“You are when you’re thoughtful.”
“Is Dad bad at life?”
It went almost perfectly, but movers are less almost-perfect than the rest of humankind, and there were mishaps, hardly any of them noticeable—who but Sam would know that a Jewish star was dinged and hung upside down?—especially when hardly any of it was noticed in the first place. The tiny distance from perfect rendered it shit.
Sam’s dad had given him an article about a boy in a concentration camp who observed his bar mitzvah by digging an imaginary synagogue and filling it with upright twigs to serve as a silent congregation. Of course, his dad never would have guessed that Sam actually read it, and they never spoke about it, and does it count as recalling something if you are thinking of it constantly?
It was all for the occasion—the entire edifice of organized religion conceived of, built, and tended to simply for a brief ritual. Despite the incomprehensible vastness of Other Life, there was no synagogue. And despite his profound reluctance ever to step foot in an actual synagogue, there had to be a synagogue. He didn’t long for one, he needed one: you can’t destroy what doesn’t exist.
HAPPINESS
All happy mornings resemble one another, as do all unhappy mornings, and that’s at the bottom of what makes them so deeply unhappy: the feeling that this unhappiness has happened before, that efforts to avoid it will at best reinforce it, and probably even exacerbate it, that the universe is, for whatever inconceivable, unnecessary, and unjust reason, conspiring against the innocent sequence of clothes, breakfast, teeth and egregious cowlicks, backpacks, shoes, jackets, goodbye.
Jacob had insisted that Julia take her car to the meeting with Rabbi Singer so she could leave straight from there and still get her day off. The walk through the school to the parking lot was severely quiet. Sam had never heard of Miranda rights, but he intuited them. Not that it mattered—his parents didn’t want to talk in front of him before talking behind his back. So they left him at the entrance, among the mustached man-children playing Yu-Gi-Oh!, while they went to their cars.
“Did you want me to pick anything up?” Jacob asked.
“When?”
“Now.”
“You have to get home for brunch with your parents.”
“I’m just trying to take some load off your shoulders.”
“We could use sandwich bread.”
“Any particular kind?”
“The particular kind we always get.”
“What?”
“What what?”
“You seem bothered.”
“You aren’t bothered?”
Had she found the phone?
“We’re not going to talk about what just happened in there?”
She hadn’t found the phone.
“Of course we are,” he said. “But not in this parking lot. Not with Sam waiting on the steps for us and my parents waiting at the house.”
“So when?”
“Tonight?”
“Tonight? With a question mark? Or, tonight.”
“Tonight.”
“You promise?”
“Julia.”
“And don’t just let him sulk in his room with his iPad. He should know we’re upset.”
“He knows.”
“Yes, but I want him to know even when I’m not there.”
“He’ll know.”
“You promise?” she asked, this time letting the question descend rather than rise.
“Cross my heart and hope against hope to die.”
She could have said more—given examples from recent history, or explained why it wasn’t the punishment she was worried about, but the reinforcement of their nearly calcified and completely miscast parental roles—but chose instead to offer a gentle, sustained squeeze of the arm.
“I’ll see you this afternoon.”
Touch had always saved them in the past. No matter the anger or hurt, no matter the depth of the aloneness, a touch, even a light and passing touch, reminded them of their long togetherness. A palm on a neck: it all flooded back. A head leaned upon a shoulder: the chemicals surged, the memory of love. At times, it was almost impossible to cross the distance between their bodies, to reach out. At times, it was impossible. Each knew the feeling so well, in the silence of a darkened bedroom, looking at the same ceiling: If I could open my fingers, my heart’s fingers could open. But I can’t. I want to reach across the distance, and I want to be reached. But I can’t.
“I’m sorry about this morning,” he said. “I wanted you to have the whole day.”
“You’re not the one who wrote those words.”
“Neither is Sam.”
“Jacob.”
“What?”
“It cannot, it will not, be the case that one of us believes him and one doesn’t.”
“So believe him.”
“He clearly did it.”
“Believe him anyway. We’re his parents.”
“That’s right. And we need to teach him that actions have consequences.”
“Believing him is more important,” Jacob said, the conversation happening too quickly for him to catch up to his own meaning. Why was he choosing this battle?
“No,” Julia said, “loving him is more important. And on the other side of punishment, he’ll know that our love, which requires causing him pain every now and then, is the ultimate consequence.”
Jacob opened Julia’s car door for her and said, “To be continued.”
“Yes, to be continued. But I need you to tell me we’re on the same page here.”
“That I don’t believe him?”
“That whatever you believe, you’re going to help me make clear that we are disappointed, and that he has to apologize.”
Jacob hated this. He hated Julia for forcing him to betray Sam, and he hated himself for not standing up to her. If there had been any hatred left, it would have been for Sam.
“OK,” he said.
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you,” she said, getting into the car. “To be continued tonight.”
“OK,” he said, shutting the door. “And take as long as you want today.”
“What if as long as I want doesn’t fit in a day?”
“And I have that HBO meeting.”
“What meeting?”
“But not until seven. I mentioned it. You probably would’ve come back by then, anyway.”
“We’ll never know.”
“It’s annoying that it’s on a weekend, but it’ll only be an hour or two.”
“That’s fine.”
He gave her arm a squeeze and said, “Take what’s left.”
“What?”
“The day.”
—
The drive home was silent, save for NPR, whose omnipresence took on the character of silence. Jacob glanced at Sam in the rearview mirror.
“I went and done ate a can of your tuna fish, Ms. Daisy.”
“Are you having a stroke or something?”
“Movie reference. And might’ve been salmon.”
He knew he shouldn’t let Sam use his iPad in the backseat, but the poor kid had been through enough that morning. A little self-soothing seemed fair. And it deferred the conversation that he didn’t feel like having right then, or ever.
Jacob had planned on preparing an elaborate brunch, but when the call from Rabbi Singer came at nine fifteen, he asked his parents, Irv and Deborah, to come over early to watch Max and Benjy. Now there would be no ricotta-stuffed brioche french toast. There would be no lentil salad, no shaved brussels sprout salad. There would be calories.
“Two pieces of rye with creamy peanut butter, cut diagonally,” Jacob said, handing a plate to Benjy.
Max intercepted the food: “That’s actually mine.”
“Right,” Jacob said, handing a bowl to Benjy, “because you have Honey Nut Cheerios with a splash of rice milk.”
Max examined Benjy’s bowl: “Those are plain Cheerios with
honey on them.”
“Yes.”
“So why did you lie to him?”
“Thanks, Max.”
“And I said toasted, not immolated.”
“Imlated?” Benjy asked.
“Destroyed by fire,” Deborah said.
“What’s with Camus?” Irv asked.
“Leave him alone,” Jacob said.
“Hey, Maxy,” Irv said, pulling his grandson into him, “someone once told me about the most incredible zoo…”
“Where’s Sam?” Deborah asked.
“Lying is bad,” Benjy said.
Max let out a laugh.
“Good one,” Irv said. “Right?”
“He got into a little trouble at Hebrew school this morning and is doing time up in his room.” And to Benjy: “I didn’t lie.”
Max peered into Benjy’s bowl and told him, “You realize that’s not even honey. It’s agave.”
“I want Mom.”
“We’re giving her a day off.”
“A day off from us?” Benjy asked.
“No, no. She never needs time off from you guys.”
“Time off from you?” Max asked.
“One of my friends, Joey, has two dads. But babies come out of vagina holes. Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did you lie to me?”
“No one lied to anyone.”
“I want a frozen burrito.”
“The freezer’s broken,” Jacob said.
“For breakfast?” Deborah asked.
“Brunch,” Max corrected.
“Sí se puede,” Irv said.
“I could run out and get you one,” Deborah offered.
“Frozen.”
Over the previous months, Benjy’s eating habits had veered toward what might be called unrealized foods: frozen vegetables (as in, still frozen when eaten), uncooked oatmeal, unboiled ramen noodles, dough, raw quinoa, dry macaroni with unreconstituted cheese powder sprinkled on top. Beyond adjusting shopping lists, Jacob and Julia never talked about it; it felt too psychological to touch.
“So what did Sammy do?” Irv asked, his mouth full of gluten.
“I’ll tell you later.”
“Frozen burrito, please.”
“There might not be a later.”
“Apparently, he wrote some bad words on a piece of paper in class.”
“Apparently?”
“He says he didn’t do it.”
“Well, did he?”
“I don’t know. Julia thinks so.”
“Whatever the reality, and whatever each of you believes, you guys have to approach it together,” Deborah said.
“I know.”
“And remind me what a bad word is?” Irv said.
“You can imagine.”
“In fact I can’t. I can imagine bad contexts—”
“The words and the context of Hebrew school definitely didn’t jibe.”
“Which words?”
“Does it really matter?”
“Of course it really matters.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Deborah said.
“Let’s just say the n-word was featured.”
“I want a frozen—What’s the n-word?”
“Happy now?” Jacob asked his father.
“He used it actively or passively?” Irv asked.
“I’ll tell you later,” Max said to his little brother.
“There’s no passive use of that word,” Jacob said to Irv. “And no, you won’t,” he said to Max.
“There might not be a later,” Benjy said.
“Did I really raise a son who refers to a word as that word?”
“No,” Jacob said, “you didn’t raise a son.”
Benjy went to his grandma, who never said no: “If you love me you’ll get me a frozen burrito and tell me what the n-word is.”
“And what was the context?” Irv asked.
“It doesn’t matter,” Jacob said, “and we’re done talking about it.”
“Nothing could matter more. Without context, we’d all be monsters.”
“N-word,” Benjy said.
Jacob put down his fork and knife.
“OK, since you asked, the context is Sam watching you make a fool of yourself on the news every morning, and watching you being made a fool of on late shows every night.”
“You let your kids watch too much TV.”
“They watch hardly any.”
“Can we go watch TV?” Max asked.
Jacob ignored him and went back at Irv: “He’s suspended until he agrees to apologize. No apology, no bar mitzvah.”
“Apologize to whom?”
“Premium cable?” Max asked.
“Everyone.”
“Why not go all the way and extradite him to Uganda for some scrotal electrocution?”
Jacob handed a plate to Max and whispered something in his ear. Max nodded and left the table.
“He did something wrong,” Jacob said.
“Exercising his freedom of speech?”
“Freedom of hate speech.”
“Have you even banged a teacher’s desk yet?”
“No, no. Absolutely not. We had a talk with the rabbi, and now we’re fully in salvage-the-bar-mitzvah mode.”
“You had a talk? You think talk got us out of Egypt or Entebbe? Uh-uh. Plagues and Uzis. Talk gets you a good place in line for a shower that isn’t a shower.”
“Jesus, Dad. Always?”
“Of course always. ‘Always’ so ‘never again.’ ”
“Well, what do you say you leave this one to me?”
“Because you’re doing such a great job?”
“Because he’s Sam’s father,” Deborah said. “And you’re not.”
“Because it’s one thing to pick up your dog’s shits,” Jacob said, “and it’s another to pick up your dad’s.”
“Shits,” Benjy echoed.
“Mom, could you go read to Benjy upstairs?”
“I want to be with the adults,” Benjy said.
“I’m the only adult here,” Deborah said.
“Before I blow my top,” Irv said, “I want to be sure I’m understanding. You’re suggesting that there’s a line to be drawn from my misread blog to Sam’s First Amendment problem?”
“No one misread your blog.”
“Radically misconstrued.”
“You wrote that Arabs hate their children.”
“Incorrect. I wrote that Arab hatred for Jews has transcended their love for their own children.”
“And that they are animals.”
“Yes. I wrote that, too. They’re animals. Humans are animals. This is definitional stuff.”
“Jews are animals?”
“It’s not that simple, no.”
“What’s the n-word?” Benjy whispered to Deborah.
“Noodle,” she whispered back.
“No it’s not.” She lifted Benjy in her arms and carried him out of the room. “The n-word is no,” he said, “isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“No it’s not.”
“One Dr. Phil is already one too many,” Irv said. “What Sammy needs is a fixer. This is a bone-dry freedom of speech issue, and as you do or should know, I am not only on the national board of the ACLU, its members tell my story every Passover. If you were me—”
“I’d kill myself to spare my family.”
“—you’d chum the Adas Israel waters for an insanely smart, autistically monomaniacal lawyer who has sacrificed worldly rewards for the pleasure of defending civil liberties. Look, I appreciate the pleasure of bitching about injustice as much as anyone, but you’re capable, Jacob, and he’s your son. No one would condemn you for not helping yourself, but no one would forgive you for not helping your son.”
“You’re romanticizing racism, misogyny, and homophobia.”
“Have you even read Caro’s—”
“I saw the movie.”
“I’m trying to get my grandson out of a bind. That’
s so wrong?”
“If he shouldn’t get out of it.”
Benjy trotted back into the room: “Is it married?”
“Is what married?”
“The n-word.”
“That begins with an m.”
Benjy turned and trotted back out.
“What your mother said before, about you and Julia needing to approach this together? That was wrong. You need to defend Sam. Let everyone else worry about what actually happened.”
“I believe him.”
And then, as if noticing her absence for the first time: “Where is Julia, anyway?”
“Taking the day off.”
“Off from what?”
“Off.”
“Thank you, Anne Sullivan, but in fact I heard you. Off from what?”
“From on. Can you just let it be?”
“Sure,” Irv said, nodding. “That’s an option. But let me speak some words of wisdom that not even Mother Mary knows.”
“Can’t wait.”
“Nothing goes away. Not on its own. You deal with it, or it deals with you.”
“This too shall—?”
“Solomon wasn’t perfect. In all of human history, nothing has ever gone away on its own.”
“Farts do,” Jacob said, as if to honor Sam’s absence.
“Your house stinks, Jacob. You just can’t smell it, because it’s yours.”
Jacob could have pointed out that there was Argus shit somewhere within a three-room radius. He’d known it as soon as he opened the front door.
Benjy came back into the room. “I remembered my question,” he said, despite having given no indication of trying to remember anything.
“Yes?”
“The sound of time. What happened to it?”
A HAND THE SIZE OF YOURS, A HOUSE THE SIZE OF THIS ONE
Julia liked the eye being led where the body can’t go. She liked irregular brickwork, when one can’t tell if the craftsmanship is careless or masterly. She liked the feeling of enclosure, with the suggestion of expansiveness. She liked it when the view wasn’t centered in the window, but also liked remembering that views are, by nature’s nature, centered. She liked doorknobs that one wants to keep holding. She liked steps up, and steps down. She liked shadows laid upon other shadows. She liked breakfast banquettes. She liked light woods (beech, maple), and didn’t like “masculine” woods (walnut, mahogany), and didn’t care for steel, and hated stainless steel (until it was thoroughly scratched), and imitations of natural materials were intolerable, unless their fakeness was declared, was the point, in which case they could be quite beautiful. She liked textures that the fingers and feet know, even if the eye doesn’t. She liked fireplaces centered in kitchens centered on the main living floor. She liked more bookshelves than are necessary. She liked skylights over showers, but nowhere else. She liked intentional imperfections, but she couldn’t bear nonchalance, but she also liked to remember that there could be no such thing as an intentional imperfection. People are always mistaking something that looks good for something that feels good.