Yom Kippur as Manifest in an Approaching Dorsal Fin (5 page)

Some rabbis will not do the service because

the body is not being buried in a completely

Jewish cemetery. Problems, problems. I hear

there is no casket available. I ask about this,

knowing better. No casket is needed. The

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body is washed and watched by the
shomer
.

It may be watched by family as well. Within

twenty-four hours it is in the ground unless

that places it on the Sabbath. Then two days.

A burial shroud is used or a plain box with

holes in the bottom so the body can touch the

Earth.

One of the people I do not know states how

disgusting that is. “But worms will touch the

body!” Exactly. Don’t hold on. Back to the

Earth, back to dust.

My aunt talks about not holding on to the

body, saying again and again, dust to dust,

dust to dust.

So what is the problem with the casket?

None needed. A plain one at best. We can

build one from wood at a local lumber store.

No nails may be used as it all has to disinte-

grate and decompose. Joints and glue. The

casket was ordered? It is gold-colored, says

my grandfather. It has to have a crown.

I am confused at the mix of steadfast faux

tradition and disregard of the same. The dis-

cussion continues.

It won’t touch the ground anyway, says my

aunt. The casket will be in concrete, sealed.

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My father says it is watertight. An non-

embalmed body in a fancy wooden box in a

sealed, water-tight concrete underground

vault.

Why underground then, I ask.

“A Jew has to be buried underground.” This

I know.

My aunt continues to tell me, over and over,

dust to dust, dust to dust. She’ll have trouble

getting there in an underground set of Chi-

nese boxes.

Why are they having trouble finding a

rabbi?

My daughter arrives. She says her hellos.

People ask me if this is my wife.

She whispers to me asking where the body

is. Is it in the bedroom? No. But who is watch-

ing it? Strangers, I say. People paid to watch.

My aunt and uncle talk in Hebrew. No one

understands them. The make their purpose

obvious: they talk in Hebrew, these two native

citizens of the United States, so no one will

understand them. They talk and point.

My uncle says he needs to cover the mir-

rors. Shiva lasts seven days and during this

time the relations closest to the deceased do

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not shave, shower, groom or care for them-

selves. Food is brought in for them, cooked

for them. All their time, for seven days, is

spent thinking of themselves and their rela-

tion to the deceased. This is a breather. Time

off from the cares of the world for the sons

and daughters, the siblings, the spouse, the

parents of the deceased. They sit on stools,

tell stories, sleep, think.

Mirrors are covered so they may not be

vain, seeing themselves unkempt, uncombed,

unshaven.

My aunt immediately looks at my daugh-

ter, thinking she knows little and tells her the mirrors must be covered because the soul will

wander the house and get confused. She has

melded Hebrew burial traditions with feng

shui, and my daughter tells her she is pretty

sure it has to do with vanity and grieving.

The walls are mirrored.

We are waiting for the rabbi to arrive. Or

the cantor. I hear both words mentioned

again and again and do not know which to

expect. It doesn’t matter as either can per-

form a funeral by Jewish and state laws. She

arrives and is asked to take a seat.

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She introduces herself and is referred to as

rabbi. She is middle-aged, well-spoken, con-

servatively dressed, and states she is a cantor.

This is perfect, I think. The prayers will be

sung instead of read, as they should be, as they were meant to be. She begins to detail plans.

She is interrupted, in Hebrew.

My aunt and uncle are speaking Hebrew to

talk to each in purposeful exclusion. My

daughter, next to me, has remarked on the

rudeness of this. This time it was ineffective.

The cantor joined into the conversation. She

is answered in English and my daughter whis-

pers to me again, noticing the proof that these

jaunts into Hebrew are no lapses but purpose-

ful asides in front of their guests. My son has

moved to the corner of the room, watching,

quiet.

They have a problem with her—she is not

a rabbi, but the cantor explains she can do a

service as well by tradition and law. Not in

an Orthodox service, is the quick retort by

my aunt. The cantor mentions their service

is not Orthodox. It is not in a Jewish ceme-

tery, the body is in a fancy casket, it is in a

vault. The conversation is fully, only, between

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my aunt and the cantor. Next to me, to my

right, is my father. My uncle is across the

small room next to my aunt. Next to my aunt,

facing her, is the cantor. She is saying this:

“There are rules and then there are ways

around the rules if you don’t like them. In my

tradition we do not pretend to follow the rule

and then find a way around it. We follow it

or we don’t. This is not an Orthodox funeral.

I am qualified. I have already done four this

week so if you don’t want me to do this that

is fine. You simply have to tell me. Now, if

there is another reason you are not comfort-

able using me, please tell me now.”

“You are a woman.”

“What does that have to do with it?” is what

the cantor asks. No matter. She stands and

thanks them. She is upset. They knew she was

a woman. They spoke with her on the phone.

They knew she was a cantor or thought she

was. At any point they could have called and

confirmed her position in the religious

community.

“I can give you the names of some other

people you might be interested in asking but

I would not wait.”

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“Where are you going?” My aunt motions

her to a seat again. “We don’t charge for seats.”

“You have made it clear you do not want

me to perform this so there is no reason for

me to be here.”

“Please, have a seat,” answers my aunt,

slowly. “Let us figure this out.”

She sits again. They talk a while longer. It

becomes clear the funeral will not be tomor-

row. It will be the day after. Friday morning

at eleven. I excuse myself, stating I need to

get something from my truck, and I walk out

the door, into the parking lot.

Soon I am followed by my daughter. She

asks me if I really needed something from my

truck. She knows the answer. I walk over to

my truck box, open it, pull out a box of my

business cards and remove a quarter inch, ten

or fifteen cards.

“See? I needed these,” I say, holding them

up and smiling at her. My daughter is shrewd

and there is nothing she does not see through.

My son comes walking out. He says they

are nuts. He has never seen anyone treated

so rudely. This is a bad example for him.

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I want to apologize to her, for this treat-

ment. I am used to it. She may not be. We

wait.

Soon, we walk back to the condo and the

open door.

I hear, as I approach, my aunt. “When do

we need to let you know by if we decide to

use you?”

“By the time I leave here. I’m not a yo-yo.”

The cantor gets up and walks toward the door.

“No, no. Have a seat. We want to know

what to expect when we find a rabbi.”

“You’ll have to ask them,“ she says and does

not stop, walks by us as she exits, heads into

the parking lot to find her car.

“I’m sorry,” I say to her back as she passes.

She keeps walking. “They’re nuts,” she

responds, continuing on. Obviously she is not

used to being treated this way and she has lost

some of the composure she came in with. She

slows and turns. Looks at me.

“You can see why I don’t visit often,” I say.

She walks to her car a few feet away and

gets in. “I can fully understand it,” she says,

and shuts the door. We turn toward the

condo.

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Inside they are complaining that she mis-

represented herself as a rabbi, that a cantor

would not do. I take my seat as before, so does

Sef. Alek takes a seat as well. I listen.

Over to my father, to my right, I lean. I

whisper that no one has taken into account

what my grandmother would have wanted.

They argue, but not one person asks this ques-

tion. He agrees this is a good point and asks

me to say something. I tell him I’d rather not.

I’d rather he say it. If I say it, there will be yelling.

“What?” asks my aunt. She has been prat-

tling on in Hebrew but can’t abide being left

out of a conversation. My father tells her, tells everyone I have made a good point. That we

should listen. I state, aloud, I’d rather not.

“Speak,” she says. “We want to listen.” I am

prodded and finally do.

“I do not hear anyone asking or talking

about what grandma would have wanted. You

are arguing over a rabbi while letting other

traditions go. As you argue, the time to burial

gets longer and longer. What did she want?

What does grandpa want?

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My aunt responds, loudly. She talks about

how things are in Israel and still this has no

bearing, seems to prove my point. No casket,

she says. In twenty-four hours, she says. She

says it is—and here she tosses in a Hebrew

phrase—and then continues to talk in Eng-

lish but it makes no sense, disjointed as it is

by a set of words I do not understand.

“Wait. I do not understand Hebrew. If you

are going to talk to me it has to be in

English.”

“I am speaking English. I didn’t speak in

Hebrew.” She is raising her voice steadily with

each sentence.

“Excuse me, but one thing I do know is Eng-

lish and that was not English.” Here I repeat

the words in sounds as close as I can. My

uncle says she did not notice she used it, used

to it as she is.

“That’s fine,” I say. “That I understand, but

please don’t dismiss what I’ve said. Consider

that if I said you did, I probably know Eng-

lish from Hebrew.”

She continues to talk, loudly, about Hebrew.

Sometimes in Hebrew. No one says anything.

I look at my father and say, aloud, “This is

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why I didn’t want to say anything.” I get up.

It is about four in the afternoon. I have had

enough.

Outside, myself, my children, we talk about

where to go for dinner. My father follows and

plans are made for dinner. All I want is quiet

and a salad. Really, just the quiet would do.

Lee calls. She has arranged to be here tomor-

row and should arrive by eleven. My mother

will need her. I know this. Will I? Doubtful.

Doubtful.

The next morning I wake early from my

daughter’s couch, dress, walk. I eat breakfast,

vegetable juice and herring I picked up the

night before. Alek has eggs. My daughter has

taken the day off. I call my father to find what time I should head up to Delray.

He’ll call me back soon. In a half hour. He

is closing on a house, finalizing a contract. I’m not sure. I am supposed to wait.

We do. An hour. Two hours. It is nearing

noon. We get ourselves ready to go. Repeated

phone calls are not answered and we leave.

A half hour later, nearing my grandfather’s

condo, my phone rings. I am turning into the

complex. You are leaving there? I’m just arriv-

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ing? Why didn’t you call and tell me? No, I’m

not going to turn around and meet you at

your house. That’s an hour the other way now.

I hate driving here.

I pull in and we walk up to the condo. My

father is outside. He is mouthing something.

I think it has to do with going out for dinner

but not telling anyone. Why? We don’t need

to eat? Oh, with my brother and Amy. Why

the secrecy?

Inside the house has been wrapped like a

large roast from a butcher shop. It is all white paper on every mirrored surface. White

butcher paper to the left and right. White

butcher paper behind me. Directly in front

of me, the glass cupboard reflects the entire

room and I see myself, my children.

I say hello to everyone, hug my mother, my

grandfather. There are people here I did not

meet yesterday. People my age, younger. My

cousins Duvid and Rom. Duvid comes over

to say hello and introduces me to his wife,