Since You Left Me (6 page)

“Don’t talk to him.”

“He might need an ear.”

“He doesn’t need an ear. He needs an antidepressant.”

“You never want to get involved, Sanskrit. That’s not service.
HaShem
would have us be of service.”

“I’ve got enough problems. I can’t take on God’s problems, too. If
HaShem
is all-powerful, why does he need my help?”

Herschel looks at me with that pitying look on his face. He not only found God in Israel; he found superiority.

The class shuffles out of the room. I notice Barry Goldwasser falls in next to The Initials.

“I saw you davening this morning,” he says. “Very nice.”

Davening. That’s what we do during the mandatory morning prayer service—rock back and forth as we
talk to
HaShem
. I like to sneak peeks at The Initials davening through the divider that separates the guys and girls while we’re praying. She really gets into it, her eyes closed, her breath coming in little gasps.

“You shouldn’t be watching the girls during prayer,” The Initials says.

“Not the girls,” Barry says. “Just you.”

The Initials smiles.

Ugh. Another reason to hate Barry.

For the next few days, most of the school will be praying for the Zuckermans, asking God to help my mother, asking him to be with my family as we struggle through this trying time.

And me?

I’ll be thinking about other things like I always do during prayers.

Nobody would confuse me with a religious kid. That’s because I hate B-Jew, and I’m not exactly subtle about it. Not everyone loves the religious part of school, but even the most cynical of them can admit we’ve got great academics, a cool faculty, lots of extracurriculars.

None of that matters to me. I just feel trapped.

It’s because I never chose this place. It was chosen for me.

For that, I can thank my grandfather, Zadie Zuckerman.

“Your grandpa was a real mamzer bastard.”

That’s what my father said one day when I was ten years old. We were in Roxbury Park watching the lawn bowling tournament. It’s a Los Angeles tradition. Old men dress in white and lawn bowl in the middle of Beverly Hills. I guess the men reminded my father of Abe Zuckerman, my grandfather who we called Zadie. He had died a few weeks before. My father cried like a baby at his funeral, but the minute it was over he seemed fine, even happy.

“Your zadie was a tough old bastard,” Dad said. “A real survivor.”

“I know,” I say, but I didn’t know much. We weren’t allowed to ask about the war, and Zadie hardly ever mentioned it. He always wore long-sleeve shirts to cover the number tattooed on his forearm when he was twelve years old.

“I’ve got something to tell you about your zadie,”
my father said. “There’s good news and bad news.”

“Good news first,” I said.

I was ten, but I was no idiot.

“The good news is that your grandfather had some money. In fact a good deal of money. You know your zadie was in the
shmata
business.”

“Terry cloth,” I said.

“That’s right,” Dad said. “The West Coast king of terry.”

I knew this because I had more bathrobes than any kid I’d ever met.

“Terry bought us our house,” Dad said. “And it made a very nice life for your zadie.”

I started to get excited. “Are we rich?” I said, because plenty of ten-year-olds in Brentwood had cell phones then, and I didn’t have one. No cell phone, no new clothes, but more fuzzy towels than the Beverly Hills Hotel.

“We are not rich,” Dad says. “A long way from it. But you, son, are in good shape. Your zadie put money in a trust for you.”

As it turns out, that was the bad news.

“Now let me tell you why your grandfather was a mamzer bastard,” my father said.

Calling someone a mamzer bastard is a little redundant, like calling them a “bastard bastard,” which doesn’t make a lot of sense. But that’s exactly what my father said. I remember very well.

“Why was he a mamzer?” I asked.

“Your trust has restrictions,” my father said.

“What kind of restrictions?”

“You must use it to get an education.”

“An education is good, right?”

“A
Jewish
education,” my father said.

“What does that mean?” I said.

“It means you’ve got a lot of Hebrew school in front of you, my boy.”

I’d been going to Hebrew school for three hours every Saturday—three of the longest hours of my life. My parents were still married then, and they went to Shabbat services on Saturday mornings to keep Zadie happy. They’d drop us off at Hebrew school beforehand along with the rest of the parents. We’d sit in a circle on the cold linoleum floor singing Jewish songs and being told to
sheket bevakasha
when we couldn’t keep quiet.

If Hebrew school was bad at three hours, what was Jewish school every day going to be like?

“What if I don’t want a Jewish education?” I said to Dad.

“If you don’t want a Jewish education, you don’t get the money,” my father said. “And your mother and I are royally screwed when it comes to tuition payments.”

“But it’s not like the money goes away. It’s still there, right?”

“It’s there, but it’s not for you.”

“Who is it for?”

“Tay-Sachs,” my father said. “It’s a Jewish disease.” That’s got me worried. I had Jewish genes. We all did.

“Do I have Tay-Sachs?” I said.

“You do not have Tay-Sachs,” my father said. “Certainly not. But if you don’t go to Jewish school, your money goes for Tay-Sachs research.”

“So, it’s me or Tay-Sachs,” I said.

“That’s right. Your zadie wants to save all the Jews, and he doesn’t mind screwing his own family in the process.”

I didn’t like the sound of that.

“There’s no free ride in this world,” my father said. “People always want something from you, Sanskrit. I learned my lesson living with your zadie. Every time you rub your tushy with a soft towel in this family, you lose a little part of yourself.”

My grandfather was a mamzer bastard. That proved it.

“They’re girls, not gods.”

Herschel interrupts me while I’m staring at The Initials in the downstairs hallway. She’s bending over and taking books out of her cabinet. That’s what they call lockers in my school. As if changing the word could change the fact that it’s still a door with a lock on it.

I try to look away from her, but I can’t. Or maybe I don’t want to. Maybe I like to suffer.

“Did you hear me?” Herschel says.

I manage to shift my eyes from The Initials to Herschel. It’s not a great trade-off. His head is covered with his favorite oversized black felt yarmulke, a billboard for the devout.

“We all have our loves,” I say. “I have girls. You have the Holy Land.”

“That’s apples and oranges,” Herschel says.

“Or grapefruits in her case,” I say.

Herschel scowls. He used to like talking about girls’
breasts. Now a little fruit metaphor sends him over the edge.

“The way you look at them. It’s not right.”

“How do I look at them?”

“Like you’re seeing
HaShem
.”

“They’re as close to
HaShem
as I get,” I say.

Herschel is accusing me of elevating girls to the level of God. This would be the ultimate in sacrilege, like worshipping golden idols or slaughtering the fatted calf.

“They’re people like us,” Herschel says. “They make mistakes, they struggle.”

“How would you know?” I say.

Herschel hasn’t had a single girlfriend in high school, and since getting back from Israel, he hasn’t wanted one.

“I’m reminding you that Judi is just a girl,” Herschel says.

“Please don’t use her name,” I say, interrupting him.

Because I don’t want to hear it. I don’t even want to hear the syllables come together. Syllables form sounds, sounds create meaning, meaning coalesces into a name—

And this name has the power to destroy me.

A name should not have so much power. Herschel is right about that.

There are other girls in school, cute girls. I get mini crushes from time to time—an Israeli exchange student
passes through or one of the hot girls suddenly gets rebellious and hikes her skirt up an extra inch—but the crushes never last.

Nobody is like The Initials.

That’s why I protect myself from the name. I don’t want to hear it, and I never say it.

Maybe then I won’t think of her so much.

Maybe then I can forget.

“You think you’re number one, but you’re not.”

She bit her lip when she said it. Bit and then licked to soothe the bite, her fists balling up to challenge me.

This is The Initials in second grade. Back when she was just Judi Jacobs. JJ. An annoying girl in my second grade class.

She walked up and challenged me, and we’d barely ever spoken before.

“I’m the best speller in school,” I said. “Now and always.”

“Not anymore,” she said. “I’m going to win the spelling bee this week.”

I laughed in her face. Her ugly, freckled face.

We weren’t in Jewish school then. Zadie wanted my parents to enroll me, but they’d resisted. My mother in particular. She was playing along with being Jewish, but the façade was cracking. She was starting to push back on Zadie. So Judi and I were in public school in
Brentwood, where we were fighting to be at the top of the class.

I looked Judi in the eye. I could still do that then. I was brave.

“You suck at spelling,” I said, which wasn’t technically true. “So I’m not worried.”

“You only got a ninety-six on the quiz last week,” she said.

“I blew one word. Big deal.”

I didn’t question how she knew my score or think about why she was paying attention to me. I took it for granted. How would I have behaved if I’d known it was the Golden Age, and Judi would spend the next eight years ignoring me? She would ignore me in public school, then ignore me even more when we ended up at B-Jew together.

She lifted her arms and flexed her muscles like a weight lifter. If she did that today, I would look at her chest. Pray for the cotton to stretch. Look for the curves beneath her oversized sweater.

But I didn’t look at chests then. I looked girls in the eye. And I hated them. Most of them.

Judi Jacobs in particular.

“We’ll see who’s best at the bee tomorrow,” she said. “Yes, we will,” I said. “JJ!” her friend called her.

I walked away, silently hating her, actively planning her demise. I wanted to see Judi Jacobs suffer. I wanted
her to be ashamed in front of the entire class.

I went home and studied extra hard that night, memorizing every word, making sure I knew the pronunciation and the origin, paying special attention to silent letters that might trip me up.

I woke up the next morning feeling strong and happy, ready to crush her in the spelling bee.

How could I have known that was the beginning of the end?

“This is a trial, but it will pass.”

That’s what the dean says after cornering Herschel and me in the hall. I tell him things have been touch and go with my mom. He stands there looking at me and shaking his head, and I have to pretend I’m really upset. I’m not good at acting, but luckily I’ve got plenty of real things to be upset about. Most of them female.

“I could barely sleep last night,” the dean says. “Your mother wasn’t answering her phone.”

Herschel gives me a look. It’s too much for me. The lying, the silent scorn from Herschel, everyone treating me so nicely.

“I have to tell you something, dean,” I say.

“Aaron,” he says. He puts a hand on my shoulder. “I’ve been hard on you this year. The academic probation. The family contract with your mother. You think I’m out to get you, I know, but it’s not the truth. It’s because I believe in you. In your potential.”

I step back, subtly shrugging off his hand.

“I appreciate that, sir,” I say.

“Now this has happened,” the dean says. “I don’t want you to worry so much about school. Let us carry you for a while.”

Being carried. It sounds nice. I think of a prince being held aloft on a platform covered with soft pillows. Prince Sanskrit.

Herschel clears his throat.

“You wanted to tell me something?” the dean says.

“No. I mean, there’s nothing to tell yet. We’re still waiting to hear from the doctor,” I say.

“Is she at Cedars?” the dean says. “I’d like to come by and offer my support.”

It didn’t occur to me that people would want to visit her. I hadn’t thought that far in advance. Now I need a story that will keep them away.

“She was at a yoga conference in Orange County when it happened,” I say.

Orange County. The foreign land thirty miles south of us.

The dean whistles through his teeth. No way he wants to drive to Orange County. At least that’s what I’m hoping.

“How terrible,” the dean says. “When will she be back?”

“That’s the problem,” I say. “We’re trying to get her
home, but she can’t be moved yet. I think they’re going to rehabilitate her down there.”

“That will be expensive,” the dean says.

I lower my head. I’m learning that if I don’t have a good answer, I can just look at the ground. This doesn’t work under normal circumstances—in class, for instance, when a teacher asks me a question—but during a tragedy, people don’t seem to mind it.

“It’s going to be okay,” the dean says.

“I know it will,” I say, my head still down.

“In the meantime, we’d like to send a basket. Something to let her know the community is thinking about her.”

“You could send it to the house. I’ll make sure she gets it,” I say. And then I add, “Mom loves chocolate.”

Which is an outright lie. Mom doesn’t eat sugar at all. But if we’re going to start getting gift baskets, why not go for something good?

“That’s what we’ll do,” the dean says. His voice turns hyperserious: “If you need anything. Absolutely anything. Do not hesitate.”

I’m having bad thoughts, like using the situation to get out of doing homework, but I squelch the idea. This is going to blow up in my face at some point. Why make it worse?