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He told Lisa he’d try to find a job, but the notion of working in a corporation or even of starting a new company: dreary, slogging rocks from pile to pile. Why, except to put food on the table? And, food is already on the table. Food and, praised be the One, the table itself, and what about the room in which the table sits, not to mention the house in which the room sits, and, it goes without saying, money to pay taxes on the house and taxes on the money itself, and Lisa’s education . He’s grateful not having to worry much about the means of living this extraordinary, ordinary life. You need a computer? You buy it. Bills come in? You pay them. Not a fancy life, no Porsche in his future, but enormous freedom of not having to worry how to pay for ordinary things. Of course ordinary includes fresh organic food, an iPod, books, films, concerts, plays. Includes membership in B’nai Or. For that life to continue , he has what he needs. Clothes to last him for years. He can be a book junky and not go bankrupt. So what will he do with his life? If this sadness continues, if he spirals down into day after day of God having no special purpose for him and he has to invent his life on his own, what should he do? Go back to consulting? While pondering, he wanders from room to room. Lisa off with a friend, he pokes his head into the doorway to her room. He doesn’t go in. Lisa’s room is hard for him to enter. A row of photos on the bookcase seem scattered but Adam knows they’re not—they’re carefully arranged—knows because she told him. On|10| the bed are relics of Lisa’s childhood, but when he asked about the stuffed animals, the torn scrap of baby blanket, she said, “I know it looks stupid and childish, but it’s for Mom. So if her spirit comes here, it’ll feel good. I don’t believe in it. It’s so dumb. But it’s like a gift to her.” No, it’s a beautiful idea, he told her. But he stays out. He reads a page of Talmud, which, in the absence of a teacher, doesn’t speak to him. He’s also begun to read secular books again—he’s plunged into Middlemarch. Tuesdays he goes to the rabbi’s lunchtime text study in the downtown office of one of the congregants, a therapist. After one session, Rabbi Klein asks him to take a walk. They stroll through Harvard Square. It’s like a summer fair, full of young people, full of the colorful clothing of young people. So why does he feel sadness , like an odor, coming from so many? Is he drawn to grief? Is he projecting it? Is he sensitized to it? Three possibilities. Look at that young man, a student, jeans and a tee shirt advertising B.U.M.—God knows why! Look at the slouch of his shoulders so that he seems to hide, crumpling in on himself to take up less space. Look at the way the poor s.o.b. masks his eyes so no one will see. Adam sees. Or thinks he sees. Sighing, he turns away to listen to Rabbi Klein. Rabbi Klein, Joe Klein, has a sweet tenor voice; he’s one of the mainstays of a Boston choral society, and you can hear the clarity and warmth in his speaking voice. Adam guesses the rabbi wants to check in with him—how are you doing now? Can I help? You want to talk? But no. Rabbi Klein says, “I’ve got two things to talk about. The first, it’s about your beard, Adam.” “Something’s wrong with my beard?” “Of course not. Wrong? A Jew with a beard? Not so long ago, if you were a Jewish man, of course you had a beard. But now there’s grown up a tradition that after the first month of mourning, you cut the beard when it’s noticed and suggested. So I’m noticing and suggesting. Maybe it’s time. It’s up to you. Maybe you want to grow a full beard. I’m saying it’s not necessary.” “Lisa wants me to cut it.” “Well?” John J. Clayton 122 | [18.224.63.87] Project MUSE (2024...
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