Christmas for Joshua - A Novel (8 page)

“
Ah!” Rebecca clapped. “Here comes the bride!”

Debra appeared with Mordechai’s two younger sisters, who carried the trail of her dress. Seeing her in white shocked me with the reality of it, as if until now the whole thing could have been a stage set for a play titled
Debra’s Make-believe Wedding to Brooklyn Mordechai,
as if we were all going to take off the tuxedos and yarmulkes and have a good laugh.

“
Hi, Daddy!” She tilted her head slightly the way she always did.

I blew her a kiss, and she caught it and pressed it to her heart.

We followed Debra to the big chair, where she sat down to greet her wedding guests. I stood next to the decorated throne, held my hands over her head, and recited the prayer that summarized what Jewish fathers wished for their precious children: “
May God bless you and guard you; May God shine His face upon you and judge you kindly; May God watch over you and keep you in peace.
”

“
Amen,” Debra said, looking up at me with glistening eyes.

Everyone around us repeated, “Amen.”

I stepped aside. The foyer opened to the left into a cavernous wedding hall lit with fluorescent chandeliers. The space was divided in half by a lacey partition to keep men and women apart during the celebration. Round tables in cream linen crowded together, set with shining silverware and small plates of lettuce. A path of red carpet crossed the hall to a stage by the opposite wall, where the blue canopy of the chuppah awaited.
My daughter’s chuppah!

I turned to Debra and realized that she’d been watching me while Mordechai’s sisters arranged the trail of the dress around her feet. “Are you okay, Daddy?”

“
Of course.” I swallowed hard. “Couldn’t be better.”

The guests arrived en masse at 7 p.m., a flood of unfamiliar faces that resembled Mordechai’s parents—the men in black, the women in fancy wigs and baggy outfits. The four of us stood at the door to greet them. Dr. Levinson and I shook hands with the men while our wives made small talk with the women. The klezmer band started off with clarinets, a joyous tune that accompanied the guests as they dispersed among the tables—men to the left of the partition, women to the right. They knew the routine as if they attended weddings twice a week, which they probably did.

Finally the small Arizona contingency showed up. Aaron Brutsky jogged toward us with open arms. His wife, Miriam, followed behind with Judy Levy, who carried a large gift-wrapped package, which I hoped wasn’t another artistic mummification of a deceased reptile. Cantor Bentov came last, carrying his colorful prayer shawl under his arm. He was due to recite one of the blessings under the chuppah.

Aaron hugged me, and we slapped each other’s back. Miriam and Judy told Rebecca about the Broadway show they had seen earlier that afternoon, which apparently featured a muscular star in his birthday suit. Cantor Bentov sang the first line of the theme song, and Rebecca hushed him. I would have liked to see more familiar faces among the guests, but the short notice and the holiday season made it difficult for people to travel across the country.

Debra was talking animatedly with each of the guests who lined up to greet her. I was struck by how mature she seemed, so gracious and confident. What else could I hope for? She was happy, right? The rest was unimportant. I recalled her as a little girl, barely taller than my knee, throwing a ball in the backyard. My eyes blurred.

“Hey, kiddo!” Aaron leaned over to kiss Debra, “You look absolutely smashing—”

She dodged him. “No touching, Uncle Aaron!”

He stepped back. “Why not?”

“You know!” She shook a finger, her face beaming. “I already dipped in the mikvah. Tonight, only my new husband can touch me.”

“Ho! Ho! Ho!” Aaron feigned shock. “Did your new husband ever change your diapers? Did he ever bandage your scraped knee? Did he ever beat up your ninth-grade boyfriend?”

“
You didn’t beat up anyone,” Debra protested, laughing.

“
I should have!” He took a flower from a nearby arrangement, kissed it, and tossed it in her lap. “We love you, baby. Go get ’em!”

“
Hee-hah!” Judy made like whipping. “Here comes Arizona!”

“
That’s right,” Miriam cheered. “Watch out, Brooklyn!”

Cantor Bentov inhaled deeply and boomed a musical scale, “
Da, da, da, da, da, da, daaaaaah!
”

We had a big laugh just as a hush fell over the chattering crowd and the lively band.

“
Blessed be He,” Dr. Levinson said. “Rabbi Mintzberg is here!” He rushed past us toward the entrance, where an old man with a white beard surveyed the foyer through thick, black-rimmed glasses.

Deck the Halls

Aaron agreed to accompany me as a witness for the signing of the ketubah, a traditional Jewish marriage contract scribed in Aramaic and Hebrew. I had also signed a ketubah at my wedding, though ours was written in English by the female Reform rabbi who presided over the ceremony. Rebecca’s father kept blowing his nose and groaning pitifully lest we mistook his wet cheeks for tears of joy. But he did sign our ketubah as the bride’s father, and Rebecca mounted the framed parchment on our kitchen wall. Sometimes, when we discussed money, she pointed to the yellowing document and declared: “You still owe me a thousand shekels!” And I’d pretend to pull the ancient coins of Judea from my pocket and toss them at her. Watching Debra and the circle of well-wishers, I wondered if she and Mordechai would continue to enjoy each other for as long as Rebecca and I had managed to.

We put on the black-felt yarmulkes, embroidered in gold:
Debra & Mordechai’s Wedding.

Inside the ketubah room, Mordechai stood up to welcome us. He looked even younger than on Skype, a mere boy in a black tuxedo and a large yarmulke over a fresh haircut that left his ears exposed prominently while a thick lock of hair came down to his eyebrows, trimmed in a straight line. He shook my hand with a sweaty palm and cold fingers. “An honor to meet you, Dr. Dinwall.”

“
Great to see you in person,” I said. “You have a beautiful bride waiting for you out there.”

Mordechai glanced at the door with longing that melted away any reservations I still had.

“
Meet Dr. Brutsky,” I introduced him to Aaron. “We’ve practiced together since we came out of school.”

Aaron took Mordechai’s hand in both hands and gave it a vigorous shaking. “I first met Debra at the moment she opened her eyes. You’re a lucky man!”

“
I know, but I haven’t seen her in a week. It’s very hard.”

“
Don’t worry, kid.” Aaron slapped his shoulder. “You’ll see her every day for the rest of your life. Before you know it, you’ll be sick and tired of seeing the same—”

I elbowed Aaron.

“
What?” He grinned. “I’m just psyching the groom, giving him strength.”

Mordechai seemed oblivious to Aaron’s humor. He sat down and resumed reading from the prayer book. He must have been obeying some Orthodox rules. Was he required to recite a set number of verses before the marriage could take place?

We stepped aside.

“
Nice kid,” Aaron whispered. “Has he had his Bar Mitzvah yet?”

“
Don’t be stupid,” I said. “He’s a senior in college.”

“
That means nothing. I’ve read about a twelve-year-old who graduated from Duke
summa cum libidio
.”

The last words Aaron said loud enough for Mordechai to hear, and we both turned to look at him. Nothing. He was completely focused on murmuring the verses from the book.

“
A righteous boy,” Aaron said. “Shouldn’t we also be praying?”

“
Too bad Rabbi Rachel isn’t here. She’d know the protocol.”

“
It’s better she stayed in Arizona.”

“
Why?”

“
She would stick out like a bagel on Yom Kippur.” Aaron squeezed my arm. “I spoke with her earlier. She sent her love and blessings, but I could tell she was hurting—the president of the synagogue is marrying his daughter, and the rabbi can’t attend.”

“
Are you trying to make me feel worse?”

Aaron grinned. “Don’t worry. An e-mail has already gone out to the congregation to remind everyone of the Sheva Brachot dinner on Thursday. Rabbi Rachel thinks we’ll have at least a hundred people or even more.”

“
Better be more. Rebecca ordered enough food for an army.”

Dr. Levinson came in with Rabbi Mintzberg and his stocky assistant, who took their seats at the table. I sat across from the rabbi, Aaron on my left, Mordechai and his father on my right. The klezmer music filtered through the closed door as if trying to inject jolly into this somber, ancient ritual in which the bride’s father transferred ownership of his daughter to the groom, who assumed legal responsibility for her living expenses and wellbeing.

“
Rabbi,” Dr. Levinson said, “this is the bride’s father.”

“
Mazal Tov.” Rabbi Mintzberg’s round spectacles focused on Aaron. “God has blessed your daughter with a fine, fine match—”

“
That’s the father.” Aaron pointed at me.

“
Azoi.
” The rabbi turned to me, smoothing his white beard. “Mazal Tov to you, then. Your daughter is blessed in joining such a wonderful family.”

“
Thank you, Rabbi,” I said. “The blessing is mutual. We’re grateful to Hashem.”

His gnarled, tremulous hands unrolled a large parchment and held it flat on the table before us. The letters resembled the script of a Torah scroll. “You are here today,” he said, “representing your daughter in executing this ketubah, by which you agree to transfer her from your possession to her husband’s, yes?”

I nodded.

“
It is the greatest mitzvah,” Rabbi Mintzberg continued, “bringing your daughter under the chuppah.” He closed his eyes and chanted, “May God reward you with the joy of grandchildren and great-grandchildren, who will grow up to a life of Torah and good deeds.”

We all chorused, “Amen!”

The assistant, swaying as if in prayer, read from the ketubah, starting with Mordechai’s ancestry and continuing with Debra: “The bride, the virtuous virgin, Debra, daughter of Rebecca, daughter of Leah and Melvin Greenbaum of Warsaw, Poland, later of the Bronx, New York.”

The reason for the long description of Debra’s ancestry, I knew, was to satisfy the Jewish hereditary test of a kosher Jew, based on her maternal line.

The assistant switched to Aramaic, except for numbers, which he recited in English, setting forth Mordechai’s future monetary obligations to Debra. It went on for ten minutes. Then it was time for signing.

The rabbi’s assistant signed as a witness for Mordechai, who then executed the ketubah deliberately, his fingers slightly trembling. In an hour or so, my daughter would bear his last name:
Debra Levinson.

“
And the name of the bride’s father’s witness?” Rabbi Mintzberg looked at Aaron.

“
Aaron, son of Golda and Herschel.”

“
Last name?”

“
Brutsky.”

“
Broo-tseh-kee?
” The rabbi creased his eyes. “Let’s see now. From Galicia?”

“
That’s right,” Aaron said. “My father came from the Zmigrod Shtetl before the war. My mother is from Bialystok.”

I watched the assistant’s pen travel slowly, drawing the Hebrew letters on the parchment. He turned the ketubah around, pointing. “Sign here.”

Aaron signed, handed me the pen, and winked. “Ready to dance?”

The rabbi cleared his throat. “And where is the
yid
from?”

“
I live in Arizona,” Aaron said. “But I grew up in Lakewood, New Jersey.”

“
Azoi.
” Rabbi Mintzberg nodded. “Which synagogue?”

“
Rabbi Ackerman’s.”

“
A Hasidic boy?” Rabbi Mintzberg clicked his tongue. “Well, nobody’s perfect, yah?”

Mordechai and his father laughed, and the rabbi’s assistant said, “Could be worse!”

“
And the father?” The old rabbi looked at me, his eyes large and watery through the thick lenses. “Also from a
Hasidischer
stock?”

“
No,” I said. “A regular Jew. My Hebrew name is Reuben, son of Abraham and Sarah.” This was the way I was called up to the Torah at the synagogue. The parents of every convert to Judaism were Abraham and Sarah, the ancestral parents of the Jewish nation, and Rabbi Rachel had chosen Reuben for me as it shared a first letter with my nickname, Rusty.

The assistant scribbled the Hebrew letters carefully. “Family name?”

“
Dinwall,” I said, and spelled it out of habit, “D-I-N-W-A-L-L.”

“
Deen-Aeh-Oyl?
” Rabbi Mintzberg creased his forehead. “A Littvak name, yah?”

I shook my head.

“
Hungarian?” The rabbi’s eyes lit up. “A Gurr Hasid?”

“
Not really. My father’s family originated in Scotland.”

“
Say-cott-lund?
” Rabbi Mintzberg pursed his lips. “
Azoi?
”