Joshua: A Brooklyn Tale (16 page)

CHAPTER 16
 

Rachel Weissman and Esther Mandlebaum tried to be inconspicuous as they stood across the street from the main entrance of the Kingsbrook Jewish Hospital. They’d been waiting several hours, and Esther was growing impatient. “Just a few more minutes,” Rachel pleaded, “I’m sure she’ll be coming out soon.”

Rachel was referring to Doctor Marcia Schiffman, the wondrous young resident Rachel saw as possessing all the things she wanted for herself. Over the past few months, Rachel had replayed her encounter with Doctor Schiffman for Esther
ad
nauseam
until, finally, Esther had agreed to see for herself what the big deal was. Of course, Esther thought Rachel was crazy, these plans of becoming a doctor and all, but figured that she should at least humor her friend. After all, Esther had crazy dreams of her own.

“Look! There she is,” Rachel exclaimed as Doctor Schiffman emerged from the hospital. “Wait! Stand over here, or she’ll see us!” It was too late; the girls had done a poor job at hiding, and Doctor Schiffman happened to be looking their way. Rachel was nervous, but figured the doctor wouldn’t recognize her; it was so long ago.

But Marcia Schiffman’s face lit up when she saw Rachel. It was hard for her to forget the young Hasidic girl who showed so much interest. Rachel saw Schiffman’s smile from across the street, and felt embarrassed.

“Oh,
Gut’n
himmel,
God in heaven, she’s coming this way,” Rachel said. “What if she suspects we’ve been spying on her?”

“Don’t worry so much, dear,” Esther said. “We haven’t been spying on anyone. We’ve just been out for a stroll.”

Rachel knew that the excuse was lame; this side of the neighborhood had changed much over the past few years; it was no place for Hasidic girls to be “strolling.” But Rachel also knew that Esther could pull off almost anything.

“Hi,” Doctor Schiffman said, approaching the girls.

Rachel said a faint hello, looking to Esther for help. Doctor Schiffman saw that Rachel was anxious. “I remember you,” Schiffman said, pointing a friendly finger at Rachel, “but I must apologize; I don’t remember your name.”

“Rachel Weissman,” Rachel answered, trying to conceal her nervousness.

“Yes, Rachel with the broken ankle,” the doctor remarked, smiling.

Rachel prayed for Esther to jump in. “This is my friend, Esther Mandlebaum, the one whose steps I fell on,” Rachel said. She turned to Esther: “This is Doctor Schiffman, the doctor who took care of me.”

“Ah yes,” mused Schiffman, recalling the details of Rachel’s accident. “Nice to meet you,” she said.

“Nice to meet
you
,” Esther responded.

“What brings you girls around here?” the doctor asked.

“Oh, we were just out walking,” Esther answered. “We come by this way all the time.”

Rachel nodded in agreement. Marcia Schiffman nodded too.

“And we should be getting home,” Esther added, glancing at her wristwatch. “It’s almost dinner time.”

Rachel looked at her watch and concurred.

“Well, if you do this much walking, your ankle must have healed nicely,” Schiffman observed.

“Oh, it has,” Rachel said, feeling foolish.

“I’m glad,” the doctor said, “but I think you girls should let me drive you home. It’s getting late and you probably shouldn’t be out walking these streets at this hour.”

Rachel looked at Esther.

Esther shrugged her shoulders, but Rachel knew she was disappointed. The original plan had been to stop by the park on the way home. But it was late, and Doctor Schiffman was right about walking the streets.

The three of them huddled into a two-door Datsun. The ride was short. Rachel and Esther were quiet, but Marcia Schiffman struck up small talk about what the girls were learning in school. When they pulled up in front of Esther’s house, Marcia Schiffman said, “It was nice meeting you, Esther.”

“It was nice meeting you, too, Doctor Schiffman,” Esther replied.

Rachel followed Esther, and also exchanged good-byes with Schiffman. The girls walked toward the house, when Rachel suddenly stopped, turned around, and called out to Schiffman as the car was about to pull away.

“What are you doing?” asked Esther.

“Wait here a minute!” Rachel said, running back to the car.

Rachel leaned through the passenger window. “I was just wondering,” Rachel began nervously, stopping to catch her breath. “I was… wondering if I could come by the hospital to visit some time?”

“You mean to volunteer?” Schiffman asked.

“Something like that.”

“Well, that’s an excellent idea. The hospital is always looking for young volunteers. Let me give you the phone number of the director of volunteers. I’ll talk to him and tell him to expect your call. I’ll even try to get you assigned to me in the emergency room. You’ll like it, there’s always a lot going on, a lot to learn.”

Rachel didn’t know what to say. She was beside herself. The thought of working closely with Doctor Schiffman was overwhelming, a dream come true, and a step closer to her ultimate aspiration of becoming a doctor. The only problem would be convincing her parents. But she couldn’t think about that just yet, she would deal with it later. For now, all she wanted to think about was this wonderful day.

Paul Sims sat in the study hall, breaking his teeth over a page of Talmud. The schedule in the yeshiva was grueling: up at five, breakfast at five-thirty, religious studies at six, prayer at nine, Talmud classes at ten, lunch at twelve. Afternoons were for secular subjects, and evenings were for reviewing the morning’s Talmud lecture.

He was finding it difficult to stay awake. His mind raced with thoughts of Rachel Weissman. The last time he saw her was a week earlier, when the Rabbi had invited him for
Shabbos
dinner.

Suddenly, his parents came to mind. Strangely, he missed them. He had to admit that absence did do something to the heart after all.

He also missed the creature comforts of his Hewlett Harbor home. It was difficult adjusting to the tiny dorm room with the linoleum floor and squeaky beds. The worst thing was sharing with a roommate, especially one as saintly as Meir Rosenzweig, the upper classman he’d been paired with. It was policy in the yeshiva to team up freshmen with veterans, thereby assuring proper influences at all times.

Meir was two years ahead of Paul and, like all students at Yeshiva O’havei Torah, from a non-Orthodox home. He was tall, with a scraggly beard covering much of his face, and tortoiseshell glasses. He was also soft-spoken and likeable, two characteristics Paul appreciated. What Paul didn’t appreciate was not being able to lie in bed at night, think about Rachel, and indulge in a little harmless masturbation. For such was not so harmless in the sanctified world of the yeshiva.

There were a few occasions on which he’d managed to steal some time alone in a bathroom stall, but he always had to be quick about it, for there was the constant danger of someone barging in. He knew he would have been better off not thinking about her. All it brought him was frustration. But he couldn’t help it.

All in all, yeshiva life took some getting used to. He was determined, however, to do what he had to do, anything to make him more acceptable to Rachel Weissman. In that, he was single minded.

CHAPTER 17
 

Elija Williams was buried on Thursday, May 20, 1965. Present at his funeral were his son Jerome, his wife Mary, Alfred Sims, Loretta Eubanks, and several other tenants from his building. Reverend Jameson Sharp officiated, and the reverend’s family was also in attendance. Celeste Williams was nowhere to be found, and Joshua Eubanks was being held in the juvenile division of the Brooklyn House of Detention.

The magnanimous Mr. Alfred Sims secured an attorney for Joshua—a specialist in criminal law—at his own expense. Joshua felt uneasy about Mr. Sims’ occasional involvement in his life. He also didn’t want a lawyer. He was planning to plead guilty and accept his punishment.

Mr. Arthur Rothman, the lawyer, had introduced himself to Joshua in the prison conference room the morning after the killing. Rothman was short and stocky, sharply dressed, with thick salt and pepper hair, deep brown eyes, and a cleft in his chin. “You’re mother’s employer, Alfred Sims, has asked me to look into this case and see if I can represent you,” was the first thing he said.

Rothman placed his briefcase on the table, removed a legal pad and some other papers, and took a fancy black fountain pen from the breast pocket of his three piece, charcoal-gray suit jacket.

“I don’t need any lawyer,” Joshua stated, “and I don’t need favors from some white guy just because my mama works for him!”

“I suppose you’re planning on defending yourself,” Rothman responded.

“No I ain’t. I did what I did, and that’s that. No two ways about it. I don’t need a trial or a lawyer. I’m ready to go to jail.”

Rothman leaned over the table and brought his face closer to Joshua’s. He lowered his tone to a whisper and responded, “Oh yes, I understand, you want to be a martyr. You killed your girlfriend’s daddy, and now you feel bad about it, so you want your just desserts. You want to take what’s coming to you, so you’ll feel like a man, and your girlfriend—wherever she is—will think you’re a man. And when you get out—if you ever do—the two of you can march into the sunset, and everything will be okay because you’ll have paid your debt.

“Well, let me tell you a few things so you understand. First,
nobody
is going to send you away for nearly the amount of time you’ll need to purge your conscience. And you know why?” He hesitated, observing Joshua’s dumbstruck expression, then continued, “
Because
nobody
gives
a
shit
! See, in this world, when one black guy kills another black guy, everybody’s happy because there’s one less black guy. What they really want to do is give you a medal or something, but instead they’ll send you away for a few years so it looks right.

“Now, I’m here only because my friend, Alfred Sims, asked me to be. It isn’t exactly my hobby defending kids like you. If you really want me to go, I will, but just realize that whether you want a lawyer or not, the court’s going to appoint one, probably some idiot public defender with an overgrown caseload. He’ll likely get you two years in some juvie pisspot like Spofford and you’ll be out by your eighteenth birthday, not exactly a lifetime if you get my drift. So if you’re planning on being a martyr, you better find another way.”

Rothman saw that he had Joshua’s attention. “See, I think probation is a definite possibility here. First, the guy you killed was a first class dirt-bag, and everybody knows it. Second, according to the facts I have, it’s pretty clear you killed him in self defense.”

“That ain’t true!” Joshua responded. “I went there to kill him. I could have left him on the floor. He was still breathing, but he was out cold. I didn’t have to do it.” He felt his body tremble as he spoke. Tears welled up in his eyes. “I murdered him,” he muttered.

Rothman looked into Joshua’s eyes, placed his hands on Joshua’s shoulders, and said, “Listen kid! He attacked you
first
, and that’s what matters. As for these thoughts you had in your mind, I suggest you keep them to yourself! Like I said, nobody gives a shit. That is, nobody, except your poor mother. And I’m sure it would destroy her to see you go to jail.

“I don’t know about your girlfriend. No one’s seen or heard from her, and I wonder if anyone ever will. But your mother, I’m sure she would like
you
to let
me
do my job. So why not keep a lid on all this talk about being guilty, and I’ll keep you posted.”

Without even waiting for a reply, Rothman quickly gathered his papers, stood up, and walked towards the door. The guard opened the door for him.

Joshua contemplated Rothman’s point.
Nobody
gives
a
shit
! He couldn’t argue with that.

Rothman stepped out into the hallway, and as the door was about to close, Joshua called his name. The guard held the door as Rothman peered back into the room. Joshua stared at the lawyer for a second, hesitating. Rothman looked at him impatiently.

“Do what you have to,” Joshua said.

CHAPTER 18
 

Rachel Weissman sat pensively at the dinner table.

“Rucheleh, is something bothering you?” her father asked.

Her mother also looked concerned.

Rachel knew she couldn’t hide her feelings from them much longer. She would have to say something,
but
what
?

“No Papa, everything is fine. I’m just worried about my finals in school.”

“Well, no need to worry. You’ll do just fine,” her mother reassured her.

They resumed eating.

“Well, there is
something,
” Rachel said.

Hannah and Isaac looked at her. They had been suspecting for a while that there might be an issue concerning boys. Hasidic girls usually started dating at sixteen in order to marry young and have lots of children. Soon it would be time to contact the matchmaker. They wondered if Rachel was anxious about that.

“I mean, it’s no big deal,” Rachel continued, “it’s just something I would like to do and I’m not sure how you will feel about it.”

Isaac looked at Hannah, then back at Rachel. “Vell, ve von’t know how ve’ll feel until you tell us vhat it is.” He always spoke gently, and at moments like this, it only made things harder.

“Well,” Rachel began hesitantly, “I saw Doctor Schiffman from the hospital. You remember her Mama?”

Hannah nodded.

“Esther and I were just taking a walk and we happened to pass the hospital,” Rachel continued, figuring that a small “white” lie was harmless.

“What were you doing in that part of the neighborhood?” Hannah asked, her tone more acerbic than the rabbi would ever have been.

“We didn’t even realize where we were. We were just walking, and got so involved in conversation, next thing we knew we were in front of the hospital.”

Isaac and Hannah didn’t completely buy it, though they did know that when Rachel and Esther were together, the two girls often seemed as if they
were
in another world. They kept silent, awaiting the rest of the story.

“Then, you wouldn’t believe it,” Rachel continued. “Doctor Schiffman just happened to be coming out as we were passing. She remembered me and said hello. She offered us a ride home because it was getting late.”

Rachel saw that her parents were growing impatient. She went on, “Well, in the car, Doctor Schiffman asked us about school and all. I told her that science was my best subject. One thing led to another, and she ended up inviting me to visit her at the hospital. You know, watch her work, help out, stuff like that. She said I could officially become a volunteer.”

“Did she make the same offer to Esther?” Hannah interjected.

“No, I suppose not.” Tentative. “I mean, she probably would have, but I guess she saw that Esther wasn’t interested.”

“I suppose she did,” Hannah responded.

Rachel was hoping her father would offer something, but he was still digesting it all. That was his way.

“Well, there isn’t anything wrong with volunteering at the hospital; it’s a mitzvah to visit the sick, isn’t it Papa?”

“Yes, Rucheleh,
bikur
cholim
is a great mitzvah,” the rabbi answered. “But volunteering in a hospital is something else, no? It vould take time avay from your studies, yes?”

“Oh, Papa, I promise it wouldn’t. You know how good I am about my studies. I wouldn’t let anything interfere with them. And soon it will be summer…”

“But you have plans for the summer,” Hannah interrupted. “You’re going to be a counselor in the Beis Rivka day camp.”

“But I’ve been going there since I was five. Can’t I do something else, something new?”

Regardless of how reasonable it sounded, Rachel knew she was asking for something that was unusual for a Hasidic girl. There was no way it would sit well with Isaac and Hannah. All her life, they’d shielded her from Gentiles and Jews who weren’t Orthodox. That was their job, as dutiful Hasidic parents, to protect her from the “poisonous” influences of the outside world. And now she wanted a piece of that world, however small. There was no telling what she would see.

Isaac and Hannah looked at one another, neither appearing enthusiastic.

“Okay,” the rabbi said, “but under vone condition!”

“Yes Papa, anything.” Excitement.

“Before you start, I vant to speak vith this Doctor Schiffman.”

Rachel had expected as much. Her father needed to make sure that Doctor Schiffman was aware that there were certain things that a Hasidic girl shouldn’t be exposed to, medicine or not. “I’m sure Doctor Schiffman would love to meet you, Papa,” Rachel responded, avoiding eye contact with her mother.

Rachel had won this little battle. The rabbi had no idea that this was only the beginning, but Hannah suspected otherwise. She knew Rachel differently than Isaac did, the way that only a mother could know a child. She had sensed Rachel’s discontentment in the past—whether from Rachel’s fascination with science and other secular subjects, or her relationship with Esther Mandlebaum—and it had often given her cause for concern. She had overheard the girls making fun of the Hasidic boys. Until now, she’d dismissed it all as the playful musings of adolescents, and had believed that her daughter would one day come to value the piety of the young Hasidic scholars, many of whom would be lining up to take her hand in marriage. But now Hannah wasn’t so certain. Now, she was frightened.

Hannah could hide her feelings from Isaac, but not from Rachel, who was as perceptive about her mother as her mother was about her. The two women looked at one another, each understanding exactly what the other was thinking. And even Isaac’s naiveté wouldn’t last very long.

It was three-thirty, a half hour after school had let out at the Hewlett Bay Academy. Doctor Harold Goldman sat at his desk, finishing up paper work, eager to enjoy the beautiful spring afternoon with his five mile run. Goldman ran three times a week, religiously, even in the dead of winter. He only relished it, however, on days like this.

The other two afternoons, Mondays and Wednesdays, he spent seeing private patients in an office he sublet from another psychologist in the nearby town of Hewlett. He looked outside his window, and thanked God it was Tuesday. This was no day to be cooped up with patients and problems.

He was just about finished, ready to go, already in his shorts and T-shirt, when someone knocked on his door. He answered, “Yes,” wondering who was still in school at this hour. He thought it was probably one of the teachers working late, coming to discuss a student. This occasionally happened when he stuck around too long, but he knew how to deal with it. A few words, maybe a joke or two, and “We’ll talk it over tomorrow, at lunch or something.” He could be quite smooth when necessary.

The door opened, and so did Harold Goldman’s mouth when he saw his visitor. “Oh, Mrs. Sims,” he reacted, unable to contain his surprise. “Please, come in, take a seat.” Harold Goldman had met Evelyn Sims only once, at a family conference about Paul. He sensed then, as he did now, that she was a deeply troubled woman.

Evelyn anxiously sat herself down. By the look on her face, Harold Goldman knew that his run was cancelled.

There was a brief moment of silence before Evelyn said, “I’m sorry to have barged in on you like this.”

“Oh no, it’s quite all right. What can I do for you?”

“I’m not sure, really. I just… I’ve been feeling like I need to talk about things.”

Goldman looked at her curiously. She seemed different from when he had last seen her, and very much unlike the person Paul had described. But it was always this way in Harold Goldman’s business, people ended up being other than expected. He wasn’t surprised.

“It sounds like you’re not certain why you’re here, but you feel you should be,” Goldman observed.

“I suppose that’s it.” Tentative.

“Well, what are these ‘things’ you want to talk about.”

“I don’t really know. I’m sorry, maybe I shouldn’t have come,” she said more definitively, rising from her chair.

“Wait, please sit.” He indicated the chair.

She complied.

“I know this is hard for you, but if there’s any way I can be of help, I’d like to.”

She looked directly into his eyes. “You know, I’m not as terrible as you probably think I am,” she said sadly, her hands trembling.

“I don’t think…”

“Please, don’t lie to me, Doctor Goldman. I’m not a stupid woman. I won’t be placated.”

Goldman kept silent.

“I just want to explain things; I
need
to explain things.”

“Do you feel it’s your fault that Paul left?” Goldman asked.

“Of course it’s my fault!
Everything
is my fault! I’m the boy’s mother after all, whose fault could it be?”

Goldman was taken aback. “I guess you could say that, but there are other ways to look at it.”

“I’m a very unhappy woman; I suppose you already know that.” Tears were forming in her eyes.

Goldman nodded.

“I know that’s a poor excuse, but it’s the only one I have.”

“Maybe it’s not as ‘poor’ as you think.”

Evelyn thought about that. “My husband,” she began, then hesitated. She wasn’t sure how far she should go with this man, this stranger who knew so much, yet so little, about her life. “My husband cheats on me,” she said, not completely aware if the words had really come out. She’d suspected for years, but had never voiced it.

“You’re certain?” he asked sympathetically.

“Certain,” Evelyn reflected, “that’s a funny word. I suppose I’m not exactly ‘certain,’ but I’m pretty damn close. Call it—intuition.”

“Based on?”

“Based on years of knowing the man I live with.” She became pensive again. “It started in the beginning of our marriage, maybe even earlier. He was in the war and all, and I guess it did something to his head. Or maybe it was his mother; she’s something else. I’m no expert like you, but I’ve heard that war and crazy mothers can screw up a man’s head.”

“They most certainly can,” Goldman said with a faint smile. He didn’t want to interject too much; he wanted her to tell her story.

“Well, we had what I suppose was a normal sex life, at least in the beginning, but after a while, it happened less often. It wasn’t long before he lost interest. I thought he was impotent; at least that’s what I wanted to believe. I guess I just couldn’t accept that he didn’t want me anymore. He started coming home late in the evenings, working on weekends, and things like that. A typical scenario, I know, but I was too stupid—or stubborn—to see it.” Evelyn removed a tissue from her bag and dried her eyes. “You’re the first person I’ve ever told this to.”

“It’s a difficult thing to admit, even to yourself.”

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

“Tell me, Mrs. Sims…”

“Please, call me Evelyn. After what I’ve told you, I think it should be okay to call me Evelyn.”

“Yes, of course. Well, what I was going to ask—and I don’t intend to be callous—but what I wanted to know is why you’ve come to see
me
? Why am
I
the one you chose to reveal this to?”

“That’s a good question. I guess it’s because I needed for you to know that there was another side to the story, that I wasn’t simply a monstrous mother who tortured her son. I’ve had a horrible marriage, I’ve felt worthless, dejected, and things that I cannot even find words to describe. I was desperate, I was—I am—miserable, and I took all of it out on Paul. I know that. I was unfair to him,” she said, sobbing, “and now I’m paying for it.”

“Paying?”

“I’ve lost him, haven’t I?”

“Again, you might say that, but there
are
other ways to look at that too.”

“Like how?”

“Like, perhaps you weren’t as ‘monstrous’ as you think, and perhaps you haven’t lost Paul at all. You can still build a relationship with him.” Goldman waited for a response, but there was none. “Look Evelyn,” he said, leaning toward her, “Paul has his problems, but he also has some things going for him. First, he’s smart, smarter than most kids his age, and when he’s interested in something, like Judaism, he really gets focused. He’s basically a good kid; he’s not into drugs, crazy music, or breaking the law. I’d say, on the balance, you didn’t do too badly.”

She considered his words. “Yes, you do have a point, Doctor Goldman, but it’s hard for a mother to look at things that way—‘on the balance,’ as you say.”

“It is hard, I concede, but it’s the truth. Just as it’s important for you to give me a complete picture of yourself, it is helpful to have a complete picture of Paul. You only see your disappointments, and because of that, you blame yourself. You’re making the same mistake with Paul that he makes with you.”

“Perhaps.”

Goldman would have preferred a more affirmative response, but this was a start.