Christmas for Joshua - A Novel (29 page)

As my breathing slowed down, every muscle in my body began to relax. Despite several difficult days and sleep deprivation, I would need all my mental capacities tonight. I thought of the Gathering Hall with the dressed-up tables, the front of the synagogue with the half-assembled modular Christmas tree and wires running everywhere. It would all be cleaned up and glowing colorfully by the time we arrived. I could see it in my mind.

The banging on the door made me sit up in the bath, sending waves over the rim, splashing on the floor. There was more banging, and Rebecca yelled, “Rusty? Can you hear me?”

“Yes.” The folded towel that had supported my head slipped into the bath. “I’m here.”

“Oh, thank God!” She tried the door knob. “Let me in.”

I stepped out of the bath, dripping all over the place, and unlocked the door. “What’s wrong?”

“That’s what I want to know.” She pulled a towel off the rack and wrapped me. “You weren’t answering. I thought something happened to you.”

“I must’ve fallen asleep.” Sitting on the side of the bath, I watched her spread another towel on the floor by the bathtub to absorb the spilled water. “I was very tired. But I feel a lot better.”

“After giving me a heart attack!” She used a third towel to dry my hair and face. “I’ve been yelling and knocking on the door. Didn’t you hear any of it?”

“Nothing.”

She pulled her dryer from a drawer and turned it on. I shut my eyes and felt her fingers comb through my short hair, the air hot against my scalp, her thigh pressing against me. I bowed my head, surrendering to this unexpected yet sensuous grooming.

“That’s better.” She turned off the dryer. “The last thing you need is a bad cold.”

“
What about the
first
thing I need?” I put my arms around her waist, held her close, my face pressed to her bosom, and breathed in her familiar scent.

“
A shave.” She kissed my forehead. “That’s what you need.” Stepping out of my embrace, she replaced the dryer in the drawer. “And a nice suit.”

The Christmas Blues

I was doing my tie in front of the hallway mirror, paying little attention to their kitchen table conversation, when Debra called, “Dad? Can you come here for a minute?”

They were dressed and ready to go, he in a black suit over white shirt, she in a wool cap that covered all her beautiful hair and matched her burgundy dress.

“
We’re talking about family history,” Debra said, “and I couldn’t remember what exactly happened to your father, only that you never met him.”

“That’s correct.” I adjusted my tie, twisting it so that the knot lined up with my shirt buttons. “He was lost in Vietnam when I was only a few months old.”

“I’m sorry,” Mordechai said. “Where is he buried?”

“Hold on. I’ll show you something interesting.” I went to the study and pulled out the box of papers I had brought from my mother’s house after she had passed. There was her dog-eared book of hymns. A dusty folder was marked by her handwriting:
Joachim Dinwall – Life and Death

There was their marriage certificate, the framed photo from his boot camp graduation, which my mother had kept by her bedside until she died, and some stuff from his high school days—report cards, basketball scores, a few class photos, and letters of reference from teachers, to be attached to his future college applications. I had read through the letters many years ago, and they left me with mixed feelings. The banality of the formulaic praise, garnished with superlatives about his
unmatchable
intellect,
unbeatable
motivation, and
unquestionable
academic potential, all of it took on a somber undertone considering the tragedy of his unrequited optimism.

But the letter I pulled out wasn’t banal or optimistic. It was still in its original envelope, torn along the edge, but I knew its content by heart.

Back in the kitchen, I unfolded the brittle page and showed it to Mordechai. It was addressed to my mother and was very short, especially considering its long-term implications for her and the baby boy she was carrying when the letter was delivered by two fresh-faced officers in pressed uniforms, mirrored sunglasses, and a brown staff car that waited for them with the doors open, the engine running, and the radio playing.

Dear Mrs. Dinwall,

John H. Chafee, Secretary of the Navy

Debra, who was reading it over Mordechai’s shoulder, became teary. She had a good heart, my daughter. Perhaps it would be better if she gave up the study of medicine and became a housewife, saving herself a lifetime of excruciating encounters with ailing patients and anxious families. I hugged her. “You’re his only descendent, and I failed to tell you whatever little facts I knew about him.”

“Joachim is a biblical name,” Mordechai said. “King Joachim ruled over Judea. The Hebrew name is a combination of two words:
Jehovah
and
Raise
. Together, his name implies that God has elevated him to be king. It’s a wonderful name.”

“Thank you,” I said. “It was also the name of Mary’s father in the New Testament, which means Joachim was the grandfather of Jesus Christ.”

“That man never existed,” Mordechai said. “The name Joshua was very common, and I’m sure there were many religious and political figures named Joshua during Roman times. But the church stories about him are all imaginary, pure fiction. Those so-called apostles invented a bunch of miracles and resurrections, which often contradicted each other. They contrived fictional gospels about a son of God to justify committing sins against the holy Torah with impunity.”

“
Isn’t faith an act of believing in things that can’t be proven?”

“
God gives each person free choice, and gullible fools can choose to believe in nonsense.”

“That’s a bit harsh,” I said. “More than two billion people believe in Jesus Christ. Are they all fools?”

“Billions of people believe in all kinds of bogus ideas,” Mordechai said with a level of confidence I had not seen before. “But the leaders of the church should know better. They grasp onto esoteric sentences in Isaiah, which they mistranslate from Hebrew to fit absurd interpretations, and claim it as evidence that Isaiah supposedly foresaw the arrival of their false messiah.”

“
Your father once told me,” I said, “that in matters of faith, one man’s cherished truth is another man’s kidney stone.”

Debra laughed. “That’s clever.”

“
But it’s not about faith,” Mordechai insisted, still serious. “It’s about the Christians distorting the Old Testament illogically. How could that man be the Messiah? Isaiah and the other prophets said clearly that the real Messiah would bring about a new world order, with peace and justice for all, especially for the Jewish people, who will gather back to Israel and rebuild God’s temple in Jerusalem. But the exact opposite happened during and after his so-called arrival, so how could their Joshua be a messiah?”

“They believe he is their spiritual savior, that it takes time—”

“Savior?” Mordechai sneered. “Even according to their gospels, that poor schmuck couldn’t even save himself. How could he save others, let along the whole of humanity?”

“The world still needed repairing. We weren’t ready to accept him. I think that’s the reason Christians believe that he died and awaits resurrection.”

“We didn’t accept him, so he gave up? What, he got scared of a bunch of quizzical Jews? Intimidated by how much repairing the world needed? It was too much for him?” Mordechai shook his head in mock regret. “Poor little savior. How sad!”

Rebecca entered the kitchen and took my breath away.

“Mom,” Debra said, “you look incredible!”

“Oh, you don’t have to.” My wife flipped her hair playfully.

“Wow!” I found my voice. “Look at you!”

“What?” She turned in a full circle. “I just threw on something from the closet.”

The
something
was a dress that came down to her ankles, with sleeves that covered her elbows, and a cleavage that barely showed her throat. But the straight, goody-two-shoes lines of this very traditional dress contrasted with its dramatic, fire-engine red color and satin-like material that glistened with her every move. Her body was slim, but years of weight lifting to counter the threat of brittle bones, which had killed her mother, gave Rebecca muscle tone that fit her intense personality and constant motion. Add to that her thick mane of hair, which had remained jet-black with the aid of modern cosmetology, and her sculpted facial bones, covered with skin that was kept tight and glowing with the best Lancôme had to offer, and the result was my petite-yet-fierce wife, stunning and ready for battle.

Mordechai handed the letter back to me. “Thank you for sharing it,” he said gravely.

“What’s this?” Rebecca glanced at the letter. “Oh, I remember. You took it out once, when my parents were visiting.”

“That was memorable.” I folded it.

Debra asked, “What happened?”

“Nothing,” Rebecca said.

“
My father’s name,” I said, “reminded Grandpa Greenbaum of Joachim von Ribbentrop, the Nazi foreign minister who was hanged as a war criminal after the Nuremberg trials.”

“Oy.” Debra cradled her cheek in a manner that seemed too old for her years. “He really said that?”

I slipped the letter back into the envelope. “Grandpa Greenbaum’s world was divided into two camps. The tiny camp of plucky Jews, who had survived for centuries despite constant attacks, and the huge camp of the worldwide gentile mob whose thirst for Jewish blood has been unquenchable. And guess in which camp I belonged according to your grandpa?”

“That’s not true.” Rebecca collected her purse and phone. “You were always paranoid about my parents, but they really loved you.”

“They
tolerated
me. There’s a big difference.”

I went to the study and kneeled by the filing cabinet to return the letter to the file. I lingered there, consumed by doubts. Was Rebecca right? Was I paranoid about the people around me, seeing rejection where love existed? In a little while, we would drive up to the synagogue, where the three people who constituted my whole family were expecting to celebrate a time-honored Sheva Brachot dinner. But in addition to the happy friends, elaborate dishes of kosher food, and predictable congratulations, they would find a synagogue decorated for Christmas, plus a church delegation headed by Father Donne.

Standing up, I held on to the cabinet, my legs weary under the weight of physical fatigue and mental stress. I opened the window and rested my elbows on the sill, a light breeze cooling my face. Clearly the power nap in the bathtub hadn’t done the job. If I could only get a good night’s sleep, everything would clear up. I needed to think!

But my train had already left the station, my Jeep had crossed the Rubicon, and my water had gone under the bridge. All these clichés applied to my situation. I had made a choice to act, based on the limited information available to me, same as I had done with countless medial patients. In my profession, you didn’t recede into indecision when the patient was already prostrated on the table, his chest open, his heart iced, waiting for new veins—or death.

My mind flipped through the images of the past few days. I thought of Pinky and her crew and Jose’s apprehension. They had surely finished all the installations, lit every bulb, and hung every trinket on the green boughs. The tables were set, the food steaming on the trays, and the rabbi in the hospital. How could I back down now? I had taken it all too far for chickening out. Was I making the biggest mistake of my life? Only if I lose my nerves and optimism! It was up to me whether tonight’s Christmas Nosh would succeed or not. I could lie down on the floor and fall asleep right now. But how could I let all my efforts go to naught?

I filled my lungs with air and shut the window. It was time.

The three of them followed me down the hallway, high heels clicking on the tiles, Mordechai buttoning his jacket. I held the front door open for them. “Ladies and gentleman, start your engines!”

“You’re chirpy all of a sudden,” Rebecca said, waiting for me to unlock the car.

I thumbed the key fob, and the Volvo’s lights blinked. “What’s a team without a cheerleader?”

The Little Drummer Boy

We drove down Scottsdale Road, the hardtop closed to protect Rebecca’s hairdo. I became apprehensive. A few more turns, and we would arrive at the synagogue. How would they react? My heart beat faster, and the interior of the car grew smaller, closing in on me. I turned up the AC and directed the vents at my face.