to moral values. And yet, I ask you, what happens behind closed doors? How often do we see shuls turned into miniature kingdoms controlled by those seeking power? How often do we see dishonorable people achieve influence and piety through financial success while the righteous suffer and lose and—” He paused for a moment too long. At first I assumed this was merely for dramatic effect, until I recognized uncharacteristic vulnerability in his eyes. He looked, to my disbelief, as if he might cry. “And die of cancer,” he said firmly. He took an extra breath, banishing that look of undisguised humanness, even as an air of cold shock settled over his audience. “How often do we witness the miracles we pray about three times each day? How often, may I ask, do we take seriously the notion that belief—real belief—ought to survive the crucible of doubt?