“LISTEN, YUSSEL.” GRISHA WAS WORRIED. “IT’S ALMOST SHABBAS. Where’s your minyan?”
It was the longest Shabbas in the year, 176 verses in the portion. Shoshanna said on the phone that morning, “Don’t you think it’s significant that the first Shabbas after the Torah was given should also be your first Shabbas?” Yussel had said, “No. I think it’s significant that I who get sick to my stomach whenever I have to get up in public should be given for my first Shabbas the longest one in the year. So stop quoting at me. Also perhaps it has slipped your mind that not only is this my first Shabbas but also it is my last Shabbas. Don’t start making plans.” Yussel said to Grisha, “If I said there’ll be a minyan, there’ll be a minyan.”
“Ernie, Feldman, Bingo, you, me, Slotnik. We need four more.”
“I can’t count? They’ll be here.”
“I thought you didn’t do prophecy.”
“I don’t.” Yussel lied, didn’t lie, apologized in his head to his father. “I had a message others were coming.”
“You better be right because the sun’s gonna set soon and we won’t be able to drive to Chaim’s.”
“No kidding. So that’s how it works.” Shoshanna would kill him if she heard such sarcasm. “Maybe you’ll go find Ernie for me, Grisha? I really need Ernie.”
“You don’t know how to find Ernie? Maybe I should draw a picture so you’ll recognize him?” Shoshanna wouldn’t kill Grisha. She’d say, “The poor soul is miserable, forgive him.” Yussel would say, “I’m miserable too.” She’d say, “At least you have a choice.” He’d say, “Hah!”
Yussel knew what to do, but he’d never given a sermon, never led, only followed. Shoshanna would say, “Simple, Yussel.” Simple. Everything is so simple for a woman because they don’t have to do anything. His stomach churned. Also he couldn’t find Ernie so he couldn’t find out if the electricity, which was supposed to be left on, was left on, that which was supposed to be turned off was turned off. And since he had been preparing the Shabbas food in the kitchen, keeping the soup warm, baking the cholent, mixing the tuna fish, he had no time to look for Ernie, to check the speakers, the lights in the bathrooms, the mercury lights outside, or even to have one last cigarette before Shabbas to calm him down. Also maybe he’d been a fool to believe his father would really deliver four men for a minyan.
Nevertheless, the first of his father’s promises arrived, a couple in their seventies, deeply tanned, rich. The wife handed Yussel a Tupper-ware tuna salad with apples and onions cut in, the lady explained, and a two-quart jar of herring and onions in cream sauce. The man handed him a check for three grand. He needed three more men.
“We knew your father,” the man said meaningfully. They were both wearing creamy cashmere jackets. It was all Yussel could do not to feel the goods. She was either anorexic or cancerous. What she’d lost in weight she wore in gold.
“I’m very glad you could come.”
He heard the Jackalope scream his parrot scream. “Car! Lady! Man!” He was running backward in circles. Why hadn’t the Flower Child taken him with her? Where the hell was she anyway?
“We’re happy to see you’ve taken on your father’s work.”
Yussel felt shame. He should give the check back, tell them the whole thing’s only temporary. That tomorrow night right after Havdalah, he’d be gone.
“My wife is not a well woman. Cancer. Six months, maybe less.”
“I’m sorry.”
“She wants you to pray for her.”
“Me?”
“Your father did.”
“Well …” Yussel nodded. He had no idea what to say. “Of course. You know Babe?” He needed Shoshanna by his side. He was tongue-tied.
They moved off to the far side of the Arizona where Babe was fighting with the Blondische over how a tray of cake should be laid out. The Blondische had cut the cake, put it on the tray. Babe took it back off the table, rearranged it, complained she didn’t have time for such things, couldn’t anybody else do anything, did everything have to be on her shoulders? The Blondische argued that cake wasn’t a dead person so what was the fuss. The rich couple stood by, listening. Yussel put his hand in his pocket for Maalox, felt the check, wondered if he should give it back, wondered if a person has cancer, should you eat her tuna fish?
Grisha shuffled in.
“You find Ernie?”
“Forget Ernie. What about Shabbas, Yussel?” He swung his pocket watch in front of Yussel’s face. “Seventeen minutes. We don’t have a minyan. We can just make it to Chaim’s if we leave now.”
“Car!” The parrot scream cut through his head, split it apart. “Man! Baby! Baby!”
A Volkswagen held together with wire and gaffer tape pulled up on the highway. Slotnik appeared, shook hands with his son, the son’s little wife, did not look at the new baby because it was a girl. Their car was filled with boxes, suitcases. They were staying. Slotnik’s son had a job delivering mail in Alamosa. They’d live for a while with Slotnik himself. “God help the mother if the baby cries.” Yussel’s father, still buttoning his shirt, stood next to Yussel. “Give her permission to use contraceptives. Unhappy women shouldn’t have babies.” Yussel looked under the blanket at the little girl, tickled her chin. The little wife, who had been a lieutenant in the Israeli Army, burst into tears at the kindness. She looked as if Slotnik’s son hit her a lot. Yussel turned away to the kitchen. “Natalie?”
Natalie came running, cheeks flushed. “Rabbi? You need me?”
“Go find Ernie for me. Tell him to check the electricity, what should be turned off, what should be turned on for Shabbas.”
“He’s got a friend visiting. They took a walk.”
“A man?”
“Don’t act surprised. If you said we’re getting four for a minyan, we’re getting four. Remember, I know who you are.”
“Please, Natalie, just go find him.”
“Fish. Go fish!” The Jackalope put two words together and the jar of herring came apart. Yussel heard the crash of glass, the splat of herring and onions in cream sauce.
Grisha grabbed Yussel’s sleeve. “Nu, Yussel, you got nine and no time. Now what?”
Yussel put his arm over Grisha’s shoulder, Yussel jerked his chin toward the Jackalope, on his knees, who was snagging chunks of herring as they slid in their cream sauce across the kitchen floor. “Ten.”
“That’s ten? Nine and a half I’ll give you.”
“I say that’s ten, it’s ten.”
Grisha shook Yussel’s arm off. “So let’s begin.”
The sourness rose into his mouth.
Natalie came running in. “Ernie’s back and he forgot to turn off the sound system and he says now it’s too late.”
“Terrific.”
“Nu, Boychickl, your father always started on time.”
“Enough, Grisha.”
Yussel ran outside to hear the sound system. The Sangre de Cristos were bloody with the sunset. Over the sound system, he heard the Jackalope shouting, “Go fish!” He heard Grisha saying to someone, “Shmendrick, he thinks because he has a fur hat and a famous father, he’s a rabbi.” He heard a girl saying, “He looks cute in his hat, don’t you think?” It was too late to turn the sound off. Depending on the way the wind blew, everyone in the valley and on the mountain had heard/was hearing/would hear all the tzuros of getting ready for Shabbas, the fight with Grisha, the Jackalope screaming, God knows what else, and soon would hear the whole terrible service, with him whimpering, whining, crackling, stumbling on the words, depending on the wind. The drunken cowboys down at the Riverside, the encampment at the Baptist Retreat, the Assembly of God. And then he was struck between the shoulders with the weight of shame, like a great stone. Because he thought about Lillywhite. He thought about her hearing him.
The sun dropped out of sight. Yussel threw his father’s tallis over his head and ran inside. Ernie the Betrayer was smiling at him. Yussel gave him a look for what he’d done. Ernie smiled at him, at his friend, as if he’d intended to leave the system on, to show off their new rabbi to the world of Moffat. So Yussel, on the day that had been the first Shabbas for the Israelites after they’d received the Torah, after they’d made their marriage with God, Yussel began his first Shabbas. But Yussel wasn’t going to make such a marriage. This was for him a one-night stand.
Yussel loosened his belt. How could he sing like his father? His father could go from agony to joy in three notes. The only agony Yussel felt was for himself, not for humanity, and he sure didn’t feel joy for anyone. He wondered if the cowboys would come up and set the place on fire for fun. The women arranged themselves in the seats on their side of the divider, the men on the other. His father, in full Shabbas dress, sable hat, black silk caftan, his face scrubbed pink, his beard white as a cloud, stood beside him, straightened Yussel’s tallis. His doorknobs glowed under the Eternal Light. Yussel had never seen his father proud of him, was happy his father was with him, also wished he wasn’t. It felt like Yussel’s Bar Mitzvah. “Sing loud, my darling. And this time, put in a little feeling. You never put in feeling. Now you need feeling.”
“Feeling is mayonnaise, Totte? You can just add a little? You have to get it from someplace. Where am I getting it from?”
“Ask. He already gave you a flood.”
Grisha snorted just below Yussel’s shoulder. “In case you forgot, the souls are freed for Shabbas from Gehinnom. You should remember millions of Jewish souls are waiting for you to start Shabbas. Millions.”
“Enough, Grisha. Enough. You’re getting me nervous.”
“You think they’re not nervous? Five thousand years’ worth of Jews waiting to get out for a day? The sun’s set, Boychickl. Begin!”
“When you stop, Grisha, I’ll begin.”
His father was delaying things. “Listen, Yussele, I have a suggestion. What you could do is add a little sex. Not so much an erection. Just lose a few wrinkles.”
“Sex is out of the question. It would only make me more nervous.”
“Sex is not out of the question. Think about Lillywhite. You climb with whatever you’ve got. Think about wanting. You need to cleave to HaShem. Seek Him and cleave. Attach. Make believe Lillywhite is God. Want her. Make believe God is Lillywhite.” His father slammed his doors together and hid behind them.
Yussel knew better than to work with sex. It takes over. The big rabbis, they knew how. The big rabbis took two parts of Adonoy, the unspeakable parts, which are male and female, and prayed with madness, devotion, that the two parts be unified, that HaShem and his Glory copulate because that’s when mercy descends to earth. That’s a real Shabbas.
His father cracked his doors slightly. “If you can’t think about sex, think about wanting a cigarette, a Raspberry Joy, an egg cream, some moo goo gai pan …”
He had 176 verses in the portion of the Torah. His voice would give out. His headache would blind him. “I’ll do what I can.”
“If you did what you could you could change the world.”
“Totte, please. Why do you keep hocking me?”
Finally Grisha hit his hand on the bimah and started the davening. Like greyhounds they were off. Grisha set the pace. He went breakneck speed, no words, rising, falling, humming. Maybe if Yussel had started first he might have slowed them down. The congregation davened faster and faster trying to catch up to Grisha. Yussel floundered in the middle. He always thought if God was going to hear, you should say every word carefully and understand what you were saying. The alte cockers davened as fast as they could; the new ones struggled with the Hebrew words. Some just made believe so they’d finish in time. The young men shouted in thin voices, trying to get ahead of the alte cockers, like Bernie and Bingo and Feldman, especially Grisha. Now and then the alte cockers stopped to lay in a big Amen! and take a breath. Grisha finished the benediction, glared at Yussel until Yussel finished. In the Psalms, his voice was thin, weak, his hands icy. Grisha banged on the bimah, snowed dandruff on the Torah. “Hecher, Yussel, hecher. Louder!”
Yussel forced his voice over Grisha’s. His tongue felt as big as a cow’s in a deli. The congregation watched him like nurses watch an ICU machine. When he came to the happy “Welcoming of the Shabbas Bride,” the music was as familiar as his breath. His throat opened. His voice lifted.
His father sang along, nodded his head from his perch over the ark, swung his doors to the music. “That’s my boy, Yussele. Sing with your soul, eat with your soul, pray with your soul, everything with your soul. Be like David. Attach, attach, attach.”
Loud he could be, but no soul, no mayonnaise. Yussel thought about the soft scented back of Shoshanna’s neck. He wondered about Lilly-white’s bikini underwear. A few wrinkles went. His voice rose. Other voices rose in strength behind him. The alte cockers dropped back.
“Shtark, Yussele, shtark!” His father wished him strength. He allowed himself to think of Lillywhite’s candle eyes. He sang at the top of his voice.
“Don’t stop, Yussele. Ver geheiben, my darling son. Climb. Cleave. Attach!”
Yussel was in front. The congregation was with him. They sang when he sang, paused when he paused. Grisha followed Yussel’s beat with his fist on the bimah.
As Yussel’s voice rang out with “Praised be Thou O Lord our God, Ruler of the Universe Who with Thy word bringest on the evening twilight and with Thy wisdom openest the gates of the heavens,” the mercury lights turned on. Yussel watched them through the little window at his shoulder. He liked the coincidence. He felt better. Not great, just better. All he asked was that he could get through this Shabbas.
Yussel finished first, Grisha second. A few struggled on. Grisha turned to the men in the narrow room, beat his fist on the bimah trying to hurry them along. Slotnik’s son was way behind. Faster and faster Grisha beat his fist, stared down at him, glowered. Slotnick’s son missed something, turned pages backward in his siddur, lost. Grisha stepped down from the bimah, walked over to him, stood above him, looked down at him. “Nu, shlepper, nu?”
Slotnik’s son stammered. Yussel wiped under his tallis with a handkerchief and helped him with the Hebrew. The kid’s ears were red with shame; Yussel’s with hatred for Grisha, who was clearly out for blood.
“Nu, Yussel? The Schema?” Grisha turned to the man in the white cashmere jacket. “Some Rabbi, our Rabbi.” He turned back to Yussel, whispered too loudly, “When you talk to HaShem, Yussel, you talk fast. When you listen to Him, then, Baruch HaShem, you go slow.”
“Okay, Yussele, work with the rage. Okay. Rage can work. Use anger. It doesn’t matter what you ride as long as you go in the right direction.” His father was very excited.
“Hear O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is One.” Yussel thought he sounded a little like Neil Diamond, he was belting out so good. Grisha kept pushing Yussel to go faster. Yussel sang louder, slower, let notes ring, echo. Finally he allowed himself to ride Lillywhite. Why not? His ancestors turned somersaults in the streets of the Ukraine, tested themselves against Russian whores in golden beds. Jewish Rasputins, holy men. Why not? He thought of Lillywhite in a golden bed. Flagellation, starvation, rolling in the snow, song, dance, liquor, chopped liver, maybe even opium, he’d heard. Anything that works. So Yussel decided to cleave with whatever worked. The moment he said he would cleave, he did. He felt it, like little iron bits drawn up by a magnet. By the time the congregation stopped to recite the “Amidah” in silence, Yussel felt such power in his lungs, as if he could suck in stars and spit out constellations. That’s how he sang. “Who is like unto Thee? Thou sustainest the living with loving-kindness.” His heart lifted, lightened like a matzoh ball in the soup, a nasty little compact mealymouthed thing suddenly pops up in the boiling water, expands, bounces around. That’s what he felt in his heart: a matzoh ball. He could almost forgive Grisha. He was dancing on the surface. He was walking on the water.
“See? He’s feeling it. He’s feeling it a little.” His father whispered to someone else.
Who in Hell was his father talking to about him?
The matzoh ball turned to farina and spread, warm and sweet, to his toes, to the top of his head, filled him. But as soon as he felt it, it was gone and he was back to a tight compact mealymouthed matzoh ball. Then he thought about Lillywhite and her legs. Instantly he saw something vague flash on his screen. His screen was back? A screw turned in his heart. The clearer the screen, the deeper the pain. Pain equals screen? Who needs it? And what’s this? Lillywhite? Again? What does she want from him? Lillywhite in a chocolate brown Porsche parked in the twilight on the outside edge of a hairpin curve in Loveland Canyon and an eighteen-wheeler coming down the mountain on top of her. What’s this? A new trick? Just when he was getting a handle on Shabbas, in comes the mishugge universe? He didn’t want it. Leave him out of this.
“Okay, okay, it’s like pulling teeth,” his father said to someone else. A chill went through Yussel. Who? Angels? The Heavenly Court? The Angel of Destruction? “Yussele, you see anything? Now’s the time to pay attention. The computer’s working. It’s coming up now with the variables …”
“I’m pretty busy now, Totte.” He wanted to sing Kaddish. He wanted to be left alone. Looking at Lillywhite was like reading Talmud in the toilet.
His father spoke as if he were announcing a horse race. “Almost there, Yussele. A woman’s out of cigarettes. Your shamas has a visitor, forgets to turn off the sound. Tonight a parking spot, certain winds, a driver named Stuart delivering NASA parts decides to take a little tour on his way to California, see the Rockies. On the rock face of the canyon there are certain configurations. And now a little free will here, there, and suddenly, Yussele, possibility turns to probability, and then becomes necessity. The girl pulls off the highway and parks her car. So you pay attention. You’re being shown a direction.”
“She needs insurance? Collision? Liability?”
“Trust me, Yussele.”
“Don’t get me involved with your computer chazerei.”
“Rabbi!” Grisha’s face was in his, sarcastic, miserable. “Your congregation is waiting for Kaddish, Rabbi.”
“That’s your cue, Yussele. Give it all you’ve got. You hear?”
Yussel gave it all he had. He turned his back to the others, lifted his head to HaShem, sang. And as he sang he heard the voice of an angel piercing the universe. He looked around. It was the Jackalope singing, as the Flower Child had said he would. The Jackalope’s voice soared. His words were clear—silver pellets piercing the veils of the universe—his face shining with a fire. This dumb cluck was an angel. If he was, Yussel could be. He joined the Jackalope, soared with him, floated on his back in the clouds. Big, total, potent, like the universe itself, Yussel soared and sang his glory into Grisha’s face, Grisha coughed, backed away. Yussel forgot Grisha, forgot his father, saw the orange truck full of NASA parts, Stuart the driver looking around at the Rockies, Lillywhite in her little brown car on the edge of the pass, and he started to hurt. Up his arms, down his legs, in his chest, a vise. It was the kind of pain his father must have had all the time. He sang his pain. “Yisgadal, viyiskadash … exalted and sanctified be His great Name….” He sang his pain. He remembered the woman in the creamy cashmere with cancer. He sang for her too. He sang for them all, goddamn them.