Are You Alone on Purpose? (2 page)

After the service, the professor ushered the other Shandlings into the social hall next to the sanctuary, where small paper cups of wine, grape juice, and cake and challah were laid out. Alison kept an eye on Harry, Felicia, and the other kids her age. But, after grabbing some food, most of them disappeared into the little social hall, and Alison relaxed.

Last Saturday they had stayed only about ten minutes. “As we get to know people,” Mrs. Shandling had said then, “we'll stay longer and chat with them.” But people didn't seem any more eager to meet her parents this week than last, so Alison hoped they would leave soon. Adam had been quiet and unembarrassing so far, but you never knew. And with Harry Roth and those kids here...

And then Rabbi Roth was in front of them, smiling. “How do you do?” he said. “I saw you last week, didn't I? Are you new members?”

Alison tolerated being introduced. “You're twins?” Rabbi Roth asked kindly, looking from her to Adam, noticing, Alison knew, their red hair, their similar heights. “That's nice. I have a son about your age called Harry. He's around somewhere.”

“He's in a couple of my classes at school,” Alison said, to be polite.

“Ah,” said the rabbi, “but he's not in Adam's classes?” He smiled at Adam, who was holding his hand in midair and watching his own fingers flicker.

Alison froze. Didn't the rabbi realize about Adam? “No,” she said slowly. She met her mother's amazed eyes. Then she looked at her father. He was scowling at the rabbi.

“Adam and Alison don't go to the same school,” said Mrs. Shandling, carefully, after a moment.

The rabbi frowned. “I know most teachers like to separate twins at school, but isn't a different school rather extreme? I really think—oh, there's Harry. Harry! Would you come over here, please?”

No, thought Alison. Don't. She watched as Harry, who'd been heading back toward the other kids after grabbing another paper cup—had he taken wine instead of juice?—swiveled toward them and, reluctantly, walked over. He had taken off his tie and unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt. He was a year older than Alison, even though they were in the same grade at school, and almost as tall as his father, but thin.

“Professor and Mrs. Shandling,” said Rabbi Roth, formally. “My son, Harry. Harry, you already know Alison. But this is her twin, Adam, who goes to a different school. Have you met him?”

“Yes,” said Harry. He smiled sweetly at his father and then turned and looked directly at Alison. “I've met the retard
and
his sister.”

Feeling oddly detached, Alison watched her mother's face pale and her father's redden. I knew something like this would happen, she thought. And if my mom loses it and screams at Harry, I'll end up paying for it later, at school.

For one glorious moment she didn't care.

And then Rabbi Roth, as pale as Alison's mother, grabbed Harry firmly by the arm and hustled him away.

Gradually, Alison became aware of people around them, a circle of silent, embarrassed stares. “Let's go,” said Mrs. Shandling, turning. But she was stopped by a woman standing nearby.

“Please. Don't rush off,” said the woman. She was small and plump, with short dark hair and big glasses. She smiled hesitantly, and gestured at a man standing to her left. “My husband, Mike Kravitz. I'm Gloria. We couldn't help but overhear... so sorry. . .” Her husband nodded.

“We're Betsy and Jake Shandling,” said Alison's mother. “These are our children, Alison and Adam.”

“The Shandling Sphere, right?” said Mike Kravitz to Professor Shandling. “You invented it?”

Alison's father nodded, cautiously.

“Thought so,” said Mike Kravitz. “Saw you on the
Today
show when the Sphere first came out.”

Another woman edged her way in next to Mrs. Shandling and took her arm. “About Harry Roth. Not that it's an excuse, you understand, but Margaret Roth died a few years ago. His mother, you know.” She lowered her voice. “Cancer.”

Several people nodded. “No other children,” someone said.

“Well, thank God I haven't got a son like that,” said Professor Shandling. He put his hand on Adam's shoulder.

“Uh, yeah,” said Mike Kravitz. “Me too.” There was an awkward silence, and then he added: “Speaking of those Spheres, I've got one at home. Never could solve the thing. I still pull it out every so often and try.”

“I can't believe my daughter goes to school with that boy,” Alison's mother was saying to Gloria Kravitz. She turned to Alison. “Is he that obnoxious at school?”

Alison half shrugged, half nodded.

“I used to teach junior high,” said Gloria Kravitz. “I know kids, and it's plain to me that boy was just trying to get at his father. You and your family just happened to be here.”

You don't know Harry Roth, thought Alison. She glanced over at her father. He had pulled a Sphere from his pocket to demonstrate for Mike Kravitz. Adam was watching, and four or five more people came closer to watch as well.

Alison sighed. It didn't look like they'd be leaving any time soon. She listened to her mother and Gloria Kravitz for a few minutes, and then turned back toward her father.

“And, last, but far from least,” the professor was saying, “the Sphere keeps your mind occupied during one of Roth's sermons.”

Mike Kravitz laughed.

“I'll pass out a dozen next week,” said Alison's father. “It'll keep everyone awake.”

A little embarrassed, Alison looked away from her father—and saw Rabbi Roth, standing alone in his robes, without his son, listening to her father make fun of his sermons.

T
hat afternoon, Rabbi Roth actually asked if Harry wanted to play Scrabble. Of course, this was only after—even more unbelievably—he had suggested Candy Land. “Like we used to,” he had said, following Harry into Harry's bedroom. “After all, Shabbat isn't over for a few more hours, is it?”

“I wouldn't know,” Harry said. He kept his back to his father. “Religion's your department.” He couldn't believe it. Usually his father had the decency to leave him alone.

“Well...”

His father was pitiful. Harry didn't know whether to be angry or disgusted. Couldn't a forty-two-year-old man occupy himself for a few hours? After all, he was the one who insisted on all this Sabbath crap. No car. No electricity. No TV, so Harry couldn't even watch the playoffs. And now Candy Land. Unbelievable.

“Candy Land,” Harry said, “is for six-year-olds.” Which was probably about his father's mental age.

“Oh. Well, you always used to like playing it with your mother. . . . I guess I forgot . . . .”

Forgot what? Harry thought. How old I am? Or that dear sweet old Mom is six feet under?

“How about Scrabble, then?” said the rabbi.

Harry glanced sidelong at his father, wondering why he was being so persistent. That scene this morning at the temple over those Shandling kids? Couldn't be. There'd been worse before. His father never made a big deal; he didn't dare. Harry might refuse to go to synagogue at all. Harry might break the Sabbath and do just as he pleased on Saturdays. On any day. And then what would all the people in his father's congregation think of their rabbi? That was the only thing that worried his father, Harry knew.

Well, they'd see, one day. All of them.

Harry looked at his watch. Three more hours. Then he could get the hell out of the house. Maybe he'd call that girl from school, the one with the tits and the chewing gum and the big crucifix. What was her name?

“You like Scrabble, don't you?” insisted his father.

This was really pretty weird. Harry knew his father had no more desire to spend the enforced boredom of a Saturday afternoon with his son than Harry had to spend it with him.

“Okay, sure,” said Harry casually. “Why not?”

“Great,” said the rabbi. “I'll set it up in the kitchen.” And he bustled off after the Scrabble board. Harry stared after him, speculating. He wanted something from Harry. Had to be. But what?

And what was that girl's name? Gina. Gina Something. Collarusso.

He'd just love to introduce her to his father.

 

About halfway through the game, just when Harry had about decided he'd been mistaken, that the old man really only wanted a little fake father-and-son bonding to bolster his ego, his father finally, tentatively, came out with it. “That Shandling family,” he said. “I understand the girl is at your school?”

Aha, thought Harry. Now we're getting somewhere. He squinted at the board. It was his turn, but he hadn't put out a word yet, even though the egg timer had almost run out of salt. At the synagogue, his father had marched Harry off in front of everybody. The good father, the good rabbi, ready and able to discipline when necessary. Only Harry knew the truth. His father hadn't said anything. And he wouldn't now, either. He'd back down. Harry would bet on it.

He was really very surprised it had come up again.

The egg timer ran out of salt. Harry had not put out a word.

“Want me to help you?” asked his father.

Harry ignored him. He made the word WAS, building on the W of his father's WOBBLE.

Quickly, his father made the word SERENE, building on the S of WAS. Double word score. The crossword on the board was listing down lopsidedly into one corner. “I, uh, hope you plan to apologize to that girl when you see her at school,” he said.

Harry looked his father right in the eye. “Sure,” he said. “I plan to tell her exactly how sorry I am.” After a couple of seconds, his father looked away.

There was silence. Again, Harry deliberately waited the full three minutes on the egg timer before putting out a word on the board. NO, built on the N from SERENE.

“What,” said the rabbi, “uh, what exactly is the problem with her brother? I didn't think he looked retarded. . . .”

Harry looked up from the Scrabble board and watched his father's face as he rambled on.

“I noticed him during services. He was davening . . . and his face isn't, you know... of course, he didn't talk later, but I thought maybe he was just shy. . . he can't be retarded.” Rabbi Roth was not looking at Harry. “I thought he looked like such a nice boy.”

You are too stupid to live, thought Harry. He was suddenly swept by a wave of anger. So that's it, he thought. That's what he's interested in. That boy. That retard. What a joke.

“It's your turn,” said Harry.

“Oh.” The rabbi looked at the board. Harry's consistent use of little words had severely limited the crossword formulation, so that there were now only a few places that could be used. He frowned. Then he made the word THE, attaching to the E of SERENE, and Harry knew he had given up. The game would be over in another couple of moves.

“Such a nice boy,” murmured the rabbi. “It's so sad.”

Abruptly, Harry reached over and upended the board. The little wooden letter blocks rained down on the kitchen table. “This game is over,” he said.

 

Harry went to his room, leaving his father to clean up the Scrabble pieces and put them away. He had remembered something, and he went hunting in his closet, where all the old games were, the stuff his mother had bought him when he was little, toys and crap. Harry never used it anymore, but he hadn't gotten around to throwing it all out yet. He found what he was looking for and dug it out.

It was a Shandling Sphere, still in its original packaging, unopened. His father's secretary had bought it for Harry for Hanukkah the year after Harry's mother died.

Harry turned the box over in his hands. Behind clear shrink-wrap he could see the Sphere, in bright red, blue, and yellow plastic. On the back of the box there was a little ink drawing of Alison Shandling's father, with a blurb.

Harry headed back to the kitchen, where his father was slowly putting the Scrabble pieces away, and talking aloud. To her. Harry heard: “I know you'd make him do it, Margaret, but I—”

Harry interrupted. “Here you go, Dad,” he said, throwing the box hard at his father, who caught it automatically. “Everything you wanted to know about the little retard is on the back.” With positive pleasure, he watched his father's face. “Or, as the box says, the little autistic savant.”

“Harry—”

“Read it and weep,” Harry said, turning. And he thought: And stop talking to her. Just stop, damn it.