Christmas for Joshua - A Novel (16 page)

“I’d like to commemorate my parents.”

What sounds too good to be true, is too good to be true
. But still, I hoped he didn’t want what I thought he wanted. “You’d like us to put their names on the wall?”

“Put their names on everything that currently has
King Solomon
.”

I sighed. “Everything?”

“
As the new name of the congregation—on the building, the Sunday school, the website, letterhead, books, and so on. Scratch off ‘King Solomon Synagogue’ and replace it with ‘Golda and Leo Warnick Synagogue.’ I want my parents’ memory carried forward.” He paused. “They were decent and hard-working people. They deserve it.”

“
True.” His father, a World War II veteran, had been my patient, and I had kept his weak heart beating until the rest of his body lost a long battle with prostate cancer. Mrs. Warnick had died last year, ending her long reign over the synagogue’s mah-jongg club.

The scooter guy unlocked the stall door and cleared his throat.
“Someone needs help here,” I said, “so I have to hang up, but I can’t tell you how excited I am about your offer. Would you send me something by e-mail? Just a couple of lines that I can forward to the others in confidence. We’re having the board’s annual meeting tomorrow night. I’ll present it for a vote and…we’ll move forward!”

By the time I had the disabled gentleman back in his scooter, his hands washed and his travel bag secured in his lap, my Blackberry vibrated to indicate receipt of Jonathan’s e-mail.

Stepping outside into the bustle of the terminal, I read the message:

I chuckled at his casual tone. Ten million dollars! The annual meeting was going to be a lot more interesting than anyone was expecting. Instead of painful downsizing, we would be preparing for growth. I looked up and saw Rebecca standing in line to board our plane. She beckoned me to hurry up.

The plane was filled to capacity, the weather was worsening by the minute, and the crew’s nerves seemed pulled to the max. Our assigned seats were far from each other, but we didn’t bother to solicit the flight attendant’s help in finding someone willing to switch.

While there was still time, I used my thumbs to type a short e-mail to the members of the synagogue board—Aaron Brutsky, Judy Levy, Larry Emanuel, Mat Warnick, Cantor Bentov, and Rabbi Rachel:

I sent it to them with a copy of Jonathan’s e-mail. Through the window I could see the deicing machines spray the wings while snow kept falling. Delay seemed inevitable, but to everyone’s relief, the plane pulled back from the gate on time, and we were airborne within minutes.

I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I saw was a sunny sky and the sprawl of metro Phoenix below.

The man sitting next to me shifted his heavy girth. “Gee, it’s like we flew from hell to paradise.”

“
In more ways than one.” I rubbed my eyes.

“
Can’t wait to hit some golf balls, soak in the Jacuzzi, and down a few beers.” He put up his tray and tightened his seatbelt. “How ’bout you?”

“
I live here.”

“
Let me guess: You don’t own a snow shovel, do you?” He roared in laughter, and his wife looked up from her Kindle and smiled.

“
No. I don’t own one, even though we get a bit of snow every few years.”

While we waited for the doors to open, I turned on my Blackberry and found that all six recipients of my earlier e-mail had replied:

Aaron Brutsky:
Jonathan has a good heart :-)

Larry Emanuel:
Ditto.

Mat Warnick:
Per my brother, he’s doing it because of Dr. Dinwall.

Cantor Bentov:
Halleluiah! Halleluiah! Halleluiah!

Judy Levy:
Hurray! (Do you think he’s ready to also spend money on art?)

Rabbi Rachel:
God tests us with gifts. ( Can we keep King Solomon name?)

I assumed the rabbi’s cryptic response was in jest, as was Judy’s, so I didn’t bother replying. We would have plenty of time to joke and celebrate at the board meeting.

We exited the plane into a packed terminal. Sky Harbor airport was always under construction, struggling to keep up with the rapid growth in passenger traffic. But two days before Christmas, things were beyond capacity. Our bags took over an hour to reach the luggage carousel, and the taxi line was another forty minutes. Once we were on our way, I showed Rebecca the correspondence on my Blackberry.

She read it. “Oh my God!”

I laughed. “Impressed?”

“
And you think this is a coincidence?”

“
What do you mean?”

“
Just when we need it! A light at the end of the tunnel!”

I holstered my Blackberry. “The synagogue isn’t exactly in a tunnel—”

“
Who’s talking about the synagogue? I’m talking about us. Once the money is in, you can walk away with a clear conscience.”

“
Walk away?”

“
That’s right. Pass the presidency to Aaron and be done with this headache.”

I was taken aback. “You want me to leave the leadership just when there’s finally enough money to do things? Why?”

“
Because we have our own problems.”

“
We have challenges, not problems.”

“
We have both.” She looked out the window. “And no room for the synagogue’s problems. Thank God for Jonathan Warnick and his dating service!”

“
I agree with that. Perhaps I should ask for a commission.”

She laughed and rested her head on my shoulder. I took her hand, and we remained silent for the rest of the ride home.

We entered our house with the last rays of the sun.

Raiding the freezer, Rebecca fished out a package of Costco Atlantic Salmon, corn on the cob, and garlic bread. She whipped up a nice dinner while I unpacked our bags. We ate with a bottle of red wine and the local TV news—the usual sequence of crime, disaster, politics, sports, and the weather. The crime was a murder-suicide, with breathless neighbors attesting to the shooter’s otherwise good nature. The disaster was a pool drowning, reported from a roving helicopter with dramatic aerial footage of a beautiful back yard in Mesa. Politics involved the recent anti-immigration law, dramatized with a street protest over the fatal shooting of a Mexican laborer who attempted to flee the police. A spokeswoman for the sheriff’s department explained that “the roundup of suspected illegal immigrants was done in compliance with applicable laws in order to free up paying jobs for law-abiding Americans.” A sports update offered comic relief with a few clips of piled-up football players, basketball dunking by black athletes who dwarfed the tremulous hoops, and a token soccer goalie leaping in the wrong direction from an incoming ball. We were spooning off a shared bowl of frozen yogurt when a tanned weatherman gloated in comparing the Phoenix sunshine to the sodden rest of the country.

Rebecca turned off the TV. “Are you ready to talk?”

“About Levinson, Mintzberg, Schlumacher, and Company?”

“What else?”

“Not by a long shot.” I pulled her into my arms. “Some fat guy on the plane told me that this is a good place for soaking in the Jacuzzi and getting drunk. What do you say?”

Rebecca sighed. I took it for a yes, lifted her while gripping the wine bottle, and carried both of them to the patio outside, silently complimenting myself on the foresight that had prompted me to switch on the Jacuzzi heater earlier.

Part Five

Wednesday, December 23

Rockin’ Around the Christmas Tree

Having opened all the windows to let the fresh morning air into the house, Rebecca started the vacuum cleaner, which made the neighbors’ dog bark incessantly. I set up the extra bed in Debra’s room and brought in the mattress from the storage closet. A quick call to the hospital verified that all was well. Aaron had already finished morning rounds and started on the first surgery of the day. Expecting me to call, he had left a message with Nina: “You’re on vacation. Don’t call us. We’ll call you if we need you.”

With my duties done, I topped off the air in my bicycle tires and went for a long ride.

On the way back, I stopped at the Coffee Bean on Scottsdale Road for a large latte and a toasted bagel and sat outside in the sun. My achy muscles absorbed the warmth, and my sweaty shirt slowly dried. I watched the regulars stop for their morning coffee in a parade of luxury vehicles and classic sports cars, some of them pricier than a new cardiopulmonary bypass machine.

Before leaving, I picked up a cup for Rebecca, which I balanced in one hand while riding my bike—not an easy task, but worth the effort to show her my appreciation for last night. It was a relief to be back to our normal life, and with the sun shining warmly, I realized that Aaron had been right. Things would work out just fine. Debra would arrive tonight with Mordechai, back to her own environment and roots. She would loosen up about all that Orthodox observance that her love for Mordechai has generated, and together we would find ways to bridge the gap between us and his family.

When I entered the house, the vacuum cleaner was no longer howling. I looked for Rebecca in the kitchen and living room, finally finding her in the study, seated in front of the computer.

She turned, startled.

“
Sorry,” I said, “didn’t mean to scare you.” I put the coffee cup before her and looked at the screen. It was a Google search page. The words she was searching were:

jewish orthodox conversion adult process timeline

“
You forgot the word shaygetz.” I crossed the room and dropped into a leather loveseat.

“
Why are you making it into such a big deal? What if we start observing a few rules? It’s not the end of the world.”

I didn’t respond, my mind still digesting this shocking discovery that, while I had optimistically assumed that life was good again and that we would show the newlyweds a united front, secure in our happy way of life here in Arizona, my wife was surfing the Net with an agenda altogether different than mine.

Misinterpreting my silence, she browsed a notebook in which she had summarized her findings so far. “The first thing they require is that you demonstrate a sincere commitment to becoming a Jew. I think we got that one down solid, with you being president of the synagogue, no less.” She looked at me expectantly.

“
President schmesident,” I said.

“
Next, they would require you—I mean, require
us
—to adopt an Orthodox lifestyle, keep the rules of Halacha, and promise to remain observant even after the conversion.”

Clearing my throat, I gestured vaguely with my hand.

“
We’ll need to make only a few changes.” Rebecca counted on her fingers. “Eat kosher food, which I can take care of. It’s good I’ve kept my mom’s recipe notebooks.”

“
Lucky,” I said.

“
We’ll have to observe the basic rules of Sabbath, such as not drive, turn on lights, or watch TV, which isn’t too bad. Attending prayers at an Orthodox synagogue three times a day isn’t required when you’re working, so that leaves only Friday nights and Saturdays. Again, no big deal. And I can help you study the rules of Halacha about food, Sabbath, prayers, holidays, and personal hygiene.”

“
You mean
inter
-personal hygiene.”

“
That’s right.” She shrugged. “Couples can’t be together during the woman’s monthly period. It’s about the hygiene of intimacy.”

“
Is it hygienic to get clean by dipping in the mikvah, a pool of standing water in which a hundred other women have also immersed?”

“
That’s just a symbolic act of cleansing. Everyone showers before and after the mikvah. The main thing is to avoid contact with menstrual discharge.”

“
For two weeks every month?”

“
It made sense in biblical times, before tampons, absorbent pads, and indoor showers with hot water and lots of soap.”

“
Nobody is going to police us in the bedroom, okay?”

I raised my hands in surrender. “Just making a point.”

“
Point taken.” She scanned the rest of her notes. “After the completion of study and the period of observance of the rules, you’ll qualify for an examination—assuming there are no problems.”

“
Problems?”

“
Such as wise-ass comments that piss off the rabbis.”