Mitzvah Man

9

You’d imagine, he thinks on their walk home from the Rosenthals—more than a bit buzzed, he has to admit, on the bourbon à la antidepressant, trying hard not to stumble at curbs and find himself LOOKED at by Lisa with that worried look of hers—you’d think Talia’s tenderness and Jerry’s grin and his daughter’s love would ground him sufficiently. But Harvard Square feels like a movie set, the facades hollow. He gawks up at the Church of the Inaccurate Construction—that’s what Shira used to call it—the church on the corner of Church Street that leans, slightly crooked, into the wind. There is a wind, by the way—harbinger of rain? Maybe a metaphor. Yes. That’s how he decides to read it. Message of change: Teshuvah, turning, turning back to God. Yes. He’ll listen. From now on, no-frills prayer and study, sans sudden thumps of holiness in the gut. Dear One, teach me to love You simply. Oh, yes—and teach me to get by. And if those two prayers contradict one another? Shira stands, of course, in every shop door, every gate to the Harvard Quad. It’s not a visual hallucination —just memories that connect his heart to her this place and that—music rushing out of this place and that. He wants to address Shira and has to nudge himself to talk with Lisa in an ordinary way. An open Porsche convertible cruises by. “Look, honey,” he points. “Think I should get one of those? Or keep our name on the list for a Maserati?” “Oh, Dad.” She rolls her eyes, or on the dim street|9| he imagines her rolling her eyes, but she’s relieved, he knows, when he kids around the way he used to. “Remember, you said I should get a job? Well, I should. When you’re right you’re right.” “Dad? How could you tell the Rosenthals that awful lie? Ych!” “What lie?” She shrugs. She shrugs harder. “The story upset you? I should have had more sense. Just fantasy. My mother’s fantasy. I don’t want to upset you. Tell you what. This week, I’m gonna start looking for a job. A position.” “Good! Good!” “But it may take some time.” “Oh, please! Who wouldn’t want you?” He wraps her in a comfort arm. “Thanks, honey. That’s what I need. A cheerleader, not a Porsche.” They live in a cul-de-sac near the William James Hall off Kirkland Ave. So they always look up when a car comes down their little street. As he stands on their porch, keys out, headlights shine their way. Adam puts his hand over his eyes. The lights turn off; the engine shuts down. A big American minivan. Who do they know drives a fat, nine-person American minivan? Ruthie and Leo, his Orthodox in-laws. Of course. For them, with all those kids, it makes sense. With six kids they practically need a bus. Ruthie’s first out of the car. “Leo, Ruthie, how nice. How did you know we’d be home?” Ruthie says, “Let’s talk inside.” Le bourbon plus pill is giving him a little trouble keeping things together. And this is one time he wants to be very clear and very, very calm. A few inhibitions wouldn’t do him any harm right now. He imagines himself liable to go wild, boot Ruthie off the porch, toe to sanctimonious buttock, and since an Orthodox woman can’t touch a man who’s not her husband, this might cause problems with her rabbi. Now, Leo’s a good guy, a fat, smiling man Adam likes a lot, partly because Leo| 111 Mitzvah Man reminds him of Zero Mostel. Adam’s always felt for Leo, married to a force of un-nature like Ruthie. “It’s late, Ruthie.” “We drove over as soon as Shabbos ended and we’d made Havdalah. As a Jew, I know you must know about Havdalah—the ritual that ends the Sabbath? Of course you know. You didn’t answer your phone. We knew you’d be home. Where else, when you have a child? Look at the way your beard has grown! Maybe you’ll turn into a real Jew yet. So. Aren’t you going to invite us in?” She brushes past him, onto the porch, into...