Christmas for Joshua - A Novel (11 page)

On my way out, I stopped to put a dollar in the box. Soft music drew my attention. A nativity scene, very basic, almost primitive, except for the loudspeaker under the manger, a thin cord running from it toward the church. Nat King Cole was singing “Chestnuts Roasting on an Open Fire,” and I suddenly realized it was the physical equivalent of my mental pain—my nuts roasting on an open fire! This crude image, which came out of nowhere into my mind’s eye, knocked me out of my melancholy. I laughed out loud and said, “It’s a bloody nightmare!”

I bent my head to enter the makeshift tent. Inside, baby Jesus was a gold-painted doll of indeterminable gender. Mary had black, braided hair and red lips. And Joseph stood over them, looking anxious. The wise men’s beards had caught strands of hay, which a recent wind must have picked up.

A movement drew my attention, and I noticed a woolly sheep and a scrawny goat in a fenced enclosure beside the tent. A hand-written sign was attached to the kiddy gate:
Please Keep Gate Closed. Merry Christmas!

I collected a fistful of hay and held it out, but neither the sheep nor the goat came forward. I shook my hand, making it rustle. “Come on,” I said, “have some.”

They looked at me blankly, shifting about, staying put.

“
What’s wrong?” I tossed the hay toward them. “You won’t take food from a Jew?”

I took their silence as admission while Cole wondered “
If reindeer really know how to fly...
”

“
Then you better cover your ears.” I pointed to the loudspeaker under the manger. “Who do you think wrote “Chestnuts roasting?” A couple of New York Jews, that’s who!”

The sheep half-turned as if this piece of information offended her, and the goat smacked its wet lips.

“
Sorry,” I said, backing out of the tent. “It’s not you I’m angry with.”

As I was leaving, two mothers herded their children down the path from the street, all of them bundled up in coats, scarves, and hats. The boy in the lead, five or six years old, looked up at me with wide eyes. I smiled and said, “Merry Christmas.”

Back on the street, I raised my coat collar against the chill. It was a long walk back to the train station, but I needed the physical exertion and the time to think about what had happened last night and what should happen next.

The train heading to New York City was full. Rather than squeeze between two passengers on a bench, I remained standing and watched the river through the large windows. Ten minutes into the ride, I turned on my Blackberry, called the Mount Sinai outpatient center, and asked for Dr. Levinson. He had impressed me as someone who would be back at work on the morning after his son’s wedding, and sure enough, a receptionist said he was with a patient. “
Azoi
,” I said. “Please tell him Rabbi Mintzberg is holding.”

A moment later, Mordechai’s dad came on the line. “Hello? Rabbi?”

“Mazal Tov,” I said. “It’s your shaygetz-in-law.”

After a brief silence, he laughed.

I waited.

“I’m so sorry,” he finally said. “I hardly slept.”

“
Guilty conscience?”

He laughed some more. “Master of the Universe! Now I see where Debra got her sense of humor!”

I held on as the train slowed down and a deep voice announced the Greystone Station. “So how did you enjoy the wedding I paid for?”

“Wonderful,” he said. “Thank you. It was worth every penny.”

Now we laughed together. He must have been under great stress and was relieved that I could joke about what in fact had amounted to a parental disaster.

“
Listen,” I said, “what happened was unfair and very painful, but I don’t want to dwell on it. These kids make a beautiful couple, and we all want them to be happy, even if it means staying out of the way.”

“I agree. But you’ll come to the Sheva Brachot dinner tonight, yes?”

This was the reason I called him. The traditional dinner, in which the seven blessings would be recited, was to be hosted by the Levinsons at their home. “Debra expects us there,” I said, “but if I sit at your table without a yarmulke and warn people to wash their hands after shaking mine, she’ll figure out something’s up.”

He sighed. “Together we could surely find a subtle way to comply with Rabbi Mintzberg’s conditions without—”

“Extortionist conditions, you mean?”

Another sigh. “We live by the rules of Halacha. It’s not easy for us either.”

“I believe Rabbi Akiva would have said that being technically correct yet morally abhorrent is still a sin, even under strict Halacha.” I gripped the pole as the train accelerated, pressing the Blackberry to my ear. “For me, the agreement was a one-night stand. I bent over so that the wedding could go forward. That’s all. As far as I’m concerned, my conversion by a Reform woman rabbi is as valid as a conversion performed by a rabbi wearing the blackest hat and the longest beard. I’m as good a Jew as Rabbi Mintzberg himself. Perhaps even a better Jew!” I paused, realizing that my voice had risen and the passengers had stopped what they were doing to watch me. I turned away and said more quietly, “I didn’t mean to yell at you. Sorry.”

“
Your anger is understandable. But in matters of faith, one man’s cherished truth is another man’s kidney stone.”

I chuckled at the urological metaphor. He was a smart man, who seemed to understand my frustration. And he was correct—when it came to religious beliefs, even an absolute truth was relative. For them, I was a gentile whose participation in rituals was forbidden. Halacha controlled every facet of their lives from birth to burial—how they dressed, what they ate, whom they married, and when they could make love. How could I expect these people, who pray three times a day, recite a blessing before and after every meal, and wait six hours between eating meat and dairy, to suddenly become flexible and break Halacha rules to avoid hurting my feelings?

“
The dinner tonight,” I said, “is at your home, and you have every right to insist that whoever enters it must honor Rabbi Mintzberg’s conditions. I won’t embarrass you in front of your guests, but I cannot abide by these conditions. My wife will attend while I stay at the hotel.”

“Let me call the rabbi,” Dr. Levinson said. “He’ll know what I should do.”

I wanted to ask him: Why would an educated and accomplished man like you choose to submit so completely and unquestioningly to a little old rabbi who classified people with the prejudicial criteria of a long-extinct Eastern European shtetl? But instead I only said, “Of course, and please remember to give him my most gentile regards.”

As soon as we hung up, my Blackberry rang. The display said:
Muse Hotel
. I pressed the red button, sending Rebecca to voicemail. I wasn’t ready to talk to her yet.

Two stops later, Dr. Levinson called back. “I spoke with Rabbi Mintzberg and explained the situation. His response was that he wasn’t feeling well and therefore won’t be able to attend.”

“How’s that helping us?”

“Consent through silence. It’s a Talmudic way to acquiesce without giving explicit support.”

“
You mean, passive-aggressive?” I held on as the train doors closed. “Don’t you need a rabbi to lead the seven blessings?”

“
Not necessarily, but in fact Rabbi Mintzberg suggested that we invite Rabbi Doctor Yosef Schlumacher. He is a graduate of Columbia University, like you, though his doctorate is in psychology.”

I was surprised he knew my alma mater. “Is he going to ask me to sit in the corner and write
‘I am a shaygetz’
two hundred times?”

Dr. Levinson chuckled. “Nothing of the kind. Schlumacher is a brilliant scholar with much experience in the outside world. I spoke with him briefly. He accepted, of course, and reminded me that his book on
Shalom Bayit
,
Peace in the Home
, contains a whole chapter on how parents should not challenge the fragility of their kids’ young marriage with their own old problems.”

“
So, no conditions?”

“
None.” He hesitated. “The only thing that I ask is that you don’t hold up an open bottle of wine. You see, it could cause—”

“The wine will become
nesekh
, not kosher for drinking.”

“Correct.” Dr. Levinson exhaled into the phone. “I really appreciate it, Dr. Dinwall.”

“Call me Christian,” I said, but the train was already descending underground toward Grand Central, and the line went dead before he indicated whether or not he heard me.

I hoped to find Rebecca alone, but she was having breakfast with Aaron, Miriam, and Judy Levy. The cantor had gone to visit relatives in Yonkers. I tried to sneak in via the lobby, but Rebecca saw me through the glass partition, and I changed direction and entered the restaurant.

“
Where have you been?” She hugged me. “I called and called and called!”

“Went to visit my mom’s grave.”

Her eyes widened. “In Tarrytown?”

I shrugged. “She hasn’t moved.”

“The jokes are back,” Judy said. “He feels better!”

Miriam poured a cup of coffee for me, and I sat down next to Rebecca, who took the cup from my hand. “Not with an upset stomach. You should only drink water until everything clears out.”

“Everything is clear,” I said, my hands embracing the cup over her hand.

Aaron picked up a menu, his reading glasses at the tip of his nose. “Would you like something to eat, Rusty?”

“Christian.” I took a deep breath and exhaled. “From now on, please call me Christian.”

Rebecca pulled her hand away, and the coffee cup almost tipped over.

“
You too, my love.” I turned to her. “Call me Christian. It’s my real name, and I want it back.”

“
Do you have fever?” She put her palm to my forehead. “Maybe it’s dysentery.”

“
I feel fine.”

“
Rubbish.” She took her phone out of her purse. “You need to see a doctor. You’re not yourself!”

I took the phone from her hand and put it on the table. “Actually, that’s exactly the point. I feel like myself again. Christian Dinwall. That’s me. That’s my name.”

Aaron put down the menu and looked at me over his reading glasses. “What’s wrong with Rusty?”

“
Rusty has gone down the toilet, flushed away by the old rabbi at Pillars of Joy, remember?”

He whistled. “Here comes trouble.”

Standing up, Rebecca took a step back, her chair falling over. “What’s going on?”

“
Oh, please!” Judy laughed. “He’s pulling your leg. Nice try, Rusty!”

“
This is not a drill,” I said. “Or a joke. You must call me Christian.”

Everyone looked at me.

I pointed at Aaron. “Tell them what happened last night.”

He started to shake his head, but Miriam glared at him, and he told them in great detail how we sat down to sign the ketubah, how all went well until they saw my name and Rabbi Mintzberg yelled, “President schmesident! He’s a shaygetz!” New even to me were the details of Aaron’s negotiations with the rabbi and his short-tempered assistant, while Mordechai was praying against the wall and Dr. Levinson was wringing his hands. By the time Aaron reached the part where he stood next to Debra under the chuppah, reciting the lines that I was supposed to recite, Rebecca buried her face in my chest, her tears wetting my shirt. Miriam and Judy used napkins to wipe their eyes, and Aaron finished the story with my departure in the cab and him lying to Rebecca about my supposedly volcanic stomach ailment.

Rebecca looked up at me, her lips quivering. “It’s terrible.”

I nodded.

“
I feel so guilty. You should have told me!”

“
And spoil the wedding of the century?”

“
I’m your wife!”

“
You’re also Debra’s mom, and last night was her night. Had I told you what was going on, you would have been too upset to hide it from her.”

She knew I was right, but still, she looked at Aaron. “How could you?”

He shrugged and pointed at me. “He made me do it.”

Miriam gave him a hearty elbow in the ribs.

“
What’s going on?” Debra was standing at the dining room door, her hair collected under a headdress, Mordechai behind her. She looked from one face to another, finally focusing on me, the only one with dry eyes. “Are you guys having a crying party?”

By her question I deduced that she had just arrived. I stood up. “You didn’t hear?”

“
Hear what?”

“
Terrible news.” I held my hands together under my chin. “Elvis Presley is dead.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re showing your age, Dad.”

“
Okay,” I said. “It’s really about Michael Jackson.”

She approached our table. “Mom?”

Before Rebecca could respond, Aaron said, “I was telling them a sad story, some old friend of ours, a family crisis.”

“
Who?”

“
Don’t worry about it.” I kissed Debra on the forehead and extended my hand to Mordechai. “Not on the morning after your wedding, right?”