Christmas for Joshua - A Novel (23 page)

On that particular Christmas Eve, after my mother had fed us, I wheeled the old kerosene stove to the porch, and we sat in wicker chairs, our coats buttoned up, to watch the barges navigate between chunks of ice on the Hudson River. We drank hot cider, spiced up with rum, and listened to my mother talk about her childhood in Scotland, the terrifying Atlantic crossing, and her teenage years of hardship in the new country. She spoke of my father, whose family had been in America for several generations yet maintained its Scottish pride. He courted her with teenage enthusiasm, and by the end of their senior year in high school, they knew that God had meant for them to share a life.

He was drafted at eighteen, and they saw each other during brief leaves. They tied the knot before a county clerk near the base, and a week later he shipped to Vietnam. I was born nine months later, and he chose my name during a phone call, patched through a field radio. His choice—Christian—surprised her as he wasn’t prone to expressions of devoutness. In his next letter he said:
There are no atheists in this jungle.
He wrote weekly, and she wrote back and sent photos. She could sense his longing, but men back then thought it unseemly to whine. His letters spoke of a happy future once he completed his service. He would be entitled to attend college on Uncle Sam’s dime and planned to become a doctor. Between his Scottish stubbornness and his American optimism, my mother explained, there was no question that he would accomplish his goal. But then a rocket hit his boat, and it was all over.

I touched Rebecca’s hand. “Do you remember?”

She put the photo down on the coffee table and nodded. “We were so young.”

“
Read my card,” I said.

It was a white card, with no pre-printed graphics or poems. I looked over her shoulder at my own handwriting:
Will you meet me halfway?

Rebecca got up and went to the kitchen.

Debra and Mordechai looked at me, unsure what to say. I wasn’t sure either. But a moment later Rebecca returned and tossed the card in my lap. I looked at it and saw a sentence she had penciled underneath:
I have met you halfway from the Bronx. But now we have to meet Debra halfway to Brooklyn!

Debra reached for the card. “Isn’t this supposed to be a family event? No secrets!”

Before I had a chance to respond, Rebecca snatched the card from my hand and added a sentence:
And don’t make me choose between you and her!

I looked at her and shook my head. There was so much I wanted to say, but it would have to wait until we were alone.

“
Thank you for the clubs,” Mordechai said. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m really not comfortable with this.” He gestured at the tree.

“Why not?” I was ready for the discussion. “Tell me.”

“
It’s their ritual, celebrating that false messiah of theirs.”

“
A common misconception,” I said mildly. “The Christmas tree is not a religious symbol. It comes from feudal Europe, where they celebrated the new year by lighting a fire under a tree and dancing around it. Later on, people started hanging fruit on the tree before the celebration. With the passing centuries, it evolved into a tradition of cutting down a small tree and decorating it indoors, mainly because the season is so cold. And these days, everyone celebrates the holidays with a Christmas tree even if they’re not religious.”

Mordechai looked at Debra for help, but it was Rebecca who jumped in. “Don’t be an idiot, Rusty. It’s a Christmas tree.
Christ-mas!
”

I kept my voice even, not succumbing to her provocation. “Over the years, the New Year tree took on the name of the Christmas holiday, which relates to the birthday of Jesus. That’s true. But I did an Internet search that really surprised me. Historically, many Jews in Europe brought a Christmas tree into their homes, first as a gesture to their household employees, but later it spread as an independent holiday custom, with gifts for everyone. Sometimes it was combined with Hanukkah, but the Jewish calendar changes every year—like this year, for example, that we celebrated Hanukkah a month ago. But the tree is not about religion.”

“So let me summarize your scholarly research,” Rebecca said. “Christmas trees aren’t about Jesus Christ. Rather, Christmas is a celebration of trees, just like Easter is a celebration of eggs, Thanksgiving is a celebration of turkeys, and July Fourth is a celebration of fireworks. Did I get it right?”

“The Christmas holiday is about Jesus Christ,” I conceded. “But the tree isn’t.”

“
Where do you read this stuff?
The Christian Science Monitor?
”

Pulling out a page I had printed off Wikipedia, I showed her the highlighted paragraph. “Even Theodore Herzl, the visionary of modern Zionism, entertained the chief rabbi of Vienna at his home while the kids played under the holiday tree.”

“It’s not a holiday tree.” Rebecca brushed away the paper. “It’s a Christmas tree!”

“Whose side are you on?” I said it lightly, but inside I was seething.

“I’m on the side of the truth.” She pointed at me. “And you’re on the wrong side!”

I gestured at her and me. “We’re on the same side.”

“
Then you should know that Jews don’t celebrate Christmas!”

I picked up the Wikipedia printout and pressed it to my achy chest, taking shallow breaths, struggling to speak through the fog of frustration. “Herzl wasn’t Jewish?”

“Hold on,” Debra said, “before you two kill each other, can I open my gift?”

The wrapping on her gift was a rainbow of vivid colors, and the card had a matching pattern on the outside. There was also a pre-printed, saccharine Hallmark holiday message inside, which I had covered with stickers of parrots. My message was written by hand on the blank, left side of the card:

My daughter looked up from the card, her forehead creased.

“Look at your gift,” I said.

She took the paperback out of the torn gift wrap. It was my dog-eared copy of Kosinski’s novel
The Painted Bird
.

“My mother gave it to me.” I slumped back in my seat, trying to calm down. “You never met her, but there’s much about you that reminds me of your grandmother, especially your strength and determination. And loyalty.”

“Thanks, Dad.” She hugged me. “I’ll read the book on the flight back to New York tomorrow.”

Through the comfort of my daughter’s physical affection, I struggled to digest what she had just said. “Tomorrow?”

“I’m sorry,” she smiled, sitting back next to Mordechai. “We forgot to tell you last night, but we decided to go back on Friday so we can be in New York before Sabbath starts.”

“But I ordered kosher meals,” Rebecca said. “It’s all arranged!”

Debra shrugged. “It’s not just the food, Mom. We also like to attend services on Friday night and on Saturday morning.”

“You can join us,” I said. “We don’t have to drive. I measured the distance to King Solomon. It’s just over one mile.”

“We’ll walk together,” Rebecca said. “The weather is perfect for walking, and everyone was looking forward to seeing you at the synagogue on Saturday.”

“We’ll see them tonight,” Debra said meekly, “at the Sheva Brachot dinner.”

Rebecca bit her lips and looked at me. All my anger at my wife had now turned to sympathy. I reached over to take her hand, but she pulled away and stood. “But why? I don’t understand!”

Mordechai also stood up. “Please don’t be upset with us. We wanted to stay, but Rabbi Mintzberg ruled that we may not attend Sabbath services at a Reform synagogue, where the lights are turned on and off, microphones and loudspeakers are in use, music is played, and the rabbi is a woman. Every one of these things is a violation of the holy Sabbath and the rules of Halacha.”

Rather than argue with him, Rebecca looked down at me, her expression saying, “What did I tell you?”

And I was facing a fork in the road. One option was to express anger, to attack, the other was to reason and cajole. I took the second, but allowed my voice to express indignation as I gripped his arm and made sure he looked at me. “Listen, before your wedding I was a stranger to you. And being as young and as dependent on your parents as you are, it was understandable that in any conflict you would side completely with them and their rabbi. But now we are your family too. My wife and I would like nothing more than to treat you with the generosity and love that we would have shown our own son had we been blessed with one.”

“It’s true, “Rebecca said.

“But with that,” I continued, “comes the expectation of some respect. All you needed to do was pick up the phone and share with us the dilemma presented by your rabbi’s anti-Reform ruling, and we would have suggested a solution to make everyone happy, you agree?”

He nodded. “I was afraid that when you heard what Rabbi Mintzberg said—”

“There’s no issue here.” I controlled my urge to curse the old rabbi, but Debra had no clue about what had happened at the wedding. “You have the right to follow Halacha just like we have the right to practice Reform Judaism and its inclusiveness.” I glanced at my Christmas tree. “We respect your choices, and as hosts, we must accommodate you.”

Sighing with relief, Mordechai looked at Debra, who smiled back at him.

“
So here’s the solution,” I continued. “There are several Orthodox synagogues in the area. We’ll all stay at a hotel near one of them.” Anticipating Rebecca’s concerns, I added, “We’ll get a suite with a kitchenette and have the kosher food ready in the hotel. We’ll dine together in the room after walking back from the synagogue. How’s that?”

“Perfect,” Rebecca said. “Let’s do it!”

“Maybe next time,” Debra said. “We already changed our airline tickets, and Mordechai’s family is hosting a kiddush lunch at their synagogue on Saturday.”

“We’ll change back the tickets,” I said, ignoring the part about Mordechai’s family—they could host a kiddush lunch another time. “Any airline change fees are on us. After the Sabbath, on Sunday, we have a reservation for a Jeep rental in Sedona so we can explore the red rocks. And one of my patients, who owns an air touring company, offered to take us on a flight over the Grand Canyon and up the Colorado River to Lake Powell, including a stopover at the Navaho Tribe’s heritage center. Then, on Tuesday—”

“Daddy, please!” Debra put her hand on my mouth. “We are going home tomorrow.”

“
But why?” I waved my hands around. “This is also your home!”

“
Not anymore. I’m married now.”

“
Yes, you are married, and it’s wonderful, but you’re still our daughter, aren’t you?”

She looked at her mother for support, but Rebecca was as distraught as I.

“
Dr. Dinwall,” Mordechai said, “please accept our decision. We can’t stay here for Sabbath. We have to leave tomorrow and make it home to New York before sunset. But we are excited to spend today with you and meet everyone tonight.”

The finality in his tone left no room for further discussion. Clearly he could be assertive when he had to. This discovery was surprising, but also very good news, because I now had much less time to adjust his worldview and loyalties, which meant resorting to shock therapy. “Okay,” I said. “Let’s enjoy the day together.”

Rebecca groaned.

I patted his shoulder, indicating there were no hard feelings. “What would you like to do?”

“
Debra told me there are great places to hike around here,” Mordechai said, visibly relieved. “And it’s so nice outside.”

Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer

Rebecca’s phone rang as we were getting out of the car at the foot of Pinnacle Peak in north Scottsdale. It was the kosher caterer, asking for a final count for tonight’s dinner party. “I’m not sure,” Rebecca said. “We invited all the members of the congregation. Usually only friends and relatives attend these events, but my husband is the president of the synagogue, so others might feel obliged to come.”

“Tell her a hundred people,” I said. “I doubt there will be more.”

“Set up tables for two hundred,” Rebecca said. “And keep plenty of extras to refill the buffet trays if more people show up.” After a brief pause, she added, “That’s fine. We’ll pay for everything you bring, even what you’ll have to throw away.”

I sighed.

The path was busy with hikers as if it were a weekend. With the night coolness still lingering in the morning air, some people wore red-and-white wool hats and matching coats. The younger kids had reindeer antlers growing from their caps, and one teenager had a large cross attached to his back, the horizontal beam wider than his shoulders. Up close, I could tell it was made of foam, painted a patchy brown to look like wood.

Halfway up the mountain, Mordechai stopped to take in the view, which was fine with me. After a sleepless night, my muscles ached and I was out of breath.

“
Look at these houses!” He pointed downward. “They’re huge!”

“
In this area,” Rebecca said, “anything under five thousand square feet is considered a small house. But usually they’re seven or eight, maybe even ten thousand square feet.”