The Mystics of Mile End (27 page)

T
hat night I dreamed the birds were crying. Above my head, their thousand dark eyes gleamed in the moonlight. Silvery threads of water fell on my face. At first I didn't notice, because it was a soft, almost imperceptible mist. Then the mist spread out over my whole body. Drops of condensation collecting on my hair, my eyelashes, my collarbone, my belly, my kneecaps, the soles of my feet. The mist deepened to a heavy downpour, then the birds stopped crying, all except one, which hovered right above my chest. I could feel a drip, drip, drip somewhere in the region of my heart, slow but steady, all night long. In the morning, I was washed clean.

I
grabbed the paper crane giving Kyle's address (
in case you get lonely,
Jenny had written, how many weeks ago now?) and raced out of the apartment. But the second I stepped into the street, I knew I didn't need it. I could see exactly which way Jenny had gone. She had left traces of herself everywhere, dripping from the branches, twinkling from the streetlamps, sliding down the gutter. That fire hydrant, it was unnaturally red, and I knew that she had passed it. The tree on the corner of Saint-Laurent and Pine, it was impossibly green, and I knew that she had touched it. Beside a parked car was a puddle full of rainbows—amaranth, cadmium, cerulean, heliotrope, atomic tangerine—and I knew that in that spot she had succumbed to tears, drops falling onto pavement until her eyes were gray as marble. Everywhere she had gone, she had
shed color, stained the world around her. This was the bread crumb trail she had left me.

I followed the trail along nineteen city blocks. The path was not always straight; she had meandered, paced in tight circles, retraced her steps. At these points, I knew, she had been filled with doubt. Then there were swaths of thick, uninterrupted color; this was where she had felt sure that she was making the right, the only possible, decision. On the corner of Milton and Parc, I spotted a speck of vermilion, and so I knew that for one second she had even laughed.

As I traced her colors, I wondered if maybe this was love. The ability to detect the mood of your beloved in anything, a stray cat or a stray molecule, weeks after she has come in contact with it. I wondered how she would react when I showed up on her porch. When I told her how sorry I was, how stupid, how wrong I'd been about absolutely everything. When I dropped to my knees and begged for her forgiveness.

I was on a quiet, shady street. The trees on either side of me formed a tunnel of dim light. I peered closely at the doorways, and then I saw it. A fleck of sparkly blue on one of the doorknobs, the exact shade of Jenny's nail polish. I climbed the stairs to the front door and knocked. The door opened. It was Kyle.

“Hi,” she said.

She was exactly as I had pictured her, except for the fact that she was totally different. I'd been right about the hair, even about the freckles, but she was nothing, she was not cool. She was—normal. Her cheek was bare of any smudges of color. Her hair was red, but nowhere near impossibly so. Relief flooded my senses.

“Is Jenny here?”

“You must be Samara.”

“Yeah. Yes. Is she?”

“She's here.”

“Can you?”

“I'll try. Could you wait here?”

I guessed I probably could. She closed the door softly, apologetically. I turned my back toward it and folded my arms across my chest. Branches rustled overhead. The hallucinatory scent of lemon filled the air. The door clicked open behind me.

I was on the swing. I could feel Jenny standing behind me, waiting for me to do it:
Fall! Fall!
I knew that if I turned around now, there would be no more secrets, no more silences. She would want to know me and I would have to let her. With my back still facing the door, I spoke.

“Jenny?” I said, and unfolded my arms.

“Yeah?”

“I'm,” I said, and raised them in the air.

“Yeah?”

“Sorry,” I said—

Or almost said. Just as I turned to face her, a huge wind filled the space between us, stealing my breath, stealing the words from my mouth. It tugged me toward the sky. I dug my heels downward, but the wind was too strong for me. It howled in my ears, drowning out all sound. Jenny was mouthing my name, mouthing questions at me, but my limbs were shaking violently, I couldn't feel my hands or feet. My senses were shutting down, collapsing in on themselves one by one. The last thing I saw, the last thing I expected or wanted to see, was Jenny, on the doorstep, holding her arms out toward me, the final key gleaming in her hands.

W
hen, in early December, an oddly bird-shaped letter began its slow, spiraling descent over the neighborhood of Mile End, nobody was there to see it. Winter had driven everyone indoors, leaving the streets deserted. The bird swooped lower and lower in the sky, fluttering first above a tree-lined block, then above the ancient oak at the end of that block. It circled the tree, eyeing the tin cans that dotted its branches, before going into a sharp nosedive and settling itself in its newfound nest. There, it folded its wings and waited patiently, as if confident of being picked up soon by the right hands.

Alex, turning the corner on his way to visit his best friend, passed beneath the wind-tossed branches—and paused. He could have sworn he'd just heard a girl's voice whispering in his ear. As the bird-letter flapped its wings in the breeze, the noise was picked up and amplified by the elaborate system of tin and twine that, despite its unorthodox appearance, the residents of Mile End had not yet had the heart to tear down. Reaching his mittened hand into a can, Alex pulled out the source of the whispers and peered at its mottled back.

At the sight of Samara's handwriting, his heart leaped into his throat.

The letter, a tight scrawl that spanned the wings as well as the bird's dark interior, was stamped and addressed to him.
Dear Alex,
it began. He froze, then read it again. And again. And again. It did not say:
Dear Lev
. It said:
Dear Alex
.

He devoured the message, his gaze skipping and bobbing on certain words—
dishwasher
—
terrifying
—
a very simple trick
—until finally it landed with a thud on a phrase near the end:
You made it possible for me to do this. To climb the Tree of Life.

He gaped up at the tree in front of him. The contents of the letter were confusing enough. But the letter itself—how had it gotten there in the first place? Perhaps a gust of wind had lifted the bird out of a mailman's hand and swept it up into one of Katz's tin cans. That didn't seem likely (when had a postal service ever delivered origami?) so maybe Samara had placed it there herself? What if, knowing his tendency to look up at the sky instead of down at other people, she had purposely stashed the letter someplace high, someplace only he might find it? Or, even better: What if, against all odds, the girl he'd always loved had finally decided she felt the same way? And what if, buoyed by that love, her letter had flown there of its own accord?

The idea was ridiculous—imagine a scrap of paper like that winging its way across the city!—and for that reason all the more appealing. It was the first ridiculous thought Alex had permitted himself in more than ten years, and he clung to it now with a keen and unsuspected joy.

He tucked the bird into the breast pocket of his jacket and locked it in with a click of the snap. He wouldn't show it to Lev—not yet. Samara hadn't written or even called her brother in weeks; how would Lev feel if he knew she was reaching out to Alex and not him? He walked the rest of the way to Lev's house, climbed the stairs, and knocked.

As soon as Lev opened the door and mumbled his hello, Alex knew he was right to keep Samara's letter from him. Over the past few weeks Lev had become increasingly pale, his face strangely
drawn, his shoulders pulled taut. His eyes, which had always been so clean and fresh and blue, twitched faintly at the corners now. And there was a hardness in them that had never been there before. Samara's disturbing words would only make him more anxious, and that was the last thing he needed now.

Lev raised a hand to scratch at the tiny scar above his brow—an old nervous habit—and Alex remembered with a pang how he himself had inflicted that scar all those long years ago. How he'd pushed his telescope out of the way—hitting Lev in the process—to keep him from seeing Samara's message in the window.
Please call
. For reasons he hadn't fully understood then, he'd wanted to be the only one to see those words. Now, as Lev motioned him inside, he realized that he had been hiding Samara's messages from her brother—his best friend—for more than a decade. In his pocket, the bird's wings flapped against his chest, and, guiltily, he opened his mouth to say something—but it was too late. Lev's back was already turning, his slim figure receding into the darkness of the house.

C
haim Glassman had been watching from his bedroom window when the bird first made its presence known. Unable to leave his wife, who lay comatose in the dim paisley-walled room, he had taken to surveying the street through the pair of plastic binoculars that his wife's cousin, Reuben, had sent to him a few months earlier. Reuben, who worked in the plastics industry in New York City, now regularly mailed samples of his cheaply made products, presumably as a way to salve his guilt over his own absence at his cousin's bedside. The other products—children's toys, baby bottles—had all been useless, but Glassman liked the binoculars. They kept him entertained during the long hours of his vigil.

And so it happened that, at the exact moment when Alex discovered the avian dispatch, Glassman had his gaze trained on Katz's tree. He watched Alex unfold the letter and scan its contents.
Whatever they were, they wrought a remarkable transformation in him. Pinpricks of light danced in the boy's eyes. The unmistakable flush of young love rose high in his cheeks. A moment later, a shade of alarm passed over his face, subduing the flush, and Glassman felt an unusual pang. But in the next moment the boy was folding the letter and putting it in his pocket and the light on his face was so bright that Glassman was forced to turn away.

That was why, when Glassman spotted the boy approaching his house the next day, he frowned. He heard a knock, but closed his eyes and pretended he'd heard nothing. The knocking persisted. He ignored it. But the knocking would not stop. Glassman cursed under his breath. He knew he would have to answer the door but declined to do so right away. He counted out ten heartbeats before going down the stairs. When he finally opened the door, the boy was shivering. The wind smelled capable of snow.

“Yes?”

“Um. Hello.”

“Yes, yes, hello. So, what can I do for you?”

“My name's Alex.”

“And my name's King Solomon, what do you
want
already, it's freezing out here in case you haven't noticed?”

“Can I come in?”

“To come in, he wants? So come in, who's stopping you? But make it fast. My wife is baking rugelach and she wants I should help with the dough.”

Inside the house, the air was odorless and stale.

“So?” Glassman said. “What do you want?”

“I want—to study. To learn from you.”

“To
learn
from me?”

“Yeah. Yes.”

“Tell me, what do you want to learn? Geography? Mathematics? Political science?”

“Kabbalah.”

Glassman's eyes narrowed.

“I want to know about the Tree of Life. About the ten—”

“The Tree of Life, he wants to know! How old?”

“What?”

“How old are you? Fifteen? Sixteen?”

“Twenty-one.”

“That is a problem.”

“It is?”

“Yes. It is.”

“Why?”

Glassman shuffled off into the living room, where his formidable library took up three of the four walls. He pulled a large volume from one of the shelves, flipped to the page he wanted, and thrust the book into Alex's hands. “You see? It says here, a man must be at least forty years of age, and married, before he may be allowed to study kabbalah.” He opened another volume and dropped it onto the book that Alex was already holding. “And here, you see? When Rabbi Johanan wished to teach mystical matters to Rabbi Eliezer, Rabbi Eliezer answered, ‘I am not yet old enough.' He was already much older than you.” He pulled a third volume off the shelf and thrust it, too, into Alex's arms. “And here it tells the story of a boy who, when he was still young and beardless like you, recognized the meaning of Ezekiel's holy vision. You know what happened to him? I'll tell you what happened to him. He was consumed by fire.”

Alex's arms trembled, but his expression remained resolute. It was as if the two of them were gladiators crossing swords. Any sign of weakness and the duel would immediately be lost.

Glassman stared him down. “You are not Jewish.”

“No.”

“That is another problem.”

“Oh?”

“It is not permitted to study such matters with
goyim
.” Glassman pulled a fourth volume from the shelves, flipped it open, and added it to Alex's pile. “You see? ‘It is not proper to study mysticism unless one's belly is filled with bread and meat; that is, knowledge of what is permitted and what is forbidden, according to the Torah.' That means no
goyim
.”

“I see.”

“And there is another problem.”

“There is?”

“You are only one. You need at least two.”

“Two . . . ?”

Glassman threw a fifth volume down onto Alex's unwieldy pile, and quoted: “‘Mystical matters must not be explained before one, unless he be wise and understands it by himself.' That means you need more than one person in the room, or you may not discuss it.”

“Well, that's okay then, isn't it? You and me, that's two people right there!”

“Two
students
. The teacher doesn't count.”

Alex opened his mouth as if to retort—but then it fell shut. The boy had nothing more to say, and he knew it. Glassman smiled triumphantly. Defeated, Alex tipped the books onto the couch. He retreated out of the house, closing the door behind him. Its click was loud and, Glassman told himself as he watched the boy walk out of his life, immensely satisfying.

L
ev rushed through the streets, hands shoved deep into pockets, pace quickened by the biting wind—but not just by that.

Minutes ago, he'd been praying the Friday afternoon service, surrounded by his fellow yeshiva students and their bearded, wizened teachers. He had always loved these prayers, the peace and calm that descended on him as he mouthed the words with eyes closed, lips moving silently. But today he had found himself
unable to focus. He opened his eyes and stared at his classmates. Their brows were furrowed in identical expressions of fervor. Their upper bodies lurched back and forth in a way that seemed, suddenly, strangely mechanical. During the cantor's repetition, they murmured in unison like an automated, bloodless chorus. For the first time in his life, Lev had slipped out of the sanctuary before the service even came to an end, emerging into the chilly winter air.

As he rounded the block leading up to his house, he spotted a red-cheeked Mr. Katz sitting out on his front lawn in a puffy coat and boots. The man was wearing two scarves but no hat, and one of his red woolen mittens had fallen to his feet. He looked like he was freezing. Yet, with his bare hand, he began to wave merrily at Lev, his flushed face beaming.

“Lev,” he called.

Pretending he hadn't heard, Lev turned away.

“Lev!” Katz called again.

But Lev only quickened his pace. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his old friend half rise from his lawn chair, the smile sliding off his face, a look of confusion replacing it.

“
Gut shabbes!
” the man tried, his voice a little weaker this time.

But Lev kept his eyes on the ground, ignoring the guilt churning in his stomach and hurrying down the street. He just couldn't deal with Katz right now. Moments later, he turned his key in the lock and stepped into the house.

A rush of silence greeted him like a slap to the face.

Slowly, he removed his coat and boots, then wandered into the kitchen. Opening the fridge, he took out a loaf of challah bread and a bottle of white wine. He placed them on the table and sat down to wait. But after a minute, he got up again. What was the point of waiting around for Samara and Jenny? Aside from his birthday, they hadn't come over for dinner in weeks. He thought about calling Samara now, but he knew she wouldn't answer. All through the
end of November and the beginning of December, he'd been calling and texting and emailing her and getting nothing in response. Clearly, his sister did not want to be reached.

He flicked off the kitchen light and went to his father's study.

The room was already full of shadows, the afternoon light fading fast, but Lev didn't bother to reach for the lamp. He sat in his father's high-backed chair, elbows propped on the glass-topped desk, chin in his hands. With his eyes fixed on the darkening window, he waited.

By the time a pair of headlights cut through the night, the windowpane was speckled with drops of condensation. A veil of mist hung in the air, heralding rain or snow. A silver car pulled up directly across the street and its lights went out. In the driver's seat, a shadowy figure sat motionless, delicate hands on the wheel.

Lev had seen the car before, on the day of the funeral. And then again on the first Friday night Samara had failed to show up for dinner. He'd gone to the window to watch for her, thinking maybe she was just late, but saw the silver car glide up instead. The driver sat there for well over an hour. Lev thought about going over, saying hello, but something like shyness held him back. And it kept holding him back the next Friday, and the next—because, for some reason, the silver car kept showing up.

Taking a deep breath, he left the study, pulled on his coat and boots, and opened the front door. He sliced through the mist and walked up to the car. He tapped on the window.

The driver jumped. She looked at Lev, then at the lit joint pinched between her fingers. After a long minute, she rolled down the window.

“Hello,” Lev said as the smell of pot reached his nose.

“Hello,” the woman answered.

“I know you,” he said. “I mean, I've seen you before. You were at the hospital, when my dad got released? And at the funeral.” He
waited for her to say something, but she just stared at him as if he were a ghost. That sustained gaze was making him uncomfortable. Aside from the two of them, the street was empty, and he wasn't used to being alone with women. Especially not women as pretty as this. A confusing thrill tingled at the base of his spine. A second later he heard himself say, “Do you want to come in?”